Too Much Help

Like many of you, I have ridden the wave that is progress as much as my understanding and wallet will allow. While I may not be the first on the block to adopt every new technology that presents itself (I'm looking at you, Google Glasses), I have tried to keep abreast of those cutting-edge developments that migrate into the consumer landscape, and adopt those that offer some unique appeal. Some had staying power, others not so much. And the castoffs stuffed into the corners of our basement are a roadmap detailing successes, failures, and just as likely, the oh-so-short lifespans of those advances.

Most have been evolutionary if not revolutionary. Take a simple thing like my address book. I first had a little black book in which I dutifully kept track of friends, family and business connections. That went from a hard bound diary with scribbles, barely legible notes and cross-outs, to a miniature loose-leaf binder, whose neatly printed pages came from a computer program where I easily updated the data. Then I got a Zaurus, which was a kind of miniature electronic Rolodex that I could put in my backpack. After that came a Visor, the same basic thing in a smaller package. Eventually all that info moved to a phone, first a flip version, then a smart one. Check the box in the back of my office and you can find all those predecessors, useful if you need to look up the phone number of the plumber we had it in 1992.

So many of those advances seemed almost wonderous when we first adopted them. To go anywhere you used to have to consult one of the many maps you had acquired. But GPS? Plug in an address, and turn by turn instructions guided you directly to that never-before-been-to restaurant or store. To watch a TV show you were going to miss you had to figure out how to program a VCR. But streaming? Anything you want to watch is available at any time with a click, and increasingly, by just saying it out loud. To get a hold of someone not home you could ping their pager and then stand by for them to find a phone to call you back. But text? Asynchronous conversations now go on and on across time zones and geographies, complete with animated accents.

But we may be hitting saturation, defined as the point where nothing else can be added or absorbed. We each have probably more electronic gadgets and associated apps than we should, to the point that they're stepping on each other. We get up in the morning and ask Alexa the weather, then check our phone for the same, punch it up on our iPad, while noticing the readout on the smart thermostat as we pass by. It's like we're doctor shopping for a diagnosis, asking around to find a forecast that matches the outfit we want to wear. 

It's almost as if we don't believe the tools we've been given. That's because each is based on a unique system sporting similar yet different inputs, and so the outputs vary. None are wrong, but none are the empirical truth. It's the same as cooking. When I go to make a new recipe I can find literally a hundred variations of the same. Just this week The New York Times published an article entitled "Our 21 Best Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipes." Best? Doesn't that mean that there should be just one? So much for being the preeminent paper of record.

And now I have multiple electronic assistants that, if not fighting with each other, at least have different opinions on everything, even the time. I wanted to set a clock for the cake I was baking, and due to my mumbling and stumbling, I inadvertently set three devices a'counting down. However, each was slightly different from the other, so at (roughly) the appointed moment they all chimed, not in union but in succession. It sounded as if the kitchen was nuclear attack.

Right now it's Siri and Alexa offering suggestions, but soon it will be Gemini and CoPilot not asking but telling. And in that environment there can only be one leader.  Writer and visionary Isaac Asimov's "Three Rules of Robotics" were 1) Don't Harm Humans, 2) Obey Orders, and 3) Protect Yourself. Right now those guys can only open the car door. But once they take the wheel? Let's hope they remember the right order of those rules. 

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Marc Wollin of Bedford has too many things with keyboards and screens. His column appears weekly via email and online on Substack and Blogspot as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Bad Good Bites

Both my wife and I support numerous charities in our community, all organizations that do good work. Be it scholarships for deserving students, organizations that offer food and clothing to those in need, or help for those newly arrived in this country, we offer financial support and in some cases our time. And when our schedules permit, we gather with like-minded others to celebrate those groups and the work they do, some times as a way of raising money, other times to see the results of those efforts, and still others to socialize with fellow travelers.

The venues for those affairs vary widely, from private homes to tents to event spaces to restaurants. There's usually a program of some kind showcasing the organization's work, sometimes a sit-down meal, and occasionally an after party with dancing and more. But take a poll of those attending, and I'd venture that most would gladly pass on any or all those (and still offer the same level of support) if it stopped after the cocktail hour. And more specifically after the nibbles that we don't generally allow ourselves to have when we're on our own.

After all, the kind of people that support these organizations are at least conscious of the idea of eating a healthy diet, and try to practice it. Go out to dinner one-on-one with any of them, and they will just as likely order fish as steak, a salad as fried mozzarella sticks, a side of broccoli as a potato with butter and sour cream. That's not to say that they (and by they, I mean me) don't splurge occasionally on things they know aren't good for them. But open the cupboard at their homes, and you're more likely to find wheat crackers than cheese doodles. 

But go to one of these events for the cocktail hour and all bets are off. I've never seen data matching mini pulled pork sliders with bigger donations, but it must be out there. For while there are an assortment of foods to please all palates placed or passed, there is usually no waiting for the mini kale Caesar salads, while the line for the deep-fried bacon wrapped jalapeno poppers never seems to dwindle.

Makes no difference which organization nor how they stage the event. At one end you might have a food truck like Melt Mobile with its grilled cheese variations, while black-tie mainstay caterer Abigail Kirsch offers “Suspension Grilled Cheese” which is... wait for it... grilled cheese in a suspended wire tray. But whether it's trucked in or hanging over, the item in question is far more likely to clog your arteries than a chickpea tortilla chip.

