Just in time for Valentines day, for the low low price of $1,250, you can print messages and logos directly onto flowers.

I kid you not.

Scott

HT Engadget

Fast Company has an interesting article on the CEO of Simplicity, who owns the Snapper lawn mower brand and their decision to stop selling through Walmart.

Here are a few quotes:

It was a Wal-Mart moment that couldn’t be scripted, or perhaps even imagined. A vice president responsible for billions of dollars’ worth of business in the largest company in history has his visitors sit in mismatched, cast-off lawn chairs that Wal-Mart quite likely never had to pay for.

The vice president had a bigger surprise for Wier, though. Wal-Mart not only wanted to keep selling his lawn mowers, it wanted to sell lots more of them. Wal-Mart wanted to sell mowers nose-to-nose against Home Depot and Lowe’s.

“Usually,” says Wier, “I don’t perspire easily.” But perched on the edge of his chaise, “I felt my arms getting drippy.”

Wier took a breath and said, “Let me tell you why it doesn’t work.”

*******************

You can buy a lawn mower at Wal-Mart for $99.96, and depending on the size and location of the store, there are slightly better models for every additional $20 bill you’re willing to put down–priced at $122, $138, $154, $163, and $188. That’s six models of lawn mowers below $200. Mind you, in some Wal-Marts you literally cannot see what you are buying; there are no display models, just lawn mowers in huge cardboard boxes.

The least expensive Snapper lawn mower–a 19-inch push mower with a 5.5-horsepower engine–sells for $349.99 at full list price. Even finding it discounted to $299, you can buy two or three lawn mowers at Wal-Mart for the cost of a single Snapper.

If you know nothing about maintaining a mower, Wal-Mart has helped make that ignorance irrelevant: At even $138, the lawn mowers at Wal-Mart are cheap enough to be disposable. Use one for a season, and if you can’t start it the next spring (Wal-Mart won’t help you out with that), put it at the curb and buy another one. That kind of pricing changes not just the economics at the low end of the lawn-mower market, it changes expectations of customers throughout the market. Why would you buy a walk-behind mower from Snapper that costs $519? What could it possibly have to justify spending $300 or $400 mor

********************

And the power and allure of Wal-Mart is such that even Jim Wier, the man who said no to Wal-Mart, a man who knows all the reasons why that was the right decision, has slivers of doubt.

“I could go to my grave, and my tombstone could say, ‘Here lies the dumbest CEO ever to live. He chose not to sell to Wal-Mart.’ ”

No matter what you think of Walmart, its a fascinating and extremely well-written article. Check it out.

Scott

This could be a really fun hobby.

Have you ever gotten an email, (I am sure you have), purportedly from someone in Africa, who needs your help removing gobs of cash from someone else bank account?

The always go something like this:

From: Mariam Abacha
To: Stuart Fielding
Date: Saturday, April 10, 2004 2:12 AM

ATTN;
I am Hajia Maryam Abacha, widow of the Late Gen. Sani Abacha former Nigerian Military Head of State who died as a result of cardiac arrest.

I therefore decided to contact you in confidence so that I can be able to move out the sum of US$35,760,000.00 ( Thirty Five Million Seven hundred and Sixty Thousand U. S. Dollars ) which was secretly defaced and seal in big metal box for security reasons in your account.

I personally therefore appeal to you for your urgent assistance to move this money into your country where I believe it will be safe since I cannot leave the country due to the restriction of movement imposed on me and members of my family by the Nigerian government. . . .

blah blah blah

This type a fraud is called an advanced fee fraud or simply a 4-1-9 fraud (for the section of the Nigerian penal code dealing with fraud). The amazing thing is many people fall victim to these scams. Keep in mind that these scammers are criminals and unsavory people, but often very clever.

Check out 419eater.com to read about people who make a hobby out of scamming the scammers. It’s really quite funny. They often convince the scammers to send pictures and stuff. Anyway check it out for some fun reading.

And speaking of 419 scams, you HAVE TO read this recent listing at woot.com. Its very funny.

Scott

Well, we surpassed the 10,000 hits milestone a few days ago. My wife beat us to it.
Of course, she’s so much better as a blogger than the lame FatTriplets.

Of course, if it weren’t for Pop’s Poetry there would have been hardly any new posts here since the beginning of the year. I can’t speak for my brothers, but I have been incredibly busy and haven’t had the time or energy to post anything substantive.

Starting today I am going to try and post something every day, even if it’s fluff and stupid stuff.

