The Pending Demise Of Golden Boy

For a change, this blog post will begin with a little pre-work. To fully appreciate the meaning of this story, take forty-five seconds and watch this brief Seinfeld clip on Youtube. For those of you who aren't familiar with the episode, "Golden Boy" is Jerry's favorite piece of clothing, a six-year old yellow T-shirt that has started to deteriorate after many, many trips through the washer and dryer. Now, with the homework out of the way, on to the main story...

Those of you who know me best are probably not too surprised to hear me admit that fashion is not one of my top priorities in life. In my mind, clothes serve two important purposes and nothing more: (1) they prevent painful and potentially dangerous chapping and frostbite in the winter, and (2) they prevent me from getting arrested for indecent exposure. As long an article of clothing is still able to fulfill those two critical functions, I see no need to pull it out of the wardrobe rotation. In fact, many of my favorites clothes are like a fine wine, growing better and better as the years pass. With each day, their comfort, functionality, and sentimental value increase exponentially.

Over time, though, I've come to realize that not everyone shares my philosophies on clothing. You see, in the past decade, a larger and larger portion of my closet is filled with articles of clothing that Jerry would classify as "Golden Boys." In reality, if there were another tier of clothing above Golden Boy status, I have some prized pieces that would definitely fall in that category. Take, for example, my favorite navy blue Nike sweatshirt:


The single image can't do Golden Boy justice. You'll have to take my word for it--Golden Boy has an incredible number of holes, the largest of which is on the right shoulder. The more I think about it, it's probably not fair to call that one a hole. The truth is that the right shoulder went missing about five years ago, victimized by years of throwing my backpack strap over my right shoulder as I walked to class throughout high school and college.

Golden Boy was my spring jacket, my winter coat, my casual sweatshirt, and everything in between. He's been there for weddings, sporting events, funerals, Bar Mitzvas, and job interviews. Along the way, Golden Boy picked up holes in the front pocket, both elbows, the hood, the drawstrings, and countless other areas. And if you can't tell from the photo, the cuffs on both sleeves look like they battled a wood-chipper. And that backpack strap hole...it's only grown larger with time, to the point where every time I pull Golden Boy over my head, there's a 50/50 chance I'll make it through the actual head hole on the first try.

Every time I wear Golden boy in public, I get plenty of stares, and close friends are never shy with their harsh comments and judgment: "Why don't you buy a new sweatshirt?! You look homeless!" But Golden Boy is nowhere near retirement--he still keeps me warm in the winter (in most places, anyway), and last time I checked, no one was ever charged with indecent exposure for baring a shoulder in public. In my eyes, he looks just as good as he did a decade ago. Here's a shot of Golden Boy, circa 2002. Look at that handsome devil. And the sweatshirt looks pretty good, too.


But even though Golden Boy lives on, I've struggled with a similar problem in recent years. This particular issue first came to my attention about four years ago with my favorite pair of Express dress pants. I'd only owned these pants for about a year, and I only wore them to work once or twice a week. I took great care to hang them up immediately after wearing them, and I dutifully followed the "Dry Clean Only" instructions on the tag. That's why I was shocked when I noticed that the pants had suffered from crotch failure.

That's right--after just thirteen months of ownership, the crotch of my favorite dress pants looked like a bad slice of Swiss cheese. I sent a strongly worded email to the Express customer service department, but the only response I received said that I could take the pants into the store for an exchange. It seemed like a fair offer, but I could never summon the courage to walk up to the cashier, place my damaged pants on the counter, and demand an exchange because my crotch gave out after one year of light office use. Four years later, those pants still hang in my closet, stuck in a never-ending holding pattern of embarrassment.

Don't get me wrong: I didn't give up on my favorite dress pants that easily. After spotting the hole for the first time, I wasn't ready to retire the pants over a little crotch exposure--they still served both critical functions of clothing, keeping me both warm and covered enough to prevent jail time. I combed meticulously through the dress code at work, and it made no specific reference to crotch exposure...and I could sit with my legs crossed at the important meetings anyway. But I eventually gave in, finally coming to terms with the fact that a partially exposed groin area probably leaned a little too far toward the "casual" end of the "business casual" spectrum. Plus, I figured some of my more sensitive co-workers might be unsettled if they ever realized that I was walking around with some extra ventilation downtown.

As you'll recall, I previously mentioned that this was my first brush with crotch failure. Unfortunately, it would not be my last. The next victim was my favorite shorts, a pair of (originally) black Nike tennis shorts that I've had since I was fifteen years old. I wept for hours when I looked down one day while wearing the shorts, only to realize that there was a lot less fabric standing between me and indecent exposure than I had expected.

