America – Page 19 – Life In A Word

It’s All in the Cards

Back in the Boy Scouts, my troop-mates and I memorized statements designed to make us better young men. The Boy Scout motto was, “Be Prepared”. The Scout slogan: “Do a Good Turn Daily” (help others). The Scout oath – several sentences stated with a raised right hand (fingers forming the Scout sign) – included obedience to the twelve points of the Scout law. Recently I’ve been thinking about Point #2 of the Scout law, Loyalty; showing care for family, friends, and country. But what about care for merchants?

Customer loyalty programs – those structured marketing ploys designed to tempt continued shopping at particular businesses – are standard retail procedure these days. The use of plastic and punch cards, account numbers, or scanned apps is as common as pulling out your Visa. I get suspicious when a merchant doesn’t have a loyalty program. It’s all about the points, and the allure of discounts or freebies through accumulated spending.

American Airlines, credited with starting the first full-scale customer loyalty program in modern times (1981), had no idea its “frequent fliers” would become the trendsetters for countless programs to follow. But the drive for customer loyalty started way before AA. Anyone who remembers pasting S&H Green Stamps into collection books, clipping Betty Crocker coupons straight from the product box, fishing prizes from Cracker Jack caramel corn, or joining the Columbia House Record Club (“8 CD’s for a penny!”) has dipped their toe into the customer loyalty pool before.

I took a quick inventory of my own customer loyalty and the numbers surprised me. I carry eight cards in my car. I have another eleven apps on my phone and another ten on-line accounts. That’s 29 unique programs, and over 30 if I include the couple of credit cards where my swipes eventually equal cash back. For someone who rarely shops on impulse, that’s more attention to spending than I’d care to admit.

If I did a little spring cleaning, I’d likely reduce my loyalty programs by one-third. Many sit gathering dust because I haven’t used the merchant or service in years. Others accumulate points at a snail’s pace. Fill my inbox with special sales alerts or saturate my voice mails with pleas to “buy now!”; it won’t matter. I purchase on my own terms.

Here are two recent loyalty experiences; the reasons I chose this topic today. Last September we took a weekend trip to Aspen, settling for a Westin hotel in nearby Snowmass (Aspen is over-the-top expensive to us commoners). When I went to Westin’s website for the booking, I discovered their loyalty program (Starwood) was merging with Marriott Rewards (now Marriott Bonvoy). Hallelujah – my Aspen getaway gets me points! But not so fast. Logging into Marriott Rewards, the home page alerted me to the fact the program merge was still in progress, and a Westin stay might not result in Marriott points. Long story short, I called the hotel, spoke to the front desk, and had them book the reservation for me instead. Yep, you can still do it the old-fashioned way. And you still get points.

My other recent loyalty experience involved Nicholas Mosse Pottery (Kilkenny, Ireland). Mosse makes beautiful handmade plates and bowls and the like, and we’ve been collecting a few pieces at a time since visiting Ireland a few years ago. Points for me (ha) for joining the Mosse loyalty program from the get-go. Just this week they alerted me me to my quietly-amassed rewards. I then purchased a $70 plate for virtually nothing.

My Mosse experience is the perfect example of my casual approach to customer loyalty. I don’t keep track of points until they equate to something significant. Sure, I favor certain products and services, but I’d still favor Marriott or Starbucks or Costco without their loyalty programs. For someone who tracks every penny, there’s something very satisfying in the surprise of unexpected discounts. That’s how it works best for me.

Here’s my advice. Don’t let customer loyalty programs drive your spending habits. If you do, the merchant “wins”, because you’re likely spending more along the way than whatever discount or freebie you end up getting. Loyalty = showing care; yes, but with retail that should only mean preferring one store over another. Despite what they’d have you believe, it’s not all in the cards.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”, and from the Wall Street Journal article, “Inside the Marriott-Starwood Loyalty Program Turbulence”.

Beyond Repair

Most days, we leave our homes to spend time in other kinds of buildings. We park our cars in the front lot, approach the doors, pass over the threshold, and join the unique subculture within the structure before us. If we work in an office building, we navigate a maze of hallways and elevators before our final destination. If we traverse an airport, we draw on the stress and frenzy of countless others. If we worship in church, we assume the quiet reverence of the congregation. And if we enter a hospital for surgery, as I did last Thursday, we expect… we expect… well, we don’t know what to expect in a hospital, do we?

My recent hospital visit deserves a few words. After all, the only other time I donned the peek-a-boo gown was a-way back in my teens. This time around (and with medicine advanced another forty years), I was keenly interested in the start-to-finish experience. My surgery – a routine out-patient procedure – took less than an hour, during which I was entirely unconscious. You’ll be spared the details since I can’t remember a single one of them. Let’s just say I’m beyond (the) repair now and recovering nicely.

