technology – Page 5 – Life In A Word

Fuzzies and Buzzies

My granddaughter, almost six months now, adores her soft-stuffed black-and-yellow bumblebee. Her little buzzy has a Velcro loop to attach to the car seat or stroller. In her first months, she fixated on Mr. Bee like a best friend. Today she takes an interest in other things, but I told her mother to set the bee aside as a future keepsake. Doesn’t everybody wish they still had their first stuffed animal? Well, I sure do, and mine was more fuzzy than buzzy.

Nope, not a bear. Not a dog, not a cat, a fox or a tiger. My one-and-only stuffed animal was a lamb. An off-white fuzz-filled plush-soft domesticated farm critter, about 12″ head to hooves. I named him “Lambie”. We were inseparable for years.

I’m not here to revisit childhood memories (though it’s remarkable how a cherished wooly companion comes back to mind). Instead, I want to give sheep their due. I think sheep are one of the world’s most overlooked animals. At the farm, everyone pretty much skips the bleating balls of fluff in favor of the more interesting horses, cows, and pigs. At the zoo it’s the lions, tigers, and bears instead. And I get it. Timid, fuzzy herbivores just don’t inspire awe. So how about instead, we take a look at what you don’t know about sheep:

They have rectangular pupils. I’ve always thought it was cool how horses can see to the left and right without moving their heads. Sheep have it even better; a full 270 degrees of vision, meaning the only thing they can’t see is what’s directly behind them.
They’re more intelligent than you think. Sheep can retain the details of fifty faces – human or otherwise – and recall them two years later (no idea how we know this). They can also be led through a maze and then solve it on their own the second time around, probably because…
They have an excellent sense of smell, thanks to scent glands in front of their eyes and in their hooves. Sheep can leave their scent behind as a sort of trail of bread crumbs while on the move.
They self-medicate. I’m not pulling the wool over your eyes here. Sheep can identify plants and other substances having no nutritional value but with healing properties. They also pass this information on to their offspring.

Now let’s change the channel to what you already know about sheep. They are followers in every sense of the word (hence the label for like-minded humans). They are timid, easily led, and never without their flocks. Just watch this speedy video to see how our fuzzy friends stick together.

Sheep have little ability to defend themselves (how would they when they’re essentially balls of fluff on sticks?) As a result, they’re in constant fear of their predators. In fact, sheep are so much “flight” versus “fight”, they sometimes die of self-inflicted panic attacks.

Care about them or not, sheep find their way into the narrative. If not a lamb for a stuffed animal, you learned nursery rhymes like “Baa Baa Black Sheep” (have you any wool?), “Mary Had a Little Lamb”, and “Little Bo Peep” (has lost her sheep). Maybe you’ve counted sheep (jumping over fences) while trying to fall asleep. Or listened to Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze” while trying to relax. Dodge’s best-selling truck is the “Ram” and Los Angeles’s NFL team is the “Rams”. Most noteworthy, in 1996 an ewe named “Dolly” became the first mammal of any kind cloned from a single cell. Do sheep matter? You bet your shears they do.

So if you’re sheepish I say, “Be proud to be so!” If you’re something of a black sheep I say, “Consider yourself ‘outstanding'”! And if you’re like me, a dyed-in-the-wool fan of fluff balls on sticks, choose fuzzies over buzzies every time.

Some content sourced from the BCSPCA article, “10 fun facts about sheep”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Living On The Edge

The state line between South Carolina (SC) and Georgia (GA) follows the twists and turns of the Savannah River. You know you’re heading into one state or the other whenever you cross the water. Driving from our part of South Carolina into nearby Augusta, GA is interesting. The interstate loops Augusta by starting in SC, touches a bit of GA, goes back to SC for a few miles, then continues into GA again as it follows the river. It’s an example of my life on the edge.

Growing up on the coast of California, it never occurred to me the geography of my younger days was limited to only three of the four cardinal directions. If I headed north I’d leave the urban stretches of Los Angeles for the more rural towns of the the central coast. Head south and I’d parallel the beaches all the way to San Diego. The only thing east of the city seemed to be the endless Mojave Desert. As for the last of the four directions? Not an option, at least not without a boat, plane, or a whole lot of swimming. Horace Greeley would’ve never told me to “Go West, young man”.

South Bend sits where the yellow and red come together at the very top of Indiana.

