What would you do? Neal Peskind kind of just sits there.

I haven’t been particularly following the Erin Andrews case, but something about it caught my interest the other day.

For my readers who are drawing a blank on it, Andrews is a sports journalist, formerly of ESPN, currently of Fox Sports.

A number of years ago, she was the victim of a stalker who somehow managed to film her, in the nude, in a couple of different hotel rooms. In the Internet age, no one will be surprised to learn that at least one of the tapes the perv made made its way online, and quickly went viral. (The combination of blonde+nude+sports is simply irresistible to so many.)

The perv went to jail – he’s already completed his sentence – but Andrews decided to sue Marriott, one of the hotels she was filmed in, alleging that they’d been negligent in giving the perv the room next to her when he asked for it.

Andrews is looking for $75M in damages.

One of those involved in the trial is one Neal Peskind, an executive for a group that owns the Nashville Marriott.

The other day, a day in which “Erin Andrews broke down at the stand while testifying about the long-term damage she suffered from the video”, Peskind – who is an attorney, and who has testified on behalf of his hotel - headed out for a meal with a couple of friends.

Soon after, the leaked recording of a naked Andrews began to play.

Why, exactly, remains a matter of debate. Ask the representative Neal Peskind and his legal team, and they’ll tell you that he quickly “objected” to the sight of the video, asking his friends to shut it off “immediately.”

Ask the server who was present, however, and you’ll hear something else. In a tweet that has since been deleted, the server claimed that Peskind said the video "was costing him millions so he was going to show it to everyone. [Peskind's] friends were making fun of her and her body."

“We had to ask him to stop. It was disgusting and horrifying," she continued. (Source: Huffington Post) 

Peskind has since said that while he had asked his friends to turn the video off, they took their sweet old time about it.

Regardless of whether Peskind is telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth here – or whether the server is a cool, clear, seeker of wisdom and truth - Peskind is a well-educated man, a graduate of University of Michigan. So you have to question his judgment.

He’s involved – and not just casually – in a case that’s getting a lot of publicity, a case involving a somewhat well-known person, and a case where there’s a lot of money on the table. And he’s in a public place. What might be the sensible thing to do?

Obviously, if it turns out that he was the one who started playing show and tell, or if he was really making remarks about Andrews: what a total and utter jerk. The sensible – and decent – thing to do would be to NOT have pulled the video up and start narrating it to begin with.

If it was his friends who were doing the viewing, the sensible thing to do would be to tell your friends to turn the damned thing off. Which Peskind may have done. But if they didn’t do it fast enough, the sensible thing to do would be to get up from the table, saying something along the lines of “I’m outta here.”

But this jamoke, while he may have told his friends to shut the show down, just sits there while his friends continue to look at the video for a while before they bother to turn it off.

What is wrong with people?

If you want to do stuff like this, you should at least have the good sense to do it in private.

This would not necessarily have saved the day. Given the lack of judgment shown by Peskind’ and his friends to begin with, one of them might well have decided to video Peskind watching the video and posted it to Facebook. But still…

This will not likely impact the trial’s outcome, but talk about bad business behavior.

At minimum, I hope that whoever runs the firm where Peskind holds a quite senior position – SVP of Portfolio Operations, according to LinkedIn – slaps him up and down the side of the head.

What a jerk!

Family medical coordinator. How’s that for a job?

My husband went to grad school at Harvard, so he automatically got the alumni magazine. Since I was the one in the house who actually read it, I haven’t bothered to inform them that Jim is no longer among the alumni ranks – at least not the ones on this earth.

Anyway, one of the sections I generally look at is the Employment Opportunities classifieds. A “devoted professional couple” is looking for a nanny; a “busy executive” is seeking a personal assistant. And a Manhattan family needs a family medical coordinator and project manager “to research and coordinate family healthcare issues.”

I have a pretty good idea about what it takes to research and coordinate someone’s healthcare issues. Having done it for my husband over the last couple of years for his life, I completely appreciate that the job is demanding, and that the person doing it needs to be “detail-oriented and possess the ability to track multiple projects” involving multiple physicians. Fortunately, I never had to “juggle multiple competing priorities.” During this time, Jim was my one and only priority.

After Jim died, it occurred to me that being a patient advocate (which is how I thought of it), or a family medical coordinator, was something I was pretty good at, and could do professionally. Not that I gave it much thought, but I did consider that it’s something that distant adult children might pay someone to help with on their behalf, as they tried to take care of their elderly parents. That someone could accompany said elderly parents on their appointments, ask questions, take notes, report back to the children. I’m sure there’s a job in there somewhere.

But to hire someone to work full time for a single family?

Here’s some of the other things the ad had to say:

This person will interface with an in-house team of professionals, as well as physicians, medical researchers and consultants (in academia and otherwise) to ensure delivery of highest-quality medical care to family members. (Source: Harvard Magazine)

I know people who have “concierge service” with a doctor, but this is something several order of magnitude beyond that.

It pretty much goes without saying that the folks running this ad are spectacularly wealthy. I mean, who has “an in-house team of professionals”? Wow! The physicians, I suspect, are concierge. And even if you don’t have concierge doctors, I know up close and personal that there are some physicians who’ll give you their cell phone, who’ll get right back to you if you send them an e-mail or a text. (My husband’s surgeon, who no longer had anything directly to do with Jim’s care during end-of-life, was tremendously helpful to us. At one point near the end, I sent out an SOS via email. Chris came directly from surgery, and gave us tremendous practical and emotional support.) But who has access to all those researchers and consultants. Do you just call up the guy who’s just published something in the New England Journal of Medicine and pump him for more info? Are there consultants who can try to get you into a clinical trial that’s otherwise closed for business?

Anyway, the people looking for a full-time medical coordinator obviously have plenty of moola. But who might they be? Saudi royals? Russian oligarchs? Mafiosi? The Trumps? Brad and Angie?

Are these job creators – who’ve created at least one interesting job – suffering from spectacularly poor health that they need a permanent, full-time person seeing to the details? Are they the world’s biggest hypochondriacs? Do they just want this level of care because, hey, it’s something they can afford, so why not?

None of these scenarios would make me want to work for them.

The job posted comes with “significant upside potential.” What are the Key Performance Indicators? Medical appointments made and kept? Sick days? Everyone’s still alive at the end of the year?

What if the bonus is based on a calendar year ending 12/31, but not paid out until spring. I can see getting into a discussion with the boss because Uncle Harry was still alive on December 31st, but kicked the bucket on New Year’s.

Yep, I have thought that I’d be a pretty good person to have “managing” their healthcare. I study up, come up with good questions, keep asking until I get answers. I keep good track of appointments and medicines. I know how to coordinate appointments. I know when to ask for help, when to complain, and when it’s okay to raid the fridge where the nurses keep the popsicles that are the only thing that a lot of people who are dying from cancer can get down. I know how to do a bunch of medical things because, let’s face it, if you live long enough, you’re probably going to end up providing some nursing care. I know when to push back. I know how to make allies.

Sure, I have fleetingly thought that providing some type of healthcare management would be a good service to offer. But I’m guessing that it’s more gratifying when the care you’re providing is for someone you care for.

I’m not applying for the job in Harvard Magazine. For one thing, they want someone with a scientific background, so I don’t qualify. It’s in Manhattan, and I don’t live there. I’m not looking for full-time work (let alone a career change) at this point in my career. And I wouldn’t want to be this intensely and intimately involved with a family that was so wealthy and so ill and/or hypochondriacal and/or self-obsessed.

But what an interesting job…

Hey, waitress. (It’s all coming back to me now.)

The other day, The Boston Globe published what I found to be quite an amusing review of Ye Olde Union Oyster House, the oldest restaurant in Boston and the oldest restaurant in continuous operation in the US. Given that the review was pretty negative – Oyster House is over-priced, underwhelming, kind of dowdy, tourist trap – I don’t imagine that the folks at the Oyster House were as amused as I was. (I suspect they weren’t amused by the 100+ mostly-scathing comments, either.).

But reading about the Oyster House brought back a ton of memories of the summer of 1970, when I was a waitress there.

Where to begin, where to begin.