And that's how we want it. (Note I've just given up on the third person pronouns and taken ownership of the behavior.) We have nothing against the buffet near the bar with carrot sticks and pepper strips accompanied by a nice yogurt dip. But a quick circle of the room locates the charcuterie board with its bounty of pepperoni, prosciutto, salami, and mortadella. Were I in the supermarket I would gaze wistfully at those items arrayed in the deli case while ordering half-a-pound of the store baked turkey breast. But at the reception? It's MAHA be dammed as I fill my plate with processed, cured meats. And go back for seconds. And dare I say, thirds.

Even being behind the curtain on these kinds of happenings doesn't change the equation. I have worked numerous high-end events which include A-list names on the stage. The contracts of those individuals enumerate multiple details, including the hospitality to be set up in their individual dressing rooms. Generally I am too busy working to eat beforehand, and so wait till the event ends, sating my appetite post-show by scavenging their spaces after the stars have left the building. And while some dressing rooms sport crudité platers and hummus, others have barbeque and mac and cheese. It's no contest where I finally get my fill.

I guess the good news is that I'm not wealthy enough to be invited to so many galas as to ruin my health by overindulging on a regular basis. And so at home I eat my fish, grill my chicken and use low sodium soy sauce. But if you invite me to your celebration, make sure the pigs-in-a-blanket trays are filled to overflowing. You know where to find me.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford loves finger food. His column appears weekly via email and online on Substack and Blogspot as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Winged Intruder

Every year at this time nature make its spring comeback. The trees behind the house fill in, while the bushes in front plump up like third graders. Flowers of all types open up and show their colors. Meantime the wildlife does the same: we see deer, squirrels and chipmunks, not to mention the occasional fox. Flying critters of all types flit around, some splashing in our birdbath, some buzzing around the flowers, both building nests in nooks and crannies high and low.

And one damn bird always tries to break into the house.

Both our living room and dining rooms have large bay windows with uninterrupted plates of glass with no screens. They offer an unobstructed view of the front gardens, lawn and street. But from the outside they appear to offer unencumbered access to the rest of the house. Any human would know by looking that it's not an actual opening, that there is a clear obstruction in the way. 

But not all the locals are human. And so without fail this time of year, from the front of the house we hear a thump, a pecking, a fluttering, a pause, then the sequence starts again. And if you sneak to the edge of those rooms and look out, you see a feathered intruder trying to gain entry through brute force. 

It's not even like it's the same bird. Last few years it has been a robin, and since their life span is two to six years, it's possible it was the same one over multiple seasons.  But this year's trespasser is a gray catbird, and he or she seems dead set on barging in to join us. 

Simply scaring it away is a waste of time. We jump out, yelling incomprehensible gibberish and bang on the window.  It has some effect, as it immediately retreats into the bushes. Bang a few more times, and it flies off into the trees. We usually stand there waiting for it to return, and when it doesn't, figure maybe it got the message. But we are no sooner upstairs or down then we hear that telltale "THUMP" and it starts all over again. Including our yelling. Us: 0, Bird: 1.

Research says that best explanation is "territorial aggression." Birds see their reflection in the window and perceive it as another bird invading their territory. Their pecking and repeated attempts to "get in" are an aggressive display to drive away this rival.  And so perhaps our friend could be forgiven for merely policing his turf. Except its ours, not his. 

Search for others who have fended off similar attempted home invasions, and a number of solutions are offered. You can make the window less reflective, adding decals or milky solutions like soap streaks. You can also add visual deterrents, like hanging CD's or other shiny objects, as well as more aggressive looking obstacles. We have tried it all, including propping up a Halloween scarecrow and a lifesize cutout of a terrier (don't ask why we have that). Other than making our neighbors wonder what is happening in our house, and probably giving the bird a good laugh, nothing seems to work.

And so this year we decided to try an exterior solution. I took an old mesh tarp and nailed it up over the window in the dining room. Then I stood back to wait. Sure enough, after a while, he made a return appearance. He perched in the bushes in front of the mesh, tilting his head this way and that, as if trying to figure out what was going on. He flew up and grabbed onto it, but didn't peck. He tried a few different spots, all with the same effect. After a while he flew off, heading up into the trees. I headed to the kitchen to get a celebratory snack. Us: 1, Bird: 1.

And then I heard the usual pecking in the living room.

I guess he figured if one entrance is no good I'll work on the other. But I had a demonstrated solution. So I got a piece of burlap, and did the same with that window. And the pecking stopped. All good, except that if you are driving past you might think we were attempting to wrap our house as Christo did to the Reichstag.  But it seemed to work, and demonstrated that being at the top of the food chain, having opposable thumbs, and a larger brain than a bird is worth something. Us: 2, Bird: 1.

And then we heard pecking at my office window. Us: 2, Bird: 2. The contest continues. 

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Marc Wollin of Bedford likes wildlife, as long as it remembers who is the boss. His column appears weekly via email and online on Substack and Blogspot as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Tariff Time

If you were going to schedule a trip in three months, you might say that you would do it in a "quarter." It's simple math, since three months is 25% of the twelve that make up a year. But it seems we have a new option. As part of President Trump's on again/off again trade reset, he has raised tariffs, lowered them, paused them, then done it all again multiple times with multiple players. And regardless of the amount, the direction or the target, the unit of time he seems to have settled on for each is 90 days. And so let me in this space be the very first to suggest we name this unit of time after the events that inspired it, and call a floating 90-day period a "tariff."

