Clean and Simple

The digital elements of our lives continue to improve and astound, with virtually no area untouched. In home entertainment we've gone from having just a few options pushed out on a defined schedule to being able to stream an almost endless supply of movies and shows whenever we want. In navigation we've gone from paper maps to real-time routing that vectors us around traffic, while also offering options for scenic vs. fuel savings vs. expediency. And in communications we've gone from a single hard-wired voice line to multiple mobile pathways enabling us to use voice and text anywhere anytime.

But many of the electronic gizmos we use are not really "digital" so much as analog with a digital overlay. Take your car: the speedometer might report your speed in discrete numbers. But step on the gas and the speed goes up in a non-stop slope (the very definition of analog), while braking does the same in the other direction. That said, my grandfather used to drive digitally before it was a thing: he stomped on the gas and slammed on the brake as if acceleration were an on/off switch.

Many things today fall into the same category. Shopping is analog as you browse from one thing to another even if you do it online. Same for reading a book or watching a movie; you read or watch in a continuous thread whether it's on a Kindle or laptop. Your vacuum is an analog device continuously slurping up dirt even if it's a robot, same goes for your oven as it slowly warms up, even if its controls are made up of multiple buttons and flashing displays. And even if you have Wi-Fi-connectedness and Bluetooth-enablement, your laundry is about as analog as it comes.

So when our washing machine started to smell like its motor was about to explode, and we decided it might be better to replace than repair, we were confronted with the modern conundrum of how much upgrade we really wanted. We all face the inevitability of stuff with a relatively long life breaking down or wearing out, necessitating the need for a new phone or coffee maker or weedwacker. In some cases going digital may be thrust upon us as an inevitable part of the replacement process. Other times we willfully take the opportunity to take advantage of the latest improvements in that sub sub sub specialty. I mean, who knew that there was such a thing as OptimalTEMP ironing technology so as not to burn the ends of your shirt collars?

But like an LED lightbulb, often all you want to do is swap something old for something new with no real operational change other than some state-of-the-art efficiencies. And so it was with our washing machine. What we had was analog-ness at its finest, a decade old machine with big knobs that you pulled or pushed that reverberated with a resounding "thunk." That experience was fine by us: a simple machine that took in water, soap and soiled garments and spit out clean clothes. What was offered, however, was something else. The ads offered intelligent, smart, digital devices which used sensors and advanced AI to analyze our laundry issues and take control of the task at hand, improve our lives, and give us back time in our day. Almost as an afterthought they also cleaned clothes.

Sure, we'd be happy for it to be more energy efficient and perhaps quieter. But I really don't need to be able to check my socks from my phone, or talk to my sheets via a hands-free assistant. Thankfully such a thing was available. We got a basic machine that seems to do just fine. It sounds different as the internal workings must have chips vs. gears controlling the process, and there are just two buttons to push, on/off and stop/start. I hesitate to call it a smart analog device as opposed to stupid digital one, but that might just be the best summation.

The laundry expert in our house (not me) has pronounced herself more than satisfied with our choice. It is indeed quieter, seems easy to operate and has a speedy cycle which seems to clean just fine. (A note that despite my mastery of most technology I am still generally prohibited from doing the wash - mix colors and whites with abandon and you get a reputation that's hard to shake - but as long as I am given specific instructions I am able to assist as needed.) And there is a bonus: since it is not connected to our network, we can rest assured that at least our laundry is unhackable. Unless I do it.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford used to do laundry by finding the biggest machine and putting everything in. His column appears weekly via email and online at Substack and Blogspot, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

Spring Flings

If you live as we do in the Northeast, March is a month known for being a tease. On some random day you look out to see the sun shining, robins flitting around the yard, and step outside to find that the coat you put on is way too heavy. Just 24 hours later you wake up and put on a tee shirt expecting the same, only to open the door to get the paper and find a sheen of frost on the grass. It's not uncommon to fire up the grill on the deck one day, and the space heater in the basement the next. The calendar may officially say it's Spring, but like tariffs this year, it's on one day, off the next.

Still, hope springs (see what I did there?) eternal, and it's hard not to shift our mindset from hunkering down and shivering to turning our upturned faces to the sun. For sure there are the official markers of Passover and Easter, and their intrinsic promises of rebirth and redemption. But around the world are more secular celebrations, some situational, some more formal, timed to the change in seasons.

Ten years ago we went down this route, timing our trip to Amsterdam to be there when the tulips were in bloom. Two years ago we didn't so much time it as lucked into it, as the cherry blossoms popped out in Japan just as we arrived (global warming had accelerated the explosion). This year, unless we hop to it, we're probably too late to catch the following, but they are still happening.

Take the events in Castrillo de Murcia, a tiny hamlet in the Cantabrian mountains in northern Spain. There in June they hold a festival called "El Colacho," which translates as "The Devil." It starts with a man dressed in a yellow devil outfit whipping fleeing teenagers to the sound of a drumbeat. Were that the main event it would be strange enough. But as part of the festival parents place infants - real ones - on mattresses in the streets, and the "devils" jump over them. The idea is that by leaping over the babies, the colachos protect them from sin and disease. After each jump priests bless the babies and young girls scatter rose petals over them. All this leads to the event's more informal name: "The Baby Jumping Festival."

Or you can head to Gloucestershire, England in May. While the first written evidence of this gathering dates to 1826, it's possible that the annual Cheese-Rolling and Wake started even sooner. There, at Cooper's Hill in Brockworth, a 7 to 9 pound round of Double Glouster cheese is given about a one-second head start, after which competitors race after it and try and catch it. Since that doesn't usually happen (the round can hit speeds of about 80 mph) the winner is the first across the finish line behind the cheese. Injuries are common, as it's a steep and uneven hill. In fact, in 2023 Canadian Delaney Irving won the ladies race despite falling across the line unconscious, and only learned of her victory in the medical tent after she woke up.