The hospital experience itself actually began at the doctor’s office, a week prior. In that “consult”, not only did I learn what I didn’t want to know about my procedure (i.e. worst-case scenarios), I also learned I’d be checking into the hospital at 6am. Cock-a-doodle-doo, that meant the alarm clock buzzed at 5am. Remarkably, I wasn’t my surgeon’s first procedure of the morning. Call me grateful – he warmed up on somebody else instead.

I almost forgot to mention the hospital’s “pre-surgery phone call”, which they calendar between the consult and the surgery. I thought this conversation was going to be a financial beat-down (as in, “You are able to pay what your insurance doesn’t, yes?”). Instead the nurse went through a list of do’s and don’t’s in the forty-eight hours leading up to my hospital visit. Mostly don’t’s. Don’t use anything in the shower besides antibacterial soap. Don’t take your vitamins. No more nightly ~~bottle~~ glass of wine. No food or water after 10pm the night before. She might as well have said, “Just come to the hospital now; you can wait in the lobby for the next three days”.

Colorado Springs’ stylish UCHealth Memorial Hospital North

Emergency rooms aside, hospitals are surprisingly low-key at 6am. My wife and I staggered down the dark sidewalk into the main lobby (after finally locating a parking space not labelled, “For Doctors Only”). The only movement in the vast space was a couple of bleary-eyed attendants at the registration desk and the barista getting the coffee stand warmed up. Thanks to the “pre” phone call, registration was a breeze. The guy didn’t even ask for ID (though who would “steal” an out-patient procedure?). He just confirmed why I was there, slapped on the plastic bracelet, and sent me down the elevator to the “surgery reception area” one floor below. For the record, I’d like all my future surgeries to be above ground. The basement is way too close to the morgue.

“Surgery reception” is where things get interesting. After they scan your bracelet (my every move now tracked) they escort you to the pre-op room where you receive the following: 1) A surprisingly comfortable and non-peek-a-boo hospital gown, 2) A stack of six antibacterial wipes each the size of a paper towel, 3) A laminated card with a diagram of the body, 4) A plastic bag for clothes/valuables, 5) A disposable shower cap, 6) A “blanket” (basically a large square of space-age tin foil), and – brace yourself – 7) Two oversized cotton swabs with a generous gob of red goo on each.

The wipes serve as a do-it-yourself bath without the water. The laminated card points each wipe to a different part of your body. The shower cap ensures you look your Sunday-best for surgery (photo below). Finally, the swabs are for your nostrils. Who knew – your best chance of infection comes from the nose? The red goo creates a barrier, and… right… too much information.

Thanks to a generous dose of the happy gas (a beautiful thing), the remainder of my start-to-finish hospital experience is hazy recollections. I remember a quick visit from the surgeon, and the tattoo he drew on my arm. (I never thought I’d be thankful for a tattoo. That check mark and initials remind Doc which side of me he’s cutting into!) Soon after I was wheeled into surgery and shifted onto the table beneath the white lights. As for the happy gas, it went into my IV (no mask), so I never saw it coming. One instant I’m lobbing a few questions at the anesthesiologist, and the next it’s, “nighty-night, Dave”. I may remember chatting up the nurse in the recovery room. I may remember fresh coffee and a scone (I love my wife). I definitely don’t remember getting dressed, heading down the corridor in a nurse-powered wheelchair, and dropping into the passenger seat of my car. Mission – er, surgery – accomplished.

If this were a Yelp review, I’d give my hospital visit five stars. I can’t come up with criticisms but then again, the happy gas conveniently dissolved a good chunk of the experience. Let me just say this instead. I now have a small, high-tech mesh installed, making me better, stronger, and faster the rest of my days. The hospital bill won’t be six million dollars, but my new body just might. In other words, Steve Austin reborn.

Danger, Will Robinson!

A strategic goal of the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) goes as follows: Protect consumers from unfair and deceptive practices in the marketplace. Unfair and deceptive practices seem to be the strategic goals of several other organizations out there, so I’m glad the FTC seeks to “protect” me. For example, they held a competition called the “Robocall Challenge”, looking for solutions to reduce those pesky and sometimes illegal phone calls we all receive. The competition winners – two software programs designed to intercept and divert – split the $50,000 first prize. The problem? The Challenge was conducted over five years ago, yet robocalls are more rampant than ever today.

