2024 Redux

It's the week before Christmas, almost closing the book

On the twelve months gone by, so let's give it a look 

A year like a mine field, you had to watch where you stepped

You shuffled or jumped, you laughed or you wept

There was mayhem and uproar, only the venues did change

Some were expected, others were new and were strange

So let's get to the details, see what killed and what hid 

See what hit the heights and what hit the skids

There were sideshows and warmups, but in the center of the ring

The US vote dominated winter, summer and spring

A debate, a shooting, but when fall ended the stump

The country moved to the right, the edge went to Trump

The White House was flipped, the Senate as well

Yet when the counting was done the House had the same smell

The country has spoken, the direction seems clear

Let's blow it all up, the place needs a slap on the rear

It brought big grins in some places, despair in some more

While many are waiting to see how it gets scored

All three branches together, the dog got the bus

Now what will they do, will there be cheering or fuss?

While all of that drama took over the room 

In the world around things kept going boom

In Ukraine and the Mid East, conflicts upping the score

Haiti in chaos, Syria has new chapter in store 

The climate was changing, with storms that got worse

The hottest summer on record, many places were cursed

Flooding in Europe, twisters in the Midwest

Hurricanes in the south, Mother Nature a mess 

Putin was re-elected, no surprise from that place

While Mexico put a woman at the top of their space

After 14 years the Tories were election deprived

While Modi was the winner of a third term of five

In Baltimore a bridge came crashing on down

While Wall Street sent the Dow Jones out on the town

Charles had cancer, an eclipse stopped the show

Caitlin broke Pistol Pete's record, France staged an Olympic tableau

The Chiefs won again, the Celts did the same

The Dodgers and Panthers won trophies and fame

And while Barbie in pink was a box office threat 

It was Oppe in black for the gold statuette

Taylor sang all of her Eras, by the thousands they came

LeBron played with Bronny, the first in a game

Tech broke new ground, hallucinations aside 

In pics, words and everything, the word was AI

As always, some departed who lived in fine form

Chita Rivera, Charles Osgood, David Sanborn

Quincy Jones, Terri Garr, Bob Newhart, Jerry West

James Earl Jones, Willie Mays, just some of the best 

As to the New Year, well, there's lots to digest

Will it work out for the better, or will it be just a mess?

Each half thinks they're righteous, the others are nuts

We all have to cool down, and get out of our ruts

Aim for healthy and happy, and friends by your side

That way whatever gets dished out you can take it in stride

So from my place to yours, to all in your hive

Peace, love and happiness and a stellar ‘25

-END-

Marc Wollin of Bedford thanks all for spending some time in this space. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Walk? Much!

Turns out getting to the airport was the fastest part.

It was early in Charlotte, like 430AM on a Saturday early. When I woke up I first checked to see if there were any Ubers out and about. The app showed a few, and I figured there would be more an hour later when I was ready to move. I hopped in the shower, then started to gather up my stuff and finish packing. I checked the app again: indeed, there were a bunch of itty-bitty cars moving around on my screen. 

I put in my terminal info, confirmed the pickup location and hit go. The little fever bar started moving slowly as my request was put into the ether. A few minutes later, a match: 10 minutes until Mohammed would arrive. Moments later as I finished zipping up my suitcase my phone buzzed: he was pulling up in a minute. I raced to put all my stuff together, took a last look around the room to make sure I had it all, and headed downstairs.

We hit the carport at the same time and loaded up. At that hour of a weekend morning traffic was non-existent, and we went from downtown to the terminal in 14 minutes flat. Lots of people were on the move, though, as the place was buzzing. Still, the security check went quickly, my bags were scanned in short order, leaving me way more time than I needed to get to the gate. 

Or maybe not. As airports are being redesigned and updated to accommodate larger planes they need more space between gates, increasing the ground part of your journey. Currently the longest haul is at Dallas-Fort Worth, where the jaunt from Terminal B to E is more than 2 miles. The good news is that our little regional White Plains airport has among the shortest traverses, as it's just one dinky terminal with 6 gates: you can get from gate to curb in two minutes, three if you stop to use the rest room.

But that was at the end of my journey. Because it was early they did not have all the security checkpoints open, so I was shunted to the one closest to the A gates. And since I was flying into our small local airport, my plane was leaving from the E terminal. I'm sure there are airports with F's and G's, but you know it's gonna be a hike when you are out of the ABC's. And a look at the map showed my gate wasn't just in the E terminal, it was at the end. The very end.

OK, no problem. I had a wheeled suitcase and was wearing my sneakers. I figured I could stop and grab coffee along the way, and there would be moving sidewalks as needed. Plenty of time with some to kill, and a little exercise before being wedged into a seat for a few hours. Piece of cake. So off I started. 

As I walked past the food court, I glanced at my watch noting that it was indeed early. So early, in fact, that many of the places were yet to open. The number of coffee stops was cut even smaller as only those that served breakfast were working. The net result was that every open establishment had a line nearly as long as the boarding line would be. Oh well. I'm sure they will have coffee on the plane.

And then there were the moving sidewalks: there were none on my route. It's not that they were out of action for mechanical reasons. Rather, it seems they were mostly being upgraded and reconfigured. Those devices are notoriously trouble prone, with frequent breakdowns. But there is also a movement afoot in airports to make the spaces more akin to malls, with stores and shops catering to a truly captive clientele with hours to kill. And to do that you can't put potential customers on a conveyor belt that carries them past your door. In that light many are being eliminated or redone to force travelers to window shop during connections.

So I just kept hiking, past the lines, past the construction, down the escalator, through the tunnel, past the weird sculptures that are endemic to these spaces. Perhaps because it was at the end of the earth there was a little café right near the gate with no one waiting, so I pulled in. The time stamp when Mohammed dropped me off? 5:43AM. The time stamp on the receipt for the cup of coffee? 6:28AM. Forty-five minutes of steady walking at a solid clip to get to my plane.  

Other than an hour to kill it had all worked out, even if my feet were tired. And then a bonus: the airline pushed me to the front of the plane. Admittedly, on a little jet that early with few passengers, virtually everyone was either first class or had their own row, but it was still a nice gesture. As I settled into my seat one of those upgrade perks was presented, as the flight attendant offered drinks preflight. Coffee, I asked? Sorry, she said, out of order. Oh well. At least it's a short walk once we land. 

-END-

Marc Wollin of Bedford doesn't mind flying too much. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

List Inflation

You've made it through Black Friday, Small Business Saturday and Cyber Monday. You scrolled around between the stuffing and the game on Turkey Thursday, likewise between leftovers and the game on No Cute Name Sunday. And in spite of all of those opportunities to get out there and do your duty as an American consumer, you probably still haven't even started to spend money like a drunken sailor on your holiday shopping.

Well, you better get going. Because of a quirk in the calendar Thanksgiving came late this year, with its legally mandated fourth Thursday of the month placement backed into a corner among the last days of the term. Christmas, on the other hand, is the usually immovable object it always is, with a date certain of December 25. That means that this holiday shopping season is tied for the shortest in twenty years, with only 27 days from kickoff to Santa shimmying down your chimney. That's five days shorter than last year, so you are behind before you even begin.

Added to the shorter time period is that these days everybody just buys whatever they want whenever they want. Blame the smorgasbord of shopping apps from major online and physical retailers that went from convenient options to embedded lifestyle choices during the pandemic. Add to that Temu and Shein and TikTok Shop and Amazon Haul, all offering goods at cheap prices and encouraging people to gift themselves early and often. So whereas in before times someone might have mentioned they were hoping for a new scarf or water bottle or charging stand under the tree, now they just click "buy" on Tuesday and it's delivered on Thursday, with the only holiday in sight being National Apple Day. 

All that means there is less time to shop for others and less options from which to choose. Once again that annual question bubbles to the surface: what to get that special someone, a gift that will be more likely to make their eyes light up with joy, and less likely their phones light up with return codes. 

As always there is no shortage of help, even if the curation level seems to slipped. Used to be lists were made of careful selections and headlined "Top 5 Gifts" or "Best 10 Presents." Now it seems there is a faint whiff of desperation, a "throw it against the wall and see what sticks" quality about many of them. How else to explain Esquire publishing "44 Best Gift Ideas for Your Girlfriend in 2024" and "54 Gifts for Men Our Editors Recommend." Real Simple has "The 67 Best Christmas Gifts of 2024," while  CNN offered "The 77 Best Christmas Gift Ideas Of 2024 for All Your Favorite People." And Popular Mechanics bows to reality (and round numbers) with "The 100 Best Amazon Gifts Under $100 for a Prime Holiday Season." Why not just provide a link to the Chrome home page and call it a day?

The lists themselves generally target specific demographics, be it spouses, co-workers or kids. But they also get more way niche than that. There are lists for hikers (LonoLife Thai Curry Beef Bone Broth Powder, Pack of 10), Cannabis Enthusiasts ("The Art of Weed Butter" cookbook) and Beyoncé Fans (a Cowboy Carter Incense Holder). And then there's NY Magazine's "25 Red Gifts" for people who, well, like red.