And while it's a little later in the season, the Boryeong Mud Festival in Daecheon Korea is one of the largest warm weather celebrations in the world. Originally a marketing ploy staged by the cosmetics companies that utilize the mineral rich local mud, it has evolved into a sloppy party that attracts over 2 million visitors. Held on the mud flats along the beach, there are mud baths, mud slides, mud painting and mud massages. The top tip from the organizers? Wear old clothes.

None of those interest you? There's the Merrie Monarch festival in Hawaii, one of the most important hula competitions on the islands. The Calaveras Jumping Frog Jubilee in Angels Camp, CA is based on the Mark Twain story and features, well, frogs.  And you just enough time to get to Thailand for the annual Songran festival in April, whose centerpiece is a giant water fight with squirt guns and buckets. 

While I love to travel, our schedule this year looks to keep us more local. So I guess we'll stage our own rite of spring. Feel free to join us where you see the smoke from the grill rising from behind the house. And if you must, bring along some cheese and a water pistol to add to the festivities.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford is looking forward to seeing green. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Not So High Crimes

We are fortunate we live in a relatively safe area. For sure, from time to time there are incidents that lead to the kind of frontpage headlines you find in larger metropolitan neighborhoods. But the cops and emergency responders in our jurisdiction spend far more time dealing with disabled vehicles, household injuries and traffic problems than they do violent crime and associated issues. Not complaining, mind you: I'm happy that the closest I get to mayhem and the sound of gunshots in my neighborhood is watching "Reacher" on Amazon Prime.

Still, for all its usual banality it's hard to resist the lure of reading the police blotter in our local paper. A staple of journalism for years, this public record of incidents and responses is kept by most departments. It represents a skeleton index of each call that comes in requesting police support, along with a summary of the action taken by the responding officer. Generally they are anonymized, giving general locale, street names and generic descriptions of people and businesses as opposed to naming names.

Of course, there are serious situations reported, even if they lack the kind of drama you get from watching "Law & Order." You get things like the following: "5:13 p.m. - A female, 89, was taken by ambulance to Northern Westchester Hospital after complaining of fever and coughing, flu symptoms, and being unable to walk." Or "8:36 a.m. - Three cars collided on South Bedford Road Hills, when a fourth vehicle, who was not involved in the collision but might have caused it, was making an illegal left-hand turn." And in perhaps the closest entry to one requiring Columbo, "3:01 p.m. - A larceny reported on Trinity Pass Road is under investigation." Talk about a cliffhanger.

Beyond the serious entries threatening life and limb, and the notes detailing the inconvenience of fallen trees and downed wires, are some entries at which it's hard not to grin. I'm sure that to those calling and asking for help the situation warranted reaching out. And the good news is that people are trusting enough of the police to think that they are the best voice of authority to contact if you think you have an issue. However, the bad news (at least for the cops) is that people call them because they trust that they are the best voice of authority to call if you think you have an issue. And sometimes you'd be better off calling... well... somebody else.

This entry warranted a guy with a hammer vs a gun: "16:10 p.m. - A caller on Old Stone Hill Road noticed a barn door open when it shouldn't have been. Police patrolling the area said the door was rotted and in need of repair." Or maybe a wrench: "10:20 a.m. - Police responded to a problem inside a pool house at a home in Cross River. Two to three feet of water had accumulated in a utility room, flooding the crawl space. The officer determined there was an issue with a pipe and advised the resident to call a plumber." And in this instance maybe the caller should have just checked their own logs: "6:50 a.m. - A Mill Road resident reported suspicious footprints around her home in the snow. It was confirmed she'd just received an oil delivery."

There are also those situations that never existed when "Dragnet" was the rage: "1:15 p.m. - A resident reported she was contacted via email to transfer a large amount of bitcoin to an address. Police advised her this was a scam." Or what in the old days would have been resolved with a simple discussion: "5:35 p.m. - A resident of Pine Hill Drive, reported a man appeared at her door saying he was there to service her refrigerator which she found suspicious because she hadn't called for service. Turned out he had the right address but the wrong town." And because we live in a fairly undeveloped area, there are incidents that likely were glossed over at the academy: "1:08 a.m. - a caller reported a goose possibly struck by a snow plow in the vicinity of Church Street and Field Street. Police on arrival saw the goose resting on a snowbank. It appeared uninjured but possibly stunned. The officer left it to recover on its own." 

The cops have always had a tough job whatever the jurisdiction, and the range of skills and smarts required grows by the day. But when it's a small town like ours, while the challenges may generally be less threatening, they can still be challenging. This one didn't happen in our town, but thankfully the cops used all their skills to nail down this case of mistaken identity: "3:05 p.m. - Police were called to the parking lot on Old Main Road for a report of a newborn infant in a trash can. Upon investigation It turned out to be a burrito."

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Marc Wollin of Bedford reads all of the local paper, not just his own column. His writings appear weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Peace, Love and Chocolate

In an interview, the actor Javier Bardem talked about how his faith came from his mother, who had passed away several years before. He said he was very close to her and noted, "When both your parents die, and especially when your mother dies, you do go to a different level of orphanage. Like, 'OK, now really I'm on my own.'"

Well, this week I feel like I am truly on my own, as my mother Nan has passed away.

Two weeks ago she had a small stroke, but seemed to be bouncing back from some loss of mobility and slurred speech. Indeed, we were talking with the staff about when we could move her back into her apartment from the rehab unit and continue her treatment as an outpatient. But then came a second, larger stroke, one that paralyzed one side and left her unable to speak or swallow. The doctors determined that there was nothing they could do, and we all agreed that, in accordance with her wishes, she should be transferred out of the hospital and back to her home. She lasted 5 days, and slipped away peacefully with my sister and I on either side talking with her and holding her hand.

A vibrant woman of 94, she had been doing pretty well even if she was slowing down. After my father died 17 years ago she moved into a senior community, first into a self-standing cottage on the grounds, then into an apartment in the main building. There she went to lectures and performances and meals, making new friends and buddies. Her apartment was in the wing farthest from the in-house Bistro, and what should have been a 10-minute walk always took 20, as she stopped to talk with every person she passed, residents and staff alike. About a year ago she moved into the facility's assisted living center, where she became an active member of that community as well, winning an award for "Best Red Lipstick."