I can do this because English is built for hacking, unlike a language such as French. Since 1635 the Académie française has served as its gatekeeper, not allowing foreign phrases to infiltrate the sanctity of the French tongue. And so while a modern term such as "hotline" might be readily absorbed and used, the Academy mandates that (at least officially) the term of choice should be "numéro d'urgence."

Not so here. As captured in a standout "Saturday Night Live" sketch, Nate Bargatze as General George Washington told his troops why they were fighting: "We will live through the battle ahead because we fight to control our own destiny, to create our own nation, and to do our own thing with the English language. I dream that one day, our great nation will have a word for the number ‘twelve.' We shall call it ‘a dozen.'" A solider asks what other numbers shall have their own names. "None," he replied flatly. "Only 12 shall have its own word, because we are freemen."

So as a freeman I suggest we create the aforementioned calendar increment, something for which there is ample precedent. A textbook example: in November 2003 New York Times columnist Tom Friedman wrote, "The next six months in Iraq — which will determine the prospects for democracy-building there — are the most important six months in U.S. foreign policy in a long, long time." Friedman would go on to make variations of the same statement some 14 times over the next two and a half years. As such, that time period – "the next 6 months" – got to be known in certain circles as a "Friedman Unit," or just simply as an "FU."  

The FU joined a long line of specialized units of measure. They span literature, science and everyday life. Some are highly specific and exact in usage and measurement, while others are a bit more elastic and can encompass multiple areas of endeavor. Often they are named for their creators, other times for the individual that inspired them, still others for the relevant reference.  And it won't take but a New York Minute to enumerate some examples.

We'll start with astronomer Carl Sagan, whose ground-breaking science show "Cosmos" included his catchphrase of "billions and billions of stars." As such, a "Sagan" is defined as a very large quantity (at least 4 billion) of anything. Then there's the "Mickey." It's not about the cartoon character, but rather the smallest unit you can move your computer mouse, either horizontally or vertically. The "Waffle House Index" indicates the severity of a hurricane, and reflects how many of the 365 day/24 hour branches of the restaurant chain have to close. Likewise the "Jimmy Griffin Snow Index" is a measurement of how deep a lake effect snow is, named for the Buffalo, NY mayor who suggested it. It is defined as the number of cans of Genesee Beer you should lay in for consumption while you are waiting to get plowed out. And the "Wiffle" is equal to a sphere 89 millimeters in diameter, and used to measure corals. Turns out marine biologists use a wiffle ball as refence in underwater photos, as it is cheap and the open design means it doesn't get crushed by the water pressure. 

And so I say that henceforth 90 days shall be known as a "tariff." Time till fall? About a tariff. How long does it take to get over a breakup? Experts say it takes a tariff. How long should your prescription for Lipitor be? Your doctor will usually give you one for a tariff. Scoff if you must, but "horsepower" had to start somewhere. 

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Marc Wollin of Bedford has been filling this space for over 4 dog years. His column appears weekly via email and online on Substack and Blogspot and as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Sweet News

It was a week filled with big announcements. In trade there was another 90 day pause on tariffs involving China, bringing then down to 30% for them and 10% for us. In baseball Pete Rose was removed from the ineligible list and now has a chance at the Hall of Fame. In business Boeing has signed a deal to sell its largest order of planes to Qatar, estimated to be worth $96 billion. And proving that God does indeed work in mysterious ways, in religion word came from Rome that a White Sox fan has been elected pope.

If you were keeping up with all these above-the-fold developments, plus the countless other ones that affect the economy, world peace and the very structure of society, you likely missed the big news coming out of Indiana. That's because while you had eyes on the Mideast and the president's first major state visit, or Turkey and the Ukraine/Russia peace talks, or Kashmir and the cease fire between India and Pakistan, in Indianapolis there were making news with the latest developments in sugar and salt at the 2025 Sweets & Snacks Expo.

Starting in 1977 as the All Candy Expo in Chicago, the event has broadened and rebranded itself, and now has an attendance of some 15,000 industry professionals. Those buyers, journalists and reviewers wander through 1000 exhibitors to look at new products and services related to all the stuff you eat between meals. Product categories include (deep breath) chocolate, candy, gum, salty snacks, cookies, packaged cakes, biscuits, popcorn, granola bars, breakfast snacks, nutrition bars, meat snacks, fruit snacks, nuts, seeds, packaged goods, and ice cream (you can breathe again) as well as the ingredients, packaging and equipment it takes to make all those and sell them. 

Attendees wandering the aisles saw the big guns such as Hershey's (Kisses, and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups), Frito-Lay (Doritos and Cheetos) and Mars Wrigley (Snickers and Starburst). In addition, there were lots of smaller boutique manufacturers who are trying to break into the markets. Nomad Snacks had their Pad Thai Flavored Popcorn, breathROX was showing off their Popping Breath Mints in Blue Raspberry, while Snak Club was trying to make an impression with their Ramen Flavored Snack Mix. Some of the big names weren't just sitting still either: Mondelez International (the former Nabisco) was pushing Glow-In-The-Dark Sour Patch Kids candies. 

Those products and others like them reflect the key trends that emerged from the show. Top of the list is the move toward bold flavors, especially those that lean on global cuisines, such as mango habanero popcorn and Dubai-style chocolate (chocolate mixed with pistachio, tahini and knafeh pastry).  In that same vein manufacturers are creating even more flavor mashups such as shortbread cookies with strawberry boba (those are the chewy, sweet pearls made from tapioca starch that are a key ingredient in bubble tea). And there is growth in novel textures, like Jolly Rancher Freeze Dried candies. 