While scanning those registers might indeed net you something that calls out, it also seems that there is a lot of stuff that's filler, not killer. Ursa Major Morning Mojo Bar Soap for Men is surely super special, but it's just a bar of soap. A Jargon Generator, consisting of three rotating, connected and inscribed wooden barrels, enables you to create phrases such as "align stakeholders synergistically" effortlessly. Cute, perhaps, but for $50? Then there's VIO2 Mouth Tape (a pack of 48!), to tape one's mouth shut at night to either stop a person from snoring and/or to kill them, your choice. (Query: assuming this is for your significant other, is this really a self-gift after all???) 

You just gotta keep at it. Maybe a set of hamster earrings or an Eiffel Tower biscuit cutter or Fish-shaped lemon squeezer isn't the right thing, but something else might pop up. All it takes is endless scrolling and clicking and scrolling again. Don't give up: there's a Bluetooth toothbrush just sitting there waiting for you to snap it up.

-END-

Marc Wollin of Bedford is starting to plan to start shopping. Soon. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Are You You?

Not a day goes by that you are not asked to prove that you are you. Turn on your phone, and you likely had to key in the 4-digit code that you set when you first purchased it. Or maybe you've shifted to the increasingly common facial recognition approach, wherein you have to stare into your camera for a few seconds so it can match the file picture it has of you with your real-life mug. Or if it's a web site to which you are trying to gain access they might send you a 6 or 8 digit key, the so called 2-factor verification system, which connects something you have (the phone) with something you know (the key).

In most cases those approaches are all that's needed to open the gates to your phone, your bank account or your Instagram feed. But as hackers employ more sophisticated tools, it's not uncommon to be challenged in more empirical ways. And so you may be prompted to respond to security questions to which you've formerly provided answers. The idea is that only you and your elementary school pals know that your nickname used to be "Itchy."  And let's face it: if one of them is trying to impersonate you all these years later and remembers that forgettable item, they deserve access to your Netflix account.

So what constitutes a good challenge question? Experts say there are five characteristics that mark secure authentication. The first is confidentiality: no one else should be able to guess, research or obtain the answer. Next is memorability: users need to be able to recall something quickly and after a long time. It has to be consistent: opinions and favorites are likely to change over time, while facts do not. Simple is also good: if it's all about the exact shade of green it will cause confusion. And there have to be multiple possible responses, the more the better: a hacker shouldn't be able to guess with a one-in-three chance of success.

I saw this in action when I called to link my new credit card's reward account with another from the same bank. Because one was a business account and the other a personal version, the surface data didn't line up perfectly, and so I was shunted to a specialist. They explained the issue, and said they could connect the two, but they had to go deeper to confirm my identity. Agreeing that that my financial underwear should be protected at all costs, I told him to have at it.

The first queries were routine: mother's maiden name, last four digits of my social. Then it got deeper into me: please tell us a former address. Well, we've lived in our home for more than 30 years, so it took a few moments to plumb the memory banks for that one. And another: what was the color of the Buick Skylark once registered in your name? If memory serves it was an old clunker that my parents gave to our kids as a starter car, so old it was retro. Yes, it sat in our driveway for a few years, but that was 2 decades ago. Again, it took some serious recall to dredge that up. And lastly, he asked, what is your age? To be fair, that's a number I try and forget, not remember. Socially I pretend I'm 24, emotionally I'm closer to 11. But he wanted physical age, and so I muttered that, albeit with a deep sigh accompanying my response.

And with that I was in. He and his deep mind accomplices decided that I was indeed me, and that all my accounts could be linked and accessed. It's not that those facts couldn't be ascertained elsewhere with some digging, but how I responded as well as the answers themselves convinced him I was me. After all, an AI clone would have had the answers instantly with no hesitation. My tentativeness helped marked me as the imperfect human I am, with a high statistical probability that I wasn't faking it. 

In the future that might not be enough. There is discussion in certain circles of establishing "personhood credentials" to establishment not only that you are you, but that you are a real being. After all, an AI generated personality can't show up and stand in line at the DMV. Perhaps going forward we may move to three-factor ID system that will include that human component: something you know, something you have, and something sweaty.

-END

Marc Wollin of Bedford is pretty sure he knows who he is most times, but not all. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Globally Local

There are many reasons to travel. Top of that list is to see new places and things that you don't see in your own neighborhood. Depending on where you call home, it might take days to get there, be it the fjords of Bergen, Norway, or the ruins in Ephesus, Turkey. But you don't have to go that far: from our locale it's just a few short hours by car to the Berkshire Hills Sculpture Garden, 5 hilly acres of farmland with a dozen large-scale sculptures in Hillsdale NY, or the gorge at Watkins Glenn, NY with its cliff walks and 19 waterfalls.

Harder, though, is to find shops and restaurants that are truly local and different from your usual haunts. The globalization of our consumer culture has meant that while there are still small family-run and independent establishments, many have been crowded out by goods and cuisines that cater to a worldwide mass market. It hit me many years ago on one of my first visits to Hong Kong, when the residents I was working with offered to meet up after work to take me out to dinner at their favorite local place. Where should we rendezvous, I asked? They took a look a map and mentioned a halfway point between me and them: the Disney store, they suggested. It was hardly the local landmark I was expecting.

That was at least 25 years ago, and the trend has continued and accelerated. As you walk down the street in the center of Berlin or San Francisco, Chicago or Paris, you come across the same stores. On one corner is a Nike store, on the other an H&M, opposite that a Microsoft store, all squared off with a North Face. The same can be said of coffee shops: it's difficult to list a city that doesn't have a smattering of Starbucks or other similar outposts. Even stores that were formerly associated with a single place have jumped oceans, so you see Joe and the Juice in Amsterdam, and Pret a Manger in Los Angeles. It also means that much cultural cross-breeding takes place. In London I walked past the Great Portland Street Deli with a sign out front featuring their New York's Famous Bacon Egg N' Cheese sandwich.

That doesn't mean that you shouldn't travel, that everything is so homogenized as to be the same. It does mean that you have to work harder when you do venture out, and get away from the centers of town to where the locals are, the better to be, well, local. Yes, that means that you have to take a chance on a place that doesn't have a web site, much less a 5-star Yelp rating, or buy something from a store to which you have no chance of returning the goods once you go back home. 

I have first-hand experience in both. In London years ago I bought a hat for gift, one which stuck my fancy and I hadn't seen elsewhere. But while the recipient appreciated the effort it took to pick it out and carry it back across the ocean, it was not to their taste and never worn, and there was no Amazon it return it to. And more recently there was the little restaurant we stumbled onto in Kyoto for lunch. It wasn't in any guidebook and likely hadn't hosted someone outside the neighborhood in years. Certainly the plasticine food displays the proprietress took us to see in the window hadn't been dusted in at least that long. But we managed to make ourselves understood, and got a couple of delicious bowls of soup with no spoken words between us. Well, that's not strictly true. When she brought us our food, she gestured at the two of us and used the one word of English she knew. "Honeymoon?" she asked. We assured her it was not.

The key is to roam off the beaten path. Nothing wrong with seeing the sites downtown, or taking the highways to get there quicker. But some of the most memorable meals or keepsakes or experiences we've had or bought have been when we zig-zagged off the main route to simply wander. One time it meant stumbling onto a local square in Tokyo that had a bunch of food trucks and a small stage. We ambled about, seemingly the only westerners in the place. We found seats as a succession of J Pop groups came on and performed. At one point a scruffy looking guy came over out of nowhere and put two beers in front of us, said something in Japanese, smiled, bowed and left. We had no idea why. Being a little early to drink and not wanting to insult him by just leaving them, I carried them back to him and a pal. I placed them in front of them, patted my heart and said thanks in Japanese. He nodded and said I halting English, "Where from?" I said "New York," and he smiled back. "Ah, Canada!" His geographic mistake was easy to forgive.

It may be trite, and we're talking real journeys, not metaphysical ones, but Robert Frost said to take the road less traveled. That route can indeed be a little harder to follow, but it also won't have a Cheesecake Factory on it. And that will make all the difference.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford loves to explore new and old places. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

POSTSCRIPT

This space always ends with the line "Critiques, Comments, Rants & Raves welcome." In the "be careful what you ask for" department, my last column "Now I Lay Me Down" began with this line: "While my wife may dispute this..." Well, she did. Following is that first paragraph with her annotations in bold: 

While my wife may dispute this, I like to think I'm fairly low maintenance. I eat just about anything she cooks excluding tofu, cauliflower and Brussels sprouts. I have enough socks and underwear to see me through a good number of days, and I'm happy to go for a walk or to a movie if asked though you typically reply "I don't care if I ever see another movie but sure, let's go to one." I don't hog the TV (the one you bought for me as a present??), I clean up after myself in the kitchen and the bathroom though what you do in the kitchen is basically a "pre-clean" before it's done correctly, and you seem to have a water fight whenever you brush your teeth and get everything wet, and make the bed if I'm the last one out. I do my share of cooking and yes, you do all the baking, always offer to help clean and empty the dishwasher and am quite willing to do the laundry, though I have been 1000% banned from that task after forgetting to not put more than one thing I shouldn't have in the dryer and for not sorting colors for the wash.