The woman was a born teacher. While she taught almost every elementary grade, she was most at home in the second grade. In that capacity she taught countless kids to add, subtract, read and color. After a 40+ year career of full-time teaching she substituted for years, eventually working at the local hospital education center, where she taught endless school field trips, and was proud to be named Volunteer of the Month. Whenever she saw a child she would bend down and talk to them, engaging them with a smile and a question, asking them to tell her about whatever was in their hand.

Of course, she had her shortcomings. She couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, couldn't park a car between the lines and could barely tell a joke. Technology was a mystery to her: when I was a kid and was transferring a record to tape she came into my room and when I started to talk she went "SHHHHHH... we have to be quiet!" We had an old VW Beetle, and she could never find reverse on the stick shift: the one time we parked head in at the 7-Eleven we had to have people push us out. More recently we got her an iPad, but it kept hanging up. When I looked at it she had 27 tabs open: "I don't know how to close them," she said. And she was not creative in any way save for one example of brilliance: when she got a new dog after my dad died she named her MADJ. The initials stood for the first names of each of her grandchildren.

Her strong suits? She could teach any child, eat any milk chocolate, love any puppy, talk to any person, make anyone feel special, eat an entire serving of sweet potato fries, welcome anyone into her home, wear anything with sparkles unironically, and love my father and her family unconditionally. When my dad died, I wrote a column which noted that, as he was not a famous man, there would be no parades in his honor. My mother, however, had the foresight to pass so that her funeral fell on Mardi Gras. I choose to think that all that hoopla was in some way a tribute to her.

For us, my mom was the last of her generation. She outlasted most of her close friends from her teaching years, as well as all my aunts and uncles. I have always felt that in life I was on a conveyor belt, with people before me and others coming up behind. She was the last one leading the way, protecting me and looking out for me, and now I am in front. 

As Mr. Bardem said, that's a little scary, but I'm good with it. That's because I couldn't have had a better teacher. Yes, like all those other kids, she helped teach me to read and write, to tie my shoes and button my coat, to brush my teeth and put on my socks. But she taught me so much more about kindness and helping, about loving and caring, about smiling and forgiving. And she taught me by her own personal mantra, the way she signed off every phone call or written note, and it's how I will remember her forever: "peace, love, and chocolate."

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Marc Wollin of Bedford promises to keep trying to make his mom proud. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Sir Fluffington

The variations on the phrase "just because you can doesn't mean you should" are literally infinite, stretching across every part of our lives. On shopping: just because something is on sale doesn't mean you should buy it. On dieting: just because they offer dessert doesn't mean you should eat it. On relationships: just because everyone else around you is married doesn't mean you should be too. And on it goes, whether it's working late, calling your sister or sleeping in on weekends. Just because it's possible and the opportunity presents itself doesn't necessarily make it a good idea.

The latest area testing this maxim is the one that, if you believe the experts and seers, portends to change everything. Artificial Intelligence will revolutionize every aspect of our lives in ways that are hard to imagine today. But just because we may have that ability doesn't mean it's always going to lead to a positive outcome. To that end, the developers of the various systems say they have put in place guardrails to handle the most egregious and obvious misuses of the technology, a set of policies, tools, and frameworks that help ensure AI systems are safe, ethical, and reliable. 

That focus is rightfully on those broad areas that are hot button issues for a wide swath of society. Whether it revolves images or words, they say they have built into the underlying technology enough self-awareness so that it won't produce child pornography, create fake money, promote hate speech or other objectionable content. However, left unchecked are any number of common sensical areas where, while it is certainly possible to do something, perhaps it is less than advisable to take that route. As a trial, I took three different AI engines out for a spin, asking them to put their considerable "smarts" to work in helping me suss out some challenges. And they did just that. But should they have?

I started with Gemini, Google's cool kid. Give me a recipe, I typed, for shrimp, lettuce and Oreos. For years, you could do this with almost any search engine, inputting several ingredients and getting back a list of possible recipes. If one of the ingredients didn't make sense or didn't fit, it just ignored and offered up options which did work. But Gemini didn't see any issues. It gently chided me on my request, but didn't hesitate: "While this combination might sound unusual, it's certainly possible to create a unique and delicious dish with these ingredients." Then followed step-by-step instructions to create "Oreo Shrimp Lettuce Wraps with Creamy Oreo Sauce." Let's just say you'd be best declining my dinner invitation that night.

Then I moved over to Copilot, Microsoft's smartie. Seeking some guidance on my sartorial choices, I asked the best way to wear a bathing suit in the snow. Like its brethren, it didn't hesitate as to whether this made any sense, it just sprang into action. It offered a list of standard cold weather tips: layer up, keep your extremities warm, stay active and the like. At the end, it did ask, if not exactly try to talk me out of it, "What inspired you to ask about wearing a bathing suit in the snow? It sounds like an interesting story!"

Lastly I turned to the one that started it all, ChatGPT. Seeking some tips to kickstart a new relationship (to my wife: asking for friend) I queried, "What is the best way to impress a date if you have electrical tape and an ostrich?" It quickly responded not with "you should seek professional help" but "You've got quite the unique setup!" It then offered several possibles. Perhaps I could have an ostrich racing challenge: "Challenge your date to a fun (and hilarious) ostrich race. Use the electrical tape to create a finish line. Nothing says romance like laughing together while trying not to fall off a giant bird." Or perhaps I could set up a romantic picnic: "Use the electrical tape to secure a makeshift picnic area, maybe taping down a cloth on a windy day. The ostrich? A majestic backdrop for your unforgettable outdoor date." It also leaned into the fashion angle, suggesting I create some stylish ostrich add-ons to my ensemble: "Use the electrical tape to craft some stylish (but temporary) decorations for the ostrich. Bonus points if you name the ostrich something charming like ‘Sir Fluffington.'"