The telemarketing calls of old seem quaint compared to the lifeless computer-generated voices of the last several years. Used to be, you’d answer the phone to a real voice; a sunny greeting in oft-broken English or heavy accent. The caller would say, “Yes, is this David Wilson, please?” or, “Hello Mr. Wilson, how are you doing today?” Who do you know who starts a phone conversation with wording like that? (Even better, when they’re looking for my wife Brigid – pronounced with a soft “g” – they mangle her name in ways I’ve never heard before.)

At least the old telemarketers sold you products or services too good to be true (“Congratulations – you’ve won a seven-day Hawaiian cruise!”), and at least they were human. Today’s robocalls are scams disguised as threats. Pay this tax bill immediately or the IRS will break down your door and haul you off to prison. Upgrade your Microsoft operating system now because your warranty’s about to expire. Buy this health insurance plan because yours doesn’t cover anything. I might listen to these pitches if they came from a real person, but the synthesized voice of a robocall triggers the involuntary reflex “hang up”.

For me, the most effective solution to robocalls is simply not answering in the first place. If the Caller ID doesn’t convince me it’s a real call, I let it go to voice mail. Sure, my provider offers a call-blocking service, but they charge a fee. Why would I pay good money to manage a situation I didn’t ask for in the first place? The same goes for the better call-blocking applications out there. They’ll make them go away, but it’s gonna cost you.

By the way, not answering in the first place also stops robocall breeding. Just by picking up the receiver or hitting “Answer”, you’ve identified yourself as a number that works, which means the robocall provider sells your number to other providers, and that means more robocalls. Picking up the phone is why Americans received 16.3 billion robocalls in 2018… and that was just January-May.

Robocalls are a nuisance – sure, but at least they’re not threats to the human race itself. That prospect turns my dreams into nightmares every so often. Whether vast supercomputers, unfeeling combat robots, or microscopic drones, you have to admit – we’re on the precipice of technologies just itching to get beyond our control. Fiction does a great job exploring the possibilities. Read Michael Crichton’s “Prey” (self-replicating nanotechnology), Daniel H. Wilson’s “Robot Uprisings” (just what the title suggests), or simply watch the brilliant 2014 film, “Ex Machina”. The final scene – when Ava walks confidently into the public domain and the credits roll – is perhaps the most chilling moment of the entire movie.

As if to mock this post, my brother-in-law – visiting here at the house as I speak – just received a call on his mobile phone. Another robocall, and probably another scam disguised as a threat. Maybe the call wasn’t by accident, but rather a triggered response from a nanobot keeping an eye on my keystrokes. A subtle message, as if to say: we’re here and we’re watching. Sure, I can plead “no-mo-robo” (which is also the name of a call-blocking company), but I know the robots are only growing in numbers. Better make room then – another highly-intelligent species is quietly joining the party here on Earth.

Slipping Away

Every time we travel to California – this past weekend, for example – I have to be reminded about their statewide ban on single-use plastic carryout bags. You think I’d remember – Cali put the kibosh on the bags three years ago. Still, we fill our basket with groceries, head to the check-out, and the cashier goes, “want to purchase bags?” Argh. I should store a couple of reusables in my suitcase; the very ones I keep in my car in Colorado.

Plastic straws followed plastic bags, of course. Four months ago, the Golden State placed “discouragement” on the plastic variety (you must ask for them now). We sat down to a meal and our waitress brought glasses of water – with paper straws (argh again). Admittedly, “legal” sippers are pretty good. No reduction to mush like breakfast cereal sitting too long in milk. Other than the cost (several times more than plastic), and the fine ($25/day for un-requested plastic), paper straws are hardly inconvenient.

Now then, the real topic for today. California is looking to “strike up the ban” yet again – on paper receipts; the little critters we receive after credit card transactions. Say it isn’t so, West Coasters! Bags and straws I can deal with, but a ban on paper receipts? That’s just stealing another book from my old-school library.

According to a Wall Street Journal op-ed, the facts are these: paper receipts generate 686 million pounds of waste per year. (Can someone please quantify 686 million pounds – say, number of filled swimming pools?) Paper receipts also generate 12 billion pounds of carbon dioxide. (Again, quantify – number of breathing humans?) Also, paper receipts contain Bisphenol A (BPA); not exactly an appetizing compound. In other words, don’t eat your receipts just because the food was lousy.

Without paper receipts, my personal budget maintenance takes a blow. I keep everything in Quicken, so give me points for electronic accounting. But I also use paper receipts – an old-fashioned double-check mechanism. I enter the transaction from the receipt; then cross-check against the Visa statement (Jacob Marley reincarnated?) Why do I do this? Because once upon a time a waiter decided to triple my tip after I’d signed the bill and left the restaurant. Later, my paper receipt didn’t reconcile with my Visa statement. Busted. I promptly called the manager, who investigated and lo-and-behold, discovered a pattern of gouging. The waiter was fired. More points for me!