Maybe with the rats, which were the most memorable feature. Mostly, they didn’t come out when there were customers dining: the noise kept them away. But once in a while, they did, and it was a firing offense if you screamed when one ran over your foot.

The rats often came out in force when the customers had left, and we were cleaning up, a series of tasks that included bussing the tables, filling the salt and pepper shakers, and wiping down the greasy wooden tables with scalding coffee. Mostly you could keep them away by tossing the over-sized chowder spoons in the direction of the rat holes, but sometimes they showed. When that happened, we were dismissed, which meant we had to clean the tables up in the morning when we came back in, at which point the rats had had a go at whatever was left out. While the spoons weren’t always effective as rodent prophylactics, shooting at the rat holes worked just fine.

Waitresses were armed with spoons, but Mr. Murphy, one of the night managers, had a pistol, which he kept in a little wooden carrying case. Some nights, he’d come into the dining room and take a few shots at the rat holes. That always did the trick, rats not being quite as dumb as you might think. They well understood that the gun was mightier than the spoon.

The other rat action took place at the sink.

One especially charming rat-in-sink episode involved a stopped up sink, where a dish boy (I.e., man) was hand washing pots and pans. Well, the sink started to overflow, which made the dish boy – who’s nom d’Union Oyster House was The Animal – reach into the drain and pull out a drowned rat. Which he took great glee brandishing as he ran around the kitchen. (He wasn’t called The Animal for nothing.)

So many charming things happened at the Oyster House that summer I was there.

Sometimes the fry cooks would fry up cockroaches for inclusion in the fisherman’s platter. Yum!

One time, a completely stoned waitress – Marilyn K – dropped a plate of steamed quahogs. The steamed quahogs – I believe they were advertised as cherrystones, but I believe they were always the larger and tougher quahog – were completely rubbery and had no taste. (Hard to believe that, given the rats, we ever ate there, but all us waitresses took an afternoon meal. The cooks were good to us. We got fresh scrod or something edible. The dessert rule was that, if a five-gallon tub of ice cream was already open, you had to avoid it, as The Animal had been seen on many occasions gouging out a big mitt-full of ice cream (the flavors were vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and either nesselrode or rum raisin – must be a New England thing).

Anyway, that one lunch, Marilyn dropped an order of steamed quahogs on the sawdust, dirt, and whatever covered kitchen floor – and we’re talking whatever accumulated since 1826. Well, the quahogs bounced out of their shells and were scattered all over the floor. Good, stoned waitress that she was, Marilyn got down and started retrieving the bouncing quahogs and shoving them back in the shells. We all helped her. Who could blame here? It would take too long to wait for another order, and no one ate them anyway.

What else is there to say about that summer at the Oyster House?

As it turns out, plenty. (Between that and my year at Durgin Park, I really could write a book…)

Anyway, perhaps my favorite episode of the summer occurred the night the lights went out.

It was a Saturday, and we were unusually busy. It was also extremely hot out.

And then the lights went out.

The managers didn’t want to close – it was the best night of the summer – so they put candles out on the tables. They had some sort of tiny generator that was enough to keep a string of lights on in the kitchen. The stoves were gas, so they worked. Unfortunately, there was no air conditioning anywhere. So while out on the floor, waiting on customers, taking orders for rubbery quahogs and cockroach infested fisherman’s platters, we were nearly passing out from the heat, in the kitchen it was probably 30 degrees worse. I’ve never experienced heat quite as sweltering as that night in the Oyster House kitchen. A complete sweat box.

The cooks wanted the managers to close the place. It was just too damned hot.  

But, no. It was too damned busy.

So the cooks – most of whom were from Jamaica – did the one thing they knew would stop the place in its tracks.

They took off all of their clothing.

At that point, the old guard waitresses – most of them were aging first-generation Irish ladies from Southie or Charlestown – refused to step toe in the kitchen.

Game over!

So many other stories.

Willie P, the cigar-smoking salad boy, who – when you went to his station to order a salad – would lean over, and sotto voce, say “I had a dream about you last night, [waitress name goes here]. We were making love.”

Oh, shut up, Willie. Just give me to g.d. shrimp cocktail.

Then there was Janet, the aging hostess with the Gibson girl hairdo and the smoke-roughened and – she thought – sexy voice. The restaurant was upstairs; downstairs was the oyster bar. When we needed raw oysters or clams, we would get on a little speaker and holler down to the oyster bar for them. The oyster bar guys would shuck the oysters and send them up on a little dumb waiter.

Downstairs they also sold candy bars at the cashier’s station.

Every afternoon, Janet would get on the little speaker and say, “Please send up a male Hershey Bar. You know, the one with the nuts.”

I’m a firm believer that everyone should have at least one really outrageously crummy job in their life. I can’t really single this out as mine. I had a boat-load of them over the years. (Hey, I spent one summer polishing combat boots in a shoe factory.)

But the Oyster House sure gave me plenty of laughs over the years.

Have I ever gone back and eaten there?

Hell, no!

Reading the review, my feelings are confirmed.

Mindful of the mindfulness room

I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about mindfulness. I spend quite enough time in my own mind already, thank you. I was born gazing at my naval (metaphorically speaking), staring off into space. If I could find it, I’d scan in my “formal” baby portrait. Am I looking at the photographer, grinning gummily? Nope, it looks as if I’m pondering great thoughts, which, at that point in my life was wondering whether there’d be Campbell’s Chicken Gumbo or Scotch Broth for lunch. Or asking why my Uncle Charlie, who lived downstairs, hadn’t yet bothered to come by to meet me.

There was a reason: a family crisis coming to a boil. Charlie, who had been married and never divorced, had gotten engaged. The happy couple had been furniture shopping at Paine’s Furniture in Boston. And then Sue sent out invitations to the wedding. A cousin in the know got one, and the family dervished into a whirl to stop Charlie from becoming a bigamist. The brilliant solution was to have my mother – with her then still quite pronounced Chicago accent – call Charlie’s fiancée and, without identifying herself, let Sue know that Charlie already had a wife. (Charlie and Sue, by the way, remained a couple until Charlie died 25 years later.)

Anyway, lack of mindfulness has never been my problem. (And, yes, I know that I’m really not perfectly defining mindfulness here, mindfulness being about omming into your stream of consciousness. Come to think of it, I was a pretty mindful baby…)

But when I was back in a corporate setting, taking part in plenty of off-sites on both leadership and rank-and-file-ness, staying in the moment, being mindful, was one of those things that were occasionally encouraged.

Mindfulness is in the news these days, especially now that Salesforce’s CEO, Marc Benioff, has “decided to outfit the company’s new offices with dedicated areas to promote employees’ well-being.”

We’re not talking about gyms or nap rooms here. Not that kind of employee well-being. We’re talking about a place for folks to get away from text, phones, emails and all the other distractions.

…"as we build facilities around the world, we're now going to have a mindfulness section on each floor," [Benioff] said. This space will not be for employees to make phone calls or take meetings, but rather to fully step away from the intensity of work. When someone enters one of the rooms, he or she will have to do so without bringing along any gadgets like a cell phone or computer.(Source: Huffington Post)

The idea came to Benioff based on a workshop that had been held at Salesforce HQ last fall. The workshop was given, not by the usual cheerleaders and/or shrinks manqué who specialize in rah-rah and/or let’s fall into each other’s arms backwards and blindfolded. No, Salesforce hired monks from a mindfulness center in France, a place called Plum Village.

Well, you can’t send everyone in the Salesforce workforce off to the French countryside every time they need to get a mindful jones, so he’s putting the mindfulness room in the workplace.

Benioff is onto something.

It’s extremely easy for me to imagine what the Salesforce workplace is like. My career was in high tech; most of my clients are tech companies.

The pace is intense, the workspaces are open, everyone’s collaborating, and even when you’re not in that open workspace, you’re expected to be “on” from early in the morning until late in the evening, and to check in on weekends. These “requirements” are never explicit, yet it’s just how a lot of tech companies roll these days. When your boss texts you at 10 p.m. on Saturday, you tend to respond – at least by 10 a.m. on Sunday. You are, after all, a team player, someone who wants to make the place succeed, someone who at least wants to pretend that their work and life are seamlessly balanced (which means, of course, that the distinctions between the two are blurred). And, unless you’re careful, it’s pretty easy to let your “normal” workday – i.e., the time logged at the office - be completely interrupt-driven. A text here, an online collab session here, a quick confab in one of the confab pods (open, of course) that are scattered around.