While this was horrifying, it wasn't as shocking--these shorts were a decade old, and Mom's needle and thread had already repaired the seams along the side of these shorts several times. Countless hours in the sun had turned my favorite shorts from deep black to a dirty brown color. And while Mom's sewing skills were able to save the crotch that dreadful day, father time eventually caught up with the shorts, and late in 2010, the left cheek finally gave out, the fabric having grown too thin to accommodate any further attempts at repair:



Crotch failure had now hit me twice--and hard. One incident? Call it bad luck. Two? Chalk it up to coincidence. But as fate would have it, crotch failure was not finished with me yet. I won't go into the gory details of the other accounts--this is, after all, a family-friendly blog. But it's worth noting exactly where the tally stands today. Including the Express pants and the Nike shorts, I have now crotched my way through two pairs of dress pants, one pair of jeans, and three pairs of tennis shorts. I'll spare you the trouble of getting our your calculator--that's a total of seven failures!

That's neither bad luck nor coincidence; I realize now that the problem must be me. The sample size has grown to the point that is has become statistically significant, and the facts are now simply undeniable. My crotch doesn't discriminate against brand name, fabric type, or quality of workmanship. Coming to terms with this harsh reality was not easy...I felt confused, even ashamed. What was I doing wrong? Too much hip movement in my chair at work? Not enough? Was I destined to spend my life burrowing through the crotches of each and every pair of pants I would ever own? That seemed like a lonely and expensive way to live. I knew that if Mom started charging me for all of her repair efforts, she could easily pursue full-time work as a crotch hole-cobbler.

But luckily, the shame wore off over time, and I taught myself to look at the bright side. I didn't want to flatter myself at first, but it's clear to me now that my crotch is unstoppable. And while some might view this situation as a curse, I choose to look at it as a blessing. I have shunned my embarrassment and will finally start asking clothing stores the question I should have started asking years ago: "Do you sell any pants with a Kevlar-reinforced crotch?" I'm afraid, at least in the beginning, that the answer will almost certainly be "no." But if fashion designers hear the question enough, they'll eventually have to give the public what is so separately wants. And if they don't, then I hope Mom is ready to embark on a new career path.

Monkey Business

It's been said that given an infinite amount of time, a monkey randomly typing on a keyboard will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. I actually looked this up--it's called the Infinite Money Theorem (which Wikipedia clearly distinguishes from the Hundredth Money Effect, but that's another story for another blog post). In 1987, an economist named Burton Malkiel made a different, but equally bold, primate prediction when he claimed in his book A Random Walk Down Wall Street that a blindfolded monkey throwing darts at the financial section of a newspaper could pick stocks that would match or beat the performance of professionally (human) managed portfolios.

A year after Malkiel published his book, the Wall Street Journal decided to put his dart-throwing, monkey stock-picking idea to the test. I was disappointed to discover that they didn't actually perform the hilarious and potentially dangerous experiment of blindfolding monkeys and letting them launch darts...apparently WSJ staff members acted as the monkeys and threw darts at a list of stocks. As far as I can tell, they weren't actually blindfolded, but it least there were actual darts involved. After a hundred "fake monkey" contests, the WSJ published mixed results, which were widely debated.

Where am I going with all this? I guess reading all this made me realize that when it comes to saving for retirement, most people still go with the pros. Even though monkeys apparently have money management skills that rival those of their human counterparts, presumably at a much lower cost, investors still seek credibility when it comes to growing their life savings.

If you look some of the most well-known names in the financial industry, you'll notice a consistent pattern. The figureheads of most top financial companies are old, rich-looking white guys who fall into one of four broad categories: men who look like angry 19th century railroad tycoons, wealthy grandfather types, nerdy economists who had their lunch money stolen as children (a trend that I suspect continues in adulthood), or founding fathers of the United States.

It's undeniable. It seems that people demand a certain level of credibility before they feel comfortable enough to hand over control of their savings. That's why I was shocked when I came across this ad in a 2008 issue of Money magazine:


It's Gorilla Trades! The founders of this fine company must have taken Burton Malkiel's monkey stock-picking comments a bit too seriously. The credibility factor might feel a bit shaky at first, but for those finicky customers who have some initial reservations about handing over the financial reins to the bespectacled, cigar-smoking gorilla that appears in the company's logo, Davy Jones from the Monkees makes an appearance to offer his endorsement. And to top it off, his quote starts with, "I'm a Believer!", a not-so-subtle reference to The Monkees' #1 hit from the late 60s.