These are reflected in the winners of the various categories for Best In Show. Top prize went to Belle's Gourmet Popcorn and their Matcha Latte creation. In the gummy category Nerds Juicy Gummy Clusters in Strawberry Punch took the cup. The chocolate winner was Pop & Sol's Coconut Flaked White Chocolate Covered Cashews, while the novelty category was taken by Ezee Freezee's Freeze-n-Peel Strawberry Pop. And proving there are snacks beyond sugar and salt, the meat winner was Bavarian Meats Original Lil' Landjaeger Individually Wrapped Stick.

But the tease at the top of this column was about big announcements. And there was perhaps none bigger than that from Ferrero. A name well known for their eponymous Ferrero Rocher Chocolates, they also have in their portfolio Famous Amos cookies, Tic Tac mints and Butterfingers, all of which made "news" with product extensions (Famous Amos will add an oatmeal varietal, Tie-tac is partnering with Dr. Pepper, and Butterfingers will have a marshmallow version).

All of that, however, pales next to the flash from their Nutella brand. For the first time in 60 years, the iconic chocolate hazelnut spread announced a new flavor with Nutella Peanut. It was developed especially with the peanut-crazy US market in mind, where consumers gobble down 8 pounds of the legume annually in butters and candies. "We didn't want it to be another peanut butter," said Senior Direct of Marketing Seth Gonzalez. The new product "combines the distinctive creaminess of Nutella cocoa hazelnut spread with the delicious taste of roasted peanuts." As good as that sounds, you'll have to wait a bit: it's slated to be spread in spring of 2026.

As for me, I know what's really important. And so you can set the Google alert on your phone so that it goes off for an update about Diddy or Caitlin Clark or a Supreme Court ruling. Mine will only ping me when the new Reese's Peanut Butter and Jelly cup in strawberry makes an appearance. Now, that's news you can use.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford considers snacks a major food group. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

The Nice Price

Starting from when we are little and are busy sussing out the way the world works, we continually absorb multiple lessons. Don't grab the dog's tail. Hold on when going down the stairs. Yelling will attract attention. Messy foods are usually good. And though it's a gross generalization, moms are usually more protective, while dads are generally more silly.

We're also taught from our earliest moments that honey gets you more flies than vinegar. And so we bake politeness into our daily routine interactions to an almost instinctive degree. We learn to wait our turn and to share what we have. We listen when others are speaking and offer to help when there are things to be done.  And to a reflexive extent we start most requests with "please" while ending them with "thank you."

In general the feedback we get using these last two small innocuous phrases encourages us to repeat them again and again. They are so ingrained in our speech patterns that they even get used when they aren't really warranted: there are any number of times you say "thanks" not so much as an expression of gratitude, but rather as an acknowledgement of delivery. 

As has been pointed out many times, it takes so little effort to add those phrases with great effect. But that's for us mere humans. It turns out that it takes some extra energy for computers to do the same. That's because when you are nice to them, they have to parse and process more words to get to the meat of your request, likewise to respond in kind. And anything that takes additional computing power means it takes extra dollars.

Responding to an inquiry of X, OpenAI CEO Sam Altman said that being polite cost the company "tens of millions of dollars" in additional computing power. A flip answer or a legitimate bottom line tally? Well, estimates are that a response from ChatGPT requires about 10 times more electricity than an equivalent Google search, as well as more water required to cool the servers. How to quantify that "politeness surcharge?" One study said that a ChatGPT-4 response of 100 words requires about three bottles of water to keep the servers from melting, while adding "You are welcome" adds an additional 1.5 ounces. That doesn't sound like much until you do the math. ChatGPT handles about 1 billion queries every day, so if even just half of those treat you with respect, we're talking a backyard swimming pool over a mile long. That's a lot of polite.

On the flip side, so what if you are rude or ungracious to our AI buddies? It's not as if they are sentient and can feel the slight. (For purposes of this we won't factor in that at present they answer to us, while at some point in the future the situation might be reversed. And do we really want to be impolite to our potential overlords? But that's a discussion for another time.) In a study posted on Cornell University's arXiv research platform, researchers concluded that when talking to AI assistants "impolite prompts often result in poor performance." They note that the responses "not only reflect human behavior but are also influenced by language, particularly in different cultural contexts. Our findings highlight the need to factor in politeness for cross-cultural natural language processing." Their conclusion? "In most conditions, moderate politeness is better."

The reason they say "moderate" is that, as with people, turning flattery or insults up seems to trigger responses more loaded with gratuitous answers or snarky comebacks.  Unless you are trying to make a point, asking for help from a person by starting with "Oh wise sir, please help me" is just as bad as saying "Hey dummy." Likewise, querying ChatGPT or Microsoft's CoPilot by beginning with "All knowing machine" is just as bad as "You stupid hunk of silicon." And so sticking with the tried and true formulations that work on your neighbor might be the better way to go.

But don't take my word for it. I asked Google's Gemini just that. Its response: "It's thoughtful of you to include 'please' and 'thank you' in your requests. While I don't have feelings in the same way humans do, I recognize that these are polite conventions in human communication. Using them makes our interactions feel more natural and considerate, which I appreciate. So, in short, yes, it's a nice touch! How can I help you today?"

How indeed?

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Marc Wollin of Bedford is learning to write better prompts to his AI buddies. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Damaged Good

Whenever you buy something these days you are asked to pass judgment. Within days of your purchase the retailer will reach out with a series of questions: was it what you were expecting? Is it well made? Does it work as intended? The hope is that your answer will offer useful intelligence to the store and the manufacturer, not to mention other potential customers. This makes sense for a washing machine. It makes sense for a phone, a pair of shoes or a mop. But for a piece of damaged wood? Yet that's the assessment the email was asking for. And it was all because the ground had shifted. Literally.

