(Another programming note: I've decided to put the new blog on ice until Rails 3 goes final. When that will be is anybody's guess.)

I've been a member of the "exclusive" online shopping site Gilt for a number of years. (If you care to help me fill my closet with button down shirts, join the site here, buy something, and I'll receive a $25 credit.) The concept is quite genius from a marketing perspective. Gilt peddles high-end designer clothing and accessories at huge discounts, but in extremely limited quantities and in sales that last just a few days. Pretentious luxury goods companies love this low-key channel as a way to unload excess inventory or to prime the market by selling to "trendsetters" at cut-rate prices, but without the risk of tarnishing their brands' exclusive reputations.

The site likes to bill itself as, "exclusive" and "members-only," which no doubt gives it consumer appeal in the same way the exclusivity of owning a Range Rover appeals to consumers. (Though that's pretty much the only reason I can think that anyone buys what is truly a terrible, unreliable and overpriced vehicle.) No doubt the folks supplying Gilt with their merchandise also like that, even if they have to sell their wares at huge discounts, at least they're doing it to an "exclusive" group of people.

In reality, however, the site is anything but exclusive: anyone who wants to join can do so by clicking a standard signup link on their splash page.

But it wasn't always so. Back when I joined the site, becoming a member required cunning and skill. That is, finding another member and persuading that existing member to parcel out one of his or her invitations to the site. It reminded me of Gmail in its early days. On the one hand, this exclusivity was snobbish and frustrating. On the other hand, though, Gilt was a much better place to shop when the competition for goods was less intense.

This morning, for instance, Gilt had Seven for All Mankind jeans on sale at about half of retail prices. Seduced by the prospect, I made a point to be at my computer at 8:59 AM on the dot, just as the sale kicked off at 9:00. This, I reasoned, would give me a good shot at snagging a pair of jeans at a great price. It was, however, not to be. For even at 9:01 — I had to spend a few seconds scanning the goods on offer — the site had completely sold out of "Sevens" in sizes better suited for hominids than members of the elephant family.

Not that this ought to surprise anyone. The quantity demanded of — otherwise known as the number of people willing to pay for — Seven for All Mankind jeans is much higher when they're priced at $100 per pair, as opposed to when they're priced at $200 per pair. At the same time, Gilt severely limits the quantity of goods it can supply. Combined, these two ingredients make a shortage, which tends to make people, like myself, angry.

If I had my way, the site would revert back to its genuinely exclusive state. But those are the words on an incumbent with every reason to exclude others. The situation has many parallels with rent ceilings, a classic example from intro economics. At the prices imposed on rents through a ceiling, far more people want apartments than there are landlords willing to supply apartments at the mandated price. Those people who manage to snag an apartment at the imposed price are pretty happy — and would probably support rent controls going forward — whereas people willing to pay more than the imposed price wind up quite unhappy.

But I doubt Gilt will raise prices. That they have huge discounts is the principal reason they exist. Nor do I imagine they will kick members out to help sort out the shortage. (Technically speaking, if people don't have access to the market, then they don't contribute to demand. This can be done through prices — it's why I don't influence the market for Ferraris — or through mechanisms like membership.) It would be a PR nightmare.

Given those two conditions, I feel the most equitable solution to this annoyance is some kind of lottery. Say for the first 10 minutes of a given sale, users could add any items they might want to purchase to their shopping carts. Then, after the first ten minutes of the sale some users would randomly be given another 10 minutes to buy items. It's not the best solution in absolute terms, but, given the context, it would remove one (albeit very minor) frustration from my life.

While I'm hardly a public relations or marketing expert, I do like to think I know a thing or two about the world of social media. So it came as somewhat of a surprise when I discovered a piece in Vanity Fair a few weeks ago about something called "haul vlogging." In retrospect, that I hadn't heard of haul vlogging should not have come as too much of a surprise, however, given that I'm not a sixteen year old girl.

The typical haul vlog — think blog with a "v" for video — is one teenage girl's attempt to share with the world the fruits of her forays into the perilous world that is the American shopping mall. Generally, the teenager in question sits in front of a stationary camera and shows off her latest purchases accompanied by a variety of banal and superficial comments. I sat through juicystar07's "What's In My Bag?!" in preparation for this post, in which juicystar07 shares such wonderful details as the make and model of her purse.

To be blunt, I find these videos' subject matter and presentation soporific and mind-numbingly dull. But that's not really a criticism of juicystar07, or any other haul vlogger. I'm sure most of them would find the lectures I watch online about dynamic programming quite dull as well.

Though I do find these haul vlogs fascinating in many ways, and immensely troubling in others.

On the one hand, these illustrate the wondrous power of the Internet. If not for YouTube and inexpensive video capture equipment, most of these mall divas would likely have no way to share their opinions with and influence their peers around the world. It's quite remarkable, if incredibly boring for someone like me to watch.

But on the other hand, I take issue with the sort of superficiality that most of these haul vloggers promote. In the video I referenced above, the girl even makes the comment that she has no idea what differentiates her iPhone 3G from her iPhone 3GS. And it's telling that she really only knows three facts about her Louis Vuitton handbag: its make, its model number and the fact that the color of its handles shows its age. I have no problem with people buying purses from Louis Vuitton. I do have a problem with people buying them more or less for the sole purpose of being able to show off the fact they own a Louis Vuitton purse. I might have held up her video as an example of the ideal consumer if she had instead given some commentary about seam strength, and the way her particular bag exemplified solid, quality construction.