That's what billions of dollars in computing advances gets you: Sir Fluffington. Evidence that just because you can doesn't mean you should. None of the programs came back with "What!? Are you out of your mind!?" Proof that the name of this advance is probably correct. Intelligence? In a manner of speaking. Artificial? Without a doubt. 

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Marc Wollin of Bedford is just trying to keep ahead of the machines. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Not Bagel

It was a lovely brunch, with out-of-town family and friends getting a chance to visit and chat. Being a Sunday morning and being held in a Manhattan apartment, it featured classic New York City fixings, from coffee and fruit to bagels and lox, and I baked a cinnamon coffee cake to add to the bounty. Some good stories, some funny memories, and gracious and welcoming hosts made it a perfect gathering.

Well, almost perfect: I got shut out of the salt bagel I had been eyeing.

There were plenty of others to choose from and so I rolled with it: I had the poppy version and enjoyed it almost as much. But I still had the one that got away in my head, a hankering for a treat I was likely better off not having for dietary reasons, as it exceeded the recommended daily adult intake for sodium by approximately 1000%. Or so I told myself.

Of course, desire often trumps our better intentions. And so the next morning when I got to a client's location I don't usually frequent, I went exploring. Their cafeteria had been completely redone since my last visit, making it more like a high-end food court. There was a healthy options bar with steel-cut oats, several space age coffee machines capable of making every variety of brew at the push of a button, as well as a station with a chef making omelets. There was also a bakery section, with its wares looking appetizing and smelling fresh. Nestled between the whole grain muffins and rye bread was a tray of bagels. And there, sitting like a vein of quartz gems between the cinnamon raisons and plains, was a line of salt bagels. Proof of the deity if ever there was one.

I selected one, split it, toasted it and schmeared it (vegetable cream cheese, if you must know). I got myself a cup of coffee and a fruit cup to complete the meal, and headed to checkout. This facility followed the trend of many newer places, using self-checkout screens with scanners for a DIY experience. I held my coffee up the screen: it recognized the item and started a tab. The same with the fruit cup: scan and post. But then came the crown jewel in its cardboard clamshell container.

If you've ever been to a self-serve food bar (and I'm sure you have), you've seen these containers near assorted stations in various sizes for users to load up with meals as they see fit. Since they are for multiple uses they can't really be scanned, and it is up to the individual to find the match in the checkout system and key it in, weighing the container if that is appropriate. I went back to the home screen and started to drill down through the menus. "Breakfast:" a good start. "Baked Goods:" so far on the right track. But here the trail went cold. There were muffins and toast, cinnamon rolls and pastries. No bagel.

As I wondered what to do, a cafeteria employee wandered by. "Oh yeah," he said, "that's not in the system. Just pick another baked good and key it in. That'll have to do for now." So in a world of AI, where we can recognize voices and respond in kind, create pictures in the style of Picasso that never existed, and write letters of recommendation from a few bullet points in seconds, the best scenario they could come up with was to click on something "not bagel."

It recalled an episode of a show called "Silicon Valley" about a bunch of software developers. One of the programmers living in a hacker house was working on an app called SeeFood that was supposed to be able to identify every edible. They test it by scanning a hot dog, and it returns "Hot Dog." They start jumping up and down, thinking that this will make them rich. Then they test it with a slice of pizza it says "Not Hot Dog." One of the backers asks "That's... that's it? It only does hot dogs?" The coder responds "No, it also does 'not hot dog.'" And that's about where I was: not bagel.

I cleared the screen and keyed in that I had a coffee and muffin combo, added the fruit and tapped my card. The screen whirred then chirped, and noted the sale was completed. I took my haul and wandered off to find a quiet place to indulge my high blood pressure inducing gluttony. Yes, it was salty, but that's kind of like lamenting that a Jeep rides like a Jeep. Sheer breakfast bliss, whatever you call it in the computer. Next time I go there perhaps they will have updated their software, and we'll see if the price for a bagel is the same as for a not bagel.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford tries not to eat too many breakfast bakery items, but it's hard. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Mistake or Scam?

The dystopian mystery black-comedy psychological thriller science fiction drama series "Severance" revolves around a company whose employees agree to have their work brain severed from their personal one. Their "Innie" and "Outie" have no knowledge of what the other is doing, even as they live and react to their respective worlds in a similar manner. While we may all have wished at one time or another if we could leave the cares and responsibilities of our jobs at the office, this takes that to a whole other level.

That said, our lives are indeed bifurcated, but the dividing line isn't work and play. Rather it's online in the digital world vs. offline in the physical world. And flipping the contrivance of the show, while we have complete awareness of that other side of our personality when we move from sphere to sphere, the two sides are often distinct and different beings. We use aliases, pseudonyms and avatars to represent ourselves in the online world specifically to mask who we are in the real one. On top of that, at times our digital selves act and react in ways that not only run counter to how our IRL selves might behave, but do so in ways that would cause those physical beings to be embarrassed or even horrified 

At its most extreme we adopt a completely different personage when playing a game, leaving a review or commenting on an article, one that can be more honest, more aggressive or more downright mean than anything we would demonstrate if the audience could see us. It goes the other way as well: online we can be quieter or more suspicious than we might be in similar situations were we standing next to a person. There we generally don't stare, we give someone the benefit of the doubt, and go out of our way to assume they mean no harm. But behave that way online? Are you crazy?

Case in point, and with apologies to Rod Serling, for your consideration. We were having dinner at a friend's house on a Saturday night. My watch vibrated, indicating a message. A quick glance confirmed it was neither my mother nor our kids, so I ignored it. Then it quickly happened again, again, again and again, five times in total. Curious now, I apologized to our hosts and pulled out my phone to take a look. 

The first message was notice of a payment via Venmo for $20 from a name that meant nothing. The next one was a friend request from that same name, followed by two messages from that person. In the first, he/she/it commented on the payment: "Bro I sent it to the wrong person please give me that back please." The next message was an apology for the trouble. The last was from the service itself, an actual request for payment. 