And with that I will chalk one up to transparency in journalism.

MW

Now I Lay Me Down

While my wife may dispute this, I like to think I'm fairly low maintenance. I eat just about anything she cooks. I have enough socks and underwear to see me through a good number of days, and I'm happy to go for a walk or to a movie if asked. I don't hog the TV, I clean up after myself in the kitchen and bathroom, and make the bed if I'm the last one out. I do my share of cooking, always offer to help clean, and am quite willing to do the laundry, though I have been banned from that task after forgetting to not to put more than one thing I shouldn't have in the dryer. 

That said, I do have a hit list when it comes to hotel rooms. It's pretty small and manageable, but if these are not met when I'm on the road I'm not a happy person. The room has to be clean. It has to be quiet, preferably away from both the ice maker and elevator. I'd like a chair to sit in and desk to work at. And it has to, has to, has to have hot water for a shower in the morning, however early that may be.

Beyond that I'm pretty amenable. I get that various establishments try and distinguish themselves by having something a little different, the better to stand out in a look-alike field. Some have modern bathrooms with unique fixtures, others have rolling tables, others have unique art work and decorations. Then there are the extra amenities, like a refrigerator, a coffee maker and such, the better to feel "homier." However, since I make it a point to never eat in my room unless it's the absolutely only possibility, none of that matters to me. Some add a couch or a lounger, but I'm either sitting at the desk or laying on the bed so ditto to that. And a view is nice, but I generally leave before it gets light and am back well after dark.

But I get it: I'm not who they are targeting and I understand why. Most of my hotel stays are for work as opposed to play. And that is the flip of the profile of those who book the most nights. Industry wide, business travel typically accounts for around 30-35% of hotel room usage, while 65-70% is for leisure purposes. So by a two to one ratio they are catering to others as opposed to me in my guise as a road warrior.

Still, while business travelers might prize solid Wi-Fi and vacation visitors want over fluffy robes, our bottom lines are not that dissimilar. We all want a stress-free experience that makes any stay as effortless as possible. So regardless of why I am spending the night, why oh why did the last crash pad I checked into have 4 different light switches on the wall when I walked into the room? One was sideways above the others, and didn't seem to control anything. Of the other three, one turned on a light on the other side of the room, one controlled something in the bathroom, and the last turned on a light outside the door asking for service. And nothing seemed to control the one directly over my head, meaning that I had to prop the door open with my foot when I came or left until my eyes adjusted to the dim. 

Let's move to the bed, where another rack of four greeted me. One did some baseboard glow around the bottom, illumination for which I have little use unless I drop something small. One controlled a bathroom light, one a light over the desk, and yes, one did control as pin-spot directly over the pillow. However that was so bright and so straight down that it was better for interrogation as opposed to reading.

And then there was the bed itself. King sized, so fine. Clean, so no issue in that area. Lots of pillows, hard and soft, a nice touch. But it was on the ground. More accurately, it was set onto a platform that was built on the ground. Stylish, perhaps, but to aging knees, a long way down. And getting back on it in the middle of the night after a trip to the bathroom in the dark meant shuffling forward until my ankles hit the platform and I belly flopped into it. Thankfully it was a soft landing.

If you want to go to a spa or a resort or a place to chill for a few days, perhaps your requirements are different. But if you work on the road, a hotel room is there to answer the simple question "I can't get home tonight, where am I gonna sleep?" And in that case, as with most things in life, the Occam's razor approach is usually the best: simple, simple, simple.

-END-

Marc Wollin of Bedford has spent too many nights in beds not his own. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Fish Story

You missed your chance.

For one week at the end of October, the fish were running. Had you dipped your rod in before they swam past, you would have had the chance to catch a Patagonian toothfish, a cold-water species well-loved in the kitchen. While you have likely had that fish at a restaurant at one time or another, you might not know it by that name. That's because back in 1977 wholesaler Lee Lantz rechristened it to make it more attractive to the American market, and the US Food and Drug Administration bought into the change in 1994 when they allowed it to be known as the Chilean seabass.

If it worked once, maybe it will work again. In a bit of viral marketing, that name was reappropriated at the end of last month. That's when the Campbell's Company (itself a rebranded Campbell's Soup Company since April of this year) slapped that moniker on a different type of fish, the orange kind. And so had you been fast enough to cast your line over to their web site, you could have snagged a bag of cheddar flavored Goldfish Crackers that had been rechristened as Chilean Sea Bass Crackers.

The goal was to help goose the snacking market after a pandemic peak. Partly due to inflation at home (less buying power per dollar) and shrinkflation at the store (less snacks per bag), people have been buying less chips, crackers and other salty snacks. According to research from Bank of America, that has meant a 0.5% decline in sales during the third quarter of 2024, with volume down 1.1% over a year ago. 

Manufacturers are trying a variety of strategies to gain back that lost ground. They are reversing course and packing more chips into a bag without increasing the price, marking them as "bonus bags" to make sure consumers notice. They are adding new, healthier snacks to try and jump on the wellness bandwagon. And they are adding different form factors and flavors to try and appeal to jaded shoppers. Chicken and Waffle Protein Chips, anyone? (And no, I'm not making that up.)

Or you can try what Campbell's did. Take an old existing favorite and give it a new name, even if only for a little while. Manufactured originally by Swiss biscuit manufacturer Kambly in 1958, Goldfish Crackers were created by company founder Oscar Kambly to celebrate his wife, who was a Pisces. Pepperidge Farm founder Margaret Rudkin tried them on vacation, and liked them enough to bring them to this country in 1962. It took until 1977 for the company to add a smile to the cracker's face, which today appears on about 40% of the school swimming in your bag.

A perennial favorite, they are produced at multiple plants, including one in Willard, Ohio which churns out about 50 million a day. While they were a solid performer with great name recognition, they were locked for years into a consumer base primarily of little kids. Seeking to broaden that, four years ago the company rolled out a strategy to try and capture more adult hooks. That included more sophisticated flavors (Frank's Red Hot, Old Bay Seasoned), a larger size (Mega Bites, which are 50% bigger) and last December a version based on potato vs. flour (Goldfish Crisps). All of that has made a difference: Goldfish is the fastest-growing cracker brand in the category, with dollar sales up 33% during the past three years.

But in this era of internet buzz, a new flavor and form will only get you so far. You need something different to stand out. And so they hit on the idea of, for a limited time, rebranding of the product with a more adult name. No other changes, just the name. As it says on the bag "If you like these Chilean Sea Bass, you'll love Goldfish. Because that's what these are. They're Goldfish. Somehow the fancy name makes them taste more adult." 

Not really, but consumers took the bait. Sold only online for a week, each day the allotment was sold out by 9AM. Today if you want a bag of tiny orange Chilean Sea Bass, you will have to point your boat to EBay, where a bag goes for about $40.  Or you can just go to Target and get them under the original name for $3.49 for the same thing. 

They're not the first product to change their name to try and better connect with consumers. Datsun became Nissan, Opal Fruits became Starburst, and Bib-Label Lithiated Lemon-Lime Soda changed its name to 7 Up. But in each case they stuck with those new appellations. Goldfish became Chilean Sea Bass, then Goldfish again. It remains to be seen if that will make them standout among the rest of the fish in the sea. 

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Marc Wollin of Bedford loves to snack but tries not to. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Pick One

Maybe you've already voted in person at a local establishment as part of the early crowd. Or perhaps you've marked and mailed in your ballot for reasons of ease or access. Maybe you're waiting for the traditional Tuesday trip to the local school gym or church basement to sign in and make your choice. But regardless of the timing or method, as of Tuesday night you will hopefully have participated in the closest thing we have to a national religion.

Ever since the country was created we as a people have differed in multiple arenas on many things, indeed, on almost everything. We have agreed on just one, taken as an article of faith: irrespective of the scale or importance, whether it's local or national, in public settings and private venues, there comes a time when eventually we gather together, ask a question, and stick our hands in the air for or against it. The side with the most hands up wins, the other side loses. Yes, there are a thousand caveats: it has to be fair, it has to be tabulated honestly, no one can be forced to choose a side, and on and on and on. But assuming all that – and admittedly those assumptions are not so easily made anymore - the process ends at that point until it begins again. Doesn't make any difference if the question being posed is who runs the country, or what movie to watch after Thanksgiving dinner. 

The exercise we are going through now is no different. That said, it has been described countless times by both sides as "the most important election ever." There is no doubt from anyone that it is consequential, as is every choice we make at every level. But just as rhetoric these days favors the superlative over any other form of adjective, it joins other instances where the end of the world was forecast if the other side won. Michigan's Secretary of State Orville E. Atwood in 1936: "The issue of the election two weeks from tomorrow is not an ordinary issue, but the question of whether the American form of government is to survive. This is the most important election of our lifetime." The Philadelphia Aurora in 1805: "Today will be held the most important election you have ever been called upon to attend." Strange bedfellows Bernie Sanders and Ralph Reed said it separately, yet almost word for word in 1996: "This is the most important election in our lifetimes and an election in which the choices have never been clearer." Elections, it seems, are like kindergarten soccer players: they are all the bestest.