I put in some time in cubicles, but most of my full-time career was spent in offices. If I had to work in today’s work environment, I’d probably have a nervous breakdown.

Bring on the mindfulness rooms!

The ones that Benioff (“who has hosted dozens of monks in his spare home in San Francisco”) envisions will have sections for reading and sections for meditating.

They will be centrally located on each floor, in order to encourage employees to take a break from their regular work and slow down.

After all:

“It’s an anxious era. The antidote to anxiety is mindfulness,” Benioff told The New York Times last year.

But this being 2016, you can’t just have mindfulness sitting out there all on its lonesome.

The company is also entertaining the possibility of creating a meditation app geared toward specific goals, like unwinding from a pressing deadline or calming down after a tense exchange with a coworker, [Plum Village brother Phap] Linh said. (It would be the single digital activity allowed in the mindfulness rooms.)

Of course, for me having an app would be incredibly anxiety-producing. Good thing I’m not full-time in the modern workplace.

Ommmmmmm…..

Taking to the Air in the Heart of the Commonwealth

I grew up not far from Worcester Airport. The woods next to our house, where we played war and pioneer, where we picked trillium, jack-in-the-pulpit, and mountain laurel (illegally, I suspect), eventually – probably at or near the point where we went blueberrying -  turned into “The Airport Woods.”

The airport was a good destination for a long walk, which my friends and I often took on Sunday afternoons. (Back in the day, stores were closed on Sundays, so you couldn’t go shopping. Even if the stores were open on Sunday, and even if we’d had any money, Worcester didn’t have any malls – other than crappy little strip malls like the Webster Square Plaza. With Zayre’s and Woolworth’s as the anchor tenants, we’d all pretty much outgrown that spot by junior high, anyway – so on Sunday afternoons, we took walks. Sounds more 1920’s than 1960’s, but thus it was.)

There wasn’t much to do when you go to the airport, just pee and maybe get a candy bar from a vending machine.

There weren’t things like flights to watch for. Which made it no big deal, noise-wise to live under the flight path.

Another exciting thing to do in Worcester, when not going for long walks, picking mountain laurel, and blueberrying, was to go on family rides.

On these “spins” – one of my father’s favorite pastimes – we often swung by the airport, on the off chance that we’d see a Piper Cub land or take off.

Not that I knew many folks who actually flew anywhere, but I can’t think of anyone I knew growing up who’d ever flown out Worcester, although I suppose that my father may have taken Mohawk Airline on an exciting business trip to Elmira, NY, or some other glam destination. (My father, having been promoted from working on the shop floor as a “wire drawer”, and, later, a foreman, and was a salesman for a company that made fine wire for industrial uses. He wasn’t on the road a lot, but he did travel throughout the Northeast and Midwest, when those regions were industrial powerhouses.)

All this said, I may, in fact, have flown into Worcester on my mother’s return-trip-from-hell from an unplanned trip to Chicago for my grandfather’s funeral. My father had to get back to work, but my mother stayed on for a while. She flew back with a 4-year-old and not-quite-2-year-old in tow, and a bun in the oven. She had to change planes and airports in NYC to make it back to Worcester. It was the only time I flew until I was a young adult doing the Euro thing.

Given the size of Worcester – 180,000+ – you’d think they would have an airport with flights to at least a few places, but Worcester’s airport has long been an off and on proposition.

For one thing, Worcester is an hour’s drive from a lot of “real” airports – Logan, Providence, Hartford, Manchester. So there are plenty of other choices. And it never helped Worcester’s situation that the airport was on a hill that’s regularly fogged in. Not to mention that Worcester’s call letters are ORH. Huh? ORC would have made sense, as that was the nickname of Worcester radio station WORC. Or WOO, for the Miss Woo (Miss Worcester) diner. But ORH?

My mother flew out of Worcester a couple of times, but her airports were mainly Logan and Green (Providence).

Over the years, Worcester’s airport was often commercial passenger flightless. Not much happening other than cargo flights and those Piper Cubs (or whatever the 21st century equivalent is). But then some airline would come along and want to try their luck.

Most recently, JetBlue came to town. They got to play with some house money: the state had offered incentives worth nearly $500K over two years to wheels-down in the Heart of the Commonwealth.

The Massachusetts Port Authority (Massport) is the organization that was dispensing the state’s largesse.

Massport wanted JetBlue (or someone) to come to Worcester. I suspect that our then Lieutenant Governor, Tim Murray, leaned on them a bit to do something for his home town. (Whether they hale from Worcester or not, every once in a while, our pols come to the realization that everyone in the state doesn’t live in Greater Boston or on the Cape.)

Anyway, JetBlue came to play, and have been running a couple of flights a day to Florida.

The subsidies have recently run dry, but officials are hopeful that JetBlue is in it for the long-haul.

I’ll keep that in mind if I ever need to get to Orlando or Fort Lauderdale, and decide that it makes more sense to fly out of Worcester. Maybe I’ll even get to fly over the house in grew up in, or my grandmother’s, just around the corner, where I spent my first 7 years. As long as Worcester Regional Airport isn’t fogged in…

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Source for JetBlue/Massport info: Boston Globe 

Swag Baggery

I didn’t have a ton of interest in last night’s Academy Awards.

Sure, it might be nice if just about every august Academy voter wasn’t an old white guy. I would hate to see any bogus quotas imposed, but note to Hollywood: everyone in the US of A is not an old white guy. Or a young white guy. Or an old or young white woman. Just sayin’.

Not to dis old white guys, I actually like them. I was even married to one. On this very day, in fact. (Happy Anniversary to me, I guess.)

This all said, the reason I don’t tend to watch the Oscars isn’t because I have any political objections to them. It’s just that I’ve always found it painful to watch a bunch of fakers kiss themselves in the arse.

Plus I don’t go to the movies that often, so I don’t know who and what should or shouldn’t win.

The only movies I saw this year were Black Mass and Spotlight. I – make that a parochial I: both of these are Boston films – thought that both of these films were quite good. Black Mass, I suppose, would have been a bit confusing to folks who hadn’t lived through the many sagas of the many-splendored Bulger family. But, if it’s possible to enjoy a movie about a psychopathic killer and the sociopathic FBI agent who befriended him, I enjoyed it. I especially liked Benedict Cumberbatch’s turn as Billy Bulger, a major state politico and brother to Whitey-the-psycho. He completely nailed Billy B. Just loved the wave of the blackthorn walking stick. Yo, boyo!

Spotlight, which I thought was excellent, did better on the nomination front. It got four. Me, I would have nominated Michael Keaton for Best Actor before Mark Ruffalo for Best Supporting Actor, but I’m not the world’s foremost judges of acting. I just like Keaton better than Ruffalo, an actor I find pretty annoying.

Anyway, I’m writing this before the envelopes are open, so if you’re reading this, you’ll know whether Spotlight won anything. (By the way, I also want to see Room and Brooklyn, since I have read the books these films are based on. Both novels are by authors I admire, Emma Donoghue and Colm Toibin.)

Whatever the outcome, out of the two films I did see in 2015, Spotlight gets my personal Best Picture Award.

What really interests me, of course, is just what’s in the swag bag that nominees receive.

This year, the goody bag is worth $232,000, up from a paltry $160K for last year’s bag o’ swag.

What’s pushing up the value? Well, a $55K trip to Israel provided by the country’s Tourism Ministry and a travel company. The trip details:

All can bring plus-ones to the 10-day travel pack, which includes first-class air travel into Tel-Aviv and, more importantly, “all the falafel you can eat.” The ministry has been working to attract high-profile visitors, and publicize Israel as a luxury destination rather than merely a conflict zone.(Source: Time)

I’d actually like to go to Israel at some point, but I just can’t get past that conflict zone thang. And good luck positioning Israel as a luxury destination. I’m sure there are plenty of lux-y things to do there, but don’t most people think of Israel as an historical, cultural, political or religious destination? I don’t think the swag bag changes that.