In my college years in South Bend, IN, I was a fifteen-minute drive from the line where the Central and Eastern time zones meet. Back then you didn’t touch your clock for Daylight Savings, so half the year you were the same time as Detroit while the other half you were Chicago. It was confusing, but not as confusing as someone who lived on one side of the line and worked on the other. Imagine leaving the house at 8:00am, driving an hour, and arriving at the office at… 8:00am? It’s a neat trick, pulled off by a lot of those who live on the edge of a time zone.

Raising our kids in Colorado Springs, we always knew which direction we were heading because the line of the Rocky Mountains lay immediately to the west. Those peaks rose up like the Great Wall of China, just daring you to push through. Sure, we drove the interstates into the Rockies for skiing, hiking, and such, but day-to-day we were down at the base, literally living on the edge. Like California, we had one less cardinal direction at our disposal.

Grays Peak, on Colorado’s Continental Divide

The Rockies conceal another important edge, known as the Continental Divide. The Divide is elevated terrain separating neighboring drainage basins. Plain English? The north-south line from which water flows either west to the Pacific Ocean or east to the Atlantic. I always wanted to stop somewhere flat on the Divide and pour out a bottle of water. Let’s see if it really flows both ways from the line, right? It’s an experiment that to this day remains unconducted.

Football, one of my favorite spectator sports, is all about lines and edges. One team faces the other, on an imaginary line defined by where the referee places the ball. Cross that line before the ball is snapped and you’ll be flagged with a penalty. Advance the ball ten yards past that line – to another imaginary line – and your team is awarded more play. The sidelines of the field might as well drop off to a bottomless void. Catching a pass outside of that edge is not allowed. Running the ball outside of that edge brings the game to a halt. But catching or running across the lines at end of the field? That rewards you with a score.

$50 gets you a spot on “The Edge” sky deck

For all this living and playing on thresholds, maybe I should visit one of New York City’s newest high-rise attractions. One hundred floors above the sidewalk, The Edge is billed as “the highest outdoor sky deck in the Western Hemisphere”. Jutting out from its host building, The Edge allows unparalleled views of the city below, because the surrounding walls are solid glass, as is a portion of the deck floor itself (yikes!) If Spider-Man is your thing, you can go even higher by scaling the outside of the remaining floors of the skyscraper. I have to say, this sort of thing draws a “fine line” between entertainment and, well, insanity.

I won’t be going to The Edge… ever. I’m not good with heights, so anything above a pedestrian Ferris Wheel just isn’t my cup of tea. Nope, leave me behind, comfortably grounded, where crossing the Savannah River from one state to another is plenty adventurous. That’s my definition of life on the edge.

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

Day (After Day) Drinking

In the refrigerator of the beach house where my family and I vacation every summer, you’ll find an extensive collection of aging condiments. With different people in the house almost every week, the mustards, ketchups, salsas and spreads breed at an alarming rate. And the beverages aren’t far behind. Forage past the wine and beer bottles and you encounter all sorts of curious cans and contents. One in particular tempted me this time around but I couldn’t muster the courage to take a sip. I mean, would you try something called “Liquid Death”?

If you’re already familiar with Liquid Death, you know the joke’s on me. Liquid Death (“Murder Your Thirst!”) is nothing but drinking water, carefully sourced, packaged in a can covered with horror-movie graphics. The company believes their distinctive can means a) one less plastic bottle into landfill and b) one more serving of water into you (instead of something less healthy). Liquid Death also cans flavored sparkling waters and iced teas, and – no joke – invites you to sell your soul to the company. The company’s sales are no joke either – $130 million last year alone.

Liquid Death is one of countless examples of “packaged water” available to consumers these days. Since 2017, Americans are quaffing more bottled water than any other drink. 86% of us purchase water regularly, in addition to the H2O we drink from our faucets. Why? Because we’re waking up to the downsides of the sugar/chemical concoction known as the “soft drink”. We’re also subscribing to the belief we’re healthier if we drink more water. Finally, single/double/triple-serving containers appeal to us because we’ve already become so conditioned to them, thanks to… Starbucks.

Here’s a story to prove the statistics hold water. At a volleyball tournament in Atlanta last weekend, I ventured to the nearby snack stand to buy a drink. The cashier invited me to fish around in his giant coolers for whatever I wanted. What I wanted was water, but all I could find were dozens of neglected bottles of soft drinks, “sports drinks”, and energy drinks. So I asked the cashier, “What, no water?”, to which he replied, “Oh, we sold out of the waters hours ago”.

Then I went in search of a drinking fountain and couldn’t find one in the entire arena. Drinking fountains are quickly going the way of pay phones. In their places: dispensers designed to fill your personal bottle. I’m on board with this trend, especially because it reduces the use of plastic. But don’t forget your water bottle like I did or you’ll be forced to settle for one of those more colorful concoctions.