Yet in each case, and in many others similarly described, someone won, and someone lost, and well, we're still here. Yes, if you were on the losing side perhaps things didn't go the way you wanted in any number of ways. In some cases the outcome was indeed transformational, like the 1860 election of Lincoln which effectively heralded the Civil War. More recently, we have lurched back and forth across some moving center line, with policies of consequence rising and falling, not a swing state, but rather a swing country. And again, we're still here.

Is this time different from all those others? If one side wins will we embark in a direction that is inalterable should the pendulum try and swing back? Will that swing prove so transformational (as both sides are saying) that the laws of physics will be suspended as if someone grabbed that pendulum and tacked it to the wall high on one side or the other? Yes, there may be changes, policies, approaches that are dramatic, and so it does make a difference whom we elect. But it's also probable that that very outcome makes it more likely that in the next iteration things will swing back again, to the despair or delight of each side.

I know what outcome I prefer. But I also know that for every one of me there is someone across the line who feels the same way in the other direction. That's why the race is dead even. My hope is less that I win, but that whatever the outcome, there will be another chance four years hence to make a choice once again. Yes, this is the most important election ever... until the next one.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford wants it to be over and to see what the winners... and losers... will actually do. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Man vs. Heat

Those of us who live in the northern latitudes make numerous adjustments as summer turns to fall turns to winter. Outside it's time to drain garden hoses and put away the umbrella on the deck. Inside it's a rotation in your closet and dresser, as short sleeves and shorts are put away, and long sleeves and sweaters get pulled to the front. And because you woke up with a cold nose and couldn't put on your robe fast enough, you went to the thermostat, and put up the heat.

That meant that this morning was different as the beast came to life. Maybe it was sound of your radiators or vents creaking and stretching, as hot water or air started coursing through them. Or maybe it was the smell, one as distinctive as coffee, as the accumulated dust in the system gets a good roasting for the first time in half a year. Or maybe it was the feeling that the temperature imbalance from under the covers to outside your bed wasn't so drastic. Regardless, it's as much a sign of the seasons as the deer starting to eat your azaleas. 

If you are like many, you have developed a routine that is designed for both comfort and economy, the better to supply warmth when you need it and save money when you don't. You turn it up in the morning when you start moving around, cozying the place up for breakfast, showers and getting dressed. If the house is going to be empty for the day with work or school, perhaps you drop it down a few degrees rather than heat an empty space. Either way, it likely gets pushed up at dusk as the outside and inside cool down, and all in the household return for the evening. And come bedtime you knock it back down for the night when you'll be snug as a bug under the covers. Rinse and repeat tomorrow.

Because it is rinse and repeat, it's a task that can be easily automated. And so if you are like many you might have installed a setback thermostat that makes this all happen. Once set, all those ups and downs in temperature are programmed in, and your system takes on a life of its own. You might tweak it up a few degrees if you were out and come back chilled, or knock it back if you put too much pepper in the chili and are sweating it out. But by and large you just let it do its thing.

Or perhaps you're taken the next step and upgraded to a smart thermostat. Wi-Fi connected, Alexa or Google Home or Apple enabled, these do all the things that a traditional setback thermostat does, plus a few additional benefits. Since they are wired into the world you can see their status from anywhere, and control the system via an app on your phone. Out later at night than you thought? No problem: a few taps and the heat stays on in the bedroom later than your normal nighty-night time.

Like everything else that is connected and smart these days (including certain people), sometimes these things seem just a little too intelligent. Consider our old thermostat. When we were cold we turned it up. When we were too warm we turned it down. Even the setback version did the same thing, just hands off. But our new smart controller is like a 6 year-old who is just dying to strut its stuff. And so even though I told ours to turn on at 6AM when we want to warm the house, I awoke to warm air blowing on us at 530A. I checked to make sure I had programmed it correctly. Yes, I know how to set a clock. So either it was operating in a different time zone or something else was happening.

It took some digging to find out that it is indeed showing off. Turns out that there is a built-in feature called Smart Recovery that starts the system sooner than needed, with the idea that it will be at the temperature we want when we ask for it. Over several days it will start at different times to see just how long it takes to heat our space, then settle on a start time that achieves its objective. That also means that I have to stop anticipating, and put in not the time I want the heat to start, but when I want it to be warm. In short, I have to give in and let my robot overlord take care of me

As with so many things these days, the intelligence and capabilities of these systems is amazing. You can use Siri or Gemini to check the weather, ask Alexa the best nearby place to pick apples, or query Microsoft's Copilot as to the best side dishes to go with chicken cacciatore. But in this case, if I want my Ecobee to better control my heat, and maybe save me a few bucks, I have to stand down and let it do what it does best. Put another way, I have to be dumber so it can be smarter. And maybe warmer.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford is getting used to his new heat pumps. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Carded

When it's time to head out into the world, everyone has a set of stuff that goes under the heading of "everyday carry." While the term is usually associated with tactical gear from multi-tools to pocket knives, EDC simply means that detritus you shlep with you, the stuff that you need on a daily basis as you make the rounds. In my case it's all kept in a small basket in my closet. Into my back pocket goes my wallet, with a few payment cards and essential ID's, though much of that (like almost everything else these days) can be handled by my smartphone. Into my right pocket goes a few keys and the fob for my car, as well as a little box with some medication and a small cloth to clean my glasses. And into my left pocket goes a money clip with a few bills in it.

While all the other stuff gets used on a regular basis, the money clip and its contents are turning into a totem of world gone by. While I haven't marked the bills, I could swear that I've been carrying some of the same ones for months. It's not that I haven't bought anything: quite the contrary. On a typical day I get gas and groceries, or take the train and get some lunch, or pick up a replacement lightbulb and have a doctor's appointment. But at each of those stops the transaction is done with a card. Even buying a box of mints for $1.19 is done with a swipe, though I can't fathom how anyone in the financial ecosystem makes money on a transaction that small.

They do it because most businesses are looking for ways to streamline operations and cut costs and loss, and cash does none of that. Doing business with bills and coins creates numerous inefficiencies for commerce, from the time it takes on both sides of a transaction to proffer them for a purchase, to the need for employees to reconcile the till, to taking the day's haul to the bank and depositing it. Yes, there is a cost to processing a card transaction, one which nets Visa and Mastercard and Amex millions of dollars a year. But someone way smarter than me has done the math, and has determined that even with the vig those companies charge it's still cheaper to process a transaction electronically as opposed to physically settling the score. 

In fact, some places have gone so cashless that cash isn't permitted at all. That's the case at vacation spots such as Six Flags and Kings Dominion, at national parks like Death Valley and Crater Lake, and at ballparks from Buffalo to Charlotte. Go to a game at Commerica Park in Detroit, and if all you have is cash and you want a beer, you have to first stop at a Cash2Card kiosk. You feed your bills into it, and it issues a temporary Visa card for you to use. Call it an Anti-ATM. 

Even those cards are starting to get supplanted. Whether your religion is Apple or Android, you have an electronic wallet on your phone, wherein you just wave it for payment. It all magically routes itself around and through, settling up your account without you having to do anything. Pretty soon we'll just implant a chip into our hands that connects to the phone in our pocket or bag, and high five our way through the checkout line.

In spite of all that there are a number of states that are considering legislation to, well, keep cash legal. Florida, Oklahoma and Vermont are just three that have bills under consideration that require merchants to accept bills. They argue that cashless rules discriminate against those who don't use banks, including young people, certain religious communities and those with low incomes. The evidence they cite is the most basic and obvious: it says right on every single dollar bill "This note is legal tender for all debts, public and private." Whatever your politics, that is as originalist as it gets.

On my usual rounds just two places insist that you tender bills, that the cost of a card transaction eats too deeply into their profits. One is the barbershop, the other the buck-a-slice pizza place. So if you see me checking if I indeed have what I need in my left pocket, it's a good bet I'm either hungry or shaggy. 

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Marc Wollin of Bedford has had the same twenty-dollar bill in his pocket for 6 months. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

No Cops, No Cash

More than 20 years ago I had a project which took me to Norway. As is often the case, I didn't get out much beyond the hotel at which we were staying and working. My sole chance at sightseeing was my morning run which took me down to the harbor in Oslo and back. I don't remember much, but I do recall I came home with a few impressions. One, the country was beautiful. Two, the people were beautiful. Three, the outerwear that people were wearing was beautiful. And four, the breakfast buffets were immense. And beautiful.

So when the opportunity came to spend some true holiday time there we took it.  I'm not sure I can say that Norway is having a moment, but the more people we mentioned it to, the more we heard about others going as well. Some went as part of a Scandinavian tour, others started with the "Norway in a Nutshell" itinerary and kept going. As usual for us, when we tour we opt to base ourselves in one place and do limited traveling, the better to relax as opposed to be on the move every night. For sure we miss some sights and experiences. But the time we spent there confirmed why Norway is a great place to visit. What follows are random impressions from time spent in the Land of the Midnight Sun.