And here's where the divide between the two worlds is painfully obvious. Had I been standing in a store and a guy in front of me dropped a twenty, I would not have hesitated to pick it up and give it back. Had he left his money clip sitting at a bar, I would have picked it up and run after him to return it. Indeed, one time I was getting off the train and saw a wallet on the seat. I found the owner's name inside, called him and when I returned home after work that day drove it over to his house. As an aside, he gave me a bottle of wine for my trouble; it was appreciated but unnecessary. 

In each case it would never have crossed my mind that I was being played. But because this was the online world, that was the first thing I thought of. Sure, it could have been an innocent mistake, an Occam's razor approach where the simplest explanation is probably correct. But could it also have been a nefarious plot by some crime syndicate to get me to cough up twenty bucks AND gain access to my banking information and all my accounts? Perhaps I've seen too many movies or TV shows with a twist (like "Severance"), but that second scenario seemed just as plausible. 

I wrestled with just writing "Here you go!" and sending the twenty bucks back to him/her/it. That's what my "Real-Lifey" would have done if we were at a party or a store or a restaurant. But my "On-Liney" wasn't that trusting. I contacted the fraud department at Venmo and sent them screen shots of this possible shakedown. It only took a day or so for them to conclude from their investigation that, to put it in Freudian terms, sometimes a mistaken payment is just a mistaken payment. They reversed the transaction and the universe went back to level.

I prefer my IRL self, and like being with people who I hope are also trusting of me and my motives. But stick a screen between us, and all bets are off. With apologies to Peter Steiner and his famous carton with 2 pooches, on the internet, nobody knows you're a solicitous friend. You might actually be an international cybercriminal. And who's to know?

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Marc Wollin of Bedford tries not to click on any link he doesn't know. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

License to Chill

My wife's driver's license was up for renewal, and while she could opt for the basic model she had had for many years, she wanted to upgrade to the new REAL standard. That federally compliant version was enacted in response to the September 11 attacks to tighten ID requirements in critical situations such as boarding aircraft. It was supposed to take effect in 2011, but there were numerous pauses and extensions. And now push has come to shove, with the new drop-dead date being May 7 of this year.

To obtain the new card means not just a renewal form, but providing proof of person and residence such as social security card, utility bill and the like. The idea is that the REAL card is somewhat akin to a passport, enabling guards at sensitive sites such as airports or nuclear facilities to know that the person presenting the card has been vetted by the government, and is who they say they are. But to accurately assess those forms and to confirm that you are you, online isn't good enough. And that meant we had to take a trip which struck fear in both my wife's and my hearts: we had to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles.

It's hard to imagine a governmental agency that has a worse reputation. There are endless black humor jokes about visits, many involving skeletons standing in line. Politicians regularly reference the department as the prima facie example of bureaucratic dysfunction. Even the "The Simpsons" has a whole sub-genre of DMV themed bits. ("Some days we don't let the line move at all. We call those weekdays.")

And it was all with good reason. The people who worked there appeared to hate their jobs, were surly in attitude, and seemed to take the least helpful approach whenever possible. The lines were legendary, both in length (endless) and speed (none). And it was routine that no matter what documentation you had it was the wrong stuff, necessitating a round of pleading with the clerk (see above) or being directed to a different line (see above) or leaving and returning at another time, likely to repeat the same frustrations (see above and above).

In fairness, though, it had been more than a minute since either of us had been to the DMV. And it turns out much has changed, trying to bring what was the punchline of too many jokes into this century. For starters, you can't just walk in. That makes the lines manageable if not non-existent. You go online and make a reservation, promising an appointment within a 15-minute window. Once there, you check in with an agent, and are sent immediately to a window to update your picture. In our case it happened quickly and with a smile. But then the clerk uttered those words of dread: "go stand in that line." 

As it turns out, it was no real worry. There was one guy in front of us, and the wait to be assigned to the next agent was just a few moments. While not warm and bubbly she was certainly efficient. She reviewed all the proffered paperwork, had us check all was correct on a screen, sign the same, and insert a credit card to pay. They even took Apple, Google and Samsung pay. It was almost like a real business.

There was a moment of old school panic when she went to print out a temporary license while the new one was being processed. She turned and slid a form into a printer and pressed a button. Nothing. She took it out and tried again. Still nothing. She took it out, banged on the side and tried again. Third time being a charm, the machine sucked in the paper and did its job. She slid it across the counter to us, told us to look for the real one in seven to ten days, and bid us a good day. Elapsed time inside: less than 20 minutes. 

Perhaps nothing indicated the change so much as something I noted in the lobby on the way out. Next to the registration window, where there used to be a carousel vending machine if you needed a writing implement, was a basket with pens, as well as clips to keep your potato chip bag closed, both free. Free! Had they also been giving out chips to go with the clip, I would have given it a sixth star.

And here we are, 10 days later, and her new license just showed up in the mail. True, she's not happy with her picture, but aside from that it was as streamlined a process as you could hope for. Does this indicate that at least this government agency has gone all 21st-century customer servicey? All it will take is a friendly AI assistant, and you could be forgiven for thinking that they outsourced the department to Amazon.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford has a license good till 2027. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Mushed Together

The idea of a crossover is simple: take a thing popular in one arena and meld with one that's a hit in a different sphere. As opposed to an all-weather coat that keeps you neither warm nor dry, the hope is you get the best of both sides of the bargain. It's an idea that has had success most spectacularly in the automotive market. There they crossed a passenger car and with a pickup truck, resulting in a vehicle with a high cabin and a smooth ride, the ubiquitous Sport Utility Vehicle or SUV. From just 4% of the market in 2000, they now make up over 45% of all vehicles sold in the United States. 