Lest you think otherwise, the bottled waters dominating the marketplace are brought to you by the same companies behind soft drinks. Accordingly, Dasani = Coca-Cola, Aquafina = PepsiCo, and Poland Spring = Nestlé. On the other hand, Arrowhead is only Arrowhead water, as is Evian’s natural spring variety (and whether “Evian” is intentionally “naive” spelled backwards is for you to decide).

We’ve taken water one step further now. Into our personal water bottles, tumblers, and jugs we add “flavor enhancers”, designed to a) give us more of what we lack (ex. electrolytes) or b) encourage us to drink more water by adding flavor. Crystal Light and Gatorade set this tone years ago. Today we choose from a dizzying array of powders, drops, and tablets, all designed to make water more appealing. But if we’re thirsty, shouldn’t water be appealing enough just the way it is?

A final sip of this subject. The average person has thirty-five “beverage occasions” a week. With each occasion you choose the container, contents, and quantity of whatever you’re going to drink. So even if your every day begins with a “Venti half-soy nonfat decaf latte” and ends with a fruit-forward, moderately dry Cabernet Sauvignon, you still have twenty-one other occasions for a tall drink of water. Liquid Death, anyone?

Concourses or Golf Courses?

Whenever flying is a part of my travel plans, I wear my most comfortable pair of walking shoes. Long gone are the days of the coat-and-tie-to-fly dress code, in favor of sneakers (and jeans). My reason for rubber-soled kicks used to be, “What if we’re in some kind of accident and I need to get off in a hurry?” Today I go with a wholly different reason. The long, long walk I can expect from curb to concourse to airplane cabin simply demands something easy on the feet.

Here’s a startling comparison. If you play golf and skip the cart, you’re going to walk over four miles to finish your round. By almost the same token, if you’re connecting through Dallas-Ft. Worth or Atlanta and choose to walk from Terminal B to Terminal E, you’re going to walk over two miles. Add in the inevitable search for food, a stop or two at retail, and a visit to the restroom and you’re closer to three miles. And none of that includes the distance from the curb to the ticket counter, from the counter through security, and from your gate down the jetway to your seat on the plane.

Now for the bad news. Airports are only getting bigger, and not for the reasons you might think. Sure, more people fly than ever before, which adds more planes, more gates, and even more airports. But behind the scenes a couple of stronger forces are at work. One, airlines are shifting to larger aircraft, which translates to more space between parked planes. Two, airport parking revenue is down (thanks to Uber, Lyft, and more mass transit), which translates to the airport’s need to find revenue elsewhere. Where? Retail, bars, and restaurants.

From recent trips through airports, I’ve noticed the following. In Denver International, remodeled Concourse B is already labeled “Gates 1-100”, even though there aren’t a hundred gates. It’s a straight-line concourse and it’s only going to get longer. In Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson, the concourses are so long and narrow (and so crowded), that last gate is farther than you can see without binoculars. And in San Diego’s Lindbergh Field, when you’re processed into Terminal 2 from security, you can’t see a single gate, because you have to pass through a veritable shopping mall first.

In the ultimate insult to long walks to planes, some airports have left the moving walkways out of their concourse remodels. Those walkways discourage you from passing directly in front of the food and retail the airport so desperately needs you to patronize. And intentional or not, the airlines encourage these purchases by offering less food onboard. You, weary traveler, are a captive audience to more than one performer.

Let’s not forget the rental cars. Avis’s slogan is “We try harder”. Maybe it should be, “We try harder… to take more of your money“. I just reviewed my receipt from a recent San Diego rental for a full-size standard Kia sedan. Right there below the actual daily rate: “11.11% Concession Recovery Fee”; essentially the cost of doing business at the airport. Add in Vehicle License Recoup fee, Customer Facility Charge (another airport fee), California Tourism Fee, and a final flourish of “tax”, and the rate increased by 32%. All so I can walk further to get to my rental car?

An early chapter of my career was in airport planning. We’re the people who figure out how to get the planes from the runways to the taxiways to the gates without hitting each other. We also design the terminal buildings to include enough gates, concessions and restrooms (yeah, yeah, bring on the heat with that last item). Concourse design used to be “spoke and hub”, meaning you walked down the spoke to a circular boarding hub of several gates. It made the airplane taxiing a little trickier outside, but it significantly reduced a passenger’s walk to the gate. Today, airports no longer favor the design (er, traveler) because it reduces the square footage for concessions.