For starters, I didn't misremember: the country is beautiful. The fjords are breathtaking, with soaring sides and water cascading down the cliffs. The small houses and villages you see as you travel up them by boat define picturesque. Our trip on the water from Bergen was a rainy one, but that just made it all the more dramatic, as the waterfalls were roaring down the steep slopes. And when the sun broke through, the scenery was breathtaking.

The capital city of Oslo is about the same physical size as Chicago but has a quarter of the population. As such every day feels sleepy; you rarely experience crowds or traffic jams. Add to that the fact that electric vehicles dominate, the trams are also electrified, and electric scooters are everywhere, and the city is incredibly quiet. 

As one of the countries with the lowest crime rates in the world, security feels almost non-existent. The Royal Palace grounds are open to all, with the only visible presence being the Royal Guard. In our time walking around the city at all hours, we heard just two sirens and never saw a cop on the street.

While Oslo is no longer listed as one of the most expensive cities in the world (that's a tie between Zurich and Singapore) restaurants of all types are notably high priced. That's because as a social democracy (some call it cuddly capitalism) the standard is a "fair wage" for workers. Add in almost free health care, education and child-care and it's reflected in the bill. But if you discount the fact that tipping is appreciated but not expected, and the quality of the ingredients is very fresh, it's not overwhelming. Beyond that, public transportation and tickets to events and museums are on a par with similar ones in other cities.

Speaking at least of Oslo, it's a city that takes its aesthetic seriously. There're beautiful old buildings and striking modern ones. Even a pedestrian bridge across a railroad yard catches your attention. And then there's Frogner Park with its over 200 Gustav Vigeland sculptures (the world's largest sculpture park made by a single artist). Add to that a plethora of statues from the historical (including many women) to contemporary to whimsical, its many museums, and you have a visually vibrant and accessible urban space. 

Multi-lingual is the norm. As explained to me by a local, "We're a small country. If you only speak Norwegian there is nobody to talk to." English is taught at a very young age, and it's not uncommon for people to speak three, four or more languages. And while it looks like you should be able to sound out Norwegian, the language is difficult to fake your way through. Our Airbnb host's name was Tore. I asked if it was pronounced "Tor" or Tor-E". He just laughed and said it was actually neither, and was almost unpronounceable for English-speakers. The closest I got was "too-Ra," but without the subtle accent he used.

While not completely unique, this might be the first time we have gone to a foreign location and gotten no local currency. I keep a stash of Euros accumulated from traveling to that area, but Norway is not part of the EU and uses the krone. But every place we went, whether shopping, getting coffee or any attraction took only cards and discouraged cash. Not sure if that has anything to do with the lower crime rate, but it's one less thing to steal.

The weather is extremely variable, running from hot to cold, wet to dry, and often changes quickly as storms blow in from the North and Norwegian seas. It doesn't seem to surprise the locals, who are prepared for anything. As the saying goes "Det finnes ikke dårlig vær, bare dårlig klær!" which translates to "there is no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing."

To be sure, the country has its challenges as does anyplace. We sat with two Norwegian women while waiting for a concert, and they complained about the trains and other annoyances. But at least to the casual visitor, the sum of the people, the food, the scenery and more all add up to a great experience. Take my word for it, or as the locals say "Å ta det for god fisk" (literally, take it as good fish).

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Marc Wollin of Bedford loves to travel to new places. You can see some highlights from his Norway trip here. His column appears weekly via email and online at Blogspot and Substack, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Walk This Way

My wife and I are dedicated walkers. During the week we each go out solo in our neighborhood as schedules permit, listening to podcasts or music or catching up on phone calls. On weekends we generally head out together and venture a bit further afield. The routes we take meander around nearby neighborhoods, and vary in tone and type. We might circle a lake, golf course or town, or follow a dirt road out and back. A couple of miles and an hour or two in length, these aren't hard hikes but rather intentional strolls. The goal isn't anything other than a chance to get some exercise and fresh air, and a chance to catch up on the week gone by and plan the one to come.

On my feet I sport the usual suspects, either sneakers, hiking boots and trekking shoes. The sneakers are lightweight, well suited to walking and running, but waterproof they are not. The boots are waterproof and sturdy, but I wouldn't call them lightweight. They are good in wintertime, or if our route is more dirt than pavement. The third option are the shoes, which are solid and rugged. They offer more support than sneakers, less bulk than the boots, and are better for fall or early spring. 

That said, none of them looks like anything other than what they are. Not that anyone cares, but none of them could pass for evening wear. No problem when at home, where I can change after our stroll if we have plans for the night. But when we travel we try and take as little as possible, limiting ourselves to one carry-on suitcase and hand luggage. And assuming our destination doesn't require something special, such as flip-flops or dancing shoes, all we take is the footwear on our feet.

All of which brings me to my quest for a new pair of walking shoes. Whenever you buy something new you have a wish list of requirements. Some are non-negotiables, things that define why you are buying it in the first place. Others are "nice to haves," bonus features that tip the scale between one item and another, but whose absence isn't a deal breaker. And still others don't even rate a listing, things that, as long as they are a feature and not a bug, might be of interest. It's the same whether you are buying a car or a vacuum, a suitcase or a hair dryer, an exercise bike or a coffee maker. And travel shoes are no different.

My wish list for my sole (no pun intended) pair goes like this. First, comfortable, of course, and well fitting. Also high on the list is sturdy and supportive, for when we tour we walk miles in cities and towns. It would be nice if they were fairly waterproof, as we go out in all kinds of weather. And while not a deal breaker, it would be a bonus if they looked a little bit nicer, as much at home at the symphony as at a coffee shop. 

Considering that we can staff an orbiting space station, put a computer in my pocket, and create 1.7 million different coffee drinks, you wouldn't think my list is that heavy a lift. But the options I tried brought to mind a saying we use at work: you can have it good, fast or cheap, pick two. This was no different. I tried and sent back multiple styles and manufacturers, each of which each checked a few boxes but didn't complete the package. 

Then I found a brand called Vessi. They had a model that was a little less sneakery in appearance, and were also waterproof and lightweight. I ordered a pair and took them for a test stroll: a litle snug owing to their design, but with thinner socks they seemed pretty comfy. They were a little warm in the summer, but since my main goal was travel, I was willing to roll with that. And in a happy discovery, they stayed tied, no double knot necessary. A small thing, but surprisingly desirable. I'm not shilling for them nor hoping for an endorsement deal, but like the pizza box says, I've tried the rest, and at least for now, these are the best.

I will keep my eyes open for something even better, because you never know what progress will produce. But until that unicorn comes along, as Paolo Nutini sang: "Hey, I put some new shoes on/And suddenly everything is right/Hey, I put some new shoes on/And everybody's smiling, it's so inviting/Short on money but long on time/Slowly strolling in the sweet sunshine/I'm running late and I don't need an excuse/'Cause I'm wearing my brand new shoes."

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Marc Wollin of Bedford doesn't track his steps: they are what they are. His column appears weekly via email and online http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/ and https://marcwollin.substack.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

The Pallet Boys

 If you sign up for a shift at the Community Center of Northern Westchester on any given day you meet a group of like-minded people. Each is giving their time to help those who need it. The tasks range from sorting donated clothes, to helping people pick out gently worn duds from the "shop" upstairs. You might pick up donations of food from local stores or farms, or deliver groceries to those stuck at home. Or you might help stock the shelves with vegetables or canned goods, or work the counter checking out those "shopping" and help pack their bags and carts. 

Each three-hour shift has its own cast, some regulars, some fill-ins. Volunteers all, they hail from all walks of life, from students to retirees to those who carve out a few hours a week from their regular jobs and worlds to be of help. As with any endeavor there are people of all types: quiet ones and outgoing sorts, deliberate workers and frantic ones, talkers and listeners. As one of the regulars, I can say it's all good: it's affirming to be around any type of person who shares the common bond of wanting to do good and help people who, for whatever reason, need a little extra at this point in their lives to get them through.

Deliveries and donations come in throughout the week, an ebb and flow that is hard to predict. But if you go on a Friday morning it's a little different, as that's the day of the biggest deliveries. One is from Feeding Westchester, the county food bank, while the other is from Driscoll, a commercial distributor. The amount varies week to week, but all told a typical Friday drop is 3 to 10 pallets, each weighing between 400 and 1000 pounds. There might be 30 forty-pound cases of chicken drumsticks, 20 forty-pound sacks of potatoes, the same of onions and beets, 30 cases of peanut butter, 20 of jelly, plus rice, mac and cheese, cereal, canned corn, dried beans, baby food and milk, both boxed and fresh. Add it all up and you are talking between 4,000 and 12,000 pounds of fresh, frozen and shelf stable foodstuffs. And that's the day The Pallet Boys come together.