Scott

HOW WE LOVE THE LIAR

And hate the lie?
Strange, but something within us,
Accepts both.
Is it our gentle nature,
Or deep, collective guilt?
Wishing to look away, we smooth the coverlet
Of our bed of little white ones, soiled grey ones,
Tucking in tolerance
As our flowery comforter.

See how our garden grows,
Threesomes thriving on the vine,
Three peas in each puckered pod,
The lie, the liar, and truth.
Ready to be shelled nimbly,
Or, more often than not,
Neglected over time,
To wither and brown on the stem,
Drifting in the wind, unnoticed,
To soft earth, unless
Some passing beetle
Needs a morsel to chew on.

SS/ Mt.Pleasant, S.C.

TRYING TO THINK OF SOMETHING

Anything, to distract me from
Another post-surgery night of pain.
How to escape?
Could remembering some past joy,
Any past joy, help me transcend?
Try for two, I think.

First, my father carries me,
A half-asleep four-year-old,
Up the stairs from the car,
Relaxed, on his broad, strong shoulder,
I feel the slow rhythm,
Swaying to and fro, one step at a time,
Myself a tiny Maharajah,
Bejeweled, spoiled, serene,
High on the Royal Elephant,
Waiting to be laid ever so gently
Between silken sheets, into dreams.

Next, a blustery day at the beach
With homemade kite
And seven-year-old daughter;
I am racing to catch an updraft
From the iffy breeze,
While she urges me on:
“Don’t give up, Dad, please!”
Thoroughly winded,
I stare at the wretched thing,
Exhausted and limp, like myself,
When suddenly, my daughter,
Petite and jawset,
Seizes the kite, shakes off the sand,
Begins to race, east and west,
Into and against the gusts,
Her legs churning, hair flying,
Until, voila! it takes off,
Wet tail and all,
Up, up into the brilliant sun,
Soaring to its own blue freedom.

Father and daughter, earthlings below,
Laugh together at the runaway sky-speck.
Forgetting sunburn, twine-scorched hands,
We laugh and jump and shout above the waves
To one and all,
“We did it, we did it!”
————
SS

THE GREEN KNIFE
Unlike my sons who must imagine where I work, I could watch my father anytime at his craft, since we lived behind the retail shoe store-with-repair shop. Here I could observe a variety of tools, whirling brushes, awls and glues, a shelf of rainbow dyes, fancy ladies’ buckles, cowhide laces for boots, stacks of leather heels and soles. After household chores, I could pass time, perched on a workstool, watching Dad work in his dye-stained apron, mopping his brow, as we both listened to the ballgame on the radio. Quietly I studied the rhythm of fixing the left shoe, then the right. I noted the different tools for ladies’ fine slippers and heavy work boots. I got used to the tap-tap of his hammer, the steady whirring of the sewing machine as he guided each arch, heel, toe, stitching and stitching, until the ends of thread were ready to trim. Best of all, I liked to watch him work each shoe on the iron last, carving the fresh fragrant leather precisely to fit the waiting shoe. Watching his strong thumb guide the steel blade hypnotized me, my eyes following each curving motion, the trimmings falling away gently from the sole, like ribbons of pastry.

The smooth green-handled knife
Beguiled me, even resting on the worktable.
Not serrated or curved,
Just a no-nonsense flat, oblong knife,
Just waiting for the sure-handed grip
Of its master.
That night, all I could think of
Was the green-handled blade,
Not unlike King Arthur’s Excaliber
Or Prince Valiant’s dagger,
How I would grasp it firmly
And wield it with ease, just like Dad,
And so I fell asleep happily.
Early the next morning, I carried out
My dream, in secret,
Seeking out the forbidden tool,
And soon found myself,
Ashamed of the deed,
Huddled in a dark corner of the work area,
Clutching a blood-soaked handkerchief
To my left thumb
Where my right-handed grip
Failed, slicing the knuckle.
Fearing Dad, my venture a failure,
I took my pain and remorse to Mother
For first aid, for her milder scolding.

Later, in Hebrew school, I learned
Of Father Abraham and Son Isaac,
On that fateful morning on Mount Moriah,
And I wondered why God didn’t
Send a ram to rescue me,
From the green knife.

SS/ Mt.Pleasant, S.C. 2-09-00

MY FATHER’S LAST NEW CAR

Was a sky-blue Chevy,
After his second coronary,
He knew it was time
To enjoy once more
The new-car smell
The peppy engine,
And the newest feature,
Automatic transmission,
So-called “Power Glide,”
For whatever time
Remained for him.