I briefly considered starting my own parody, perhaps titled "Pretentious Minimalist Things," but then it struck me that people might take it seriously.

And now, back to my paper on credit rationing.

Many people have heralded Tom's Shoes, the company that donates a pair of shoes to a child in need for every pair they sell to "normal" consumers, as a good example of a business with both a social and profit goal. Certainly, the philanthropic nature of Tom's Shoes is laudable. But I feel like the company focuses on its social mission to the detriment of actually making high-quality shoes. Or at least it appears that way. For, even after spending a good twenty minutes perusing their website, I couldn't find a single page that took the time to explain why their product is something I might actually want to buy for my own enjoyment and utility, not just the utility of others.

Who would buy a pair of shoes for him or herself exclusively to help the impoverished? It makes no sense. The fact that a potential Tom's Shoes customer expects to receive a pair of shoes for herself implies that she intends to gain something from the transaction other than the "warm glow" of having given an impoverished Argentinian a pair of shoes. If all she cared about were the social good created, she ought simply donate her money to a charity.

It seems exceedingly idiotic for me to spend $70 on a pair of Tom's Shoes that are uncomfortable, not especially durable or likely to have manufacturing defects. If I never wear the shoes, I've wasted the labor and human capital inputs of the designers, marketers and managers, and the materials inputs that go into making what amounts to a pound of refuse. Not to mention I would probably go buy another pair of high-quality shoes, since I'm not a member of the barefoot movement. (Perhaps from Tod's, whose name differs by one letter, but whose ethos is perhaps the antithesis of Tom's. It's a coincidence I find amusing.)

Contrast the Tom's Shoes model to the Whole Foods model. I don't shop at Whole Foods purely because they have a philanthropic bent. I shop there because they provide superior quality foodstuffs for my various culinary concoctions, and because they staff their stores with people who don't look nonplussed and scowl when asked for directions to the lemongrass. Yet they do manage to effect quite a bit of social good — certainly more than any ineptly managed, naïve, idealistic nonprofit ever could.

I don't particularly mind companies that sacrifice some profit for social good. But I do have a problem with companies that don't produce products worth buying.

After rereading my first blog post of 2010 a few times last night, I realized that my retreat into dense, technical academic writing had taken its toll on my ability to write for the blog and other less stuffy mediums. So I'm making a point to post more frequently, and thus practice my less formal writing more often. Anyway, this is one of those quick observational posts.

When I stepped outside this morning, I had on a pair of Wellington boots. As I unconsciously surveyed the footwear choices of my peers, however, I realized that while many of my female cohorts were wearing boots that looked eerily similar to my own, my male counterparts were wearing regular sneakers or tennis shoes. (Aside: What's the deal with Hunter brand Wellington boots? I bought them because that's what they had in the shoe department at my friendly neighborhood Nordstrom store. Do they carry the same social stigma as Uggs?)

I just don't understand what objection men could possibly have to rain boots. I certainly don't enjoy having the bottom two inches of my pants soaked in water when I step inside. It's disgusting and uncomfortable to say the least. And what's more, it's the women's fashion industry that stole the Wellington from the realm of menswear, so it's not as if wearing rain boots is akin to a man wearing a skirt. After all, the rubber rain boot as it exists today owes its creation to the first World War, when the British military asked manufacturers for a waterproof boot for soldiers (i.e., men) in the trenches of Europe. For that matter, given the popularity of brazenly impractical women's shoes from the likes of Christian Louboutin, it seems odd that women would embrace something so utterly practical and utilitarian as the rubber boot with enough zeal to dispel men from wearing them.

Then again, given the state of the bathroom I'm forced to share with a number of other males, perhaps they really don't mind having mud, dirt and water caked onto their clothing.

Browsing the Web this morning, I discovered that theory — the minimalist fashion label of which I'm a big fan — has a company blog. Admittedly, it's a very fluffy, mostly useless blog, but a blog nonetheless. It has the conventional reverse chronological display of posts and communicates goings-on at the company with the world. The theory blog does, however, have one notable quirk: there's no way to subscribe to the blog via RSS, Atom or any other syndication system. It's so un-blog-like I might go so far as to say any "blog" without a feed shouldn't be considered a blog at all.

Pondering this for a few minutes, it occurred to me that, for the most part, high-end fashion labels have really awful websites. Awful in the sense that they're usually herky-jerky Flash-based sites that are impossible to navigate, and try to convey a sense of luxury and sensuality through an endless stream of flashy, molasses-slow effects.

I can certainly see what the companies are trying to achieve, but they needn't sacrifice baseline usability features to create beautiful, "high-end" websites. Just compare the websites of Paul Smith and Prada, two top-end fashion labels. Both websites do a good job of conveying their respective messages. But that's where the similarities end. The Paul Smith website loads quickly, complies with web standards and does not require a virtual compass to navigate. The Prada website on the other hand, takes an eternity to load and jerks users from place to place using weird transitions. Not to mention that it's next to impossible to browse their collection of photos from fashion shows without screaming at the computer at least once because the interface is so awful.