Our nominal head is Anthony, the assistant operations manager who is on staff, and who has an actual plan to store and stage all that stuff. He has to captain and try to manage the rotating cast of characters that shows up to help with the juggle. That motley crew varies based on personal work schedules, vacations, doctors' appointments and injuries. The regulars include Rob and Rob, Paulie and Steve, and yours truly. Various others show up as available, some one-off guests, some former regulars or newbies: all are welcomed with genuine open arms and good-natured mocking. Honorary members include Crystal who handles the produce, James who checks in those coming to shop, and operations manager Nicole, who runs the volunteer program and is responsible for us all, not to mention the inventory. With no disrespect intended to that fabled assembly from World War II, some might call us a Band of Brothers. If you discount the trappings of the rap origins of the name and the facial grease paint, a more accurate description might be the Insane Clown Posse.

That's because, as volunteers, we sort-of answer to Anthony, but none of us are looking for a promotion or to build a career there. As such, the atmosphere is irreverent to say the least. Put downs and insults are the currency of the day, jokes and asides the coin of the realm. It's hard, physical work in all kinds of weather, be it heat, rain or snow. And we have to do it while not hurting ourselves or the clients whom the Center serves, no small feat for a bunch of generally older guys with iffy backs hauling sacks that have the consistency of dead bodies. It's a dance with hand trucks and boxes, a Nutcracker Suite with actual nuts, both human and shelf stable.

With any luck the trucks come early, the frozen blueberries get put away before they start to thaw and leak, and we knock it out by lunchtime. After that it's pizza to unwind and to continue any "important" discussions, review weekend plans and confirm who is coming the following Friday. After all, they're expecting 800 pounds of frozen salami, and it ain't gonna put itself away.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford has been volunteering at CCNW for the last 4 years; it's become his second home and family. His column appears weekly via email and online http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/ and https://marcwollin.substack.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Older by Steps

We tend to think of aging as a simple line graph. On the bottom is the calendar, one tick for every New Year's Day. On the left side is our age, a marker for each year we are above ground. It starts in the bottom left corner on the day we are born, and with a little bit of luck, ends somewhere in the top right eighty or ninety years later. It's a steady progression come hell or high water, one up, one over, a pattern that no one has ever figured out how to change.

On the other hand, we generally look at our health and the aging process as the exact opposite. That graph has the same left axis of years we are alive, but with your birthday at the top. Meanwhile, the bottom ticks represent our overall health from good to, well, less so. That line starts in the top left when we are born, when all systems are hopefully "go" and functioning perfectly. As the years click by that line steadily descends as things start to not work so well: a knee, a shoulder, your stomach, your teeth. The reasons vary, from an injury received, to the fallout from a bug or disease, to just normal wear and tear. Only one thing is for sure: the overall direction doesn't change, and both graphs reach their final points at the same time.

Every person has a slightly different trajectory, zigging here and zagging there. That means that your aging plot line is hardly as straight as its calendar sibling, nor the same as your neighbor's. But according to a recent study we actually all align at two major inflection points in our lives. These changes happen to every person at a molecular level, regardless of our overall health. Scientists at Stanford published a study in the journal "Nature Aging" that shows that humans get suddenly older around age 44, and then again around age 60.

The researchers followed 108 participants over several years, conducting a range of tests and collecting multiple samples of biological materials. They also kept track of each person's personal microbiome, charting their RNA, proteins and metabolites, the end results of the body breaking down food, drugs or other chemicals. All together they amassed over 250 billion distinct data points from which to draw their conclusions. Even adjusting for women in the sample experiencing menopause and its effects, the data showed no discernible difference between males and females, nor by race. It seems that we just have a sharp increase in molecular changes at middle age, and then again before social security kicks in. 

As to whether these changes are driven by biological alterations, behavioral ones or a mixture of both, the jury is still out. However, evidence points to the influence of at least some external factors. For example, the mid-40 cohort correlates with raising families and the stress that causes, which can also result in an increased use in alcohol, poor diet and reduced sleep, all factors which have been previously linked to age-related illnesses. In other words, your teenager might scientifically be causing you to get older. 

With that in mind, one wonders if the scientists shouldn't broaden their criteria and look for similar matches along the way. There are plenty of other inflection points that certainly seem to age us in spurts. Middle school takes a toll, not to mention freshman year of college. Your first job interview can wreak havoc, as does your first apartment. Marriage, first child, a dog: check, check, check. Unless your name is Dorian Gray or Benjamin Button, each of those inflection points adds (or subtracts depending on your outlook) a few years in physical, emotional and psychological wear and tear. Our aging graph starts to look less like a line, and more like, with apologies to Led Zeppelin, a stairway from heaven. 

Speaking from my own experience, I can certainly say that my personal graph moves in fits and starts, some days with way more starts. Being a sample of one, I hesitate to draw any widespread conclusions. But I can't be the only person who thought "this is gonna take years off my life" at multiple points along the way. I may have been pulling my hair out; I didn't know I was corrupting my molecules as well.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford feels older every day, some days more than others. His column appears weekly via email and online http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/ and https://marcwollin.substack.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

Take A Seat

One of our great joys of any summer season like the one just wrapped up is spending time outdoors with family and friends. Often that is at some kind of performance on the grass, usually music spanning the gamut from pop to orchestral to folk, and often accompanied by dinner and drinks. At these varied events we see lots of like-minded folk. And just as their dining arrangements vary... some have sandwiches, others takeout, others tables laid with full sets of china... so too does their seating span the spectrum. And while I am always curious what others are having for dinner, I am just as curious as where they are parking their butts.

After all, it's hard to think of anything that hasn't changed so much in 20 or 30 years that the newer thing is not seriously better. This is not about style: some prefer higher or lower hems, flatter or puffier coats, wider or tighter jeans. This is about advances in the underlying technology that renders stuff that is decades old obsolete, dangerous or just plain quaint.

It goes without saying that those advances include phones and computers: size, capabilities, ease of use and battery life all make current models not just evolutionary from their grandchildren but revolutionary. You can say the same about automobiles with their computerized engine management, anti-lock braking and driver assist features. Even cooking has advanced: back then no one had ever heard of induction cooktops or sous vide machines. 

In many cases it's not like you even wanted these advanced capabilities. Steve Jobs famously said, "Some people say, 'Give the customers what they want.' But that's not my approach. Our job is to figure out what they're going to want before they do." He's wasn't wrong. I didn't know I needed a mapping system that wasn't a folded-up piece of paper before I had it. Now I find myself keying in an address even if I'm just going 10 miles to find the least trafficked way to get there. 

But in other cases, I don't know if I need all that new stuff. Call me old fashioned, but my kettle boils water just fine. There are many other products that count their age in decades or longer that work just fine, and any advancements don't seem to do a whole lot in the way of advancement. Which brings us winding back to folding chairs. 

Ours have some serious history on them. Not the sand models that sit low that one uses for the beach, nor the higher version from backyard barbeques in the sixties made of nylon webbing that that leaves waffle marks on your thighs, they are as basic as can be. They have an aluminum strut arrangement like a squared off teepee that folds up, capped by a nylon seat and back. On each arm is a cutout for a drink, though at this point the mesh that makes up that pocket is ripped and disintegrated to be basically useless.

For sure we could upgrade... perhaps there is a better way to perch. As I look around at any event, I see the range of advancements that seating scientists have turned into the state of the art over the past 20 years. Over there is a model that sports a footrest. Over there is one that has hydraulic struts on the rear legs so that the chair effectively is a rocker. That one there has a canopy that flops over, while that one has two wide arms, each capable of supporting a plate with a slice of pizza. And that one there extends from the size of stout travel umbrella to what looks like a bucket seat. I watched the owner put Strut A into Slot B, Strut C into Slot D, Cross Brace F into Channel Y, and slide Collar M over and through Assembly CKG. Or was that into Channel JWP? As Ed Norton put it on the classic "Better Living Through Television" episode of "The Honeymooners" as Ralph demonstrated his Handy Housewife Helper, "Zip, zip! It's zipping the modern way. Amazing!"

The question is a simple one: for all their zipping, are any of them any better? Envy being a terrible vice, I have to say that from afar I coveted my neighbor's chair, indeed, several of them. One at a time I ordered them from Amazon, set them up and test squatted in them in the backyard, only to pack each up and send them back. I have come to the conclusion that I am a simple man with a simple butt. Or as attributed to Satchel Paige but ultimately traced to a Maine fisherman in the 1900's, "Sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits." 

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Marc Wollin of Bedford is still looking for a better chair. His column appears weekly via email and online http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/ and https://marcwollin.substack.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

One Five Zero Zero

Legendary writer-editor Pete Hamill once said "When I go three days without writing, my body aches with anxiety; my mood is irritable. My night dreams grow wild with unconscious invention." Let me say this plainly: I am not him, I sleep just fine. I can easily go three days, a week, even a month without putting words on a page. I could take a bike ride. I could bake a cake or make dinner. I could play with my computer or practice guitar. I could take a nap. I could do lots of things, and do them without a second thought that they are drawing me away from the keyboard. But on this occasion, when the number that's at the top of my masthead is 1500, I do feel a kinship with Mr. Hamill.