For those of you who live and die by your 10,000 steps, take heart; airports are helping you accomplish your daily goal. Phoenix Sky Harbor even disguised the long walk through the concourses by calling it a “Fitness Trail”. Be sure to allow enough time to get in a (seriously overpriced) shopping trip at all those concessions. But don’t forget, the airlines only allow one reasonably sized carry-on these days. Any others will cost you a checked bag fee… because the airport isn’t making enough money already.

Some content sourced from the CNN Business article, “Why you have to walk so far to your gate at the airport”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Rocket Men (and Women)

A year from today, we’ll all be glued to our televisions and tablets watching the Olympic Games in Paris. I will be glued, at least. The Summer Games get me all fired up, especially the track and field events. Especially especially the field events. I mean, c’mon, you can watch running all year long, but how often do you get to see a javelin thrown, a discus tossed, or a shot “put”? (and how often do you even say “javelin” or “discus”?) But one field event tops all others. There’s simply nothing more gawky-entertaining than a human launched into space by a pole.

If you live in a two-story place with a fairly flat roof, it might be a little unnerving to learn Swedish-American pole vaulter Armand Duplantis can jump over your house. While the rest of us have to walk around at ground level to get to your backyard, Armand will simply sprint up your front path, plant his pole in your rose bushes, launch himself past the bedroom windows and between the chimneys, and make a splash landing in your swimming pool. Armand can do this because he can pole vault 20.4 feet, a world record he set last February. It’s the fifth time this twenty-something has broken his own world record.

Pole vaulting is a truly bizarre sequence of movements constituting an Olympic event. The vaulter balances a long fiberglass pole in one hand while sprinting down a rubber-surfaced runway. Just before running out of runway he or she raises the pole overhead with both hands, stabs the leading end into a boxed area on the ground, and pushes… hard. The ensuing bend of the pole and a whole lot of momentum hoists the vaulter into the air, feet first. With gymnastic flair, the vaulter then rotates his or her body around to be facing a high horizontal bar, just as gravity counters flight. The final flop back to Earth (and onto a giant cushion) is typically punctuated with a mid-air fist pump if the bar is successfully cleared.

Imagine that exhilarating feeling when a pole vaulter is at peak height, pointing skyward, feet above body, pole released, practically cruising into the earth’s atmosphere. As Elton John sings “… it’s gonna be a long, long time ’til touchdown brings me round again…”

Four Olympic field events involve jumping: 1) pole vault, 2) long jump, 3) high jump, and 4) triple jump (the ol’ “hop, skip, and jump”). None of the last three hold my interest because they’re easy to do. But not pole vaulting, not even close. Launching my body even a few feet off the ground with a bendy pole? Let’s just agree, I am no Rocket Man.

Pole vaulting brings to mind two questions (or three if you include Why in heaven’s name does anyone do this?). First question: What happens if the pole breaks? Seriously, sports equipment fails. Golf clubs break in two with enough swings. Tennis racket strings get loose. At some point a pole vault pole will bend one too many times. Yikes. Second question: How does the pole translate horizontal energy into vertical energy? It’s a physics problem akin to the catapult, but I’d have to go back to high school to solve it. No thanks.

The origin of pole vaulting is a bit of a letdown. My too-many-movies imagination pictured a medieval war, with soldiers clearing castle walls on long pieces of bamboo. Instead, pole vaulting is a rough translation of an old technique used to scale narrow natural obstacles, like watery marshes. Get a running start, plant the pole, and sail from one side of the marsh to the other. But those poles don’t bend, and nobody cares how high you go as long as you make it over. So you see, even the origin of pole vaulting is gawky.

The pole vaulting world record was eighteen feet in 1970. Fifty years later it’s been pushed two feet higher. Do the math; maybe we’ll be clearing one hundred feet by the year 2773. But we’ll probably have flying cars by then as well, so any interest in humans launched by poles will be gone. My advice: watch the Paris Games, especially the pole vault. These rocket men and women won’t be around forever.

Some content sourced from the CNN article, “Olympic champion Armand Duplantis…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Sphere Delight

My wife’s sister and her husband just wrapped up a visit here in South Carolina. On the drive down from Colorado they made several sightseeing detours, but the trip back was pedal-to-the-metal… with the exception of one stop: the Moon Marble Company in Bonner Springs, Kansas. Moon Marbles stocks beautiful handmade wooden games and toys but c’mon, who braves the barren wastelands of Kansas for those? Marbles on the other hand, would draw me in like a bee to nectar.