I guess on some level, I can understand how letting chimps manage your nest egg might make sense--if you're tired of lining your financial advisor's pockets with those hefty fees, why not let monkeys pick stocks for free? From the sounds of the Wall Street Journal study, they might even do a reasonable job. But the problem is, Gorilla Trades is not free. They offer a 30-day free trial, but apparently letting apes manage your portfolio requires a minimum $600 annual subscription.

I couldn't help but feel skeptical when I first saw the ad--despite the marketing clout of Davy Jones, could Gorilla Trades really attract subscribers and stay in business? I went to their website to see if the company was still around, three years after the ad appeared in Money. Sure enough, the website remains active, and my skepticism immediately vanished when I saw this:


Now I, too, am a believer. One thing's for sure--I don't need one of those fancy, "traditional" financial institutions to feel confident that I'll live comfortably in retirement. I don't care any more if my financial advisor works for a company founded by a guy who resembles Cornelius Vanderbilt. But there's a tough decision in my future. Celebrities are never wrong, and Davy Jones has never led me astray in past, but $600 a year to let a guy in a muppet custume and a velour business suit manage my finances gives me reason to think twice. So I guess it's either join Gorilla Trades, or start heading toward the zoo with a handful of darts and the business section.

A Cure For America's Weight Problems? Fat Chance...

Several months ago, I stumbled across an article about "Nutrition Keys," a revolution in food packaging that will place nutrition information in giant bold font on the front of packaged foods. The article mentioned that the Grocery Manufacturer's Association was planning to spend $50 million on TV, radio, print, and digital advertising in attempt to "educate consumers" about the Nutrition Keys icon and to help drive awareness.


I was absolutely stunned to learn that it takes $50 million to inform people that the same information that's already on the side or the back of the box is now on the front of the box, with slightly larger font.The article claims that this change represents the "most significant modernization of food labels since the Nutrition Labeling and Education Act of 1990." Better yet, the "experts" in the article predict that Nutrition Keys will help consumers make more informed and healthy eating decisions.

I have my own prediction: it won't. How many times have you found yourself standing the grocery store, a can of vegetables in one hand, a box of donuts in the other, hopelessly confused as to which is the healthier option? If only these food products somehow provided some kind of guidance on nutrition information that didn't require the excruciating effort of picking up the packages and turning them around! Somehow I struggle to understand how this revolutionary change will shrink America's collective waistline...

The problem isn't availability of information; the problem is that the typical shopper just doesn't care about healthy eating. Picture the average American consumer...better yet, don't bother using your imagination--visit peopleofwalmart.com, where other people have taken pictures of average American consumers for you.

As you browse through the photos of these nauseatingly-dressed if not dangerously overweight shoppers, ask yourself this--even with the new, incredibly convenient Nutrition Keys icons in place, can you picture these people scouring food packages, thoughtfully weighing the calorie, sodium, and carbohydrate trade-offs between various snacking options before filling their shopping carts? I have little doubt that even if Hostess labeled Twinkies packages with giant, bold, flashing warnings that read, " IF YOU EAT TOO MANY OF THESE, YOU WILL BECOME FAT(TER) AND (MORE) UNATTRACTIVE!", the average consumer wouldn't pause for a second.

Working at a food company has shown me just how expensive and time-consuming it can be to implement packaging changes like these. And if the food industry is going to change packages anyway, why not try something that might actually work? Before I had even finished reading the article, I was already brainstorming potential packaging changes that might actually force people to think twice before grabbing that bag of pork rinds or that giant tub of whip cream.

Why not put a shiny reflective surface--a makeshift mirror, if you will--on the fronts of food packages, which would allow portly consumers to get a good look at themselves as they pick up the package? I know browsing through the photos at People of Wal-Mart kills my appetite every time. It seems much more likely to succeed than moving nutrition information to the front of the box...

But just as I was preparing to pat myself on the back and applaud my creative solution, I realized the reflective packaging option was every bit as useless as the Nutrition Keys icon. When people use the phrase "god doesn't give with both hands," they are usually referring to the fact that you can't have everything in life, or you can't be good looking and intelligent, or something along those lines. That phrase is typically used to point out that god doesn't hand out too much of a good thing. But I've found it goes the other way, too.