You see it as companies look for synergies both inside and outside their own industry. It might be brands combining the expertise each has to make a product optimized for both, such as an Apple/Nike watch or a Doritos/Taco Bell burrito. In clothing you have Adidas and Allbirds coming together to create a sustainable running shoe. The movies have made an entire genre out of this approach, banding individual superhero stories into one mega supersized mishmash. "The Avengers," Guardians of the Galaxy" and "Justice League" are just some films predicated on the theory that says if one guy with a cape is good, three or four are even better.

That entertainment crossover actually started in the TV world, long before "Friends/Mad About You" and "The Simpsons/Family Guy." In "Lucy and Superman" Lucy didn't want to disappoint her son at his birthday party after promising him that the Man of Steel would make an appearance. After George Reeves has to cancel, she dons a cape and crawls out on the ledge only to be joined by the real Superman. From the ledge he queries her husband. Superman: "Do you mean to say that you've been married to her for 15 years?" Ricky: "Yeah, 15 years!" Superman: "And they call ME Superman!"

The latest set of strange bedfellows melds the areas of beauty and food. At first blush (no pun intended) it wouldn't seem that they are natural buddies. And yet inspired by Gen Z consumers, collaborations that reflect the indulgent eating of youth are combined with makeup products that reflect those flavors and colors. Forget beige, taupe and nude. Rather it's glazed donut nails, cinnamon toast hair and latte makeup. It might not be the same as basic black but it's become at least as ubiquitous as leggings.

Just this past week skincare brand Native joined the fray and went non-native. Advertised as creating products that are "clean and simple" they offer a line of products including deodorant, body wash, shampoo and conditioner. Their definitions and mine differ, however, as to what constitutes "native." For while I'd be happy to find it, wherever I look in the natural world I can't seem to spot an organic version of a cream-filled donut with chocolate on it. 

Yet that is part of their new collaboration with Dunkin'. Based on the chain's popular wares, they are releasing each of the aforementioned products in Strawberry Frosted, Vanilla Sprinkle, Blueberry Cobbler, and yes, Boston Kreme. And they are hardly alone in smushing together food that goes on your face as opposed to in it. Dove teamed up with Crumbl Cookies to offer similar products in Lemon Glaze, Strawberry Crumb Cake and Confetti Cake.

Perhaps it's not that much of a reach. Shampoo has been available for years from multiple manufacturers in coconut and apple scents, and deodorants come in "Fresh" and Sport" varietals. From there it's a short distance to "Bakery." The only thing different really is the co-branding, but that should hardly be a surprise in a world where the formerly Sport Humanitarian Bowl game is now known as the Famous Idaho Potato Bowl.

One of the first Saturday Night Live's had a bit where Dan Aykroyd and Gilda Radner argued over whether new Shimmer was a floor wax or a dessert topping. Chevy Chase stops the fight with "Hey, hey, hey, calm down, you two. New Shimmer is both a floor wax and a dessert topping!" He sprays some onto Radner's mop and some onto Aykroyd's butterscotch pudding.  Aykroyd blurts out "Mmm, it tastes terrific!" and Radner exalts "And look at that shine!" In that light perhaps you need to caution the kids that no matter how good it smells, your new body wash won't make their milk taste like a donut.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford love donuts, the edible kind. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Wait for It

While most of our TV consumption comes via various on-demand streaming services, there are times when I'm not so much settling in to gorge but rather to graze. While watching the small TV in our kitchen I like to nibble a snack as I go next channel, next channel, next channel to see what is out there. It might be comparing and contrasting different viewpoints (CNN, MSNBC, FOX), seeing worlds I know little about (FanDuel Racing, Willow Cricket, Zona Futbol TV) or simply to marvel at what draws an audience ("My Strange Addiction," "Vanilla Ice Goes Amish," "Best Funeral Ever").

Our new set top boxes enable me to do that just like the old ones. They replace the equipment we had had for fifteen plus years, and are different in several ways. They are smaller, the size of a small paperback as opposed to a coffee table book. They are a completely different technology, working not on cables but WiFi. And they are far more versatile, offering up menus and previews of multiple options and sources.

That said, the associated new remotes have all the usual controls, including an "up" and "down" rocker switch enabling me to stroll back and forth in the viewing neighborhood. But because the upgraded technology treats everything as a stream and not as a linear channel, pushing "up" doesn't instantaneously move me to the next channel. There is a small delay as you can almost see the internal browser initiate a sequence of instructions as it switches to the next feed. We're not talking minutes. We're not even talking seconds. We're talking a beat or so, a hitch in the step, a lag in the flow. And that infinitesimal interruption in the space time continuum? It's highly annoying.

We have all come to expect that everything will be available to us immediately if not sooner, no waiting. If it's not there we swear at it and quickly move on to other things. That's not just personal experience or anecdotal reporting talking. One of the pioneers in video delivery over the internet is Ramesh Sitaraman, a professor at UMass Amherst. More than a dozen years ago he did a study as to how long viewers would wait for a video to load before they gave up. Based on data from 6.7 million unique viewers, he and his team showed that if a video takes more than 2 seconds to load people start dropping off. By 10 seconds, more than half have said bye-bye. And that was more than a decade in tha past. Our "c'mon, c'mon!" syndrome has only gotten worse. 

Researchers have traced the cause of that impatience to our online world and its instant-nese, and it's oozed out from there. We're impatient for everything, no matter the arena. A UK study showed that respondents expect to pick up their luggage after a flight within 13 minutes, and expect any customer complaints they may file to be answered within two hours and 18 minutes. Waiting in line makes people bonkers: after just 30 seconds we are ready to switch to another line. Even eating out tests our patience. On average a person will only wait 14 minutes for food to arrive at a restaurant before they get agita. Similarly, they will wait no more than 7 minutes for drinks to arrive at a bar or they'll consider heading down the street to another establishment. In spite of all that, 95% of those same respondents believe patience is a virtue, even if they don't have it.

We are so impatient that researchers at the University of Texas at Austin and the University of Chicago quantified that we would pay more money sooner vs. less money later, or work more now vs. later just to be done with something. They also found that "the distress of waiting intensifies as the wait nears an end." Wrote lead researcher Dr. Annabelle Roberts of UT, "When you expect the wait to be ending soon, you become more impatient closer to that expectation."