This has nothing to do with politics. We're not talking abortion, we're not talking immigration, we're not talking Middle East policy, tariffs or DEI. We're talking dirt. After 20 plus years, our backup generator which sits on the side of the house had a pronounced tilt to it. I mean, if you really want to drag Washington into it, you could maybe perhaps possibly say that climate change had something to do with it. But just as likely it had to do with a 500-pound piece of machinery sitting on a gravel bed settling over 2 decades. So let's leave NOAA out of this one.

It wasn't a big deal, but it was noticeable. And it wasn't really a problem, as it's a pressurized device, and the oil circulates through it the same way to does through your car's engine when it's on a hill. But after talking to the techs that maintain it there were two possible issues. First, we might not get an accurate reading on the dipstick if it got too far out of true. Second, if it tipped too far, it might pull on the wires and hoses connecting it to the house. At the rate it was going it might be years (if ever) until that happened, but it seemed prudent to fix it on the next regular visit.

So when the guys finally came to do their usual scheduled maintenance, then reset it back to level. Ken suggested that it would probably be good if we reinforced the base, replacing the rotting boards in the frame and adding a few bags of gravel to stabilize it. He gave me a tip: go to Home Depot and look in the back of the lumber department. There they usually have damaged pieces of wood that they sell at a deep discount. And since this wood was going to be mostly buried and covered with rock, damaged was just fine. And so I had a project.

I went to the store, and sure enough, in the very back of the department was a 12-foot plank of pressure -treated wood that was mangled on one side. I chatted with the guy manning the floor, and he offered it to me for five bucks. He cut it to the lengths I needed, and I threw it on a cart along with a few bags of stone. I got it all home, lined up the planks around the gennie, banged a few steel stakes I had into the ground to hold them steady, and poured in the gravel. All in all, a few hours and $30 set us up for the next 20 years.

A few days later I got the follow up from Home Depot, asking me for a review of the lumber. "What features stand out the most?" Uh, the fact that it was that it was damaged. "What do you like about it? The damage. "Is there anything that would make it better?" More damage so I could get an even lower price. "How many stars would you give this product?" Since it was damaged it gets a five; had it been perfect it would have gotten a one.

In this case I'm not really sure that my review would help anyone. I guess I could give props to the tree that grew it, more to the poor handling that damaged it, and bonus points to the guy on the floor that marked it down to a pittance. But as to its suitability for use in a deck or fence, I'll let other more experienced carpenters weigh in.

I can't wait for them to ask me about the rocks.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford doesn't mind doing small projects around the house. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Mistake/Remedy

In today's world everything is binary: it's either great or it's a catastrophe, and you have to let everyone know what's what. Whether it's a rave or a pan, it gets posted as the ne plus ultra of all things, or you scream bloody murder and threaten to burn the house down. Hard to imagine, but there is another way: let the responsible party know one-to-one of the situation, and offer praise or complaint. If there is an issue, get it resolved and retreat, not to corners to do battle again, but to carry on living. It may be a throwback, but it's certainly a less confrontational way to exist. And it brings me to this story.

It starts with a restaurant in Brooklyn our son suggested as a destination for dinner, noting he had been there multiple times with good results. The atmosphere was pleasant and the service attentive. The menu was Tuscan Italian, with fresh pasta and interesting rustic dishes. We ordered some appetizers to share, selected our mains, and opened a bottle of wine.

When it came time for dessert we opted to try some of their homemade gelato. From the flavors available that night we selected two, and when the bowl came put it in the middle for all to sample. I started with the coconut stracciatella: creamy and rich with bits of coconut flecked throughout. I spun it around and dug into the lemon sage. It was tart and aromatic, but I was surprised to feel something solid: I assumed it was a piece of coconut that had crossed the line. On second bite I realized it was much, much harder. I spit it out thinking it was a piece of plastic, and indeed it was an oblong white shape about an inch long and half an inch across. But when I flipped it over, I saw that it was a complete acrylic nail with a French tip.

Needless to say, I was not happy. 

I called a passing waiter and told him to get the manager immediately. From my tone, he realized it was not a request. A young gentleman came over. I explained to him what just happened and pointed to the puddle of gelato in front of me with its centerpiece. His face froze, as horrified as I was. He apologized profusely and echoed my remarks that it was unacceptable. He grabbed a napkin from an unoccupied table and swept up the nail. Apologizing again, he immediately said he would comp our entire meal, and offered us anything else that we might like, along with the owner's email. He told us to take as much time as we liked, ask for anything we wanted, and left us alone.

We sat a bit more talking about it, then moved on to other topics. When it was time to leave, I headed to the bar where the manager was working. He saw me come over and quickly wrote down the email of the owner, handing it to me with another apology, along with a promise to find out why it happened.

The next day I wrote to the owner, explaining my version of the event. He quickly wrote back, saying he was equally distressed, and been informed almost immediately. He detailed their normal process of manufacture and serving: "Our gelato is produced in a dedicated commissary kitchen by employees in full food handler's gear (hats, aprons, gloves, closed-toed shoes, etc)." However, he noted, the best procedures can be thwarted by human error. "After talking to everyone working last night, we've determined that the fake nail belonged to our host at the door. Apparently, after staff meal, she went to scoop a small bowl for dessert. While she is trained as a server and runner, in her mind she was just scooping a little for herself, so she didn't put on gloves, and didn't notice her missing nail until later that evening. She feels absolutely terrible and wanted me to extend her sincere apologies to you for her mistake."