You see, god is a bottomless pit of kindness. He may not give any one person too much of a good thing, but he normally doesn't go overboard when handing out the bad, either--for example, he doesn't burden the morbidly obese with the dual punishment of unattractiveness and shame. How do I know this? Unfortunately, this lesson was permanently etched into my memory on a vacation back in 2007. As soon as I spotted this abomination, I couldn't bear to look, yet I couldn't turn away...or resist snapping this photo:


If you look carefully, you'll notice that with my prodigious photographic skills, I was able to capture my subject and a Dairy Queen logo all in the same shot. This photo is as rare a specimen as photos of African wildebeests feeding in their natural habitat. I kid you not--National Geographic has contacted me with some serious offers for this shot, but for four years I've held out and saved this treasure for the blog. This woman may not be much to look at, with her bikini top and the fleshy "skinner-tube" around her waist, but apparently shame is not an issue. And that's precisely why shaming consumers with an unflattering reflection on the outside of a food package will do nothing to stop the feeding frenzy.

Nutrition Keys certainly won't help, and mirrored packaging is equally ineffective. Where does that leave us? I'm not exactly sure...but after reading the article and giving it some thought, I'm officially making two obvious and undoubtedly accurate predictions: (1) Nutrition Keys will do absolutely nothing to help Americans make healthier food choices, and (2) the Grocery Manufacturer's Association is about to throw away $50 million in advertising dollars trying to prove people like me wrong.

Survey Says...Huh?

What's better than a fast, reliable internet connection? A free internet connection. When I first moved into my apartment a few years ago, I was living the good life. For months, I mooched free wireless internet from a tech-unsavvy neighbor who wouldn't know a security key from the back side of a horse. Sure, the connection was painfully slow--I couldn't view videos, even the smallest pictures took hours to load, and my connection seemed to react to the weather like an old man's hip on a cool, damp fall evening. But the price was unbeatable.

Unfortunately, that selfish neighbor either moved away, died, or moved the router out of my computer's range, and my dreams came crashing down to earth. I faced a tough question: could I really justify paying for internet? Finally, enticed by a 6-month introductory offer of $30 a month, I gave in and started paying for my own connection. And I loved it. Streaming videos, listening to music, viewing images, chatting on instant message, reading emails that took less than five minutes to load...it's like Al Gore waived his magic wand and instantly transported me from the AOL-hell of the early 90s to the 21st century.

When those glorious introductory six months came to an end, I didn't hesitate before deciding to continue my service, even at the full price. In six short months, I came to realize that I wasn't just paying for an internet connection--the web had become so much more. The internet was my TV, radio, newspaper, bank, weatherman, tax accountant, mall, library, phone book, and even the metaphorical binoculars that let me peer through my neighbors' windows at night. (Just kidding about that last one....or am I?)

And more importantly, I realized that with just a little effort, I could offset part of that monthly internet bill. Selling old junk on eBay is probably the most widely known source of internet income, but the web also offers a surprising number of less popular money-making opportunities. Plenty of websites offer rewards for filling out surveys, which you can cash in for gift cards or other free stuff. My two favorites are Mypoints.com and eRewards.com, which send emails with links to surveys--the longer the survey, the larger the reward you receive for completing it.



At first, you might be thinking that this sounds like a time-consuming, desperate, and pathetic way to make money. And you're probably right...but over the years, I've received hundreds of dollars worth of free stuff, enough to put a sizable dent in that internet bill. Still, most people just laugh, and even those who aren't immediately turned off by the idea usually take issue with one important aspect of these services: the privacy factor.

Understandably, people find it creepy that by filling out all these surveys, companies across the country will have all kinds of personal information about them--their nationality, where they live, how much money they make, how many kids they have, what kind of car they drive, what they watch on TV. I agree, these are all legitimate concerns. That's why I came up with a simple solution: lying.

And so, as far as the internet is concerned, I'm a 64 year-old African American woman from Woodville, Alabama, with an 8th grade education and a wooden leg. Thanks to my job as a greeter at the Woodville Wal-Mart, I'll pulling down just under $20,000 a year. And though my house may not be much to look at, it's a roof over my head for me and all 17 of my children. My car doesn't look much better than the house, but driving with a wooden leg was never easy anyway.


Yet somehow, despite my rich and colorful history, I manage to fall outside the researchers' target market. After filling out hundreds of these surveys over the years, I've come to realize that the surveys are, generally speaking, extremely predictable. Nearly every one of them asks for the same types of information: consumers' responses to advertisements or new product ideas, insights on shopping habits, or information about consumers' plans to make major purchases like houses or cars. But apparently companies are more interested in the opinions of wealthy white males between the ages of 18 and 49. Lucky for me, these websites still hand out small rewards even when I don't qualify for their surveys.

On the rare occasion that a company is actually interested in the opinion of an elderly woman with no disposable income, I have the opportunity to answer all the questions in the survey. Normally, I'd guess that the process of completing a full survey would take anywhere from 20 to 40 minutes, but that assumes that the respondent is reading the questions and putting actual thought into the answers. Instead, I earn my reward with a 30-second flurry of mindless clicking. None of the work, all of the rewards, and I get to flood the marketing departments of America's corporations with grossly inaccurate and misleading insights about their consumers. In case Ford ever re-launches the 1983 Escort with peg-leg-friendly pedals, let me just say in advance: you're welcome.