Israel’s not the only trip. There’s also a 15-day private walking tour of Japan worth $54K, which might be more interesting/less dangerous than the $55K jaunt to Israel.

The full list can be found here (Harpers Bazaar), but there were a number of items I found of particular interest.

Who wouldn’t want personalized M&M’s ($300)? And I love the idea of a 10,000-meal donation to an animal shelter/rescue ($6.3K). But, gee, I can and do get my own $6 worth of Chapstick.

And what does one do with a lifetime supply of Pu-erh Tea Nourishing Cream and Pu-erh Tea Cleansing Bar, other than report the $31.2K to the IRS? And who really needs $275 toilet paper. Talk about fancy-arse.

There’s $5.5K worth of Park Avenue plastic surgery. Don’t know what $5.5K will get you on Park Ave. Maybe getting you piggy-toe shaved off so you can fit in your Louboutin’s?

The most intriguing item on the gift list is something called a Vampire Breast Lift ($1.9K). And, yes, it does involve blood.

As it turns out, most nominees do take the bags, but don’t always cash in on the items in it. Many donate the contents to charity.

And to add to the interest and intrigue, the company that puts together the swag bags - wooing donors with the opportunity to get some relatively cheap advertising and at least the possibility that Someone Famous will use their wares – is in a legal wrangle with The Academy over use of their name.

Not that I’d bother to watch it, but maybe someone can make a movie about the swag-bags. Best Documentary?

Mr. Money Mustache. (Minus the mustache, sounds a bit like someone I used to know…)

This week’s New Yorker had an interesting profile on Peter Adeney, whose wildly successful blog, Mr. Money Mustache, promotes achieving financial freedom. His methods may be extreme, but, ultimately, if you follow them, you’re a lot more likely to get that freedom than you are by signing up for some get rich quick scheme. (Think all those folks who were going to become mini-Trumps by flipping houses. And all the people who get caught up in Ponzoid programs that are little more than chain letters.)

No, Adeney is about achieving financial freedom the old fashioned way: by saving rather than spending. And he’s serious about it, living an amazingly frugal lifestyle that enabled him to amass enough to retire quite young and to live (by his frugal standards, in a fully paid off house) quite comfortably. His approach has paid off handsomely. His blog earns him $400K a year, but he continues to live a pure, non-consuming life. For Adeney, having time to do whatever he wants is more important than sporting around in a fancy car (mostly he walks or rides his bike). Or even owning the pedestrian items that most Americans consider necessities of life, like a clothes dryer.

It’s not explicitly stated, but Adeney’s a big believer that you don’t own your possessions; they own you.

Hmmmm. Where have I heard that before?

While I don’t think anyone would ever have used the word frugal to describe my husband – his personality was way too expansive, and he was exceedingly generous - he was one of the only people I’ve ever known who had absolutely no interest in acquiring a lot of stuff.

Occasionally, he’d make a weirdly extravagant purchase – as when he got that crazy massage chair at Brookstone. And then there was that flat-screen TV that used to grace dominate our living room. (Sorry, hon, it’s gone. These days, the TV chez nous is a bit smaller, and it’s in the den.) But mostly Jim couldn’t have cared less about things.

Like many men, he hated to shop, but even by male standards, he was extreme.

As for clothing, Jim had the bare minimum. Take shoes. He had one pair of dress shoes (to wear with his one and only suit). He had one pair of casual shoes, a pair of sneakers, and a pair of winter hiking boots. When they fell apart, he’d replace them.

He had enough underwear and socks to get through the week, a handful of long-sleeved shirts, a handful of short sleeved shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans, a couple of pairs of cords, a couple of pairs of socks. A light jacket. A winter jacket. A few fleeces, some hang around sweats. Although I would occasionally augment his clothing repertoire a bit with a purchase, he mostly didn’t want anyone buying anything (clothing or anything else) for him. He did allow my mother to get him an LL Bean shirt every year for Christmas.

He didn’t mind free stuff, however.Quite a bit of Jim’s wardrobe was corporate swag I picked up. He loved the canary-yellow slicker I got at some work event. The long-sleeved grey shirt from the defunct product. He especially loved the exceptionally soft polo shirts one of my clients had in their marketing closet. Whenever I’d visit the company, they’d give me a new one in another color. Jim was wearing one of these logo-shirts when he died.

During the 40 years I was with him, Jim didn’t own a car. (Except for a few years when I worked in the ‘burbs, I didn’t either, for that matter.) No need for one. We lived in city so we could walk or take public transportation. Rent a car as needed.

Jim liked to buy books. That was about it.

He was quasi-interested in helping pick when we needed furniture. Mostly he wanted to make sure a couch was comfy. With the exception of a poster we got in an antique store in Vermont, and the street artist poster we bought in Berlin when we were there to witness the fall of The Wall, virtually every decorative anything in our home was my doing. Mostly he liked what I put on the walls or placed on the mantel. But left to his own devices, he would have lived a less decorated existence.

Jim’s indulgence was travel and eating out, both of which we did plenty of. We generally stayed in pretty nice places, and ate in pretty nice restaurants. (I won’t get into frequent flyer miles here. That’s a tale for another day.)

But Jim from the get go was a saver. His first year working after college – this would have been 1966 – he made a bit over $5K. And saved $1.3K. I have proof of the former (his tax return), and his word on the latter. But I completely believe it.

Jim was very careful with his money, which enabled him to work only when a project that interested him came his way, and/or he decided it was financially worth the effort. He valued his time, and he valued his freedom. So he made sure he had plenty of both. Having minimal consumer desires let him achieve this.

I am nowhere near the non-consumer that Jim was. I’m not a crazed, obsessive spender, but I do like stuff. And sweaters. And having more than four pairs of shoes.

Of course, if given the choice between more stuff and more time with my rag-bag of a husband, the choice would be pretty clear.

Jim didn’t have a mustache, and he wasn’t as extreme as Peter Adeney, but reading about Mr. Money Mustache reminded me – as if I need a reminder – of just what I’ve been missing the last two years.  

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You may need a paid subscription – another luxury, I suppose – but here’s the link to the New Yorker article.

Send OUT the clowns. Now.

I tend to like Cole Porter tunes. Hummable, sing-a-long-able, witty lyrics. But I part company with ol’ Cole when it comes to “Be A Clown.” Because, let’s face it, all the world most decidedly does NOT love a clown. In fact, I can’t think of a single person I know who is anything but creeped out by them. Starting with my sisters who, with me, share an industrial strength case of fear and loathing on the clown trail. Not that we’re actually ever on the clown trail. We, in fact, have an advanced warning system in place. If one of us sees an article on clowns, it’s immediately passed on so that we’ll know who and what to avoid, and where and how to avoid them.

Thus, the topic of clown-dom is not unknown to Pink Slip. My most recent variation on a clown theme was posted just last August. (Fear and loathing? I am nothing if not consistent in my feelings towards clowns.)

Anyway, what my sister Kath shared the other day was an article she’d seen in the NY Times that addressed the sad/creepy/mean/scary clown phenomenon.

Quite sadly, quite scarily, there are more clowns out there to fear and loathe than I had realized.

The one that seemed to draw the ‘een sisters in was Puddles:

…the bearish, nearly seven ­foot­ tall character played by Michael Geier whose cover songs have gone viral. …It wasn’t until I saw a rare New York appearance in January that I appreciated how much he riffed on the idea of the terrifying clown. Puddles, who when not singing is silent, embraces the creepy clown stereotype, invading the space of audience members, sometimes even kissing or, be warned, licking them.

You’ve heard about suicide by cop? How about suicide by clown? Because if I were ever to consider suicide, being licked by a seven foot tall clown would pretty much do it for me.

Geier actually sounds like a not bad person. And I’ve listened to – it’s okay to listen: just don’t watch – a couple of his YouTube videos, and he has a not half-bad voice. And I absolutely get that wanting to be an entertainer (or a writer) means that you’re in for a tough go, career-wise. But does the world need yet another terrifying clown? Is it not enough that we have one who may well end up with President of the United States?