He apologized again. "Being in this business for over 24 years, I know that mistakes will always happen. It's how we learn from them, and how we deal with them, that defines true hospitality. I'm happy that you were having a good experience until this, and equally happy our manager reacted quickly and gracefully." He offered us an additional gift certificate, as well as a direct line to him to arrange a reservation at any of their three restaurants if we were willing to give them another chance.

As my wife pointed out, we ate in several restaurants last week, and even with the nail, this was the best. Do we wish it hadn't happened? Of course. But the whole situation can also be seen as a model of conflict resolution. We talked to each other as opposed to an audience, and not with a goal of adding points to some imaginary scorecard. The bottom line: we will go back again, and yes, order the gelato. 

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Marc Wollin of Bedford enjoys trying new places for dinner. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Ear Candy

Maybe you're driving to your golf match. Maybe you're taking a walk in the afternoon. Maybe you're working out on the elliptical at the gym. Each is a solitary pursuit that makes using your hands for reading or typing problematic, and so leaves your ears ripe for the picking. Once upon a time you might have turned to a radio to listen to tunes or the news. Travel down the timeline, and that transistor got swapped for an MP3 player of some flavor, enabling you to listen and relisten to your favorite artists. But increasingly those alone-times are the perfect opportunities for you to add your name to the 584 million others who stuff their ears with a podcast.

Just forty years old, the podcast started as an "audiolbog" back in the 1980's. It took 20 years and the internet to take it from a curiosity to a thing, one that today counts 55% of the population as listeners. And we/they have plenty of options: as of March 2025, Spotify had more than 6.5 million podcast titles on its platform.

A big reason for that is that the barrier for entry is almost nonexistent. For sure, there are highly produced productions like "Radiolab," "This American Life" and "Serial," each of which integrates voices, natural sounds, music and effects into a seamless sonic tapestry. That requires a raft of producers, researchers, writers and editors, all of which cost bucks. But the vast majority of podcasts are much simpler affairs costing far less: a mic and a person spouting opinions, occasionally joined by a guest to play off of or tangle with. Slap a musical riff on the front and back, and you have the Joe Rogan Experience, currently reaching 14.5 million listeners

It's an oddly retro approach to this most contemporary of media channels. No computer-generated imagery, no swirling electronic scores, no fully rendered imaginary ecospheres. Rather, it's just Billy in his bedroom with a $99 Blue Yeti USB Microphone, ranting about illegal immigrants/ Elon Musk/ water pressure/ fluoride/ Real Housewives/ Tom Cruise/ eggs/ WNBA/ electric cars/ etc., and sometimes all in the same show. It's not a lot different from being seated next to Uncle Ernie at Thanksgiving.

Likewise the commercials that pay the bills. These are integrated into the streams, and have a kinship with the very first radio ad from 1922. That 15-minute promo on New York City's WEAF for the Queensboro Corporation promoted apartments in Jackson Heights, Queens, and was just, well talk. And so it is for most podcast commercials. Called "Live Read" even if it's prerecorded, the format eschews any fancy production values in favor of a simple recitation. Usually it's just the host or a regular guest reading a script that is supposed to feel like you and they are having a chat: "Friends, before we move on, I want to talk to you about Johnson's Miracle Elixir. Ever feel drab and blue? Well, Johnson's Miracle Elixir is the perfect cure. And if you order now, you'll also get a trial portion of Johnson's Miracle Tonic for free!" The copy could be lifted from a Stephen Sondheim musical, albeit with a URL at the end.

More and more audio podcasts are even adding a video component, driven by the simple fact that they also cost nearly nothing. It was shock-jock host Don Imus who added a camera to his radio studio back in 1996, and broadcast live on newly formed MSNBC. For some reason an audience got hooked on not just listening to people talk for hours on end, but watching it. Fast forward to today, and the biggest growth channel for podcasts isn't Spotify or Apple Music, but YouTube: the platform now has 1 billion active podcast consumers every month.

What's there to listen to or watch? For sure there are the 800 pound gorillas like the aforementioned "Joe Rogan Experience," Alex Cooper's "Call Her Daddy" and Shannon Sharpe's "Club Shay Shay," but much, much... much... smaller game as well. "2 Fast 2 Forever" rewatches the entire "Fast and Furious" franchise over and over and dissects it endlessly (they're on episode #403). "The Episodic Table of Elements" is exactly what it sounds like: a discussion of the periodic table (they're currently on #94, plutonium). Or "The Empty Bowl," described as "a meditative podcast about cereal." Check out episode #114 which seeks to settle the important question of Boo Berry vs. Count Chocula.

In the 1989 classic film "Field of Dreams" Iowa farmer Ray Kinsella hears a disembodied voice whisper, "If you build it, he will come." Kevin Costner does exactly that, and the ghosts of baseball past do indeed materialize. With podcasts it seems it's not that much different, just with an audio slant: if you record it, at least someone, somewhere, will listen.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford listens to podcasts when he walks. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Taking the Temperature

Your morning routine may vary from mine, but it likely contains many of the same elements. You get up, put on a robe and some slippers, use the bathroom, and eventually head down to the kitchen. There you either start a pot of coffee or grab a cup, then get something from the fridge or cupboard for breakfast. You likely glance at your phone to see if there were any urgent emails or texts that popped up after you went to bed, and/or what major catastrophe is challenging the world. And then you look for the one empirical piece of information that you need to really start your day: the temperature outside your window.