I know there are web developers in Italy. These companies need to hire them. Using HTML, CSS and JavaScript like the rest of the world will not dilute brands: it will make websites easier to use. That means more eyeballs will spend more time fixating on expensive socks. So please, garment industry, be better Web citizens.

No store hesitates to send me their mass emails promoting the latest caveat-ridden offer for free shipping. But occasionally, out of boredom or frustration with bézier curve drawing in Scheme, I click on their lures to buy more products I probably (or definitely) don't need. (With all the data these websites collect about me, would it be so difficult to figure out that I probably won't want to buy a plaid skirt, even at 40% off?)

Anyway, a few minutes ago I clicked on the latest email from Saks.com touting their designer sale. There were a few items I might have purchased on a whim, simply because they really were pretty good deals. But on each of the seven items I almost added to my shopping cart, I was confronted by the fact that the site only had sizes XL and XXL available.

I've written about this before. I think I called it second hand obesity. But the frequency with which I encounter this problem — regardless of whether or not a particular item is on sale — leads me to think that perhaps other forces are at work.

I have two new hypotheses. Perhaps the buyers for department stores are just bad economists. In other words, they have yet to realize, after several years of obvious signals from consumers, that not everyone wants to buy raincoats the size of a small tent. Admittedly, that theory strikes me as dubious.

Alternately, perhaps high-end department stores purposely buy large sizes in excess to make their customers feel better about themselves. It seems at least plausible to imagine that people will feel better looking at a rack of clothes knowing that, even if they take an "L" shirt off the rack, that some other more unfortunate soul will have to ashamedly take the "XXL" number right beside it. Or, to rephrase, people feel better about themselves knowing there's someone even more overweight out in the world. After all, there's quite a bit of evidence to suggest, at least when it comes to income, people's happiness is tied more to relative income, not absolute income. Even if the stores only manage to have consumers take the excess crazy huge clothes off their hands at steep discounts, the improved "atmosphere" of their stores might lead to a net benefit to the bottom line.

From Paul Wharff

I'm a big fan of Portland. It's a great town. There's little, if any, obnoxious snow or ice to throw off drivers, ruin shoes and break bones. The summer heat comes without the deadly summer humidity that plagues the summer months in the East. Everyone owns a Prius, another compact hybrid or feels incredibly guilty about driving something else. Sure, many Portland residents dress as if a walk downtown is a trek to base camp at Everest, but that has not stopped creative chefs from making the city one of the nation's most exciting places to dine.

But as much as I love the City of Roses, I have to wonder why The New York Times mentions Portland in so much of its reporting. Just this morning, reading the paper at breakfast, I noticed that not one, but two articles made passing mentions of events in Portland.

There were signs on Friday that more cuts might be necessary. At two malls outside Portland, Ore., the electronics stores were the only ones that were full of shoppers. But people seemed to be gravitating toward lower-priced items like video games instead of televisions. (Source)

At Washington Square, a suburban shopping mall in Beaverton, Ore. [a Portland suburb], most stores opened at 6 a.m., but the Disney Store was open at 4, and the J. C. Penney at 3:30. "Anyone motivated to get up that early is really looking for the deals," said Jonae Armstrong, the mall's property manager. (Source)

(Emphasis added)

It is as if simply mentioning Portland makes the Times more credible, more fashionable or more appealing. So strange.

I'm sick. And I have been for the last three days. As someone who firmly believes recovery and stress do not mix well, I've spent most of my recovery time sleeping or reading obscure 19th century French literature. But as much as I enjoy dreaming and struggling with dead verb tenses, I have also caved to popular culture and watched a few episodes of Gossip Girl on the Internet.

Admittedly, Gossip Girl would not have been my first choice. Digging through the iTunes Store, however, it quickly became clear that I have already seen all of the "good" television produced in the last decade. I also feel uncomfortably pretentious, judgmental and elitist whenever I comment on the television adaptation of the Gossip Girl novels with, "I've heard the books read like one giant product placement." Thus I spent a few hours in the company of Blair, Dan, Serena and the rest of the melodramatic, judgmental ensemble of fictional Manhattanites.

While I doubt I will become an avid follower of the series, it has some merits. The costume design is nothing short of incredible. Everyone looks very sharp, though not at the expense of conveying their personalities. I only wish there existed a real college campus where everyone looked so sharp. People should at least change out of their pajamas to attend class.

I have also become a great fan of Blake Lively's voice. It reminds me of a chocolate-covered sea salt caramel. It's sensuous, smooth and sultry, but with a pleasant bite and a wonderful, unquantifiable playfulness. If Ms. Lively ever narrates a documentary, I intend to be the first in line for tickets.

Above all else, though, Gossip Girl makes me question the influence of mass media and popular culture on today's — shall we say — young adults.

Teen-oriented television brims with female characters who have their cake and eat it too. Gossip Girl's Blair, for instance, sits at the top of her fictional preparatory school's social hierarchy and manages to maintain an implied high level of academic achievement. Likewise, Serena, the program's protagonist, seems assured a fictional place at Yale College and garners the attention the the series' namesake Gossip Girl. (A brief aside. Gossip Girl has a particularly sophisticated method of disseminating her blog posts. No blog I know of sends multimedia messages with pictures, video and sound to all of its subscribers whenever something new goes online.)