In a faded photo,
He poses, with one hand
On the front fender,
The other on his hip,
Blue-eyed and smiling,
As he did as a youth,
With his first car,
A hand-cranked Hupmobile…
Not bad, for an immigrant
Shoemaker, self taught reader,
Owner of his own small shoe store,
And first car-driver among his peers.

Most of all,
I remember
A father’s quiet love,
His expectation of goodness
In others, his gift
Of confidence and trust
In his son.
Decades later,
I sense
His power-glide
Within me,
Still.
SS/mt.pleasant,sc

DONUT CONFESSION

I know that I should know better,
But it’s not a matter of knowing,
That was Adam and Eve’s problem.

I know those round, soft, sweet things
Are designed to tempt every tastebud,
Any craving for something creamy,
Something chocolatey, something lemon,
Cinnamony, blueberry, or plain jelly.
I know, I know, but it’s a matter of want,
Not need, primal lust,
With me ripping open the fragrant box,
Devouring six of my favorites,
Leaving will-power and reason helpless
In the roadside with wax paper wrappings.

There is little room in my tummy
For even a burp of remorse,
Only the afterthought
That I departed the donut drive-in
With the remains of only twelve,
Not the usual, baker’s dozen.
After all, a little restraint
Is better than none.
—————
SS
Mt. Pleasant, S.C.

THE ANCIENTS HAD IT RIGHT

In Aramaic scripture*, and Aboriginal DreamTime.
How else could animal life begin?
Except by Divine Breath, oxygen-enriched!
How ingenious! Only two atoms: O/2,
Ideal for hemoglobin, mitochondria,
Neurotransmitters, ideal for fight or flight, for vocalizing,
For clever humans to shape tools, split atoms,
Compose opera, sow seeds, harvest grain.

Consider my distress, in my just-opened pediatric office.
Stumped by Angela, a three year old,
So panicked by my white coat, no way to examine her.
Screaming, clutching mother, she knew and I knew,
This wasn’t university-hospital, with back-up nurses.
Instead, it was one-on-one, Advantage Angela.
Desperate, I felt for a stray balloon in my
Pants-pocket (from my own child’s birthday).
Putting it to my lips, I strained to inflate the stubborn thing.
Instantly, Angela’s tear-reddened eyes opened wide.
The more I flushed, and puffed, clown-like,
The more she giggled, finally bursting into laughter,
Sans fear, forgetting pain.
My breath, a yellow balloon, a child’s laughter …
Three gifts from the gods!

—————————–

*Douglas-Klotz,N: “Prayers of the Cosmos”1990Harper Publ. San Francisco,CA

ss/mt.pleasant,s.c.

CHAUCER IN CHARLESTON?

It only took a few minutes in the narrow waiting room of the spinal treatment center to realize that decibels from the overhead TV were reaching boiler-room proportions. Six of us patients were being pounded by commercials and hysterics of soap-opera. Each of us, in different stages of lumbar pain, was counting the minutes for our turn, confined in close quarters, knee-to-knee in hard chairs, waiting for a doctor running 75 minutes late. I finally decided to seek help down the hall, to”please” turn down the TV, whose controls were near the ceiling. In fact, I asked, “please turn it off!” The other waitees nodded approval, except a teenager, who was oblivious, chewing gum, safely wired to her headset.
Soon, silence ensued, as, one by one, we began to turn from our magazines. Our eyes met, a few tentative words began. We compared parameters of pain and efforts at relief; each one’s story unique, but similar. Two grandmothers began to show photos of their latest grandbabies. Two white-haired men discovered that they shared Air Force time in the South Pacific. A retired schoolteacher recalled student years at a “very strict” College of Charleston, before beginning 25 years of equally strict-but-caring teaching in Low Country middle schools. The room began to feel less confined. Time passed more gently. One by one, each of us was called to treatment, with wellwishers now offering a word of encouragement. What had happened, to lift our eyes from worn magazines, our thoughts from personal pain? Was it some inherent need to gather in a circle, to share time, however brief, conversing, countering the loneliness of illness and TV ?

Perhaps we were retracing Chaucer’s journey to medieval Canterbury, pausing at the inn with fellow pilgrims, warming bones by the fire, sharing ale and tales, praying for each other’s healing.

SS/Mt.Pleasant,S.C.

MOUSETRAP

Before leaving home for work this morning, I needed to check under the kitchen-sink, with a flashlight.
Strange, how our lively rodent intruders had frightened my usually calm wife, yesterday!
Three of my tiny mousetraps are visible where I had placed them so carefully last night. Examined closely, each unsprung device reveals no trace of last night’s generously-baited peanut butter. Not a trace! At least, the tiny rodent night-visitors were seduced by Skippy’s Spread, just like human children.