For sure you want to know the chance of rain, how hard the winds will be blowing, if it will continue to be sunny or cloudy... the full weather picture. But a glance at the outside world will give you the general vibe, and the only really quantifiably metric you need to know is how hot or cold it is. That determines the socks you pick out, the pants that make sense and the type of shirt to pull from your closet. Wool or cotton, short or long, heavy or light: all of those options can be sorted quickly based on that one number.

In order to answer that critical question, for approximately forever, we have had an indoor/outdoor thermometer sitting on our kitchen windowsill. Long before there were more connected devices, this little readout has let us know what the outside world is up to. As technology goes it wasn't much: a little display, a long wire that stuck out under the screen, powered by a battery that lasted seemingly for years. Yes, we have smart speakers with digital assistants, cell phones that offer the complete NOAA forecast, and now even connected thermostats that change their readouts to show the outside as I walk by. And still both my wife and I glommed onto that tiny LED the first second we came into the kitchen.

That is until the outside temperature read "HH.H" I fiddled with it a bit, and integers popped back up. But as I settled it back into place the alphabet returned. Moe fiddling, more numbers. More settling, more alphabet. I picked it up and found two tiny screws on the back. Always up for challenge, I took it down to my workbench and opened it up. Sure enough, you could see the lead from the probe had snapped off the little circuit board. I stripped the wire back to some copper, fired up the trusty soldering iron I had gotten when I was 13, and reattached it. That done, I snapped it back together, and reinserted the battery. The display flickered to life.. but in Celsius. Seems that when I pried it apart I inadvertently switched the units. I flipped the selector switch back and forth to no avail: it wouldn't go back to Fahrenheit. And so until we as a country convert to the metric system (a process that has been rumored to be happening for at least as long as I've been alive), the device was only good if I lived in France. 

Oh well. The circuit board was dated 1995, so it had a pretty good run. But then came the usual question: what to replace it with? Punch "indoor/outdoor thermometer" into Amazon, and the first handful that come up are all wireless units. On the surface, that makes a lot of sense: no need to route a wire through a closed window, the ability to put the readout anywhere. But as always, the devil was in the details. The thermometer itself: "-40F to 140F." More than adequate. Wireless range: "100 feet." Way more than we would need. But the batteries?  "Battery life in sensor decreases substantially below 30 degrees." Huh? We live in colder climes, and I don't want to change them every week in the winter. So I guess back to what we had.

I searched for a wired unit and picked one out. But then I spotted a note on the new unit: "To change the °F/°C units, take out the batteries first before switching the C/F button." Could that be the case with the one we had? I ran downstairs and plucked it from the top of the trash heap in the workshop. I popped the battery out, slid the switch to "F", put the battery back in and... voila! Daniel Gabriel Fahrenheit came to life! (Well, not really: he died in 1736, but his units woke up). I raced upstairs and reinstalled our friend back to its rightful spot. And the singular piece of data that starts my day was once again available. 

What's the lesson? Don't give up? Do things in the right order? Confirm you have the right choices in place before you give something power?  We're talking thermometers here, but feel free to extrapolate that last one. 

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Marc Wollin of Bedford always has cold feet, at least in terms of temperature. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Cinematic Life Lessons

Doesn't matter if it's a movie or a TV show or book, there come's a time when you say "Wait a minute... that can't be." It's that point where, regardless of the world you have taken at face value, something in it strikes you as implausible. To be fair, the whole thing might be implausible to begin with: dragons zipping around, cars that don't need to stop for gas, hundreds of bullet flying while the hero emerges unscathed. But if you try and put too fine a point on it the entire thing falls apart and there's no point in watching or reading. Look at it this way: to be disturbed by the fact that the gun gets through the metal detector while you accept that the guy in the cape can fly seems to be a quibble at best.

It's a concept articulated by English poet and philosopher Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1817 in his autobiography "Biographia Literaria." He and colleague William Wordsworth talked about how you had to have "poetic faith" wherein realistic persons and characters had to be imbued with a semblance of truth sufficient for the reader to go along for the ride. Beyond that, however, you can push the envelope a bit. While the technique had been practiced by writers dating back to the ancient Greeks, Coleridge gave this approach a name: "suspension of disbelief."

This basically means that whatever fictional world is created, it is incumbent upon the reader or viewer not to get too hung up on the details. As long as there is an internal logic to the scene, for the sake of the story, we don't look too hard at any discrepancies. Still, if you watch enough films or programs it is hard not to come away with some life lessons that, while in our own experience may seen ludicrous, seem to be cinematic reality. I recently came across a list of these truisms: see which ones square with your own experiences.

Once applied, lipstick will never rub off, even if scuba diving.

If staying in a strange house, women always investigate any unusual sounds wearing their most revealing underwear.

If you are being chased though town, you can take cover in a passing parade, which will be happening on any day of the year.

It's easy to land a plane as long as there is someone in the control tower to talk you down.

If you need to hide in a building, the ventilation system is the perfect place. No one will ever look in there and you can travel anywhere with no one finding you.

If you wish to pass yourself off as a German officer, no need to speak the language, a German accent will do just fine.

A man will show no pain when getting taking a ferocious beating, but will wince when a women tries to clean his wounds.

When paying for a taxi, no need to actually look in your wallet. Whatever bill you pull out with be the right fare including tip.