One Five Zero Zero. A nice round number, in certain circles it stands on its own: a tax form (Pennsylvania Inheritance), a truck (Ram Pickup) or an address in Washington DC (the US Treasury Department). Even the mathematically challenged can factor it easily (15 X 100). But in this instance it represents a milestone signaling the current run of this column. Come rain or shine, work or vacation, sickness or health, I've done my level best to pump them out as regularly as weekly clockwork. At 52 instances a year, it means I'm about to enter the 30th year of the continual musing I've been doing in this space for the past 10,523 days, give or take a few hours. 

Hamill also said that "writers are rememberers," but I look at it a slightly different way. My inspiration (which is a term that gives it way more gravitas than it deserves) comes more from observation, from things that cause me to stop and go "Huh?" I look at them, tilt my head like Nipper the dog, and wonder if someone else (such as you) might find it as interesting as me. The task I set before myself each week is to learn about that thing and relate it in a way that hopefully causes you to tilt your head as well. Yes, I do need to remember these tidbits, but it's more about writing them down so I don't forget to tackle them, as opposed to plumbing the depths of my memories. Hamill again: "Getting out any weekly magazine requires many hours of reading, choosing, discarding, and thinking beyond the obvious." Substitute "column" for "magazine" and that's my weekly lift.

If you go to the beach you see people of all persuasions. Some people dive into the waves every time, some just curl up their toes on the edge of the surf, still others have no intention of ever going near the water. And so it is with this space: visitors run the gamut from loyalists to driveby readers. Some dive to the bottom every week, some sample every couple of outings, some just read the top line and move on. Whatever your predilection, I'm happy you have stopped by at some point for however long it suits you.

And so, depending on your cohort, you may or may not have been here late last year for #1461 and "Too Much Is Not Enough" as we looked at binge watching. Or deep in the depths of pandemic in 2020 when #1273 talked about Zoom habits in "Green (Screen) Is The New Black." Or way back in 2011 when I waxed rhapsodically over a sandwich made for me in #806's "In Praise of Lyndon." Other ruminations were on biometrics (#1473 "Is that Your Face?"), RV conventions (#969 "Not So Secret Society") or how life eclipses fiction (#711 "You Can't Make This Stuff Up"). Not to worry: if you have FOMO, the mood strikes you or you have nothing better to do with your life, oodles are available online where you can catch up on those you missed. 

Next week we will get back to making fun of the foolish. Maybe we'll try to better understand apostrophes, talk about folding chairs and, politics aside, the best ways to calm cats. But for now I will note on this rest stop what I have said at other similar mileposts: if you'll keep reading, I'll keep writing. I'll try and keep my eyes and ears open for something that might interest us both, use all 26 letters where possible, and bring a smile to your face whenever I can. 

One last thing, before we continue, and it is perhaps the most important: know how grateful I am for your attention and time, both of which are in short supply and high demand. As any reader of this space knows, I like to travel, and it's a lot more fun to look out the window when you have someone with which to share the journey. So thanks for taking the ride with me. And now? Break's over, time to get back on the road.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford plans to keep this effort going, if you'll have it. His column appears weekly via email and online http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/ and https://marcwollin.substack.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

That Fall Feeling

Our boys are well into their thirties with lives of their own, and so it's been many a year since we had to gather backpacks and books and binders and push them out the door and towards the classroom. It's been even longer since my parents did the same for me, with the only real difference from our children's experience being that we had brown bags instead of insulated paks. As for kids today, I have no idea what those waiting at the top of their driveways and on neighborhood corners do for lunch, but if there's any food in their backpacks I bet it's nestled next to something electronic that we never even dreamed of.

While there may be a few weeks differential depending on where you live and what level cohort we're talking about, it's that time of year when students young and old return to school. They wrap up their summer activities, be it work or play, travel or staycation, and reorient their minds from leisure to study. For some it's an easy transition, for others it's more of a forced march. The hope is that they make the pivot with a minimum of anxiety and fuss, and fall back into the good habits that they need for academics (reading, studying, going to bed early) as opposed to the bad ones they enjoyed all summer (binge watching, playing games, staying up late).

For sure it's a physical adaptation that is driven by a different and regimented schedule. But it's also a mental adjustment, with the need to plan and focus and cope with demands and assignments in new (and hopefully interesting) topics. It has caused kids of every age to lay awake at night and stress out about the challenges and how to cope with them. 

Speaking for myself, it's been well over 40 years since I was in that position. Even if you count the not dissimilar transition to a new job, it's been several decades since I had that experience. To be clear, the psychological impulses that accompany those events are hardly a learned physical skill. They are not the same as riding a bike or tying your shoes or driving a car, procedural memories we rarely forget. And yet that unconscious manufacturing of anxiety come Labor Day is engrained in me as a muscle memory I can't seem to shake.

I don't know if it's the shift in the weather from hot days to cool nights. Maybe it's the change in the calendar from August to September. Perhaps it's the explosion of back-to-school ads, or the startup of football, or the darker mornings. Whatever it is, there is something in the air this time of year that causes me to start to tense up as if I am  walking into Miss Maranchick's third grade class for the first time. 

It's not like I have anything seasonal to be worried about at this juncture in my life. Quite the opposite: knock wood, my health and the general health of my family members is good. We have been reasonable stewards of our finances, and whether by luck or skill or a combination of both have gotten to the point where that seems well in hand. I'm not bucking for a promotion this year, or hoping I made the team, or worried I won't get the grades I need to make Honor Society. I know who I am, what I can do, and am granted a fair amount of deference from those around me based on my years and accumulated experience and knowledge. Nothing should be making me anxious. And yet at this time of year I still often go to bed with the same feeling I had when I wasn't sure I answered homework problem #5 correctly as to whether the train going to Cleveland from Goshen at 70mph would beat the one going to Chicago traveling at 60mph.

The philosopher George Santayana famously said that those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. My problem is exactly the opposite: I remember those back-to-school feelings so well that I shall never forget them, even when there is no school to go back to. Luckily the feeling fades fast, even if I don't have the consolation of knowing that my mom put a Ring Ding in my lunch bag next to my bologna sandwich.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford still has a part of his brain that is eight years old. His column appears weekly via email and online http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/ and https://marcwollin.substack.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

Hometown Tourist

The request came to meet on site in New York City on an August afternoon. As it turned out the meeting and the trains didn't quite line up. It was well past rush hour, and they were running on a more leisurely schedule. As such, it made sense to take one an hour or so earlier than the next, as that one would have me rushing to get to the location just in time. It wasn't like I had any shopping or other business to take care of in the vicinity where I'd be. But the weather was nice and there was nothing else pressing on my book, so off I went. 

I've been to the city on countless occasions, usually enroute to a specific destination at a specific time. But it's easy to forget that people come here the way we go elsewhere. Regardless of the neighborhood, it's an amazing place to just walk around and soak in what is happening. We so rarely play tourists where we live, it's easy to forget that people plan their entire vacation just to do what we do daily.

So with an extra hour or so to kill I took on that persona, zigzag-ing my way across town. In one little vest-pocket park I stopped to hear an opera singer doing a lunch-time aria. A few blocks further was a field with a spirited soccer game in progress (the blue team was much better than the red). I stopped to look at an art exhibition that popped-up in an unused storefront. All things that existed before, but which I would have just hustled by or missed if I was enroute to an appointment.

It being lunchtime I ducked into a little deli to get a sandwich and a drink. I walked out with the intention of strolling to a bench in the shade. Wandering a little further I realized that I was by a stairway to the High Line. Now fifteen years old, this mile and a half long elevated park is built on the abandoned tracks of the New York Central Railroad. It winds up from the meatpacking district to 34th Street, and has become a model for urban restoration around the world, justifiable so. So up I went and strolled along until I found an open bench to sit and eat and watch the parade.

The linear park's notoriety means that it is listed in every NYC guidebook in every language. Just as Broadway and the Empire State Building are on many a tourist's wish list, so too is the High Line. Being an outdoor attraction, in good weather it is a magnet, and after a week of rain it was a spectacular day indeed. The mid-summer sun was shining and the humidity was relatively low. For sure lots of people were at the Metropolitan Museum or down at the 9/11 Memorial, but if your bingo card had "take a walk in an urban oasis in the middle of the Big Apple on a brilliant day" and you were where I was, you were a winner.

If you are a local and its route runs from where you are to where you have to be, it might actually be faster than coping with the city streets. But it was obvious that the majority of traffic was from out-of-towners. The tells were plentiful: guidebooks for sure, but also backpacks worn in front and a leisurely pace. Not talking or thumbing a message on their phones with heads down, but rather holding them at the ready to snap a picture. As the bench I found in the shade just happened to be by an architecturally interesting building, at least 40% of the people stopped and clicked away. It's not that New Yorkers don't take pictures. They just don't take pictures like that.