I'll admit, at first I was only in it for the free stuff. But along the way, I've stumbled across some real gems that make the whole experience worthwhile, with or without the rewards. As I mentioned before, most of the questions are boring and repetitive, asking about my favorite toaster design, my preferred hardware store, or my plans to switch car insurers. The intentions of the company behind the survey are obvious...usually. Every once and a while, I across a question that leaves me asking, "huh?" Take this one, for example:


I can't help but wonder...who are they targeting with this question, and what kind of product are they trying to sell? My favorite part is that the question doesn't bother offering a "None of the above" option. Because apparently everyone has conducted a business meeting while doing something obscene, illegal, or just downright creepy. I couldn't help but check every box and offer a few more ideas in the "other" section before proceeding.

I can't speak for everyone, but I know that all of my best business meetings took place while I was intoxicated, wearing only my underwear, and beating my children while visiting a close friend in prison. I get choked up with pride knowing that I'm providing companies with valuable insights like these. And best of all, I'm getting paid to do it. With entertainment like this, I can confidently say that I will never be able to live without my internet connection.

The Costly Savings of Sam's Club

When I first joined Sam's Club years ago, I was awe-struck at the tremendous opportunities for savings. For someone who eats enormous quantities of a limited number of foods and has some extra space to store non-perishables, shopping at Sam's Club is the pinnacle of shopping efficiency. Shortly after joining, I picked up a box of fifteen dozen eggs labeled "Packaged for Restaurant Use," which only fit in my meager civilian-sized refrigerator after removing a shelf. As I sit here writing, I'm less than half way through an oversize box of trash bags that I purchased nearly three years ago, and Tide's barrels of laundry detergent easily carry me through a year's worth of laundry before running dry.

The highlight of my membership has to be the cart-filling, 45-roll crate of toilet paper that lasted me...we'll, it didn't last as long as I'd hoped, but then again, I suppose that explains the frequent plumbing-related issues that seem to plague me from time to time. And best of all, the annual membership fee does a reasonable job of weeding out the unsavory, bottom-tier clientele that pack the aisles at Wal-Mart.


Needless to say, I quickly embraced the bulk-buying lifestyle. But in recent months, I've found myself dreading my trips to Sam's Club, and until recently I struggled to pinpoint exactly why I dreaded those shopping trips more than any others. Over three years, I've come to realize that those deep, deep discounts come at a steep, steep price. What Sam's Club brings to the table in savings, its stores fall painfully short in the convenience department.

At the top of my list of grievances is the cornerstone of the club shopping experience: product sampling. Who would have thought that giving away food samples at the end of the aisles could lead to so much misery? The portly patrons of Sam's Club have developed a freakish ability to sense free junk food. When the old ladies fire up their portable microwaves and squeeze into their latex food-serving gloves, a flash-mob immediately swarms the demo stand. I feel like I'm watching a pack of starving, bi-pedal wolves feed on a rabbit carcass made out of pudding and Doritos. I've come to realize that most Sam's Club members view the stores as restaurants, not supermarkets, and they are intent on squeezing every penny out of the annual membership fee every time they set food in the store, one fried mozzarella stick at a time.


Those pear-shaped food fiends are so excited at the prospect of free Hot Pockets that they're incapable of noticing that some people are actually trying to buy groceries. And, sadly, the sample stations sit squarely at the at the ends of the most popular aisles, meaning even the widest lanes are quickly sealed shut by a wall of flab. I never expected to feel claustrophobic in a 20,000 square-foot warehouse.

As the feeding frenzy unfolds, half-empty shopping carts sit in disarray, leaving me with the nearly-impossible task of navigating my shopping cart through a maze of overweight shoppers and general chaos. The situation has gotten so bad that a friend of mine, a frequent victim of the same predicament, suggested carrying decoy snacks with me as I shop as a means of dispersing the crowds, not unlike those movie scenes where burglars throw raw steaks to distract the guard dogs and make their escape.

As if the product sampling wasn't frustrating enough, I nearly reached my breaking point around the holidays. An older man working at a demo stand decided it would be a good idea to sing a Sam's Club-themed song at passers-by. The lyrics sounded like they came straight out of a kindergarten special-ed class, highlighted by an off-key chorus that went something like this: "Thank you for shopping at Sam's Club." Genius. I'm all for taking pride in your work, but after about fifteen seconds I wanted nothing more than to see that guy choke on one of the artificial mini-cream puffs that he was hawking from his demo stand.