A marble is the perfect example of a sphere, isn’t it? I love spheres (including the word itself; much more elegant than “ball” or “orb”). Take a semicircle, revolve it a full loop around its diameter and voila! – a sphere. Calculating the volume of a sphere involves cubing its radius but let’s stop right there with the math lesson. Cubes and spheres just don’t belong in the same conversation.

Most of you readers are tuned in from the Northern Hemisphere, the half of our planet above the Equator. I find it cool to think of Earth as a sphere (with “big blue marble” a close second). It’s the biggest sphere we humans know (or have you been to Jupiter?) At your next party, wow your friends by telling them Earth is actually an oblate spheroid: flattened at both poles and bulging at the Equator. Ewwwww. Not a very pretty sphere, now is it?

Here’s the paragraph where I cop out and simply list a bunch of spheres, like oranges, Christmas ornaments, eyeballs, pearls, and the moon, but that’s just so three-hundred-blog-posts ago. Spheres can be much cooler. For instance, picture an atom (I’ll pause for those who need a microscope). An atom is a spherical cluster of neutrons and protons (which are also spheres) encircled by whizzing electrons (more spheres). Did you know your body is made up of over 7 octillion atoms? That’s a lot of spheres. You might want to lose a little weight.

Glinda traveled to Oz in a sphere (photo courtesy of MGM)

Soap bubbles are spheres. Sure, you aim to create those giant wibbly-wobbly monsters but for the most part you generate a cloud of perfectly spherical transparent globes, born on a whisper of air and extinguished seconds later. I’m guessing soap bubbles have the shortest lifespans of all spheres.

When a college buddy visited several years ago, he brought a paperweight made by an artist near his hometown in New Jersey. It’s a glass sphere with just the slightest bit of the bottom lopped off so it doesn’t roll off my desk. I’ve picked up a lot of tchochkes over the years but I’m not letting this one go. Did I mention spheres are cool?

Three years before he wrote Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton authored a novel called Sphere. It’s about a group of scientists exploring a giant spacecraft sunk to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. In the spacecraft’s cargo hold: a mysterious sphere, determined to be extraterrestrial and literally mind-blowing. Mark my words; spheres can be as terrifying as dinosaurs. Read it.

Star Wars focused on a giant spherical colony – the Empire’s “Death Star” – but the air went out of my perfectly round balloon as soon as I saw the giant divot on its side, not to mention all those channels and openings pierced by the X-wing starfighters. In other words, the Death Star was a decidedly less-than-perfect orb. So I applauded alongside everybody else when Luke Skywalker blew this sphere to kingdom come.

Here’s a place you wouldn’t expect to find a sphere: a Christian hymn. In the first verse of This Is My Father’s World we have, “All nature sings and round me rings, the music of the spheres”. The plural throws me off, because more than one sphere suggests more than just Earth (the entire solar system?) Or maybe we aren’t singing about the planets at all. A quote from August Rush seems relevant; the final line in the movie: “The music is all around us… all you have to do, is listen.”

We’re starting to go round and round here (heh) so let’s conclude with the world’s largest sphere. The Guinness Book writers will deem it so once the “MSG Sphere” opens in Las Vegas in a few months. At 300 feet tall and 500 feet wide, the Sphere will dramatically change a skyline that’s already pretty dramatic, especially with 1.2 million LEDs on its surface generating all sorts of images and animation. For concerts, sports, and the like, the Sphere can seat up to 18,000 spectators. I plan to be one of them… just as soon as I make it to Moon Marbles in Kansas.

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “This futuristic entertainment venue is the world’s largest spherical structure”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Oliver Twist

Because of the numbering system I use to save photos for my blog, I know last week’s dish on ice cream (ha) was my four-hundredth WordPress post. I’m not one to track statistics but unexpectedly, reaching this milestone begs the question: Will I make it to #500? Mind you, it’s not about staying in the game. Topics worth my exploration are endless and creative writing is a welcome escape. No, today begs a much more relevant question: What about artificial intelligence (AI)?

If I could meet you readers face-to-face in the Amazon rain forest I’d whisper a secret password for all to hear. Then when I use that password in a post, you’d know it’s actually me, Dave, the human, and not some updated version of HAL 9000 doing the typing. Surely you wonder, as I do, when will AI get so good at authoring documents, so genuine, you won’t even realize you’re reading something untouched by human hands?

Before we go any further, I think “AI” sounds awfully impersonal. I suppose impersonal is appropriate for a silicone wafer and a pile of circuit boards. I just think we need a friendlier word for it; something we humans can better identify with. How about “Oliver”? Oliver is the third most popular boy name of 2023. Oliver Twist was one of Charles Dickens’ most beloved characters (and AI will certainly be a twist on the way we ask for and receive information moving forward). Let’s nickname it (him?) Ollie.