The male characters, however, seem forced to choose between social smarts or book smarts. Serena's love interest, Dan, never displays any real mastery of social skills, though he undoubtedly comes across as intelligent. On the other side of the coin, Chuck, the chauvinist playboy and occasional antagonist in the series, has a clear mastery of social skills, but never really displays any intellectual ability beyond a knack for scheming.

Similarly, NBC's The Office — arguably a more male-oriented program — portrays the male characters as irresponsible, oblivious, negligent, or simply all three. Based on the one episode of The Office I've seen, I would not hesitate to call Steve Carrell's character an idiot.

How hard would it be to pen a popular television series featuring Blair Waldorf's male twin as its protagonist?

While women still experience some level of discrimination in the workplace, my personal observations suggest that the young women of America's schools, colleges and universities, work — on average — much harder than their male counterparts. Obviously, a number of factors play into this lack of motivation, but I feel like popular culture reinforces unfortunate stereotypes and something need be done.

Earlier this evening, as the newly crowned Webmaster of the Bates College Student Government, I sat in on a mostly uneventful meeting of the Student Government's RA, or "Representative Assembly." At one point, however, my attention was piqued by a complaint raised by one representative unhappy with our dining commons' breakfast offerings. He complained that, after he spent many months moaning and groaning, our dinning commons still serves meatless sausages — for the apparently large, or perhaps just influential, vegan population — at breakfast.

I generally object to faux-meat products. If I'm going to cook something vegetarian or vegan food, I don't want to imitate beef or chicken. At the same time, however, I have no problem with vegetarian food or vegan food per se. I frequently skip the questionable corn dogs and fried fish on offer for a heaping plate of chickpea curry and rice.

Nevertheless, I see this representative's question as a brilliant example of one of America's fundamental nutritional problems. People seem to think, or have been brainwashed by large agribusiness, that protein is the only food capable of providing "energy" and the only "real" food. First, if it's energy people want, they should be eating food with lots of sugar, for a quick spike of energy, or, for sustained energy, something with a low glycemic index number, such as whole grains or pasta. Second, most of the protein produced in this country contributes to global warming and the inhumane treatment of animals.

More importantly, though, while there is nothing wrong with protein, people who eat lots of protein tend to substitute protein for other food. In other words, people eat protein rather than whole grains or vegetables. And that's not good.

Americans need to redefine the place of protein in their diets. There's nothing wrong with meatless sausage. (Though I would argue there are better ways for vegans to have protein at breakfast.) But there is a big problem with the perception that we need to consume so much meat; that we need protein at the center of our diets. We don't. It's not healthy. Something needs to change.

Image courtesy chocolate monster mel

This morning, just blocks from San Francisco's famous Union Square, I had breakfast at some supposedly famous diner by the name of Lori's. (Highly not recommended.) Rather than order an over-cheesed cheese omelet or commit to consuming a mile-high stack of pancakes, I opted for French toast. Not for the first time, I found myself quite disappointed. Like dozens of other breakfast spots around the nation, Lori's French toast, while golden brown on the outside, offers nothing more than parched, insipid nothingness on the inside. Not my idea of "Fabulous French Toast," as the Lori's menu puts it.

No, to gain a true understanding of what French toast ought really be, we must dive into the pages of history. French toast, in American parlance, has its origins in France, of all places. There, it goes by the haughty and pretentious name of pain perdu, or literally "lost bread."

Back in the days before food scientists had developed the wacky chemicals used to keep modern bread soft for unnaturally long periods of time, those bread-loving French people needed something to do with their stale bread. Some made bread pudding. Some made croutons. The most cunning culinary creatives, however, tried something altogether more interesting. They brought their bread back to life by first softening it in raw custard — eggs, cream, vanilla — and pan frying the custard-laden slices.

Thus, true French toast: crunchy and golden on the outside, moist, tender and custardy on the inside. There is no substitute.

I can only guess why the modern American restaurant has abandoned this recipe for guaranteed deliciousness. On the one hand, rehydrating a completely dry, rock hard slice of bread takes far longer than coating a still soft slice with batter. In the time-is-money world of the restaurant business time saved could be money earned. On the other, perhaps drying out hundreds or thousands of slices of bread poses too much of a logistical challenge. But whatever the problem, restaurants should seriously consider revamping their French toast. Otherwise, I will have nothing to order for breakfast but oatmeal.

For my more delicious French toast recipe, read on.

For what seems like my entire life, NBC has used the same Wagnerian piece of John Williams' music for all of its Olympics bumpers and promos. I couldn't find any of the NBC Beijing promos on YouTube, but I did manage to track down the promo spots used by BBC Sport and France2, who air the Olympic Games in the U.K. and France, respectively. I find the contrast between the three nations' presentations quite curious.

From France2:

From BBC Sport:

If I can find a decent recording of NBC's material, I'll append it.

Sure, the text is missing a few commas and has a misappropriated preposition or two. But that really doesn't matter. The text works. I can't decide whether it's the short sentences, higher-than-average use of the exclamation point, or constant references to Sweden, flatness and low prices that make it work so well. It has a maddeningly brilliant simplicity. It's almost as if they care just as much about keeping their word counts low, while maintaining a reasonably high standard of writing, in the same way they strive to make beautiful, but inexpensive furniture.

I'm almost tempted to look at an English textbook for Swedish speakers.