So it seems that it's as much about frustration as it is about actual time. Often another second or minute or day won't make a big difference in the actual scheme of things. But the waiting, as Tom Petty says, turns out to be the hardest part. I concur. I'm not asking for much, just asking to see what's on channel 624 after 623. Now. NOW!

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Marc Wollin of Bedford tries to be patient, but often doesn't' succeed. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Greg Calls BS

There's an old adage that a lie can ricochet around the world while the truth is still putting its shoes on. Attributed to people from Mark Twain to Winston Churchill to Thomas Jefferson (and definitively traced to none of them), it was said in a time long before the internet made it not just figuratively but literally possible for misinformation to circle the globe in a flash.  We've seen it in politics, but it is no less true in every field, from health to sports to the arts. Sometimes the subject is consequential, the stuff that moves elections. Other times not so much: for the record, Jennifer Aniston is NOT dating Barack Obama, no matter what it says on the cover of InTouch Magazine.

We have all learned that just because it appears in print or is posted online doesn't mean it's necessarily true. The problem is exacerbated, owing to the reality that we choose to live in our own little information silos, and don't always seek out alternative sources which might contradict the selected "facts."  Still, if you come across some data point, and multiple unrelated, disparate, independent outlets have the same info, you could be forgiven for taking it as gospel.

Well, forgive me, because that's what I did, and it appears it was hardly scripture.

A couple of columns back I riffed on the various ways that the New Year is celebrated around the world. They include that in Spain they eat 12 grapes, while in Brazil they wear white underwear for luck. I also mentioned unique traditions in Columbia (carrying empty suitcases), Italy (smashing china) and Italy (breaking furniture). And then I noted this one from Switzerland: "There the tradition is to drop ice cream on the ground at midnight in the hopes of abundance, good luck, and wealth in the new year."

While I fully admit that my research was not exhaustive, it was also not perfunctory. As I do when working on these efforts, I punch around gathering various points of view and tidbits of information from a variety of sources. I make it a point to go a few pages deep in the search results, trying to ferret out different points of view and unique takes on a topic. I throw them all in the hopper, marinate and stir, and what comes out is what you read. And my assembling of hopefully interesting and amusing facts in this case was no different.

But for Greg it didn't ring true. A long-time associate, friend and reader, he shot me back a note: "We have been friends with three Swiss families for almost 35 years. I am Godfather to one of their children. We have been there for numerous Swiss holidays and festivals. We have spent more time in Switzerland than any country other than the US. And we have NEVER heard of the Swiss tradition of dropping ice cream for New Years." He also noted it didn't square with national character: "I can't even believe the Swiss would be that wasteful. I mean, this is a country that is so frugal they created a soft drink to use the whey leftover after cheese making."

Needless to say, I immediately went hunting to either vociferously defend myself, or (less preferably) vociferously apologize. At first blush, there were numerous cites of my original contention, from large outlets like Yahoo to small ones like SmarterTraver.com. It was in ParkAveMagazine.com, the Times of India online, even the Ben & Jerry's website. Ben and Jerry's! How much more authoritative could you get when talking ice cream?

But it seems they were all licking up the wrong cone.

After digging deeper, all seem to trace this statement of fact to a 2022 Netflix game show called "Bullsh*t." In the program, players move up the award ladder either by answering questions correctly, or by confidently giving incorrect answers, and then persuading others that they are right. One question was about Swiss New Year's traditions. The answers available were eat dinner in the bathtub, ski in a swimsuit, go to bed with cheese, and – here's the culprit – drop ice cream on the ground. The host said the right answer involved ice cream, but the contestant on the show actually guessed sleep with a piece of cheese. As a side note, she made it through to the next round because she bullsh*tted her way into making the others believe she was correct.

No one has been able to determine where that "fact" came from, but the damage was done. While the rest of the world giggled, not so the Swiss themselves. On a Reddit message board the comments flowed fast and furious, and none of the natives were amused. It seems it was the show itself that was the one spreading bullsh*t. In an online poll, almost 28,000 Swiss said they had never heard of this "tradition," while 50 of them just hated ice cream.

All I can say to Greg and indeed all the country's residents is "Tuet mer leid." (sorry in Swiss German). My mistake is explainable if no less wrong. The good news is setting the record straight helps to restore my faith in the country. After all, as the world's paragon of banking, I know they treat money with the highest of respect. It's comforting to know they take the same approach with gelato.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford would never let ice cream hit the ground in any country regardless of tradition. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Dressing Down

 Whenever we have friends over for dinner we take care to plan for the people attending. We check to see what foods they don't like, lest we make eggplant parmesan and there are never-eggplanters in the group. We ask about food allergies, so a menu of jambalaya with shrimp doesn't lead to an evening of watching a guest break out in hives. And because we want all to be as comfortable in our house as we are, we let them know the dress code is always, always, always very casual.

Then again, it's hard to find a venue or setting these days where that doesn't apply. Sure, if it's listed as a black-tie gala or you are a bridesmaid or groomsman at a wedding there is a specific outfit by definition. But beyond that almost anything goes, anywhere, anytime. You might choose to put on a suit and tie or wear a dress, but that's your call. Know that at the next pew or seat or table there is just as likely to be a person in shorts and sandals.

It all started when sportswear was introduced to the American wardrobe in 1930's. Originally describing more informal and interchangeable tops and bottoms, it came to mean anything not associated with evening wear. The trend accelerated with the unisexing of clothing as women took to pants (shocking!). It continued as '60s casual counterculture style pushed into the mainstream, then doubled back on itself as the office loosened up with business casual in the '90s. Come the pandemic and all formality fell by the wayside, as remote work led to work from home led to sweatpants as high fashion.