Wikipedia’s article on artificial intelligence (yes, there’s already an article) says one of Ollie’s primary goals is problem-solving. Okay, that digests well. But then you see goals like reasoning, learning, perception, and social intelligence and your stomach flips a flop. My reasoning and perception are tools I use for this blog. If Ollie develops those same tools, it’s only a matter of time before Dave 1.0 (me) is replaced by Dave 2.0 (machine).

Let’s go back to ice cream for a second. Let’s say you want to read an opinion piece on ice cream. If you have AI at your disposal, you could say, “Hey Ollie, write me a post about ice cream, 600 words or so, with arguments in favor of plain old ice cream over sundaes, bars, and other frozen treats. Reference a few commercial ice cream brands, a few local brands, and finish by talking about the most expensive ice cream in the world. Oh, and speak the page back to me in James Earl Jones’s voice.” Then you’d hit the ENTER button and who knows? Your screen might light up with something remarkably similar to my last post in Life In A Word.

Also consider, Ollie will have his own opinions on what you read. After you ask about ice cream, he may spam you with posts on healthy lifestyle. He also may counsel you about spending your time on more important topics. Like world peace. Newsflash, Ollie. We’re all trying to figure out world peace. How about you put your circuit boards together and come up with a post on that?

Here’s my point. If you have Ollie you don’t need me. In fact, you don’t even need the WordPress platform. You could simply slip on a VR headset and ask for a post with just the right topic, tone, reading level, length, and restrictions. It’s like placing an order at the drive-thru of a fast food restaurant. Seconds later, what you asked for is right there in front of you (no paper bag necessary). And if Ollie “reads” all four hundred of my posts, he’ll write it pretty much the same way I would.

At the rate I’m posting, I’ll publish blog #500 in about two years. Two years. Considering all we’ve covered today, how advanced will Ollie be in two years? Enough to put WordPress out of business? Enough to where you can generate your own Life In A Word posts by simply entering a handful of carefully chosen criteria? I hope not. I’m having a good time with you people (especially those of you who also write blogs). Maybe all of us should pick up and move to the rain forest. Then we could pass our handwritten pages around and keep this ~~artificial~~ intelligent party going. Someone make sure Ollie doesn’t get an invite.

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

Power of the Purse

On a daylong trip to the shopping mall last week, my wife excused herself from my daughter and me and disappeared into a Kate Spade boutique. Forty-five minutes later she emerged with a purse, proudly declaring her new tote to be “discounted on top of the sale price”. As I’ve learned over many years of marriage, buying a new purse is a big deal for women, akin to slipping into the leather seat of a new sedan. After all, her purse is in hand almost as much as her smartphone.

The Kate Spade “Flower Jacquard Stripe Faye Medium Satchel”

If you’re a guy, don’t ever, EVER make the following statement about a purse: It’s just a bag. When I was a young and naive husband, it took me several bags – er, purses – to realize a) a new one will always be on the near horizon, and b) a purse contains the very essence of a woman’s life. There’s a lot in there and a lot going on in there – stuff we guys are better off not knowing about. Kind of like the women’s restroom.

In our defense, we guys can only relate from the perspective of the pedestrian wallet. Our “purse” is a whole lot smaller, stored out of sight versus over the shoulder, and designed to hold a minimum of essentials. In these terms, wallets and purses could be considered polar opposites. Not to suggest bigger is better, mind you.

My wife’s purse has countless zips, snaps, buttons, and hidden compartments, each of which she designates for specific items. She’ll go “here” for a pen, “over here” for some loose change, “out here” for the car keys, and “right here” for lip balm. And I’m not even talking about the main space. When you open the main pocket of a purse, it’s a dark, cavernous void suggesting a passageway to another world. I don’t venture in there very often – usually just to help myself to a little of my wife’s “cash stash”- and then I always get caught. No… no… not red-handed but rather after the fact, because I don’t put things back exactly as I found them. My wife knows precisely how her purse is laid out, so I can never deny her accusation of, “HEY!!! Have you been in here?”

Every now and then my wife goes fishing for a something in her purse and can’t find that something. This process is a joy to behold from the safe distance of the kitchen table. She knows whatever she’s looking for is in there somewhere; it just won’t surface. So she fishes and fishes to no avail. Sometimes she’ll resort to pulling out half of her stuff just to see what’s underneath. Other times her hand goes in so deep, half her arm disappears. With this in mind, I should know better than to go into my wife’s purse. I mean, there could be a wild animal in there!