I'm in the middle of planning a trip to San Francisco. San Francisco, unlike Portland, has at least one of those lovely United Colors of Beneton shops. They have nice stuff. Anyway, poking around the Beneton Group website, I noticed they sort their clothes into "Man" and "Woman" rather than "Men's" and "Women's" as might be more typical.

As I considered the oddity for a moment, I thought back to Paris. The three Zara shops I visited in the City of Lights also divided clothing into "Man," "Woman," and, in the case of Zara, "Child." And, as I gave it more thought, I realized a whole lot of fashion enterprises forgo the plural possessive for the singular: Armani and Versace to name two more.

But why do this? I figure the fashion people have one of two reasons. On the one hand, given the global reach of some of these companies — the Beneton Group has stores in nearly every one of the world's 195 or so countries, including four in Iran — it would be a logistical nightmare to localize "Men's" and "Women's" in every tongue from Hindu to Portuguese. On the other, English is very much en vogue in other parts of the world, so perhaps this is not so much a supply chain story as it is one of trends.

When I think of The New York Times, I think quality. Very rarely do I read anything that gives me any reason to complain.

Today, however, I found a piece so rife with problems, I wondered whether it skipped past the copy editor's desk and leapt straight onto the page. I speak of the article titled, "No Joke, Blub Change Is Challenge for U.S.," by one Claudia H. Deutsch, which graced the front page of today's Business section in the print edition of The Times.

As soon as the article begins, the problems emerge. The story starts, "The new energy bill signed this week makes it official. When 2012 hits, stores can no longer sell the cheap but inefficient incandescent light bulbs that are fixtures in most homes." It is as if the writer does not understand the difference between the future and present tenses. The year 2012 is in the future, so, logically, anything that will happen in that year — just over four years from now — should be expressed in the future tense. Thus, it should be, "When 2012 hits, stores will no longer be permitted to sell the..." instead.

The author continues with: "Even so, light bulb manufacturers say that worries about greenhouse gases and the high cost of energy had them moving away from conventional incandescents way before Congress weighed in."

When I read that sentence, I thought I had just suffered an aneurism. Did someone actually use "way before" in The New York Times? Fundamentally, I have no qualms with using "way" as a modifier. I use it regularly. But using such colloquial language in the Business section of an internationally distributed newspaper strikes me as, at the very least, strange. Why not say "long before" or "far before?" Neither one of those is overly ostentatious or formal, but both sound much less colloquial, come across as far more polished and convey much more authority.

The next sentence begins very awkwardly: "For quite some time, they note, they have been trying to soften the light emitted by compact fluorescent lights." The author could easily eliminate several words by simply saying, "They have long been trying to soften the light emitted by compact fluorescent lights," or something to that effect. It continues, "bring down the cost of light-emitting diodes — and yes, find ways to increase the efficiency of incandescents."

Proof that no person alive on this planet truly understands how hyphens work. She should have written, "bring down the cost of light-emitting diodes — and yes — find ways to increase the efficiency of incandescents."

Another punctuational error emerges in the next two paragraphs:

Frankly, I cannot believe The Times printed a story that contains a sentence ending in something other than a period, question mark or exclamation point. I suppose the writer could have kept both lines in one paragraph and in one sentence, which would eliminate the problem. But, either way, something went wrong.

The rest of the article moves along with some fluidity and grace. In fact, the author redeems herself somewhat by correctly using hyphens on two occasions. Though, I do have some minor quibbles about the writer's deleterious use of the passive voice, rather than the active voice in one or two places.

Hopefully someone in the quality-control department in New York reads this. The writer is, by no stretch of the imagination, terrible. I have read many a terrible story, and I know only too well what terrible is. But The New York Times is not just another newspaper. It is, as some would say, the newspaper of record. And, as such, I expect the articles to have, at the very least, correct punctuation.

Pure Genius
It's no iPhone, but it is quite clever.

While my effort a year ago — to save trees by posting this list online — failed, in the sense that it did not do what I hoped it would. That said, apparently people like knowing what I want.

So, here it is, for 2007.

$25 & Under

Books, books and more books. Perhaps ironically, I have a particularly strong desire to read How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read.

• How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read (Pierre Bayard)
• Beethoven's Anvil (William Benzon)
• Made to Stick (Chip and Dan Heath)
• Powers of Ten (Charles and Ray Eames)

$50 & Under

• Kitchen Chemistry (Ted Lister with Heston Blumenthal)

$75 & Under

• The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes (2-Volume Set; W. W. Norton and Company)

$100 & Under

No, that's not a typo. I still want (and still do not own) an infrared thermometer.

• Reveal Watch (Daniel Will-Harris)
• Aromatic Milk Frother (Nespresso)
• Tall Electric Tea Kettle (Breville)
• IR Gun Industrial Infrared Thermometer (Thermoworks)

$200 & Under

Spending more than $70 for a tie would, under normal circumstances, constitute an act of insane, irrational behavior. Hermès, though, has produced a tie so incredibly clever, it more or less embodies the word. From afar, one sees a dotted purple tie. But, on closer inspection, it is revealed that the small dots are really cartoon octopuses. Pure genius.