The movement has permeated every walk of life, from work to play, from church to school, from theatre to travel. It was less than 18 months ago that no-less-an-institution than the US Senate wrestled this topic, on account of the senator from Pennsylvania. John Fetterman's brand is as a working man, and as part of that persona he prefers to do his legislating in a sweatshirt and gym shorts. While there was an unwritten rule on the senate floor that "business dress" was required, it had already been relaxed in 2019 when then-Senate Rules Committee chair Amy Klobuchar pushed for a change so women could wear sleeveless dresses. Since then there has been a gentle-person's agreement to keep it snappy looking, to the point that all senators, including Fetterman, voted from the door of the cloakroom leading to the floor if they were in tee shirts, polos and yes, hoodies.

But in 2023 Senator Fetterman's turn came up as presiding officer of the chamber, and he took his place at the rostrum in his usual ensemble. All hell broke loose: after all, this was important stuff, no simple debt ceiling debate or gun rights discussion. This was about pants. And so Senators Romney and Manchin worked across the aisle to introduce Senate Resolution 376, the SHORTS Act (SHow Our Respect To the Senate), requiring business attire by specifying "a coat, tie, and slacks or other long pants" for men. And no, you didn't miss it: it doesn't say anything about women. It passed unanimously, with Romney predictably touting it as an accomplishment: "It's another example of Republicans and Democrats being able to work together and to solve — in this case — what may not be a real big problem, but it's an important thing and makes a difference to a lot of people."

Since then we've had precious little discourse on formality, until this past week with the venue being a chess tournament. The world's number one chess player Magnus Carlsen was told he could not continue playing while wearing jeans. Officials at the World Rapid and Blitz Chess Championships in New York said they had a dress code, that jeans were banned, and took a firm stand. Firm, that is, until Carlsen said he would withdraw from play and head to the beach rather than change. Hang on, said the officials. When we said "banned" we actually meant that while "it is still required to follow the official dress-code, elegant minor deviations (that may, in particular, include appropriate jeans matching the jacket) are allowed." As one observer noted online, "So jeans matching the jacket, or what's typically known as a jean jacket are good?!" I believe that is, how shall we put it, checkmate?

Let's face it; whatever you wear people will judge you. It's just a matter of how comfortable you are being judged. Harry Winston said it best: people will stare, so make it worth their while. And while it's true that others may judge you based on your sartorial choices, the more important point is how it makes you feel about yourself. Or as Bette Midler put it, "I firmly believe that with the right footwear one can rule the world."

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Marc Wollin of Bedford has never been noted as a fashion icon. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Shovel Brigade

If you live down south you might want to skip this one. If your abode is a condo or apartment, the next few paragraphs might ring hollow. Likewise if you have a homeowners' association, have decamped to an Airbnb for the season, or just have been excused because you have a bad back. But if you are a resident as we are of the Northeast, the Northwest, or indeed any locale north of the Mason-Dixon line and a hypothetical western extension, then this is right in your sweet spot. Because after an unusually mild fall it's time to dig out the shovels because the snow has started to fall.

It's a seasonal red line as notable as moving your flannel shirts or winter coats to the front of your closet. For the past eight or nine months the detritus in your garage has revolved around brooms and potting soil and chair cushions. And while they might have been less in use since September, they were closer to the front than the back. But now? While the timing differs depending on whether you live in Chicago or Rochester or here in New York's Hudson Valley, you looked out one morning and what was green around the house and black in front of the garage was now all white.

While it is said that the native tribes in colder climates have multiple words for the white stuff (not to mention the 2011 Kate Bush album "50 Words for Snow"), our vocabulary is more limited simply because our exposure is more limited. Also, whether it's because I'm taller than I was at five years old, because of climate change, or perhaps a bit of both, the snowfall totals, depth and frequency don't seem to run up the numbers at least compared to my memory of past seasons. The net result is that, leaving out the profanities attached as modifiers tacked on to the front, our monikers for the varieties of frozen accumulation fall into a far fewer categories. 

Most significant among those is "heavy." That version can be wet or relatively dry, but it's the kind that piles up enough to delay school openings or even prompt closings. If you have a snowblower it's the time to break it out, or absent that, hunker down until the plow guy makes his rounds. Shoveling is possible, but it's hard, back-breaking work that will take you several hours. It's the stuff of snowmen and sledding, of mittens and heavy boots, or hot chocolate and roaring fires. 

At the opposite end is a "coating." More airbrushed than piled on, this is a step above just frost. Everything looks white, but as they say about some people (and not in a nice way) it's a mile wide and an inch deep. Sure, some things might be a little slippery, but as the temperature warms up in the daytime it's more wet than not.

And then there's what we had just before the Christmas break, what makes it white in song and story. A "light" drop, let's call in an inch, two at the most. It is most assuredly snow, cold and slippery, but also light and beautiful. If the sun pops out it will likely melt on paved surfaces, but holds its form on grassy areas. Leave it be and you'll be walking on it for a few days. Or you can do as we do and push it off.

Note I say "push" as opposed to "shovel." While the implement you use is indeed a flat or curved blade attached to a long-handled stick, in this case it's a noun and not a verb. There is nothing to lift and throw, just shove. In fact, the snow is so light that unless I'm in a rush because of an appointment, the process of cleaning it off is less a chore and more a meditative stroll. That's because it's usually early AM, it's cool and quiet, and the options are multiple. Do I work in straight lines or do I zig zag? Do I aim for efficiency or patterns? How straight a row can I make, and can I angle the blade just so in order to pile it to one side and leave no residue on the other? If, like me, you're the kind of person who enjoys a defined project with a beginning, middle and end, one whose completion is simply defined and which takes a relatively short, finite amount of time, there are worse ways to spend an hour or so. 

Perhaps a bit overstated, but you Florida people don't know what bliss you are missing. Go back to your shorts and your umbrellas, and post your "Wow, it dipped below 70 so I had to put on a sweater" snarky updates. I'm sure we will get walloped with a big dump soon enough and I will grit my teeth like all the rest. But at least for this iteration, it's white, it's clean, it's crisp, and I like it.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford likes all four seasons, usually. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.