When my wife moves into a new purse, it’s another process worth my witness. Everything comes out of the old bag (darn it all, Dave… PURSE!) and piles up on the counter. Then almost everything goes back into the new one (in exactly the same places). What’s left behind on the counter could fill the shelves of a curiosity shop. Ancient starlight mints. Expired gift cards. Pens from businesses we’ll never use. Faded receipts. And photos so old, you can’t help but say about the person, “Man, didn’t they look great back then?”

A wallet is a wallet, but a “purse” – in more technical terms – is a shoulder, satchel, sling, quilted, clutch, minaudiere, hobo, wristlet, beach, or even, yes, “wallet”. I’m sure the list goes on from there. As for size, my wife’s satchel preference probably rates an “M” on a purse scale of XS/S/M/L/XL. Too big to hold in the hand but too small to double as a changing room. She’s tried a few times go bigger or smaller but inevitably returns to “just right”. Goldilocks would’ve approved.

My wife’s birthday is this Sunday. If you read last week’s post you know I hinted at a rather expensive gift for her. Instead, I think I’ve found something a little more affordable. A purse, of course (don’t tell!) It’s a yellowish-green Louis Vuitton, in the style of a handbag, with the bold pattern of the designer’s signature initials. Gorgeous. Admittedly, I have two concerns. One, the bag (PURSE!) runs $69,000 USD. Two, it measures 0.03″ wide, or barely visible to the human eye. Yep, we’re talking an XXXXXXXXXXS from a 3D printer here, with it’s size described as “grain of salt” or “eye of needle”. It’s almost worth the cost just to see my wife try to move into it.

Some content sourced from the CNN Style article, “Handbag ‘smaller than a grain of salt’ sells for $63,000”.

Boundaries

My wife and I took a “triangle trip” last week to see her family and then our son, flying from Augusta (GA) to Denver to Dallas, before returning to Augusta again. There’s nothing round-trip about an itinerary like that; just three one-way flights in a row. Like any other frolic in the friendly skies however, the journey served up easy fodder for a blog post. Hectic airports? Uncomfortable turbulence? Delayed flights? Yes, yes, and yes. But for today’s post, step up to the podium my fellow passengers, for it is you who have earned my writing wrath.

We’re in familiar territory here. I’ve written about my flying annoyances in Sitting in the Catbird Seat and First Class is now un-American (among others). But those musings focused on airplane seats and airplane sections. Today is about airplane occupants. Some of them are making the national headlines for their ridiculous antics. The others all seem to have ended up on my flights. Allow me to introduce my new “friends”.

On the flight from Augusta to Denver, a family of three filed into the row directly in front of us; wife on the aisle, young child in the middle, husband on the window. As they settled into their seats, the kiddo started rapid-firing questions: Dad, when are we going to take off? Mom, where do I put my jacket? Dad, I can’t get my seat belt on! Do we get snacks? Dad? Hey, DAD!!!

Kids are loud. I remember my first flight too, and the drive-you-crazy curiosity of a six year old. But I certainly didn’t expect the parents to answer in baby talk. Oh Stevie, the biggy wiggy pilot way up in the fwont of the plane decides when we get to fly up, up, up in the sky! Maybe if you’re a weely weely good boy he’ll give you a wittle pair of wings to put on your backpack!

Or how about… Now Stevie, yelling at Mr. Seat Belt isn’t very nice. Look, there’s a wittle buckle and a wittle other end! Let’s make it a game! See if you can snap those bad boys together!

This is why I never leave home without noise-cancelling headphones.

On the flight from Denver to Dallas, we had our choice of “uncomfortable”. First, we trudged to the back of the plane, in front of and back of a large group of men who a) chose to be loud and laughy, and b) chose to speak across the aisle/rows in Spanish (even though the smattering of English made it clear they were fluent in both). At first I thought my nearby amigos were just being a little obnoxious. But the longer they kept it up, the more I thought I probably ought to know what they’re saying just in case…

This is why I never leave home without Google Translate.

Also on Denver to Dallas, a small child several rows forward spent the whole flight wailing I want Mommy! I want Mommy! I want Mommy! We were too far behind to see or hear what her traveling companion was doing (if anything) to make her feel better, but eventually some kind of alarm went off in my head. What if this child was being abducted? After all we were heading to Dallas, which could be considered a gateway to the world for that sort of thing. I alerted the flight attendant, who assured me everything was okay. And it was. Turns out the child belonged to one very overwhelmed father, solo-parenting (or not) a total of three kids.