• Cashmere Scarves (Paul Smith)
• AF-S DX Zoom-NIKKOR 55-200mm f/4-5.6G ED (Nikon)
• Clever Octopus Tie (Hermès)

$200 & Up

• Agatha Christie 24-Volume Hardcover Set (Agatha Christie)

Saving the Planet,
One Shoulder at a Time

But, in its journey from niche-market to mass-market, a radical change has taken place in the world of green products. Unlike the Prius die-hards who immediately sought to purchase the first mass-produced hybrid gasoline-electric car in 2001, the Prius buyer of 2007 views the car more as the automotive equivalent of a Fendi clutch than as an instrument of social and environmental change. Today people buy green, think green and do green to be "Eco-Chic."

Solar power firms regularly outfit the curb-facing gables of drab suburban McMansions with a smattering of cells. Celebrated handbag designer Anya Hindmarch launched the "I'm Not a Plastic Bag" tote bag — a white leather tote emblazoned with the aforementioned phrase in highly conspicuous brown script — to great success. Even NetJets Europe, the company that pioneered the idea of fractional private jet ownership, has announced plans to be "carbon-neutral" by 2012.

It is fitting to see the same forces that popularized the gas-guzzling Chevrolet Suburban ignite sales of more environmentally-friendly vehicles, like the Toyota Prius. At the same time, however, I cannot help but wonder whether the Eco-Chic phenomenon detracts from the true goal of green products and services.

After all, it would be far more environmentally sound for someone to travel aboard a commercial jet than to charter their own Glufstream V through NetJets, regardless of whatever "carbon-offsets" NetJets intends to offer. And the idea that a leather tote bag — which requires a cow to be raised, killed and skinned before the hide is treated, dyed and fashioned into a bag — has less of a carbon footprint than one two-gram plastic shopping bag seems perfectly ludicrous.

I have no complaints that the environmentally-sound practices of 7 for All Mankind and Paul Smith add a touch of Eco-Chic to my wardrobe. But people should think of the environment first and their vanity second. Offsetting a flight from Dallas to Milan on a private jet with the purchase of an acre of protected wildness still dumps an extra ton or two of carbon-dioxide into the atmosphere.

Spot the Fake
(The real Gucci is on the left)

One cannot, of course, ignore such companies' contributions to global warming, whether by promoting consumption or fabricating clothing in materials that require more energy to clean. But do not expect to find me protesting amidst a crowd of loony environmentalists clad in taupe-colored smocks made of ridiculous organic linen. Rather, I object to such chains because they purloin the concepts and ideas designers pour over for hours, weeks, or years in order to bring them to life.

The New York Times ran a stunning piece last week on this very subject, whose accompanying online gallery really illustrated this phenomenon well. I always sensed similarities between the wares in runway shows and the garments draped over mannequins as I passed by the Zara shops in Paris, but never had I realized the extent to which fast-fashion corporations draw their so-called "inspiration" from hard-working and intelligent people in the industry.

Many would correctly note, though, that designs and trends always trickle down from top-end designer labels to inexpensive wares at run-of-the-mill department stores, just as features on high-end automobiles — like metallic paint and satellite navigation systems — eventually trickle town to budget compacts from luxury sedans. Fast fashion firms, however, have engineered a supply chain that often beats the actual designers to the store. The knockoff, then, can be purchased before the authentic garment has left the factory.

More vexingly, I doubt this would happen in any other industry. The patent, which has existed in some form for over half a millennia, protects most unique ideas from exploitation by anyone other than their progenitor. But the US government has ignored calls from American and foreign designers alike to include patent protection to designs. Would the government have denied Pfizer the right to patent Lipitor if the pharmaceutical industry did not have patent protections? Probably not.

The patent protection for product designs need not be terribly restrictive. Providing a six to nine month window of exclusivity would allow hardworking designers to scrape a living, while barely inhibiting the natural flow of ideas from top-end to mass market. For now though, it seems I will have to content myself with a solitary boycott.

Sickness, pain, genocide, bad food — all things I truly despise. But, more recently, I have come to really, truly detest these bizarre pieces of footwear called Crocs that people from all walks of life have adopted. Words alone cannot fully express just how deplorable I find those hideous bright-colored sandal-esque pieces of footwear.

For goodness sake! Buy a pair of tennis shoes, flip flops, sandals — anything — but those horrid pieces of closed cell resin. As I always say, comfort is absolutely, positively, never an excuse for choosing something incredibly hideous and tacky.

But the real reason that I have endeavored to write this little snippet is my recent discovery of a truly fantastic website: ihatecrocs.com. This website, like its second-cousin, Ban Comic Sans, has a multitude of information for the enterprising portion of our population looking for even more confirmation that their deep seeded hatred is justified.

For years I have shopped the Nordstrom Anniversary sale: the clothing is superb and the prices better. Recently, however, I have been unable to find clothing in my size: not huge. I would, for instance, see something interesting, meander over to the display containing said item and discover that, unfortunately, it was only available in extra extra large. Initially, I attributed this sudden inability to find clothes in my size to the fact that I usually shopped the sale a week or two weeks after its beginning. This, of course, meant that thousands of other people could easily have picked over the clothes deigned to fit humans, leaving me with the whale-sized offerings. And it made sense: people who wear extra extra large clothing probably do not possess the best dress sense.

With this analysis in mind, I devised my strategy for this year's anniversary sale: shop early, find clothes. But, alas, my plan failed. Shopping on the first day of the sale I still found almost nothing. I did, however, find the foible in my logic. Apparently, the growing girth of the modern American has prompted Nordstrom and other department stores from stocking more than one or two items in something smaller than a large.