In the midst of all the madness I encounter every time I go to Sam's Club, I have to find a way to get my shopping done. Product quality was never an issue in the past, but I'm less than thrilled with Sam's Club's new trend of replacing name-brand products with its own "Member's Mark" products. When Member's Mark chicken first appeared on the shelves at a $0.20/pound discount, I was ecstatic--with the quantity of chicken that I eat, that difference could save me thousands of dollars over the course of a year.


But Member's Mark and I have very different definitions of a few important words, including "boneless" and "chicken." The six pounds of product in each bag contains much, much more than boneless chicken breast. I've found plenty of chicken bones, skin, tendons, cartilage, and a wide variety of parts that I'm not entirely convinced didn't come from raccoons, squirrels, or rats. I guess that will teach me to buy a product whose top ingredient on the back of the package reads "?????".

The label should probably mention something about "assorted animal parts" and put less emphasis on "boneless skinless chicken breast." When Member's Mark chicken mysteriously disappeared from the shelves last month, I was convinced. I have little doubt that someone finally found a whole, feathered chicken in one of those bags. On the positive side, meal time has never been so exciting for me.

For those of us lucky enough to survive the sampling war zone with all of our fingers intact, things hardly improve when it comes time to check out. In just about any store that isn't named after Sam Walton, selecting the optimal checkout lane involves looking for the shortest line. But choosing the best lane at Sam's Club requires significantly more thought and deliberation, since numerous variables come into play. First, check for old people--generally slow-moving, they waste plenty of time unloading commercial-size products from their carts. And worse, they're far more likely to pay with a check, and they're no faster with the pen and checkbook than they are in unloading their carts.

Next, scan the checkout aisles for poor people. Having spent several years working as a cashier, I learned the hard way that something always goes wrong with those food stamp (EBT) debit cards, and the problem is never resolved quickly. I've witnessed my share of philosophical debates between cashiers and dirt-poor customers about why food stamps can't be used to purchase booze or cigarettes. The second potential hang-up comes from food stampers who fail to keep track of the remaining balance on their card. This leads to a painful scenario I like to call "reverse shopping."


The cashier rings up a cart full of groceries, then the customer tries to pay with an EBT card. If the balance is insufficient, the transaction doesn't go through, and the computer system doesn't bother telling the cashier how much money is left on the card. The only remaining option is for the cashier to start voiding items, pausing after each one to let the food stamper swipe the card again until the total falls below the balance on the card and the transaction finally goes through.

And then there are foreigners. I still haven't figured out why, but non-Americans seem to struggle when they get to the cash register. This has never made sense to me, because Americans are world leaders when it comes to laziness and ignorance. People from other countries are generally much smarter than their American counterparts, and even taking language barriers into account, paying for groceries is a fairly straightforward process. Is it dealing with a foreign currency that slows them down? I'm stumped on this one, but all I know is that I always march directly to the back of the line with filled with non-elderly, ignorant Americans who are ready to do what Americans do best: charge stuff on their credit cards.


When I finally find myself at the front of the line, I brace myself for the all-too-familiar sales pitch as the cashier scans the groceries. "Have you heard of our E-Values program?" Sam's Club has some fee-based coupon service that the cashiers have been trained to push on their customers. Since I only buy about five different items from Sam's Club on a regular basis, I have serious doubts that the program could possibly pay off for me. When I tell the cashier I'm not interested, they ask my favorite question: "Don't you like saving money?" I've learned the fastest way to end the sales pitch is to reply, "I'm just so &*$%*!@ rich, I couldn't care less."


With the groceries scanned, I'm almost ready to head for the exits...but not before another jab of inconvenience. Four-pound bucket of beef jerky? Ten dollars. Fifty-pound bag of rice? Nineteen dollars. The ability to pay with any major credit card? Priceless. But not an option at Sam's Club. I've never understood this one, either...Sam's Club doesn't accept Visa cards. Despite the slogan, apparently Visa is not everywhere I want to be--I had to apply for a new MasterCard just so I could use a credit card at Sam's Club. Yet not even a hundred yards away, on the opposite end of the parking lot, Sam's Club accepts Visa cards at the gas pumps.

And finally, even at the exit doors, Sam's Club manages to inconvenience its customers one last time with a laughable attempt at security. A non-English speaking Barney Fife waits at the exit, pretending to match the contents of customers' carts with their receipts. I would take the process much more seriously if the guard (1) could read English, and (2) actually turned the receipt right-side-up as he looked at it. I'm convinced I could walk up with a cart full of plasma TVs and a receipt showing that I purchased a loaf of bread, and the guard would still draw a line though the receipt and mumble something in a foreign language before letting me pass by.

