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.