Anyway, on the web site for the Puddles Pity Party – Geier’s business – it’s written:

“Puddles gives an emotive performance that resonates with all kinds of folks,” says Geier. “The crowd really responds to him. There’s something about a giant sad singing clown that comforts us, let’s us know it’s ok to feel, to show our feelings. It’s a sad and beautiful world, and we’re all in it together, even when we’re totally alone.”

Hey, I always realized that “it’s a sad and beautiful world.” And having grown up in a half-Irish/half-German family, it took me the longest while to “know it’s ok to feel, to show our feelings.” Now I’m all for it – within reason, of course. But, really, there is not now, nor ever will there be, any way, shape or form in which “a giant sad singing clown” will provide me with any comfort. Guess I’m just not the kind of folk that something like this resonates with. I really don’t want a complete stranger, especially one kitted out as a clown, to lick me.

Still, I do have to say I have some non-trivial admiration for someone who has found his niche and forged a career in what I’m quite sure is a dog-eat-dog (clown-bash-clown?) profession. It’s just that I’m the type who needs to protect myself, and those I love, from any sort of close encounter with a clown. So, girls, I just did us all a favor, and Puddles doesn’t have any performances scheduled for Boston. We’re safe for now…

 

 

It is good to be Wendy Schmidt

I don't spend a ton of time envying other folks. First off, I've got it pretty darned good. Second, I've always considered envy a waste of emotion. Joy, anger, sadness - most emotions serve a cathartic purpose. Envy, not so much. 

And then I go and read about Wendy Schmidt's yacht slip and, well, I'm almost gripped by a case of the envies. 

Not that, if I had $4.75M to spend on anything, I'd buy a boat slip, on Nantucket or anywhere else. Personally, I don't have a 156 foot boat to put in it, so I don't need one of the scarce deepwater slips - there are only three - in the harbor. 

"You can see how demand would be quite high," said Jen Shelley, a Nantucket real estate agent who represented, but declined to name, the buyer. "It's such a rarity. There were multiple interested parties." (Source: Boston Globe)

Hey, I was married to an economist, so I know all about supply and demand. So I can see how it operates on Nantucket, where there's a plentiful supply of rich people and a dearth of boat slips that will work for a boat that's about three times longer than the house I grew up in. 

But just being able to flash that kind of cash on a parking space for a boat did get me wondering just what else you can do when you're Eric Schmidt of Google's wife, and you run the Schmidt Foundation, and you have both time and money to spend on making life perfect.

Well, one thing Wendy Schmidt has done is establish a nonprofit:

...launched to help preserve the character of the island's quaint downtown. 

I've only been to Nantucket a couple of times. Once was just after I graduated from high school. We're pushing 50 years on that visit. The other time was in the early 1970's. So it's been a while... I found it charming and quaint, and, given that I do like charming and quanit, I can't really come up with a plausible reason why I haven't been back. And now I really want to go, if only because that nonprofit - ReMain - is doing what it can to keep up the charm and the quaint, including buying "a popular bookstore so it could remain open."

Hmmm. I do have an indie bookstore about 20 minutes walk away, but my friend Marin and I, whenever we see an empty storefront on Charles Street, talk about how much we'd love to open a bookstore, stock it only with books we like, put in a couple of armchairs and open it only when we felt like sitting in one of those armchairs. Of course, stocking it only with books we like would doom it to financial failure, but if we had Wendy Schmidt money, that wouldn't be a worry. We could have a bookstore in the neighborhood that would always be there for us.

ReMain has also "helped finance renovation of the Dreamland Theater."

And that would be nice, too, to have a theater that was just there. I'd give mine to the Actors' Shakespeare Project, so that they'd have a permanent home of their own. They always find wonderful venues for their wonderful productions, but I don't imagine they'd mind if I bought them a venue so that I didn't have to look up every play they do and figure out where it's going to be performed, and how to get there.

ReMain also established Petticoat Row Bakery, so that Wendy and other islanders could just walk into town and get a baguette. (The Times article cited below mentions macarons and lavender madeleines, but, alas they weren't on the current menu. Maybe during the summer when the rich and famous head in for their ration of charming and quaint...)

Not all her causes are on a grand scale: When three local girls needed money to start an ice­pop business this summer, Ms. Schmidt not only gave them a loan, but agreed to sell the pops at the Petticoat Row Bakery, a bake shop she founded in 2010. (Source: NY Times)

The village of Grafton, Vermont, was restored in the 1960's and turned into an absolutely charming and quaint town that likely bears no resemblance to what the town looked like in the 1850's, when there would have been things like mud streets and outhouses. I visited it a once or twice with my husband, who grew up in Bellows Falls, just a few miles down the road from Grafton. Bellows Falls, alas, was never known for its charm and quaintness, so no foundation ever stepped up to restore it. But it's probably more typical of the places where most native Vermonters still live. A few nice (charming and quaint) houses, a lot of run-down buildings, a few bars, a couple of churches. I will note, however, that Bellows Falls has a quite nice indie bookstore. Grafton, I believe does not.

The charming and quaint quotient of Grafton Vermont is nonetheless quite high. And, if it bears scant resemblance to what it was actually like back in the day, I'm guessing that goes double for Nantucket. What do we think Nantucket looked (and smelled) like when it was a whaling center?

But that's okay. I'm fine with keeping what was great about the past (charm, quaintness) and omitting restoration of the yucky bits (outhouses and whale blubber).

Meanwhile, the Schmidt Family Foundation, which Wendy Schmidt runs, does things that go far beyond propping up bookstores and investing in bakeries. Their mission:

Applying new knowledge and innovation is our model for problem solving and for advancing original research in science, energy and the sustaintablity of the world's biosphere.

Keeping bookstores, bakeries and theaters open so that they'll be there when you need them. Goosing the price of a boat slip (which at least made a couple of people - the previous owner and the agent - quite happy).  Trying to do something about the keeping our fragile and fraying planet earth going. (Let's hope it's not too late...)

As I said, I'm not an envious person, but it's got to be good to be Wendy Schmidt.

Maybe we SHOULD convert to metric after all. (Wonder what Lumber Liquitdators thinks?)

At this point in time (i.e., my personal time of life), I would not be jumping up and down to see a conversion to metric.

Oh, some of it I don't mind. I can do the rough mile/kilometer math pretty easily. A kilometer is roughly 6/10's of a mile. And meters to feet don't throw me off. A meet is a bit over 3 feet. I get that a kilo is 2.2, and that a litre is kinda sorta like a quart.

But, while I acknowledge that metric is a lot more logical and mathematically sensible, I don't think in it.

I think that there are 5,280 feet in a mile.  And I know how long it takes to walk those 5,280 feet. And how fast you get somewhere on the Mass Pike when you're going 70 m.p.h. I know what someone means when they say that something is the length of a football field.

My measuring spoons are tbsp and tsp; my measuring cups are, well, cups. I know that when someone calls something pint-sized they mean it's small.

What do people in metric countries say?

(And don't get me going on Fahrenheit vs. Celsius. Twenty degrees is always going so sound cold to me, even after I multiply it by 1.8 and add 32.)

Anyway, I don't start every day thinking about the glories of metric, or the mysteries of Celsius. But the latest news about Lumber Liquidators did catch my eye.

For those who haven't followed the ups and (mostly) downs of Lumber Liquidators, the company was exposed last year in a devastating Sixty Minutes segment that showed some of their Chinese suppliers admitting that laminate flooring wasn't up to California safety standards, even though they'd claimed it was. (For those who aren't addited to HG-TV, or hanging out at Home Depot, laminate flooring is fake wood that's cheaper than the real thing.)

Laminate flooring doesn't pose a clear and present danger. You're not going to get cancer from it the day after it's installed. But flooring that gives off formaldehyde is maybe not something you want to have in your house. Let's face it, ain't no one needs more exposure to potential carcinogens. We've all lived, eaten and breathed plenty of them over the years already, thank you.

Anyway, after Lumber Liquidators took a beating after the Sixty Minutes episode, it got a bit of good news when:

The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention said earlier this month that tests on the company's products showed minimal health risks, which renewed confidence in the chain as the stock rebounded. (Source: Bloomberg)

But - oops - apparently someone at the CDC translated a foot to a meter, turning an 8-foot celining into 26 feet for purposes of calculation. So the formaldehyde fumes, in their initial calculation, were far more dispersed than they'd be in real life. The CDC had to come out with a corrected finding that shows that the "formaldehyde exposure is three times higer than previously proejcted."

