Taylor Swift – Life In A Word

Where’s Wendy?

The 96th edition of the Academy Awards came and went last Sunday without much fanfare. Mercifully, Monday’s reviews were more about who won, instead of tabloid headlines like wardrobe malfunctions or acceptance speeches gone wrong. I only watched the opening monologue, and not because I cared about what Jimmy Kimmel had to say. Rather, I wanted to see if I could spot a seat filler.

Back in my days as a mid-level manager in corporate America, dozens of resumes came across my desk for prospective employees. Their sections on “previous experience” sometimes caught my eye, if only for the really strange stuff people do with their time. Innovation Sherpa. Hacker. Direct Marketing Demigod. Happiness Hero. I wouldn’t sign up for any of those “jobs” but hey, at least they come with a paycheck. The only compensation a seat filler gets is a free ticket to the show.

If the title isn’t self-evident, a seat filler is someone who attends a televised event (like the Academy Awards) and stands in the shadows of the outside aisles until a “real” attendee gets up to get a drink, use the restroom, socialize, or whatever. The seat filler then dashes over to occupy the seat until the person returns, so the panning cameras give the television audience the impression the event is always filled to capacity.

I could spend several hundred words talking about the myriad ways live TV manipulates a viewer’s perception (flashing “APPLAUSE!” signs come to mind) but seat fillers may be the most absurd of all. Thousands upon thousands of people apply for these opportunities, with only a handful chosen for a given event. As if remaining nameless among the Hollywood elite isn’t humbling enough, seat filling is last-minute employment with all expenses paid by… you.

Imagine opening the email. Congratulations! You’re going to the Grammy Awards! There’s the good news. The bad news is, now you have to book an expensive flight and hotel, buy or rent a dress-code-worthy tux or formal gown, and plead for last-minute approval from your employer for a few days off. Assuming you do make it to the Grammy Awards, you’re subject to a strict set of behaviors. Surrender your ID and smartphone. DON’T walk on the red carpet. DON’T talk to celebrities (unless they talk to you first). And plan on being on your feet for hours, in a covert location where you can’t even see the show, waiting for the command from the Manager of Seat Fillers to “fill that seat!”

As one filler described the experience, maybe there really is a breathless kind of rush when you plop down next to someone like Taylor Swift or Beyoncé. But let’s get real here; celebrities see a seat filler coming from a mile away. How many of them are going to engage with a smile, let alone a word of acknowledgement? Even if you did manage to exchange a sentence or two, you’re going to ask yourself, “Why did I say that to Taylor?” for the rest of your days.

Without your phone, you won’t be able to capture your seat-filling fifteen minutes of fame. You’ll be lucky if you nab a copy of the event program (which can be purchased online anyway). Seat filling is a the very definition of “anonymous”, and it’ll be hard to convince your friends and family you were even there. Unless the TV camera points your way at just the right time, of course.

As for my careful study of the Academy Awards audience on Sunday night, it seemed like a fun game at the time. Pause the picture when the camera pans the people, then walk up to the screen and play a sort of “Where’s Waldo?” (or Wendy) to spot the seat fillers. But I quickly realized the error of my ways. I can’t even recognize the actors. They’re either the too-old versions of the ones I remember (sorry people, the Botox doesn’t help) or they’re the too-young versions of actors I’ve never seen in anything at all.

Suffice it to say, I will never be a seat filler. If I ever go to an awards show it’s because I’m a “real” attendee who deserves to be there (in other words, another lifetime). In this life, I’ll consider more appealing employment prospects for my retirement. Beverage Dissemination Officer. Golf Ball Diver. Professional Sleeper. Hey, at least those pay.

Some content sourced from the Business Insider article, “I was a seat filler at last year’s Grammys…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Decades to Decadence

Waiting in line for the bank teller, as I did last Monday, is decidedly old-school. It’s a face-to-face experience so much more inefficient than the drive-thru lane or smartphone options. But sometimes we still go brick-and-mortar, don’t we? Stopping into the bank is either convenient in the moment or perhaps the transaction demands a real, live person. And so we wait. But at least cashing a check doesn’t take thirty years. It just seems that long sometimes.

Every now and then you see a headline and say, “Wait a minute… WHAT?” And then, even with no interest whatsoever you still read the article. Such was the case this week with a story about Kobe beef. I’ve never eaten Kobe beef. I’m too cheap to even give it a try. I’ll concede the price is justified by the high quality, high demand, and low supply. But what if you had to wait until Thanksgiving of 2052 to be able to enjoy it?

Here’s the gist of the story. A small, family-run butcher shop in Japan makes a beef croquette so popular it’ll take you thirty years to get one. Asahiya, about to celebrate a century in the meat business, began producing its croquettes shortly after World War II. The deep-fried meat-and-potato dumplings were designed as a tease; a mere taste to draw customers to its larger, more expensive products. The strategy didn’t pan out so well but the croquettes themselves became an Internet sensation, and the inevitable hype that followed created a line of customers thirty years long.

[Note: If a Kobe beef croquette sounds “decadent” you’re probably right, but you’re using the wrong word to describe it. Decadent actually means “excessively self-indulgent”. Instead of the food itself perhaps you’re talking about a customer willing to wait thirty years.]

I hear what you’re saying. I wouldn’t pay big bucks for something like this Dave, let alone wait thirty years for it. But go figure; an Asahiya beef croquette costs only $3.40 USD. You could buy a box of ten for less than you probably paid for your Thanksgiving turkey. You just need a very comfortable chair as well. Asahiya makes only two hundred croquettes a day (or twenty customers’ worth) so it’s no wonder you have to wait so long.

Technology being what it is today, we’re not patient waiters anymore. Amazon and others are getting close to same-day delivery on the items we consume regularly. Many amusement parks and tourist attractions have adopted Disney’s approach, where you can pay more to “jump the line”. Want tickets to the next Taylor Swift concert? Pay a “line-stander” to buy them for you. Want season tickets to the Green Bay Packers? Okay, sorry, there’s no way around that one. The seats at sold-out Lambeau Field simply pass down the line from generation to generation. But you can still join the list for this impossible get, just to say you’re on it.

This week’s visit to the bank felt like an impossible get. I made it to within one customer of the front of the line before things came to a grinding halt. Only two tellers were open out of the four. One was preoccupied by a woman who wanted cash and a money order, with terms so specific you knew she was going to be awhile. The other was completely preoccupied by an older gent, carrying on a personal conversation while constantly losing track of whatever he was asking for in the first place. Meanwhile, the back window drive-thru teller was cranking out transaction after transaction after transaction. Shoulda, coulda… I know, I know.

I thought the beef croquette story was timely, not because I went to the bank but because next Thursday is Thanksgiving, when Americans wait all day long. We wake up early, get the oven going, prep the bird, and spend a long time putting the rest of the meal together. We eat earlier than most dinners (does that make it “supper”?) but it’s still a waiting game. Hours and hours of anticipation before the food is finally brought to the table.

If there’s any good news about Asahiya’s Kobe products, it’s that they have options besides the “Extreme” beef croquettes. There’s a more accessible variety called the “Premiere”. You only have to wait four years for those. When you consider how fast we’re going through U.S. Presidents lately, four years doesn’t seem like a long time at all.

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “These Japanese beef croquettes are so popular there’s a 30-year waiting list”.