During any police investigation it is mandatory to visit a strip club at least once.

Any car crash results in the entire car bursting into flames,

A lighter or single match will light up an entire dark room.

When you turn out the lights in a bedroom, everything will glow blue and be visible.

All single women have a cat.

One man shooting at 20 attackers has a better chance of success than the 20 men shooting at him.

Dogs always know which is the bad guy and will bark only at him.

A detective can only solve a case once he has been suspended from the force.

If you start dancing in the streets everyone you meet will know the steps.

You see this stuff constantly, a little slip in the conceit you are asked to swallow. Most recently we were watching an episode of the series "Reacher" about an itinerant ex-Army cop who floats around dealing with trouble. At one point he has infiltrated a mega-estate run by a wealthy crook with an arsenal and a private security force. The place has walls and fences and camera systems galore. Yet when Reacher arranges for a power failure as a distraction, all the gates swing open and there is no emergency backup generator... the guards all curse the dark and walk around with flashlights and lanterns. C'mon.. even we have a backup generator, and my criminal enterprise is but a fraction of this guy's.

For sure you can lament the ridiculousness of it all. But how much fun would that be? Or as by someone posted online, "At a certain point, it's a deal with the audience where the director basically pauses the movie and says, ‘Look, if you want to see some more cool action scenes, just initial here that it's OK that the alien computers run on MacOS. And then we can go back to blowing things up for you.'" 

Where do I sign?

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Marc Wollin of Bedford tries to live in the world that is on the screen. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

Big Life

Everybody has challenges growing up. It might be family issues, it might be health problems, it might be social conflicts. For most they are a bump in the road, for some they are more consequential. But in most cases the general trajectory stays the same save for course corrections as needed.  For Annie Pingry, however, those bumps in the road turned out to be mountains to climb.

For sure there were some of the not-unusual growing up challenges: her parents separated, she moved from urban Charlotte NC to rural Waynesboro VA. But then came third grade and her first seizure. A diagnosis of epilepsy followed, treated with increasingly larger doses of medication. Things took a turn for the worse about the sixth grade as the seizures got worse and more frequent. It turned out that her growing brain started bumping against a benign tumor in her skull. That caused two grand mal seizures, the kind that causes loss of consciousness and body-wide convulsions. More often she had less severe attacks on a weekly basis: "My whole body and my head would shake. Then I would forget the entire day, whatever I learned in school. And so it was a constant state of catching up."

By the eighth grade she was on "a crazy amount of medication. Some of them weren't even epileptic medications, and it would just basically zone me out." Her doctor came to her family with a proposal. He had discovered an experimental surgery that four other people had had with good results. No promises, but it had the potential of easing her seizures. Her folks gave her a choice, and without hesitation she said yes: "I was like, I wanna be able to drive a car."

She was admitted to Virginia Commonwealth University's VCU Medical, and hooked up to an EEG for a week as they waited for a seizure to happen so they could pinpoint the location in her brain. After the surgery she spent two weeks in the hospital and the rest of the summer in bed recovering. "You can only recover from brain trauma when you're asleep. That's why people with brain trauma are always tired a lot and they're just like, ‘I need to sleep.'" 

Come fall she was physically well enough for school even if she was academically behind. This was the time of "No Child Left Behind," and she was pushed to ninth grade, ready or not. She was constantly trying to catch up, but just kept getting shuffled along. She graduated on time with her class, but with a GPA of just 1.5. That, plus the reactions of people around her, caused her to doubt what she could do: "I always really wanted to be a student, but I was told I wasn't very smart because of my epilepsy for so long that I really was discouraged. People in my life were just, it's okay. You can't do school because you're not smart. You don't understand things. You're not gonna get it. And I really wanted to go to college because I wanted to be a part of something normal. But it was just impossible."

If she couldn't handle college, Annie decided that being normal at least meant being independent. She moved to Richmond, and went to work: a nanny, a dishwasher, an ice cream scooper. Seeking a change, she packed her car and did a cross-country road trip to Seattle, where she had some family. She lived there for four years doing more of the same, then crossed the country once more and came to New York City. She kept up the odd jobs, even trying to learn floral design. Eventually one server job paid off in an unexpected way, as she met fellow worker Ben and fell in love.

In the middle of the pandemic they moved to Philadelphia for Ben to pursue a graduate degree in music. Once he graduated they figured they needed to get on firmer financial ground, and moved home with family to save and figure out their next move. Ben eventually landed a job here in Westchester, and they moved to a sunlit apartment in Hastings-On-Hudson and got married.

But while Annie's personal life was working out, she still wasn't settled. "I was really tired of being on my feet. I know that I'm smart. I know that I can do something, I have the patience and the ability." She figured out a plan: community college, then a full degree, followed by graduate training in social work to help kids who were like her. She and Ben talked it over and punched in the numbers: "My husband's really math oriented, and he was like, ‘Okay. If we don't eat out for four years we can do it.'" And do it she did: this spring she graduates from Westchester Community College, already has one acceptance, and is waiting to sort through all her choices.

Annie doesn't think her story is inspirational, she was just a person coping with what life throws your way. "It's never too late, and there's so many people that wanna see you succeed. You have to just keep looking for it. People want people to better their lives. I've lived a really big life, and I wouldn't have been able to be where I am right now had I not given myself that time to live that big life."

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Marc Wollin of Bedford thinks everybody has a story. His column appears weekly via email and online on Blogspot and Substack as well as Facebook, LinkedIn and X.

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.

-END-

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.

-END-

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.