I was also struck by the dynamics of the different groups. Young couples strolling and stopping to take selfies with the building in the background. Lots of kids, little ones ranging in front of their parents, older ones hanging behind. The parents uniformly had a delighted look mixed with vigilance, the kids not always. Smaller ones seemed to be enjoying it, being allowed to walk ahead and be the first to see plants and people and buildings. Many of the mature ones trailing behind their guardians just looked bored as though they had been sentenced to take a walk with their parents. I wondered if our family looked the same back in the day with our kids in Rome or Paris.

Glancing at my watch, I realized I had to get going. Just then a larger group of people happened by, with one kid limping and some blood on his shin. A woman in the group told him to sit on my bench so she could take a look and clean it up. I hopped up to give them some space, and offered some clean napkins I had leftover from my lunch. The woman smiled, and thanked me, then took a first aid kit from her purse that would have done any EMT proud. You're definitely not from around here.

I tossed my trash (including the clean napkins) and walked back down into the workaday world. I quickly slipped back into my usual roll, slaloming quickly down the sidewalk to my destination. But a little of the other "me" rubbed off as well. I got to my location a few minutes early, and rather than go inside I walked past the entrance, and leaned against a storefront to watch the people walk by. As that consummate New Yorker Yogi Berra said, "You can observe a lot just by watching."

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Marc Wollin of Bedford takes random walks whenever he can. His column appears weekly via email and online http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/ and https://marcwollin.substack.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

Bugged

One of the joys of living where we do is the abundance of wildlife of all types. Nothing too dramatic: we're not talking African safari or Alaskan cruise level menageries. Rather, there's a seemingly endless supply of squirrels and chipmunks, a constant stream of deer, and a wide variety of birds that frequent our neighborhood. It's not uncommon to find wild turkeys walking around the yard along with the occasional fox, and bats flitting above. There have also been numerous sightings of wandering bears in the area, though not in our backyard. And I was startled when a tree frog popped out of our deck umbrella and settled in as a guest at an outdoor dinner party. 

But by sheer numbers nothing compares to the range of insects that buzz, crawl, fly and hover whenever we walk about, and that's hardly surprising. Most authorities agree that there are more insect species that have not been described than those that have been previously named. According to scientists at the Smithsonian, the number of living species of insects has been estimated to be 30 million, and cumulatively they have the largest biomass of any land-based animals. At any time, it is estimated that there are some 10 quintillion (10,000,000,000,000,000,000) individual insects alive. 

This in spite of the fact that there is widespread concern about the decline in specific insect populations (bees, butterflies and dragonflies to name a few). As a critical part of our food chain, specifically agricultural production, the decline has broad implications. Beyond pollinating the plants we eat, they also break down waste in forest soil and form the base of a diet for other animals. You can blame habitat loss, pesticides and climate change, but the fact is that being bugged less is not necessarily a good thing. 

Like almost everything else however, unless you are an entomologist, the macro trends are hard to follow and seem distant. Meanwhile, if you are a civilian, that wonder and worry is more likely replaced by annoyance. I understand that mosquitoes provide a valuable food source for bats, frogs and fish, but do they have to spend their off hours on my deck? Recent figures indicate that there are more than 200 million insects for each human on the planet, and at least some of them seem to have been given my direct number. 

Especially in the summer months I routinely take walks, usually at the end of the day. These are hardly in the deeply forested Green or Blue Ridge mountain ranges, nor even in nature preserves around me. Rather they are on neighborhood roads and streets, though admittedly abutting the plentiful green spaces that are in our area. And more often than not, whether I go solo or with my wife or a friend, I am also accompanied by a bug.

I say "a bug" though sometimes he or she brings a friend. It's almost as if they are waiting for me at the top of our driveway or as I exit my car, and fall into step next to me. I rarely get a really good look other than to note that they are tiny gnat-esque creatures who seem to enjoy buzzing about. They don't sting, they don't threaten, they don't land, they just... buzz. I wave them off, but they circle around and come right back as if they are afraid they might miss a minute with me. 

As with attracting or repelling all insects, opinions are divided on the best course of action. Some say light clothing draws them in, others say dark. Some say they are attracted by the heat our bodies give off, some say it's the sweat we produce or other bodily odors. Most likely these fellows are Liohippelates, very small "true" flies with just two wings vs. four, and are attracted to fluids secreted by the eyes, nose and ears. That explains their propensity to hover around my head.

With a life cycle as short as 11 days, it is unlikely that the same bug has singled me out and is just waiting to join me on my constitutional. More likely I am playing host to an extended family: brothers, parents, cousins-once-removed who are in the area and are invited along for the ride. Or as put eloquently by writer Rusty Foster, who is current working his way down the Appalachian Trail, "I became a moving ecosystem, with entire generations of black flies meeting, falling in love, mating, raising their young and dying within a three-inch radius of my eyeballs, which apparently weep the sweetest nectar imaginable judging by how many of them gave their lives to taste it just once." 

We may be the top of the food chain, but based on their ubiquity and the fact they were here first, the bugs do deserve some deference. I am happy to let them buzz about our flowers, have a field day in our gardens and spend as much time as they like in the lawn. But can we at least come to an arrangement? You let me walk and listen to my podcast without waving my arms like I'm guiding a plane to a jetway, and I promise to leave the bug spray at home.  Deal?

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Marc Wollin of Bedford likes just sitting on the deck without having to swat. His column appears weekly via email and online http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/ and https://marcwollin.substack.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

Apologies

From the time we are little, the adults in our lives teach us the basics of civil interaction and discourse by word and example. Say "hello" when you first meet someone, "goodbye" when you leave. Look at someone when you are speaking to them, and do the same when they talk to you. Say "please" when you want something, "thank you" when you get it. Listen quietly to others if they are talking, and if you have to interrupt, start with "excuse me." Ask permission before touching stuff that's not yours. And if you are wrong, accept the blame, apologize, and try to remedy the situation without making it worse.

But what about a company? If we accept Mitt Romney's famous comeback that "Corporations are people," should they not try and follow these same golden rules? Many do, teaching their people to greet customers warmly and listen empathetically, acknowledge problems, and do all they can to remedy issues. You see it with Amazon, with Verizon, with American Express, with almost any major company that wants to have better relations with their clientele. And you saw it with CrowdStrike a few weeks ago. 

That company is a leader in cybersecurity, and its products are used by major players to protect their systems. Big companies use its suite of Falcon products to provide detection, antivirus and firewall capabilities. As they have done countless times before, CrowdStrike rolled out an update to its software, a process that was routine in the past. Except this time it didn't go so smoothly. Instead of seamlessly happening in the background, it caused any computer it touched to go into an endless reboot loop, producing the so called "blue screen of death." Healthcare, airlines, financial services, public transportation, even Starbucks: all were shut down as their computers went from being indispensable tools that ran the minutia of business to bricks that just winked.

The company released a fix, but because the affected computers were effectively lobotomized, it fell to IT staff to fix them manually one at a time, by some estimates 8.5 million machines. Hundreds of engineers worked around the clock to pull each PC from its death spiral. Eventually the problem was remediated, but not before flight delays, rescheduled surgeries and McDonald's in Japan closing some of its stores due to a "cash register malfunction." Estimates are that it cost Fortune 500 companies $5.4 billion in damages with only 10% to 20% covered by insurance.

OK, mistakes happen. This was not cyberterrorism, nor a nefarious plot by some state actor looking to limit the consumption of Big Macs in Osaka. Rather, it was an error in a line of code that looked OK when they tested it, but obviously didn't play nicely in the real world. The only real surprise is that it doesn't happen more often.

Going back to the "people" playbook, the company correctly mea culpa'd. A statement attributed to Founder and CEO George Kurtz read in part, "I want to sincerely apologize directly to all of you for today's outage. All of CrowdStrike understands the gravity and impact of the situation." He went on to reassure users that it was just an error, and that a fix was in place. And he promised to take steps to prevent it from happening in the future. By the book. If only they had left it there. 

Shortly after that a number of professionals at affected companies received an email saying that the company recognizes "the additional work that the July 19 incident has caused. And for that, we send our heartfelt thanks and apologies for the inconvenience. To express our gratitude, your next cup of coffee or late night snack is on us!" Attached was an UberEats credit code for $10 for each to use. You can argue it was a very personal gesture, even if one poster on X said "I literally wanted to drive my car off a bridge this weekend and they bought me coffee. Nice."

Snarky comments aside, it was a humanizing move, one that tried in a small way to lessen the wrong. Unfortunately, it seems it had its own glitch. Either because people started sharing the credit online or for other reasons, the code was quickly discontinued and rendered invalid. The apology was good, the remedy not so much. Or as another poster put it, "ClownStrike. Nuff said."

Nothing is ever as simple as it seems. And it's all made harder as technology has changed everything, especially how we communicate and interact. You can't look a text in the eye, discussions on Zoom are rife with overlaps and awkward pauses, and fixes can backfire if the tech fails further. CrowdStrike did try, and that's worth something. And a blown free cup of coffee hardly rises to the level of the Hippocratic oath's "Do No Harm." But remedies only work if they make things better, not worse. Perhaps they should have left it at "We're really sorry."

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Marc Wollin of Bedford takes the blame when he screws up. His column appears weekly via email and online http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/ and https://marcwollin.substack.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.