Now here’s the irony in my triple-the-tip story. What if the restaurant didn’t use paper receipts? What if I processed my transaction through Square or an iPad, self-swiping my card and choosing the percentage tip? For starters (and finishers) there wouldn’t have been gouging because there wouldn’t have been a waiter. It would be like standing over the shoulder of the processor at Visa – instant reconciliation. In effect, my story is a vote for no paper receipts.

Truth be told, I’m already evolving – slowly – from paper receipts. When given the choice (Home Depot comes to mind), I select “email receipt” or “no receipt” more often than “paper”. Unlike robo-calls, I accept the unsolicited side effects of electronic commerce (i.e. email spam). In a nod to maintaining control, I select self-check-in at airports and self-check-out at markets.

More likely, I’m caving on paper receipts because I’ve already done so with a laundry list of other paper products. My written letters have (d)evolved into email. My paper-printed books have dissolved into bits/bytes on my Kindle e-reader. My to-do lists now reside in a phone app. Bills arrive in my online inbox instead of my streetside mailbox.

Phil Dyer, one reader of the Wall Street Journal piece, commented, “California will soon attempt to regulate earthquakes”. 49 of 50 U.S. states just LOL’d. Me, not so much. After all, I never thought I’d see the day where I’d give up my paper receipts.

Super Dough

The beauty of the Super Bowl is its broad entertainment value. There’s something for everybody in the five hours between The Star Spangled Banner and the Vince Lombardi trophy. For sports fans, there’s a highly-anticipated football clash. The Super Bowl is not football at its best or most dramatic, but this year’s coast vs. coast, old coach+QB vs. young coach+QB match-up creates more than the usual intrigue.

If you’re not into football, you’re at least enjoying the musical entertainment. Maroon 5 will be there after all (rumor had it they were pulling out), and the band acknowledges “… it’s the biggest stage you could ever play…” Even if you’re not a fan of the 5, you get Gladys Knight (but no Pips) singing the national anthem before kick-off.

If neither live sports nor live music is your bag (and that’s a small rock you live under), you’re watching the commercials instead. I admit – especially as a sports fan – there’s as much press for the Super Bowl ads as there is for the Super Bowl itself. It’s the only sports broadcast I know where viewers fast-forward through the game to get to the commercials.

No wonder advertisers are so worked up for this Sunday. The Super Bowl is routinely the single-most tuned-in-to entertainment of the year. Viewership has quadrupled over the last fifty years. The 2018 Super Bowl drew over 100 million viewers; 25% more than second-place. And what came in second? The Super Bowl post-game show, of course (74 million viewers). Say what you will about the NFL; people watch. The four most-watched television shows in 2018 were NFL games, followed by a “This Is Us” episode… airing immediately after the Super Bowl.

Sunday’s line-up of Super Bowl commercials includes the usual products: cars, drinks (alcoholic), more drinks (non-alcoholic), foods (snack), more foods (fast), even more foods (avocados), and technology. Of course, they’re all designed to get you to remember, long after the game is over. Whether it’s a celebrity, a laugh, or a cute animal, it’s all about permanent placement of the product in your brain. But even if you don’t remember, consider this: the commercials will be watched millions more times on YouTube. Add in the Internet and the considerable cost of Super Bowl advertising is a little easier to swallow.

Speaking of cost, this year’s commercials will set producers back $5 million a spot, for a mere thirty seconds of air time. That’s just the bill to CBS. Production costs run as much as another $5 million. Try counting “one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand” every time you watch a commercial this year. You’re squandering $333,333 for every “-one-thousand” you utter. That’s what I call super dough, and it’s only rising (ha). The car companies account for 25% of the take (remember that the next time you negotiate the purchase of a vehicle), but Anheuser-Busch InBev is the “King of Advertising”, spending over $600 million on Super Bowl commercials since 1995. Yes, Clydesdale horses are cute. More importantly, they sell a lot of beer.

To pique your ad anticipation, Town & Country Magazine’s website includes a list of the “50 Best Super Bowl Commercials” (including the videos). The ads are listed chronologically, starting a-way, way back in 1967. It’s entertaining to see what products and companies paid big for Super Bowl advertising fifty years ago. Some are no longer around. I’m guessing their advertising agencies aren’t either.

Mark my words. Monday morning after the Super Bowl the water-cooler talk will not be about the game. It will be about the commercials. Which one was your favorite? Which one left you scratching your head? Which one was $5 million up in flames? And most importantly, which one will still be talked about years from now? Even this sports fan has to admit: the game will soon be forgotten, but not the ads.