This is why I never leave home without my wife.

I haven’t even mentioned the usual annoyance. Since my wife prefers the window seat I graciously accept the middle. So why is it my neighbor in the aisle seat always takes the armrest? Doesn’t he or she realize I’m squeezed between two bodies? Over the last two decades the average airline seat width has shrunk from 18.5″ to 17″. If the passenger on either side of the middle takes the armrests that means I’m reduced to 15″, while each of them gets 18″.

This is why I never leave home without my elbows.

If you ever fly with me, I’m the guy with his head down reading his Kindle. I’ll be polite and, for the most part, leave you alone. But don’t be fooled. I’ll only have one eye on my e-reader. The other – and both ears – will be tuned into whatever you’re up to in your seat. Please respect your boundaries.

Seaweed Sarge

With the U.S. Memorial Day holiday in the rear view mirror, the 2023 summer season is officially upon us. According to surveys from American Express Travel, sun-and-fun seekers prefer New York City, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles this year. Las Vegas raises an eyebrow (after all, summer in Sin City is broiler-setting hot) but notice something else: Florida didn’t make the top three. Maybe – no, probably – it’s because Seaweed Sarge is already wreaking havoc on the Sunshine State’s beaches.

If you don’t know Seaweed Sarge, it’s because 1) you deliberately avoid the news these days – an increasingly popular trend – or 2) like me, you need a more creative label for sargassum, because it’s a weird name for the seaweed intent on taking over the world. Sarge is a little intimidating, if only for his size. Picture him as a belt of algae 5,000 miles long (I can’t picture anything 5,000 miles long, can you?) Now consider: Sarge will double in size by July, the peak of his “bloom season”.

Sargassum is a particularly annoying form of seaweed. It’s rootless, which means it can reproduce while simply floating around on the ocean’s surface. Its rapid growth is bolstered by nutrients leached into rivers and oceans from land-based agriculture. Once it makes shore sargassum rots immediately, releasing irritating hydrogen sulfide and the stench of rotten eggs. And trying to remove countless tons of seaweed begs the question: where the heck do you put it all?

Florida’s gonna have to figure out the answer to that last question, and fast. Sarge is already littering beaches from Ft. Lauderdale to Key West and we’re just getting started. Come July and August it’ll be virtually impossible to walk along the shoreline.

My own visits to the beach have been blissfully Sarge-free. Most of my sun-and-fun takes place in San Diego, far from Sarge’s primary Atlantic Ocean residence. The only real nuisances on San Diego beaches are the occasional jellyfish or stingray, and a once-in-a-blue-moon shark sighting (which stirs up more anxiety than actual sightings). Admittedly, Sarge washes ashore in San Diego as well, but mostly just here and there as a remnant of off-shore harvesting. Seaweed does have its upsides, in foods, medicines, and fertilizers.

Ironically, I have fond memories of Sarge as a kid. He’s built with giant flappy leaves reminiscent of a mermaid’s fishtail. He’s got countless air sacs to keep him afloat, which make a popping sound as satisfying as squeezing bubble wrap. If I’d thought to take pictures back in the day, I could show you Sarge as an adornment to many a childhood sand castle.

An army of beach tractors could work all summer in South Florida and barely make a dent in Sarge. The seasonal maintenance of the single half-mile beach in Key West alone is in the millions of dollars. But a better solution may be in play. A prototype robot has been designed to do battle at sea. “AlgaRay” cruises slowly through the water, hooking tons of Sarge’s strands in a single pass. Once at capacity, AlgaRay drags Sarge underwater to a depth where all of those air sacs explode. No longer buoyant, Sarge sinks to the ocean floor; a “watery grave” if you will. AlgaRay has been likened to a weed-eating Pac-Man or a vacuuming Roomba. Either image works for me.

Let’s have one more look at those tourist surveys. One in ten say they’d cancel or reschedule a trip to Florida if they knew Sarge was coming ashore. Maybe that explains why landlocked Las Vegas ranked #2 on this summer’s most popular U.S. destinations. Not that Vegas doesn’t have its own threats. Three years ago a swarm of locusts descended on the Strip, blotting out casino windows and streetlights. An annual migration of tarantulas passes by in the surrounding desert. So take your pick: hordes of flying/crawling bugs or a giant mass of inanimate algae. Maybe Sarge isn’t so bad after all.

Some content sourced from the NPR.org article, “Giant blobs of seaweed are hitting Florida…”