The cancer risk is still low.(There are, however, breathing and irritation problems associated with formaldehyde. Let's face it, who wants to breathe in anything that most of us associate with the frog and fetal pig we dissected in high school biology.) But this is certainly not good news for Lumber Liquidators.

The company has taken steps to improve their quality assurance, and is no longer selling the bad, formaldehyde-emitting laminate from China.

But it's still going to have a hard time. If the CDC's calculations had been correct to begin with, the issue would have come and gone. Now what will stick in people's mind is "three times worse than originally stated."

If only we were all fluent in metric...

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Pink Slip took on Lumber Liquidators issue last March, when the formaldehyde story first appeared.

You're right, tech bro, you "shouldn't have to see the pain, struggle and despair of homeless' people"

Last week's award for Millennial You Most Love To Hate went to a one Justin Keller, a San Francisco tech entrepreneur. He seized the title from Martin Shkreli, the drug price gouging, hedge fund chiseling, all-round snot nose. I'm bettting that, based on his performance at a  recent Congressional hearing, Shkreli will be back with full ownership rights. But for now, we have Justin Keller.

Young Keller apparently had a rough Presidents' Day weekend.

A homeless guy leaned on his parents' car.

Keller and his family ran into a drug-crazed ranter when they were leaving a fancy restaurant.

Then some fellow came into the movie theater where he and his girlfriend were enjoying the show, took off his shirt and stood in front of the projector light. Keller ran out, which, given recent movie theater shootings, seems like the right response.

Me, I've left movie theaters twice in sketchy situations. One time there was something that appeared to be smoke wafting into the theater. My sister and I left and reported it to management. I can't remember what the problem was, but not that many people got up and moved when we did. The other time, a guy ran into the theater where my sister and I were watching "Mommy Dearest". He was being chased by another guy brandishing a gun. This was  1981, well before the Aurora Colorado theater shooting. Still, neither one of us wanted to get shot while watching Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford screaming about wire hangers. We left.

So you do have to be wary about crazies in theaters. And on the streets.

And I understand that Keller was especially concerned that all this happened when his folks were in town. Here they were thinking that their son was leading a shiny and golden life in San Francisco, only to find that, every time you turn around, somebody's jumping out at them. And, if not making life dangerous, at least making life unpleasant.

I know how Keller feels.

When my parents came to Boston to see my first apartment, we all had to step over the body of a drunk (not a resident of my building) who was sleeping it off in the vestibule. This was shortly before my father died, so when he was doing his last-thoughts-about-his-kids thing, he was no doubt wondering about just how sound my judgment was, and whether I could actually take care of myself. (Not to worry, Dad. At least I think not to worry.)

I know how Keller feels.

I, too, live in a city with a large homeless population, although, given our weather, probably not as pronounced as that of San Francisco.

Each day, I see things I'd rather not see. Hear things I don't want to hear. Smell things don't want to smell. And I will admit that there are plenty of times when I cross the street to avoid being asked for money by someone.

But, unlike Keller, I wouldn't have taken to my blog, as Keller did, to write:

"I know people are frustrate abou gentrificaton happening in the city, but the reality is, we live in a free market society. The wealthy working people have earned their righ to live in the city. They went out, got an education, work hard, and earned it. I shouldn't have to worry about being qaccosted. I shouldn't have to see the pain, struggle, and despair of homeless people to and from my way to work every day." (Source: Keller's blog, via the Washington Post.)

Maybe Keller didn't mean to come across as an entitled little whiner who needs to go back to whatever candy-arse, sheltered enclave he came from. But that is, unfortunately, how he sounds to me.

He went on to write that, during the recent Super Bowl doings in SF, the streets were miraculously free of the taint (sights, smells, and sounds) of the homeless. And he'd like that to happen again.

I have no idea how San Francisco managed to round up the homeless and keep them away from Super Bowl patrons, but it apparently wasn't by providing them with permanent housing.

Because they're back.

Here's the thing.

Even though they may not be "wealthy working people", homeless folks have a right to be out and about. And, if you live in a public neighborhood - as opposed to in a private, gated community - they have the right to share your streets and parks.

I don't want Boston Common to turn into tent city. I don't want folks using ATM enclosures as toilets. I don't want to be an eye witness to drug deals.

But mostly I have sympathy for the homeless, the disposables of our society, the NIMBY folks. Where are they supposed to go?

Maybe they didn't go out and get an education. (Although some did.) Maybe they didn't work hard. (Although some did.) Maybe they aren't wealthy working people. (Although some may once have been.)  But from the ones I've met over the years, I can tell you this: most of them have had plenty of bad luck in their lives.

Yes, an awful lot of them have compounded that bad luck with bad choices. But there's an awful lot of folks with mental health issues on the street. And/or folks who've come from disasterous family situations. And/or been in jail for some low-end crime that gained them entry into all the joys and benefits of Incarceration Nation.

As for getting an education, what do you say to a guy who's 37 and can't read because he was taken out of school to pick cotton every year from the age of seven on. As for working hard, what do you say to the person who wants a job, but can't get one because of their record? What do you say to a mentally ill person who may not ever get things together?

I've yet to meet a homeless person who didn't want the same things that everyone else wants: friends, family, a clean place to live, 3 squares a day, and a job.

But we, as a society, haven't figured out how to make this happen for everyone. And it doesn't make things better when cities are gentrifying, and the poor are being squeezed out of affordable options, including SROs (single room occupancies) in which many of the now-homeless were previously housed.

I certainly don't have any answer here, other than let's keep trying. And I've been thinking about this for longer than Justin Keller's been alive.

No, I don't blame him for not wanting to "see the pain, struggle, and despair of homeless people." But I have news for him: neither do the homeless.

Furniture for introverts? Tell me more.

All I needed to do was see a subhead in an Economist article that read "Furniture for the introverted," and I was all in. I mean, after all these years living la vida introverta, I had never realized that we had our own furniture needs. 

I knew, of course, that we need privacy. And quiet. And "white space" in our lives where nothing, but nothing, intrudes. But, beyond something we can curl up in with a good book, do we really require our own furniture? Who knew? Not this introvert.

Not surprisingly, the concept is coming to fruition in Japan, where - from what I've heard - people are in general more reserved, and the living spaces tend to be smallish. In fact, while US homes have been supersizing, Japanese homes have been downsizing: shrinking from 70 square meters to 60 square meters over the last decade. This probably works better in part because of the simplicity of Japanese design: not a lot of hoo-hah involved. But, given the small spaces, it migh be hard to enjoy that zen garden room when everyone in the family rolls out their tatami mats alongside you. 

What some Japanese furniture makers have dreamed up is:

...an otoko no kakureya, or "hiding place for men," a tiny cockpit-like room with a desk, shelves and reclining chair. Sales are taking off. (Source: The Economist)

Of course sales are taking off! Who wouldn't want a hiding place. I just don't think they're FOR MEN ONLY. In fact, when I was a kid, growing up in house too small for the number of people it held, designing in my mind my very own hiding place, this was pretty much it. Except mine was an overstuffed armchair, not a recliner.

Even my inner introvert would take a pass on the Solo Theatre, "a cardboard box that users put over their heads, which has slot for Apple's iPhone."

I like small, contained spaces - no "open concept" for me - but this sounds just a wee bit claustrophobia-inducing.

The co-designer described it as "a selfish product that appeals to the need to get into a small womblike space of one's own and watch films and other content." Okay. I guess I just prefer my small spaces to be not quite so womblike.

Then there's the indoor tent. And the soundproof cardboard box for karaoke. (Hey, I thought the entire idea of karaoke was getting up and exposing yourself and your inner-warbler to a bunch of strangers who are, with luck, liquored up enough to not notice when you go flat, but not so liquored up that they'll boo you off the stage for it.)

Despite the fact that introverts are everywhere, there may not be much of an international market for these wares. They are considered a bit too eccentric, a bit too Japanese. Kind of like Hello Kitty for grownups, I guess.

Wayfair, you've got just what I need. (Too bad about the boxes it comes in.)