Some content sourced from the Wall Street Journal article, “Why Advertisers Pay Up for a Super Bowl Spot”; and from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Center Peace

Let’s admit to one of the unspoken axioms of commercial air travel, shall we? When it comes to flying, we do everything we can to avoid sitting next to a stranger. In an open-seating approach like Southwest Airlines, it’s all about the aisles and windows, pinning our hopes on that almost-extinct creature known as the open middle seat. Turning the corner from the jetway and gazing down the narrow aisle, our brains simply erase the middles from the seating plan. We’ll go all the way to the last row before we’re forced to sit beside a stranger. It’s like boarding the big yellow bus in elementary school, forced to choose a seat next to a kid you don’t already know. Haven’t changed much as adults, have we?

Call me a lost cause, but I’m here today to extol the virtues of the middle seat. There really can be peace in the center. Thanks to my wife (who prefers the window seat for all kinds of reasons), I’ve chosen the middle seat for countless flights in our marriage. Used to be, we’d take the aisle and window and leave the middle open, with decent odds for extra storage and elbow room. These days? An open middle is about as likely as getting bumped to first class. It just doesn’t happen.

I know what you’re thinking. A middle seat forces you to sit next to a stranger (assuming you’re traveling alone or as a couple). Not a problem, as long as you drive the situation. After your stranger joins you, you have about fifteen seconds to engage them in a conversation. Those fifteen seconds are your one chance where a meet-and-greet feels natural, because you’re both still settling in and probably making a little eye contact. Sixteen seconds in however, you’ve lost your chance. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve waited until the tail end of the flight (that “safe” moment when you realize you’ll be off the plane and gone in fifteen minutes anyway), only to find out I was sitting next to one of the nice/normal ones out there.

Here’s another rule about middle seats. You need to find your comfort zone with the armrests. There’s not a lot of real estate on those babies, so inevitably you’ll be jockeying with your neighbor to figure out how to share. Just make sure you don’t let your neighbor take the whole armrest from the get-go. If you do, your middle-seat space will feel super-cramped. (Why did a ’70’s rock band just come to mind?) In other words, you’ll experience “armrestlessness” the remainder of your flight.

Strangers and armrests aside, let’s acknowledge some of the hidden positives of sitting center. First, you have the easiest access to all the ceiling gadgets. Adding light or air or a flight attendant to your environment requires nothing more than a casual reach overhead. Your seatmates have it more difficult. They’ll often add an “excuse me” to their movements, or even ask you to do it for them. Sometimes that means bodily contact. Ick.

Second positive: you avoid the shortcomings of the window and aisle seats. What are those? The window seat personal space is noticeably smaller than other seats (including the storage space below the seat in front of you). The window seat is also be noisy if you’re near the engines. The aisle seat personal space is constantly interrupted by the happenings in the aisle itself: roving flight attendants, drink carts, and all those other strangers on the plane. And here’s the ultimate penalty for sitting in the aisle seat: you’re sitting between your seatmates and their freedom (i.e. the lavatory). Every time they’re up and out of their seats, so are you.

Speaking of airplane lavatories, I avoid them until my bladder pulses me into levitation. It’s not an issue of cleanliness or claustrophobia, but rather the journey to get there from your seat. Here’s my ultimate nightmare: I get past the aisle seat and head to the front lav. I find it occupied, which means I head to the back (no lines allowed in front). On my way to the back, the seat belt sign dings and flight attendants guilt me into returning to my seat. Mission unaccomplished. Hold please.

Final though: be bold and choose the middle seat on occasion. You might enjoy it as much as I do. Then again, in-between comes more naturally to me. I was a middle child growing up. I live in a middle state in the U.S. I like to think of myself as slightly above average. In other words, fair-to-middling.

Lovely Are Thy Branches

Christmas prep – at our house – starts the weekend after Thanksgiving and goes all the way thru December 24th. I like to think it’s deliberate – taking a month or more to drag out the “getting ready”. Some years we’re rushed but the house always seems to get decorated, the cookies baked, the presents wrapped, the cards sent, and the food shopped. There’s always a dinner reservation on Christmas Eve; always room in the pews at the late, late church service. But what if – some year – we dispensed with all of that prep? December 25th would still come, of course. But it wouldn’t be Christmas, unless we had a tree.

I can’t think of a single Christmas in my fifty-plus years when we haven’t had a fully-decorated tree. Whether the lights or the ornaments or the angel on top, the tree to me is the ultimate expression of the holiday season. Christmas trees have been standing since the 1500’s (proved by a sculpted image at an estate in France). In the late 1700’s, Christmas trees hopped the pond to America.