Speaking of children, I began to wonder about the little mouse family, just moved indoors from our wooded backyard to enjoy the winter warmth and food supply of our home. I wonder, how do mouse parents teach their hungry, peanut-butter-craving offspring to cope with a hair-trigger mousetrap, how to lick each morsel off the bait-lever, without the slightest quiver to set off the guillotine?

Fascinated, I pause to admire their cleverness, their soft touch, picking each trap clean, expertly, sending the hunter an unmistakable message: “try again!”.

I had forgotten the lesson they (or their forebears) taught me last season: peanut butter alone never works; it must be laced with fresh marshmallow cream (goo that clings to the knife-blade applicator). Only then can you achieve the right degree of stickiness, without reducing the aroma of peanut butter.

And so, tonight, dear mice, it’s Round Two.
It’s another feast for you and your kin, or, it’s victory for the master-mouse-hunter!
Tonight, fellow creatures, our waltz begins, the contest between your insatiable appetite, your delicate tongue, your microsecond reflexes, your know-how, against my all-or-none, cold steel.
———————–
ss/mt.pleasant,sc.

PRESENT TENSE

At lecture’s end,
The graying professor sees
150 medical students
Charge the exit for lunch.
Gathering slides, he wonders
If his 50 minutes worked.
How to link biochemistry
To preventive medicine?
Could these bright novices
Follow the essential logic?
Relating amino acids
To protein layers of the eye,
To optics of cornea and lens,
To cataract-formation in sunlight,
Disabling peasants in India
Where one needs enough sight
To hoe and harvest, or else
The family starves, in one season,
Unless someone cares, and
Does lens-repair.
Why expect exam-driven students
To follow such reasoning, or want to?
Why ask a freshman to see himself
As a full-fledged surgeon,
Cool and competent,
Preventing blindness-and-hunger
Among rice-field families overseas?
How unlikely, the teacher admits,
That 50 minutes could hint
Such a future.

Pondering the limits of learning,
The professor thinks of Eric,
Longtime friend, master-carpenter,
And how he may feel, at day’s end.
Leaning against his pickup in the driveway
Of a two-story nearly complete,
Glancing over his shoulder,
Into the setting sun,
At trim soffets and roofline,
Proof of his expertise,
Hardly noting his pony-tailed apprentice,
Tan and lean, lighting into his jeep,
Tearing into a sixpack,
Maxing the stereo, and
Blasting down the highway,
The highway of youth, where
Carpenters- and- doctors-to-be,
Occupy the present tense,
First person.

Sea Isle Morning III

As I stride the sand-swept shore
Under a sun ablaze,
I thank the southerly breeze,
Cooling face and limbs.
I thank this unordinary wind,
Driving the waves and whitecaps
Without mercy.
Not a single seagull in sight,
Fearing this seawind, they choose
To wait it out, nesting, for
A quieter, gentler sky.

Such a wind, powerful, steady,
A true tradewind,
The kind that beckoned Columbus,
Magellan, and Drake
To set forth, full sail,
Atlanticward,
For gold, silver, promise of spices,
Tobacco, pineapple, cocoa and maize,
Adventure, Glory, Empire,
Canvas into the wind,
Into a New World,
West, west of Eden.

—————-

ss/mt.pleasant,s.c.

TOOLS WORTH REMEMBERING

Are not that many. How few

Do the job, do it well,

Achieve a special regard?

Consider the fragile balance

Between worker, tool, task.

Who’s to say, which fails or succeeds?

Author/book/reader,

Surgeon/laser/tumor,

Ant/mandible/breadcrumb?
Was that what Darwin surmised

In rainforest and archipelago,

Sweatshops of species

Spinning/weaving/looming

Webs of survival, splicing genes,

Improving enzymes, little tailors

And seamstresses creating originals,

Reproducing/reproducing/reproducing?

Not my camera, pen or stethoscope

Do I cherish so much as a tool

Hook-hung in the garage,

Lean and trim with a clever balance

In its worn hickory handle,

Tempered steel throat,

Down to its simple curved incisor…

Co-worker of thirty-odd seasons,

Dew-fresh spring mornings and chill winter sunsets,

Joined in primal rhythm, the two of us,

Strength to strength, one breathing hard,

Lifting, straining, working the sod,

The crusts, the packed earth,

Lancing stubborn roots,

Observed at times by

Imperturbable slugs and grubs,

Amused by these johnny-come-lately

Diggers.
————–
SS/ Mt.Pleasant,S.C.