As anyone who’s ever done a reno project knows, renovation has plenty of begats beyond the backsplash, the fridge, and the vanity. There’s all the other stuff that you need to supplement the main events. So last fall, in the midst of my reno, I became acquainted with Wayfair.

And damned if, just as advertised, they had just what I need.

And just what I needed was a marble toothbrush holder, soap dish, and tray for towels. A mirror for the upstairs bathroom; a medicine chest for the downstairs bathroom. Sconces for the living room. New salad tossers

All of which came packaged up in cardboard cartons and oodles of packing materials. The recyclable materials got recycled; some of it went down the drain (those dissolvable foam peanuts); and some got trashed.

Wayfair was great: infinite choice, reasonable prices, and excellent service.

And I went on-beyond-Wayfair and shoped other online venues as well. (The rug for the den, a new double boiler, a new duvet cover, shams, cool registers with the same grapevine pattern as the plaster medallions and mantle in the living room...)

When ordering, I didn’t give a moment’s thought to the environmental impact of all the packaging and shipping. Or the repackaging and reshipping. Nor have I done so for the other stuff I order online in the course of my normal, non-reno-related consuming.

I’m not someone who only shops on the net. I like to shop in a real store. But sometimes what I want or even need isn’t readily available in a store. (You try shopping for a size 10 ½ triple A shoe, why don’t you.) And sometimes it’s just easier to find something online.

But all that cardboard…

I do, of course, religiously recycle it. Too bad that's not as saintly a practice as I tell myself it is.

Though recycling can make consumers think they are helping the environment, the process has its own costs, including the emissions from shipping it to recycling centers, which use a lot of energy and water. Don Fullerton, a professor of finance and an expert in economics and the environment at the University of Illinois, said one possible solution would be to make the retailers responsible for taking back the boxes. That would create incentives for them to come up with solutions for less packaging. “And maybe not put a box inside a box inside a box,” he said. (Source: NY Times)

Note to self: tell Zappo's to stop with the box-in-a-box.

But it's not just all that cardboard that's a problem:  

A handful of scientists and policy makers are circling the same question [as Ruchit Garg, an online shopper who’s been expressing his packaging concerns via Twitter], grappling with the long­term environmental effect of an economy that runs increasingly on gotta­have­it­now gratification. This cycle leads consumers to expect that even their modest wants can be satisfied like urgent needs, and not always feel so great about it. The new arms race for Internet retailers is speed, making the old Federal Express commercial, “When it absolutely, positively has to be there overnight,” seem as quaint as delivery by horse and buggy.

And all that insta-delivery comes at an environmental cost: all those delivery trucks, delivery cars, and - coming soon - drones.

Of course, stuff gets delivered whether it's coming ASAP or through the standard, no hurry delivery times. And whether it's coming in two hours or two weeks, if stuff wasn't being delivered, most folks would be driving to the mall to pick it up. But when you're going to the mall, you're stopping in at mulitple stores. When you're ordering from Wayfair, you can just go ahead and get the toothbrush holder and wait for UPS to show up with it.

Anyway, whether it's coming two hours or two weeks, delivery is likely adding to greenhouse emissions.

Ardeshi Faghri, a professor of civil engineering at the University of Delaware, said the increase of various emissions — which he estimated at 20 percent from 2001 to 2011 — “could be due to a multitude of reasons, but we think that online shopping and more delivery trucks are really one of the primary reasons. Online shopping has not helped the environment,” he said. “It has made it worse.”

Glad I didn't read this before I'd ordered all those things from Wayfair.
 

On this day in history...

I’m a sucker for those “on this day in history” lists. And who was born, who died. Not that the specific day matters, one way or the other. And do we really believe that they were keeping such excellent track back in 1370, that we have great certainty that the Battle at Radau: Germany beats Lithuania – sounds like a soccer match, doesn’t it? – took place on that very day.

Fast forward a few centuries, and we find that Myles Standish was elected the first commander of the Plymouth Colony. Greater likelihood of accuracy, but is that Julian calendar February 17 or Gregorian calendar? 

I like that on this date, in 1776, the 1^st volume of Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” was published.  And that 19 years later, Thomas Seddal harvested 8.3-kg potato from his garden Chester, England. Way to go, Thomas! That’s one mighty pratie.

Even more interesting, in 1801, the House broke an electoral college tie to pick Thomas Jefferson over Aaron Burr. (Good choice, but let’s hope they don’t get to be tie breakers come November…) And in 1836, Charles Darwin and HMS Beagle left Tasmania.

On the music front, Verdi’s “Masked Ball” debuted in 1859. February 17^th is apparently a good day for opera: in 1904, Puccini’s “Madame Butterfly” premiered.

Opera’s not the only thing that debuts on February 17^th. In 1876, the first canned sardines were introduced, in Eastport, Maine, no less. (Thanks but no thanks. On behalf of my husband, I wish it had been canned anchovies.)In 1896, the London County Council began enforcing its muzzling order. (Hiss-boo. Did dogs bite more back in the day? Were there no rabies shots? I always feel terrible when I see a muzzled pooch.) 

On a more pleasant note, in 1913, Oregon put the US’s first minimum wage law in place. And in 1924, not-yet-Tarzan Johnny Weissmuller set the 100-yard freestyle record.  In 1933, happy days were, indeed, here again when Prohibition was lifted, in plenty of time for folks to enjoy the first color TV, which was demonstrated in 1938. Too bad there was nothing on…

Not much happened in the forties and fifties on this date, other than World War II battles and figure skating championships. But in 1962, the Beach Boys released their first song. Surf was up! More importantly – at least my husband would say so – Wilt Chamberlain scored 67 points in a game against the St. Louis Hawks. A few years later (1968), the Basketball Hall of Fame opened in Springfield. (Jim loved basketball. We were always going to get there someday when we were out visiting family in Southwick…) 

1964 was a biggie: the House voted in the Civil Rights Act and the Supremes ruled that on one man, one vote. (Seriously, it took that long????) 

And in 1972, President Nixon left for China, opening up a new era in Sino-American relations and, I believe, prompting someone (neither Verdi nor Puccini: both dead) to write an opera on the subject. Seriously, what is up with February 17^th and opera? 

Over the next couple of decades, a lot of what happened on February 17^th had to do with skating, cricket, or NBA All Star games. 

Other stuff happened on February 17^th.  For instance, many well-known people you never heard of were born. That includes French economist Pierre Le Pesant (1646). Not to mention Southern plantation owner, Haller Nutt (1816). At least I’ve heard of Montgomery Ward (1844), and Wally Pipp (1893). But Fyodor Sologub? Who curates these lists, anyway?

Football – and lacrosse – great Jim Brown was born on February 17, 1936. As was Gene Pitney (1941) who was born in Hartford, not, as one might have imagined, 24 Hours from Houston. Come to think of it, Hartford has always struck me as a town without pity. 

Rene Russo, an actress Jim had a crush on, was born on this day in 1954. Michael Jordan, a basketballer that Jim was not especially wild about – Jordan was no Bill Russell – checked in in 1963. Paris Hilton was born in 1981.

Many notables died on this day. Geronimo in 1909. Bruno Walter and the guy who played Mr. Wilson on Dennis the Menace both died in 1962.  Lee Strasberg, baseball umpire Nestor Chylak, and Thelonious Monk checked out in 1982. In 1994, Randy Shilts, who wrote And The Band Played On, a book that was turned into one of my husband’s favorite films, died of AIDS. In 2013, on this day, country signer Mindy McCready shot herself. And in 2014, Bob Casale, a musician I’d never heard of, died. 

Anyway, just as all politics is local, the real important history is personal.On February 2014, Bob Casale wasn’t the only one who died. So did my husband, Jim. 

Seems like just yesterday; seems like a million years ago.

Life is good. It’s just different. And it’s just plain not quite as entertaining and interesting as it was when Diggy was around. Sigh…

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Sources: onthisday.com, on-this-day.com

I hate to break this to you, [name withheld]

I spend a few minutes a day cruising the web, looking for topics for Pink Slip. Bloomberg is a frequent source. Friends and family occasionally suggest ideas. (Keep 'em coming.) And I do sometimes trip across something in Huff Po or the Daily Mail UK. (When the latter happens, I'm embarrassed to admit, I will generally look for another source, so that I don't have to admit that I browse Daily Mail UK.) To my web wanderings, I have added GoFundMe, not for its Pink Slip potential, which is limited, but for the human interest. 