My affection for decorated trees dates to my early childhood in Los Angeles. Late on a mid-December day, my mother would pack my brothers and I into the station wagon, drive downtown, and meet up with my father after work. Near his office, hundreds of Christmas trees were being unloaded from boxcars in the train yard; some of them still fresh with snow. You may prefer the convenience of your neighborhood tree lot, but sorry; nothing beats the childhood nostalgia of picking a tree straight from a boxcar.

Since we never had snow in Los Angeles, we often had our Christmas tree “flocked” before taking it home. Flocking means placing a tree on a spinning stand and covering it with a product I can only describe as spray Styrofoam. As tacky as that sounds, the result is remarkably “snow-like”. Flocking even comes in colors (but I never understood why anyone would want pink or green snow).

As for tree ornaments, they’ve been around since Christmas trees themselves. What were once apples, candy canes, and pastries (elegantly simple, if you ask me) have now evolved into everything imaginable. On my childhood tree, I only remember those delicate, shiny, colored balls and bells; the ones which shattered on the slightest impact. We also had tinsel; endless garlands of thin strips of colored foil, and tinsel is a great word, don’t you think?

Christmas lights became a staple of tree decor in 1882, when an Edison Electric VP first added them to his family tree. The lights on my childhood tree – the multi-colored “C9” incandescent standard of the time – were connected to an illuminated star at the very top. A few strands contained transparent-colored “blinkies”. In hindsight, blinky lights sound as tacky as flocking but somehow, they worked alongside everything else on the tree.

Here’s a little Christmas tree trivia for you. The carol, O’ Christmas Tree, is sometimes sung in German, starting with “O’ Tannenbaum, O’ Tannenbaum…”. Guess what? You’re actually singing, “O’ Fir Tree, O’ Fir Tree…”. If you’re looking for the correct translation, go with, “O’ Weihnachtsbaum…” instead.

One more bit of trivia. If you find a tree decorated with nothing but white and gold Christian symbols, you’re looking at a Christmon tree. Blend the sounds and meanings of “Christ” and “monogram” and you come up with the portmanteau “Christmon”. Sounds (and looks) beautiful to me.

I don’t think I’ll ever have to worry about finding a Christmas tree. Over 35 million are produced in the U.S. each year; another 60 million in Europe. The average cost of a live-cut Christmas tree last year was $73, and that includes a lot of really tall ones. Someday, I won’t be able to erect a nine or ten-foot tree in my living room anymore. No worries; I’ll just go with a table-top instead (a “Charlie Brown”, if you will). Her branches will be just as lovely.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Dusting Off Dumbo

In March, Disney will release a remake of the children’s classic “Dumbo”, almost eighty years after the original. An intriguing story (Tim Burton directs), and the wonders of computer animation suggest the new version will be pretty good; standing on its own the way Jim Carrey managed with his version of the Grinch. “Mary Poppins” also Returns next week after a fifty-year absence. Emily Blunt looks supercalifragilistic in the previews, but with all due respect, there’s only one Mary Poppins and her name is Julie Andrews (there is also only one Maria Von Trapp and her name is also Julie Andrews).

Movie remakes are blog-worthy, but that’s not my mission today. I’m here to talk about Dumbo. Even though his modern-day movie doesn’t come out for a few more months, you’ll find him at any one of the six Disney parks. He’ll fly you in dizzy circles with his big ears and colorful cap; as happy an elephant as he’s ever been. But on closer inspection, you may find your Dumbo needs a little dusting off. That grey may be his (plastic) skin perhaps, but – brace yourself – it may also be the scattered remains of deceased Disney devotees. Apparently some souls choose to be interred in an urn known as The Happiest Place On Earth.

Okay, I know some of you were anticipating a jolly-holiday post this time of year, with visions of chestnuts roasting on an open fire (“pop! pop! pop!”) or a “Baby It’s Cold Outside” fire (romantic embers) but sorry; today we’re talking about a cremation fire. Doesn’t the topic make you just a little curious? Did you know for instance, we humans spread our ashes (or I should say, have our ashes spread) at sea, in woodland groves, into volcanoes, over sports stadiums and on golf courses, and yes – all over the Disney parks, but “at sea” is the only legal option on the list? Or, did you know, if you spread an entire urn’s worth, you’re talking about five pounds of ashes? Not exactly a spoonful of sugar, Mary.