Smoking, it seems, is not the only vice that negatively affects the healthy and innocent. Now the obesity of others threatens not just healthcare costs and the comfort of spectators at Cirque du Soleil performances, but also Americans' already stunted sense of style (Crocs anyone?). The madness must end. Stop second hand obesity!

I despise American Idol. This, however, is magic. I heard about Paul Potts on NPR while sitting in traffic this afternoon. For a mobile phone salesman, he really can sing. US reality television needs a Paul Potts.

A Deterrent?
Why bother adding this annoying beige doodad if it doesn't actually serve a purpose?

The story begins this very afternoon, when I decided to do a touch of shopping. After successful trips to several stores, I popped into my local neighborhood Nordstrom establishment to buy some socks. Of course, I could not help make an impulse buy: a pair of those fancy-shmancy "Seven" jeans. Nothing particularly unusual. Forty-five minutes after entering, I left the store quite content with my socks and denim in bag.

But, as seems to happen with many of my endeavors, something went wrong. When I pulled the jeans out of the bright red shopping bag and unfolded them, I noticed that the small plastic security device had not been removed at the point-of-sales terminal. I have yet to make the return trip to the store to have it removed, though it really irks me that the salesperson failed to remove the tag.

More so than that, however, this incident makes me wonder why the store bothers to put the tags on the clothes. I walked out of the store and, to the best of my knowledge, no loud alarm sounded. To me, this means that any run-of-the-mill shoplifter could easily have swiped the jeans and waltzed right out of the store. This too also seems like a lose-lose situation for shareholders: the merchandise is no more secure and the system is expensive to implement in maintain.

So, a note to retailers: make it safe or forget about it. And, either way, please tell your employees to remove the blasted security devices!

Delicious and So Simple
Pancakes are a chinch to prepare, yet Bisquick still graces the shelves of lesser supermarkets. (Image courtesy LynnInSingapore)

In general, I have a hard time understanding why people buy pre-prepared food. Granted, for the sake of your sanity, some items, like puff pastry, really should not be prepared by the home chef. Other items, however, are so bafflingly simple to prepare that I cannot understand why people bother to buy them.

Then again, according to The New York Times, our culture has spawned such laziness that six-year-olds now gain the most weight in the summer, when they are supposedly outside swimming and swinging. The article begins, "Summer. The perfect time for children to play outside, swim -- and get fatter?" But why should that laziness stop at the kitchen?

Americans, it seems, will stop at nothing to avoid work. Just look at the popularity of margarita mix. Fortunately or unfortunately, I have never had a margarita. I have, however, read enough cookbooks and cooking magazines to know that margaritas are dead-simple to make. One recipe I found at Epicurious.com, has a whopping six ingredients, including such hard-to-find items as salt and ice cubes. The third of America's population that can now officially call itself "obese" would stand to benefit from burning the extra two calories of energy needed to cut and squeeze a lime, rather than dumping the tequila and Tripple Sec into a bucket of powder.

Pancakes too epitomize this trend. As Mark Bittman would say, it is a matter of ones: one egg, one cup of milk, one cup of flour and so on. Is it really that much easier to pour water into a bowl of potentially tasteless processed powder? Just as comfort is no excuse for bad fashion, laziness is no excuse for insipidity.

I just love the irony: some Americans are so lazy they cannot even stop to make food to fatten themselves. We need to stop giving the rest of the world something else to make fun of. Our Fed chairman is bad enough.

In our world of disposable doodads and throwaway thingamabobs, I always regarded fountain pens as valiant survivors. After all, most people buy a fountain pen and keep it for life. And, in affirmation of that fact, most fountain pen manufacturers offered a lifetime mechanical warranty on their pens. The idea was, of course, that, should the pen break sometime in one's lifetime, then it could easily be repaired. Today, however, the fountain pen has entered the sad Age of Disposableness.

In my bout of post-school organization and cleaning today, I realized that, after sitting on my desk for nine months, my fancy French fountain pen remained unprepared. So I pointed my web browser over to the Waterman website and started hunting for the repair instructions.

But between the glamourous front page of waterman.com and the slightly more austere repair services page, I stumbled upon the warranty information page. Initially, I was confused. "Why?" I asked myself, "Would Waterman have printable two-year warranty extension cards?" After all, my Waterman fountain pen came with an indisputable, written in thirteen languages, lifetime warranty. Then I discovered the sad truth: Waterman pens now only come with a three-year warranty.

In addition to hurting the pocketbook, this measure also remove part of the wonderful romantic aspect of the fountain pen: its timelessness. So, I suppose, I will have to plunk down the big bucks and buy a Mont Blanc when I next decided to augment my writing arsenal. Hopefully their inflated prices and efficiency-minded German thought processes will stop them from falling to the same disposable demons.

It's Quite Clear
HDTV looks incredibly good and more networks will make the transition later this year. In other words, it's a great time to buy. (Image courtesy Pioneer)

The picture quality of HDTV continues to blow me away: I often feel as if I am gazing through a window — albeit one with a restricted depth of field — not into a television set. Watching the second two hours of the 24 season premiere on Monday night, I could see the sweat coating the characters' faces and the minute imperfections in the actors' skin. Whether the makeup department needs to augment each actor's allocation of foundation, I don't know: it certainly looks more realistic, though, it is far from flattering. Even the on-screen clock, shown to indicate when in the chronology the episode takes place, looks sharper, almost becoming a feast for the eyes.