At least shopping at Sam's Club has been a learning experience. When I signed up for my first membership, I never realized that savings could be so costly.

A Major Blip On The Gay-Dar

I have a brand new, spectacular blog post partially completed, but it appears that I'm running out of January without meeting my goal of at least one blog post per month. GMAT preparations have jeopardized my time and rekindled my love affair with hating learning, reading, studying, and education in general. Preparing for that God-forsaken test has shifted my focus from fun, creative, entertaining writing to memorizing the rules of grammar and deconstructing sentences like an ignorant sixth-grader.

And so, to meet my one-blog-post-a-month quota, I'll have to dip into the archives for a brief tale that I have yet to publish on this blog. The story is nearly five years old, but remember--a rerun than you haven't seen before is just as good as a new episode. With that, I must return to my propositional phrases, abstract nouns, and gerunds. I had forgotten just how painful writing can be...thanks for nothing, education!

Until I find the time to finish my new post, enjoy this tale of a trip to the Grand Canyon...where a stranger seemingly had his heart set on exploring my "Grand Canyon"...


Early in the summer of 2006, during a glorious six-week stretch between college graduation and the drudgery of full-time work, I joined my mother on a 10-day vacation to the Southwest. One of our many stops during the trip included several days camping in the Grand Canyon. Unfortunately, my fear of heights prevented us from actually going down into the canyon or anywhere near the edge, so we spent our days hiking along the rim, seeing what we could see from the top.

Between hikes one afternoon, we stopped in the lodge to use the restrooms. Mom asked me to hold onto her camera while she went to the restroom, so I sat down at an empty table to wait for her. As I sat there, I felt someone eyeing me from across the room. I glanced up, and out of the corner of my eye I could see someone staring at me. I tried to avoid eye contact and continued sitting there...but I noticed the person coming toward me.

"Hi." This guy came up to me and introduced himself. Why was this complete stranger talking to me? He was trying to make small talk, so I mumbled one-word answers and stared at the floor, trying my best to discourage any further conversation. "Are you hiking the canyon today?" he asked me. "Maybe..." I answered, knowing full well that I wasn't going anywhere near the edge. By this time, things were getting more awkward by the second.

"You look like a fit guy, I bet you could do it." Red flag!!! The awkwardness increased tenfold. "Yeah," I mumbled back. He finally gave up on his quest to meet his dream man in Arizona and said good-bye and walked off. Up to that point, I was hoping Mom would get back from the restroom so I could either (1) make an excuse that we had to leave and sprint out of there, or (2) pretend she was my much, much, much older wife so that he would get the message that I just don't swing from that side of the plate. Unfortunately, I had to fend off his advances on my own.

I certainly can't blame him, but I still have no idea what inspired the guy to come up and start talking to me. Was I flattered? Absolutely. Curious or interested? Not a bit. But I admire his taste and effort--I can't say that I wouldn't do the same thing if I was gay and spotted myself across the room.

Dreaming of a White Green Christmas...

It was mid-winter 2009, and I faced a potentially disastrous holiday situation. Just hours away from Christmas Eve and lacking even a single roll of wrapping paper, I found myself staring at a mountain of unwrapped gifts. I asked myself what MacGyver would do in such a situation, and I quickly decided I'd have to improvise. While most people would proceed timidly in the face of the unknown, I forged ahead with a confidence that could only come from a strong track record of improvisational success.

My solution, much like myself, was simple and brilliant: newspaper. Whenever I used wrapping paper in the past, the wastefulness of the whole situation made me sick. Paper companies raze miles and miles of forest, and for what? To cover Christmas gifts for a few days, only to watch the paper get torn up and thrown away by December 26th. The wrapping paper industry must have John Denver and dead environmentalist hippies across the world spinning in their graves. I felt quite proud of my creativity and environmental sensitivity as I admired my pile of newspaper-covered gifts.

When Christmas 2010 rolled around, my choice of wrapping paper was a no-brainer: I would once again turn to the newspaper. No additional cost, no additional waste--clearly a win-win situation. Aside from helping out my old friend Mother Nature, I realized that wrapping my gifts with newspaper had a few other benefits that I hadn't considered in 2009.

First of all, wrapping with newspaper allows the gift-giver to custom-match the paper to the recipient. With standard Christmas-themed paper, your choices are pretty much limited to wintry landscapes, images of Santa or reindeer, or the basic red and green-colored paper. But with newspaper, the options are limitless. Giving a gift to an overweight food fiend? Wrap it with a Krispy Kreme or Old Country Buffet ad. An avid follower of business and politics? Wrap that present with a few pages from the Wall Street Journal. When you're selecting a paper for the convicted felon in your life, pull a page or two from the police report section of your local paper.