And then, while grazing there the other day, I came across a two-fer. For there, amidst the house fires and funeral expenses and the general-purpose do-gooders and the Indian guy hoping to raise enough to make his Olympic luge dreams come true (think: Jamaican Bobsled Team), was a plea to help out a photographer whose specialty is taking pictures at band concerts. For which, alas, he doesn't make any money. 

His selflessness has allowed him to attend local, and national shows and festivals  in which he stands on stage, running back and forth dodging fans just to get pictures for bands. Most of the time these bands don't offer to pay him, but use his images for merchandise, social media, and press related items to gain exposure for their band. [Name withheld by Pink Slip to protect an innocent]  has never once asked for money to do any of this, he does this because he loves music and capturing the moments involved. This being said, taking pictures for bands is not just a hobby for [name withheld by Pink Slip to protect an innocent], this is a career. (Source: GoFundMe)

Okay. I just have to say it. Taking pictures at rock concerts is not exactly something I associate wtih selflessness. I'm equal opportunity here: I wouldn't associate writing a non-monetized blog with selflesssness either. Somethings you just do for fun. 

Skip to the end of the GFM para, where we're told that "running back and forth dodging fans" is "not just a hobby...this is a career." (Later on, the career is expanded to "career and dream.")

And yet [name withheld] has "never once asked for money" for providing bands with images that they then use for commercial purposes.

So now a friend is trying to shake the trees for enough money to get [name withheld] a used car and some photo equipment. The ask is modest, and if his friends want to pass the hat to keep this guy going, good for them. But there does seem to be a pervasive theme throughout GoFundMe pleas that free money solves all problems. And, for those fund-raising for dream-pursuing, there seems to be some sense of, hey, let's try this; it beats work.

Anyway, if [name withheld] is serious about making band photography a career, he may need to stop waiting for bands to offer to pay him. Instead, he might want to:

• Make sure he has a professional site, showcasing his rock band photos. [Name withheld] does have some band pics on FlickR, but you have to comb through a bunch of mood shots, presumably of [name withheld's] girlfriend, to get to them.
• Include a list of what bands can use his pictures for: social media, boring old media, merchandise. 
• Get some references from the bands he's done freebies for, attesting to the quality of his work, etc.
• Put together a price list. 
• Start approaching bands in a professional manner, and pitch what he can do for them.

And, finally, while all this plays or doesn't play out:

• Figure out how to support yourself with your photography (or, with something else, if needs be) while you pursue your dream career/career dream. 

Because, god knows, if you just sit around waiting for punk/grunge/garage bands to start paying you, you're not in for much of a career. Or much of a dream, either.

I have plenty of sympathy for someone who wants to make a living in the arts (however broadly defined). I know plenty of poets, and most of them get by because they have a spouse with a good job. That's just how it goes. [Name withheld] may end up becoming the greatest rock band photographer of all time. Maybe all he needs is a break. But, in my experience, breaks tend to happen to people who make their own breaks.

Not for a second did I consider making a GoFundMe donation to [name withheld]. But I did look around to see if there was some place where he sold his photos, thinking that I would consider buying something. I found him on Etsy, but what was there just seemed to be links to the stuff he likes, and the stuff his girlfriend likes. 

Maybe rock fans don't spend a lot of time on Etsy. What do they need with goat's wool snoods, dog tutus, and potato-print wrapping paper? But maybe there would be some interest there from people interested in an evocative, skilled photo of a rock concert. Stranger things have happened. If the price were right, I would have gotten something. I may never have hung it up, but I would have considered supporting someone taking his career seriously.

I hate to break this to you, [name withheld], but if you want a dream career taking pictures at rock concerts, you need to start paying more attention to the career elements than the dream. Shaking the tin cup on GoFundMe will only get you so far.

Baby, it's cold outside. Inside, too.

Especially when compared to last year's snowmageddon, this winter has been a balmy breeze. Two weeeks ago today, I was actually out and about in a sweater.

We've had very little snow, very little cold, and freakish appearances by forsythia buds and cherry blossoms. The squirrels on Boston Common, generally skinny, furtive and thin-tailed this time of year, are plump, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. They seem to be traveling in packs. And they'll stand there on the sidewalk, right in your path - bold as brass, as the nuns used to say - gnawing on an acorn they didn't even have to work for. They're the size of prairie dogs, and you forget for a moment that they're first cousins to the rat.

When, a few weeks back, we had a little cold snap - a few days of temps in the 20's - it was a shock to the heating system.

And then there was this weekend.

The temperature took a dive on Saturday afternoon, and the wind picked up. I had to run an errand on Charles Street, just around the corner, and it looked like 3 a.m. rather than 3 p.m. Few pedestrians on sidewalks that on a typical weekend are packed with locals running errands, tourists with their street maps, and twenty-somethings standing in line for breakfast or lunch at the Paramount. There weren't many cars around either.

Overnight on Saturday, it hit 7-below, the coldest temperature in Boston in nearly sixty years. Worcester, of course, outdid itself: 14-below.

Saturday night would have been a big Valentine's Day romantic dinner out evening. Last year, plans were ruined by a blizzard. This year, they were warning people about frostbite if they were out for more than 10 minutes. I spent a decidedly non-romantic evening avoiding the Republican debate, supping on PBJ and a clementine. A fellow owner popped in, and we discussed the latest building tsouris. It's a big one. More to follow on that, I'm quite sure.

One of the things about living in an old building is the heating challenges. I had the thermostat set at 70 degrees - I seldom go that high - and, overnight, the best it could maintain at was 63 degreees. Not bad for sleeping, but...

My condo is upside down: the living room and kitchen are on the upper level, the bedroom and den are downstairs. Hot air should rise, so 63 downstairs should translate to 65 upstairs. But that's until that hot air gets to the 12 foot ceilings in the living room, and the green-house window in the kitchen. At 7 a.m., the temperature in the kitchen was 55 degrees. Unfortunately, I needed to use the kitchen. Fortunately, I remembered that, when I reno'd, I'd cleverly had toe-kick heating installed. Now, when I first heard about toe-kick, I thought I would be able to kick it on. Not quite. You do have to pretty much go prone on the cold kitchen floor and do a commando-style crawl to switch it on. No matter. It does a very nice job of taking the chill off.

But baby, it's cold inside.

Sunday, the original plan was to take the train up to my sister's in Salem. Trish would pick me up at the train station, and we'd spend the day hanging out - maybe take the dog for a walk, maybe see a movie. That was before we heard the forecast, and that warning about frostbite after 10 minutes out. Plans changed: Trish would swing into Boston to pick me up, and our hanging out would be in her living room. Jack would be walking himself in the back yard if he so desired. If not, he could just hold it.

For the 2 second walk from my front door to Trish's front seat, I donned heavy cords, a wool turtleneck, heavy sweater, two pairs of socks, down coat, wool cap, scarf, and bunny-fur lined mittens. Brrrrrr....

The afternoon's event was sitting on the couch channel crusiing.

Dinner was frigid weather fare: chicken pot pie. I bought fancy cupcakes for dessert. What's Valentine's Day without a cupcake decorated in pink and red?

Today, Presidents' Day, the weather's warming up. We'll get the dog out to stretch his legs, and maybe get our wallets out to do a little shopping. After all, what's a holiday celebrating the great and not-so-great men who've led our country without a bit of shopping?

As for that bit o' frigid weather we just endured. The upside is that Arctic cold is good for keeping down the rat population. And I bet it wipes the smile off a couple of those bold as brass squirrels on the Common, blocking my way and taunting me with their acorns.

Enjoy the holiday. Stay warm!


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You didn't think I was going to get through a holiday post without acknowledging that today is Presidents' Day, did you?

Just think, next year at this time, we could have a president in place who is unfathomably terrible. A crude, nasty, bullying, nativist demagogue. George, Tom and Abe must be spinning in their graves.

Rather than repeat myself, repeat myself, repeat myself, here's a link to last year's take on the day.