I never knew Disney had this sort of problem in its parks (although at The Happiest Places On Earth, there are no “problems”). Scattered ashes are reported at least once a month. Disney handles these incidents the way they do other “real-world” stuff: with complete discretion. First, an employee notices said “pixie dust” (maybe with help from Tinker Bell?). Then a “HEPA” text – high-efficiency particulate air – is sent to maintenance, because that’s the kind of vacuum you’re gonna need. Then the ride or area of the park is closed off and the deceased is sucked up “spit-spot”. You can almost see the maintenance guy whistling while he works.

Scattering ashes (other than at-sea) is a misdemeanor, but in true Disney fashion no charges are pressed if you’re caught. Instead, your mouse ears are removed and you’re escorted out the nearest gates, back to the real world. Any patrons inconvenienced by your actions get reimbursed with a Fast Pass or a store voucher. Having said that, plan on a few extra minutes getting screened at the entry gates. Besides knives, bombs, and alcohol, they’re looking for urns. Or, in the backpacks of the more determined: plastic pill bottles and makeup compacts.

Disney’s Dumbo ride is a common place to scatter ashes (specifically, the moat under the flying elephants), as is Cinderella’s Castle (flowerbeds) and It’s A Small World (anywhere near the delirious singing dolls) but where do most scatterings take place? Why, the Haunted Mansion of course. It’s the only truly morbid location at Disney. As your “ghost host” says over and over, “we have 999 happy haunts here, but there’s room for 1,000 – any volunteers?” I guess some people take their ghost host seriously.

On a related topic, several years ago Disney sold personalized hexagonal pavers at its Florida park. You could put anything you wanted on the tiles, except the words “In Memory Of…” Why? Disney didn’t want people to have death on their minds at The Happiest Place On Earth. As Mary Poppins would say, they’re just trying to be practically perfect in every way. But clearly, some people have death on their minds anyway. Or at least, ashes in their backpacks.

Some content sourced from the Wall Street Journal article, “Disney World’s Big Secret…”.

Supreme Without Cream

Over Thanksgiving, my daughter commented how she missed the Tibetan food she used to enjoy in Los Angeles. Not that Colorado doesn’t have Tibetan food (she relocated to Denver six months ago), but perhaps not as easy to find as in LA. The only thing I associate with Tibetan food is yak, which is more of an animal than a food in my book. But no doubt there’s also butter tea on that restaurant menu. Butter tea is made with yak butter. And if it’s anything like butter coffee, it’s better than it sounds.

Ever wonder at what point a fad becomes mainstream? That’s my musing with butter coffee today. I thought it was a come-and-go kick, until a recent Wall Street Journal (WSJ) article suggested it may be here to stay. Butter coffee is exactly as advertised: blended coffee with butter (and a little coconut oil); hold the cream and sugar. It sounds like a bizarre combination, but don’t judge until you try. Unless you prefer the sweet side of the Starbucks coffee menu, you’ll probably agree – butter coffee’s not that far removed from the taste of a standard latte.

Without sounding like an advertisement, I have to give cred to Dave Asprey and the Bulletproof brand. Until somebody challenges his claim, Asprey is the standalone founder of the butter coffee trend. No surprise, his concoction is based on butter tea, which he first tasted not in a restaurant in LA, but on a mountainside in Tibet. Once Asprey formalized his invention into Bulletproof Coffee, he dropped his Silicon Valley ties and headed his career in a whole new direction.

Though I ordain Asprey the butter coffee king, it’s been several years since I’ve actually read anything about the product. I was sure it was a here-today/gone-tomorrow health kick (if you’re a ketogenic diet fan, butter coffee’s for you). Then here comes the Wall Street Journal this week, touting “the latest coffee craze” and talking about enough recipes, products, and retail stores to make me think butter coffee is here to stay. I can even mail-order my butter coffee (at Picnik’s website). In the ultimate test of staying power, Starbucks may add butter coffee to its menu one of these days. If that happens, I’ll quit saying “fad” and promote the mixture to on-trend – which is how Google Maps already labels the Bulletproof Cafes you can visit in Seattle and Los Angeles.

Lest you think this post is a promotion for butter coffee, let me back up the barista a bit. Butter coffee purists (snobs?) assert the real deal can only be achieved with the highest-quality ingredients (“no crap, no yeast, no gluten”): certified-clean French-pressed coffee beans, medium-chain triglyceride oil (MCT), and grass-fed ghee (“non-dairy” butter). Who the heck has those items just sitting around their pantry? Furthermore, the ingredients need to be whipped up in a blender (oil and water – they don’t mix). That’s a lot of prep – and a few extra dishes in the sink – for a single cup of coffee.