And it's not just newspaper's versatility that makes it my preferred method of wrapping--it's so much more informative. What can a person really learn from looking at stack of gifts that were wrapped with traditional Christmas paper? Absolutely nothing. I, on the other hand, learned a great deal during my brief gift-wrapping session. In less than thirty minutes that I spent wrapping with newspapers ranging in age from several weeks to several years old, I picked up countless invaluable nuggets of information, including, but not limited to the following: that Hy-Vee ran a sale on prime rib in late December 2009, that the Dow Jones Industrial Average increased by 19 points on May 24, 2005, and that Harold Barnes of Marshalltown, Iowa died at age 78 on June 25, 2008. Not once in all of my previous years wrapping gifts with "normal" paper did I pick up even a fraction of that kind of useful information.

When I finished wrapping, I decided 2010 was the year I'd attack another lingering gift-giving nuisance: the labels. Those sticky little "To/From" rascals seem every bit as wasteful as wrapping paper. And though I've never purchased any myself, I can only assume they're at least as expensive as wrapping paper. Luckily, I'd stumbled across an equally MacGyver-worthy solution a few months before while paging though the December, 2005 issue of BusinessWeek:

My favorite automobile manufacturer, General Motors, printed a full-page "Red Tag Event" ad, complete with actual To/From tags. The only potential snag in this plan was that each tag included a picture of one of GM's various automobile models. My first thought was that my gift recipients might jump to the conclusion that I'd bought them each a new car, but I realized these labels actually worked in my favor. Since they were General Motors cars on the labels, I felt confident that anyone opening one of my gifts would feel an overwhelming sense of relief when they realized that I hadn't burdened them with a lifetime of expensive and frustrating auto repairs. It didn't matter what newspaper-wrapped crap people pulled out of the box; relief and thankfulness were sure to follow.

With the labels in place, my task was complete. I was particularly proud of my wrapping job on one odd-shaped gift. With this cylindrical package, I immediately gave up on aesthetics and went straight for efficiency and practicality. What could have taken days to wrap ended up taking less than 15 seconds:

I avoided tape entirely and opted for three rubber bands and two full-page sheets of newspaper. My heart swelled with holiday spirit as I pictured Santa and Jesus high-fiving each other at the North Pole. I stood back and admired the final result of my tree-saving handiwork:

Sure, my gifts weren't as colorful as some of the others under the tree, but when they're all mixed together, newspaper doesn't look too bad (dim lighting and a slightly blurry photo don't hurt in this case, either):

For those of you who decide to adopt my wrapping strategy next Christmas, be warned that you will inevitably run into people who accuse you of "ruining the holiday spirit" or something similar. The logical rebuttal, obviously, is to accuse those of destroying the earth, and pile on the guilt as you point out their wasteful use of paper, labels, and bows, ribbons, and all that needless holiday decoration. And if they took the time to decorate their house with holiday lights, accuse them of wasting electricity, too.

Having flirted with perfection during the 2010 holiday season, you might find yourself wondering how I can possibly raise the bar again next year. The answer is simple: a Christmas-themed, gift-concealing curtain. This innovative idea is based on my vision of a world in which gift wrapping disappears entirely, suffering the same fate as the telegraph or childhood fitness and academic achievement in America. The exciting part is that I think we can abolish gift wrapping without losing that tremendous sense of anticipation and surprise that comes from unwrapping presents.

For the sake of environmental friendliness, the gift-concealing curtain will, of course, be fashioned out of durable, reusable organic cotton. Each holiday season, families across the country will set up their gift-concealing curtain and simply deposit their unwrapped gifts behind it, saving countless forests and thousands of hours of unnecessary wrapping. To keep the element of surprise intact, you'll have to find a neutral third-party to keep pets, curious children, and potential thieves from sneaking behind the curtain before Christmas. And, of course, this person can help distribute gifts on Christmas morning. I recommend an easily-bribed homeless person, who will jump at the chance to spend part of the winter indoors.

In the past, smiling parents watched their excited children tear the wrapping paper of their gifts on Christmas morning. In the Christmas of the future, parents can sit back and listen to screams of delight as the homeless man in the corner pulls the kids' Christmas gifts from behind the curtain, one at a time. It's my gift to the world--a sustainable Christmas tradition that saves time, money, the environment, and more than a few homeless people. The only sad part is that Christmas 2011 is so far way...