And with the promise of much more HD content — from CNN, the Food Network, FX, Sci Fi and TBS, among others — coming later this year, HDTV is even more compelling, as far more content will become available.

Granted, the HD movie situation does not look any better than it did a month ago. LG's new combination HD-DVD+Blu-Ray player costs far too much and, according to the various gadget blogs, it lacks the software to play interactive HD-DVDs. Warner Brothers' solution, to offer discs that will play in both Blu-Ray and HD-DVD players, also offers no fix. While it may play in both players, consumers will still have to contend with the fact that some studios only release their films on one format or the other. Movie buffs who, for whatever reason, enjoyed Poseidon, for example, can only find that movie on Blu-Ray.

Nonetheless, now is the perfect time to upgrade to HDTV. The prices of small- and medium-sized displays have fallen significantly in the last 18 months, and, with new 8th generation manufacturing plants coming online, prices for larger sets will likely plummet in 2007, making price much less of an issue. HDTV has finally matured to the point where I can say, without a moment's hesitation: "Upgrade!"

Despite the assertions of some that British English is not superior, but merely "different" than American English, I cannot help but wonder if the British, in general, possess a stronger command of the English language. I point to a recent article, again from the BBC, reporting that Joanne Rowling has released the title of Harry Potter's seventh tome. The article quotes a thirteen-year-old, to, presumably, provide a Potter fan's perspective on the new book's title. In response, he says the seventh book's title, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, "Sounds interesting, but a bit sinister."

This thirteen year-old casually tossed out the word "sinister" to describe a book title. I cannot imagine a typical American thirteen year-old using the word "sinister" to describe anything. The American news networks all published the same Associated Press article, which contained no reaction from American Potter aficionados, so I couldn't find a similar American quote for comparison. Nonetheless, it is safe to assume that an American 13-year-old would say something to the effect of, "It's cool, but kinda scary." I would argue that the British teen, who happens to share a first name with the boy wizard, expressed himself far more effectively in just as many words.

American Teens 0, British Teens 1

When I ordered my sweater just over a week ago, I expected Bluefly to have it in my possession within 5 to 7 days, as I actually paid for 5 to 7 day shipping. But the shipping gods were, apparently, not on my side. While DHL did manage to move the package from Bluefly's Virginia shipping facility to my friendly neighborhood post office in a timely fashion, the United States Postal Service failed to deliver my package until today.

However, when my friendly neighborhood post person delivered the small brown box this afternoon, I realized that it was well worth the wait.

Bluefly, in addition to providing a great sweater at an even more unbelievable price, did an impeccable job of packing and presenting my sweater and the other items in the box. The sweater itself came in an easy-to-open poly bag, which the packers had mercifully sealed shut with regular Scotch tape, making the sweater extraction process far less painful than the usual pseudo wresting match one must endure. A marvelous layer of royal blue tissue paper covered the poly bag, adorned with a lovely (somewhat Apple-esque) "Enjoy" sticker.

To make the experience complete, Bluefly even included an empty Bluefly shopping bag to mimic that of a traditional retail outlet. Though, I suppose that, without the bag, the package would weigh less, thus marginally reducing the shipping cost and, more importantly, reducing the nation's consumption of fossil fuels. But detrimental side effects aside, the bag was a nice touch.

Nothing, however, not even the included cashmere care guide, can begin to compare to the brilliance of the included return envelope. Never before have I ordered something online with such a sublimely simple method of product return. Bluefly included a giant DHL mailing pouch and label to facilitate the easy, postage paid return of any unsatisfactory items.

But Bluefly CEO Melissa Payner need not worry; I intend to keep the sweater.

Exceptionally Great, Outrageously Expensive: Paul Smith.

Though, after weeks of researching Mr. Smith's clothing both online and in brick and mortar retail operations, I came to the realization that, like Apple computers, or All-Clad cookware, Paul Smith shirts bear a $260 price tag regardless of the store which puts them on sale. That is to say - until I found eBay. On eBay, I managed to find some outrageously good deals on brand-new, unworn, tags-attached, Paul Smith shirts.

But something about the auctions seemed superbly suspicious. After all, no person could possibly make a profit selling a $260 shirt for $70.

My suspicions intensified after scrutinizing the auction listings. One seller describes Paul Smith as, "one of the toppest brands in the UK." While, differences most certainly exist between British and American English, I have never heard the word "toppest." In my mind it tumbles into that idiotic-cutesy category of words, to which "bestest" and "gooder" belong.

I have not decided whether to buy the shirt or not, as, despite the uncommonly low prices and execrable English, the sellers do have a good deal of positive feedback, which reassures me to a certain degree. I may yet have my marvelous multi-colored masterpiece.

The other day I bought yet another shirt. However, when I got this shirt home and was removing the numerous tags I noticed something rather odd. There was a comment card attached to the shirt. I should mention the shirt was a Ben Sherman brand shirt, and I have bought shirts of this sort before - none of which had a comment card.

So, this begs the question, why do you need a comment card on a shirt ? I can somewhat understand a comment card at a restaurant - if you have a terrible meal the restaurant should know. However, putting things on shirts just seems weird.