Butter coffee’s fringe-benefits claim is “excessive productivity, limitless energy, and mental clarity” (with a large helping of fat). Maybe, but I’ll still take my no-brainer-mass-produced-K-cup coffee with a small pour of cream (instructions: press Start). That’s about all I can manage first thing in the morning anyway.

If you’re still curious about butter coffee, check out the entertaining BuzzFeed post: I Drank Butter Coffee For A Month And It Was More Magical Than I Expected. The authors gave it better chance than I did (even though they also retreated to standard coffee afterward). As for me, it’s K-cups over yaks every time.

A Distant Third (cont.)

Last Tuesday in cycle class, pedaling through the five-minute recovery after an hour of torture, our instructor asked if we’d like a Christmas carol or two from her playlist. The one rider with enough oxygen lashed out vehemently, “NO! It’s too early!” Well how about that; score a point for Thanksgiving. The sun set on Halloween two weeks ago and mighty Christmas is already trying to muscle its way to the forefront. But Thanksgiving has a thing or two to say first. If you please, keep the sugar plums out of my turkey and stuffing.

In last week’s post, I compared popular aspects of Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas (i.e. history, music, food). The final tally: Christmas the clear winner – no surprise – with Halloween solidly in second. But lest we relegate Thanksgiving to the bronze medal year after year, my blog-intent is to reinvigorate America’s late-November holiday, and remind readers why Turkey Day stands on its own merits.

On that note, we’re starting November with promise. My wife is getting endless mailbox catalogs, and I was delighted to find Williams-Sonoma’s “Thanksgiving Headquarters” edition: 180 pages of food, linens, kitchenware, and decor specifically designed for the holidays. They even photo-profiled a barn-based “Friendsgiving” celebration in upstate New York. Granted, the Thanksgiving section of the catalog ended on p.67, meaning the remaining 100 pages were all about Christmas. No matter – 67 pages of Thanksgiving is impressive. Way to go, Williams-Sonoma.

Starbucks also made a statement – albeit more feeble – putting their unique spin on Thanksgiving. Right now, you can drive-thru and order a Turkey & Stuffing Panini (with cranberries and gravy!), perfectly nicknamed “a handheld turkey dinner”. Then pair your panini with a Chestnut Praline Latte (“flavors of caramelized chestnuts and spices, topped with whipped cream and spiced praline crumbs”). That combo speaks more to November than December in my book. Not bad, Starbucks.

Retail aside, Thanksgiving plays out as more of an extended weekend than a single day. Consider the before/after events. Wednesday (“Thanksgiving Eve”) is routinely labeled “the single busiest travel day of the year”. Well guess what? It’s not. Thanksgiving Day is the busiest travel day of the year, considering 90% of us drive our cars to the family gathering that morning. Thanksgiving Wednesday (and Thanksgiving Sunday) only seem busiest because the chaos at the airports gets so much attention.

Now, on Turkey Day itself, besides the meal and the backyard football, we begin with the “Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade”. My family always seems to miss the broadcast because we’re so busy in the kitchen. Macy’s is three hours of marching bands, dancing Rockettes, Broadway singers, flying character balloons, and – as far as I can tell – one nod to Thanksgiving (the massive turkey in the photo above). But hang on ’til the very end of the broadcast, because… here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, wrapping up the parade the same way he’s done every year since 1924. It’s like the Williams-Sonoma catalog – Thanksgiving on the outside but more “holiday season” in disguise.

Thanksgiving Friday is “Black”, of course – the so-called beginning of the Christmas shopping season. We Americans spend over $50 billion that day (putting retailers “back in the black” with profits – hence the name). It’s safe to say this bonanza of spending isn’t going away anytime soon. By its very nature, Black Friday extinguishes Thanksgiving – almost before the pumpkin pie is served. Black Friday sales begin as early as 5pm on Thursday evening (making the name obsolete, don’t you think?) And if Thanksgiving isn’t early enough for you, some stores begin sales a week before Black Friday, with the teaser, “avoid the chaos of Black Friday – shop now!” Uh, what’s the real meaning of Christmas again?

So there you have it – Christmas putting the squeeze on Thanksgiving like the Grinch on Whoville. Santa concludes the Macy’s parade at 12:00pm ET. Christmas shopping begins five hours later. In between, throw a meal on the table, mumble a blessing, and don’t forget to say thanks. If we’re not careful, Thanksgiving Day will be reduced to Thanksgiving Hour. It’s a phenomenon known as “holiday compression depression” (okay, I just made that up), but hey; it’s happened before. In 1971, George and Abe got their standalone birthday celebrations mashed into a single holiday. Even they feel Thanksgiving’s pain.