Navigating Holidays Post-Halloween: Thanksgiving & Black Friday

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Halloween is over.

The candy has disappeared from the grocery-store shelves. The Halloween pop-up stores have packed themselves into cardboard boxes and vanished for another year. America has moved on to the next commercial opportunity.

I’ve never been much of a Halloween celebrant. Maybe I’m just not comfortable messing with the spiritual unknown. You never know what you might accidentally invite into the neighborhood.

When I do dress up, I have a reliable fallback: Ricky “Wild Thing” Vaughn, the fastball-chucking relief pitcher from the baseball movie Major League, starring Charlie Sheen. The costume requires little more than a Cleveland Indians shirt and cap, horn-rimmed glasses, and an attitude problem. I can manage that.

Now Halloween is behind us, and we’ve arrived at the serious winter holidays.

First up: Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving has gradually become a second-tier holiday for me. That wasn’t always the case. Like many things, it changed when I left home for college.

My sophomore year, a classmate invited me to his house for Thanksgiving. In my junior year, I stayed on campus. Foreign students and those who lived too far away joined me in the peace and quiet of an almost empty campus. By senior year, I must have made it back to Laramie.

I don’t remember having a grand Thanksgiving epiphany during those college years. I discovered that Thanksgiving could happen without my family gathered around the table.

That may be one of the things that happens when you grow up. Holidays that once seemed permanently attached to home and familiar family traditions become movable. You leave home, and the holidays follow you, but they don’t necessarily look the same.

My most memorable Thanksgiving was attending the Rolling Stones in 2005. I worked the CU – Nebraska football game that used to be played the day after Thanksgiving when both teams played in the Big 12 Conference.

Then comes Black Friday, the annual commercial prelude to Christmas, when the country collectively decides that nothing says “peace on earth” quite like getting up before dawn to fight over a discounted Sony PlayStation.

I’ve never been much of a Black Friday shopper, either. At this point in my life, if I really need something, I’m better off buying it before Thanksgiving rather than standing in line at 5 a.m. with people who have been waiting all night for a 70-inch screen. I went to Radio Shack. When they went out of business, I didn’t go out on Black Friday.

But this year, I’m approaching Black Friday differently, as I did a few years back at the Tattered Cover bookstore in Denver.

On Black Friday, I’m releasing Not Exactly Holy, a devotional for the not-so-religious.

It seemed appropriate.

After all, the holiday season has always mixed the sacred and the commercial, the meaningful and the ridiculous. Thanksgiving asks us to pause and be grateful. Black Friday tells us to buy something. Christmas brings a little of both.

In the middle of all that, there’s room for a devotional written for people who aren’t entirely sure what they believe, or who don’t fit neatly into any usual religious boxes.

That’s why I wrote Not Exactly Holy.

Consider it my small contribution to the holiday season.

No assembly required. No early-morning shopping. As far as I know, no spiritual consequences.

Decoding Facebook’s Friend Suggestions for Networking Success

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I’ve been evaluating my Facebook market development strategy, and I have to admit I’m confused.

I understand how analog networking works. I meet people, find shared interests, exchange ideas, and occasionally meet someone who might buy a book, attend my film screening, or help promote a project.

Everyone’s a mark.

Then there’s Facebook and social media.

Every day, Facebook suggests that I connect with people I may know. Some suggestions come with hundreds of mutual friends. Others come with none.

Zero.

Not one person in common. No obvious connection. No digital breadcrumb trail. Me and a complete stranger whom Facebook apparently believes belongs in my social circle.

If we have so many people in common, why haven’t we met? If we have nobody in common, why should I bother?

Could be that we both like documentaries. Maybe we share an interest in baseball cards. Maybe we once stood in the same checkout line at King Soopers, although I don’t remember exchanging business cards with anyone buying Popsicles or Meow Mix.

Facebook may have confused me with the other Alan O’Hashi. Coincidentally, there are two of us. The other is an architect in San Francisco.

I can imagine the conversation.

“Alan, you know 347 people I know.”

“That’s wonderful. Which one of them are you?”

“I’m the guy Facebook says you should know.”

“Oh. What do you do?”

“I don’t know. Facebook hasn’t calculated that yet.”

Networking Without Leaving the House

Facebook has turned networking into a spectator sport. I can sit in my comfortable chair, drink coffee, and watch the algorithm parade people whose names mean absolutely nothing to me.

Some might be potential readers. Others might be filmmakers, writers, artists, or event organizers. A few might even be genuinely interesting human beings.

How am I supposed to know?

Facebook doesn’t provide a little note saying, “You should meet this person because you both have complained about the same city council meeting.”

Instead, it offers a button.

Add Friend.

Two words that carry a surprising amount of social baggage. Will I make a friend? Build a professional network? Increase my marketing reach? Help Facebook fill another row in its enormous spreadsheet of human relationships?

What happens if I approve the suggested friend? Do I get a customer? A collaborator? Somebody who invites me to invest in cryptocurrency?

The possibilities and confusions are endless.

My Market Research Department

I need a more systematic approach.

My market research department currently consists of me, a computer, and a suspicious attitude toward artificial intelligence.

I could accept every suggestion. That would increase my numbers. I might end up with 10,000 Facebook friends, most of whom I couldn’t identify in a police lineup.

I could reject everyone with zero mutual friends. That could eliminate some perfectly good connections, along with a few people Facebook has located through its mysterious electronic matchmaking service.

I could accept people with at least 100 mutual friends. Then I’d have to explain why I ignored someone with 99.

How about a scoring system?

  • One point for every mutual friend.
  • Five points for being a writer.
  • Ten points for working in film.
  • Twenty points for owning a bookstore.
  • Fifty points for being willing to buy one of my books.

I can hear Facebook objecting to the last category.

Zuck would prefer I buy some ads.

The platform prefers that I build relationships rather than openly acknowledge that I’m trying to sell my work.

Fair enough. I prefer relationships, too, but I also publish books, make documentaries, and organize creative projects. All this connecting should lead to potential customers.

Who Is Developing Whom?

Maybe I’m looking at the problem backward.

Facebook is developing me and my network as a market.

Every connection creates another opportunity to see vacation photos from Vietnam, political opinions about the Wyoming election, family reunions, inspirational quotes, and ads for products I didn’t know existed, like an iPhone tripod the size of a credit card.

Meanwhile, I scroll, searching for the people who might be interested in what I’m doing. I’ve either met or corresponded with most of my Facebook contacts. Some I’ve never met other than online. Occasionally, I’ll come across a high school classmate or a former work colleague.

I make a point of wishing my contacts a happy birthday every day. This gives me a chance to cull the list. Some haven’t been active for a year or more. Others have died.

I make a point of wishing my contacts a happy birthday daily. This gives me a chance to cull the list. Some haven’t been active for a year or more. Others have died.

Robin Dunbar, a sociologist, estimated that 150 is the number of stable social relationships a person can maintain. I went through my contacts and picked 150 people closest to me. I see their posts more often than others’.

Book publishers want to know the size of my social media base. That’s not a useful metric, considering any given user interacts with a few contacts. In my case, it’s 150.

Facebook has the data. It knows who talks to whom, who clicks on what, and who shares an interest in everything from gardening to Japanese American history. Surely it could offer a little more guidance.

“Alan, here’s a potential beta reader.”

“Here’s a filmmaker who wants to organize a film series.”

“Here’s a book influencer who might pitch your work.”

Instead, I get a suggestion to connect with someone who has 213 friends in common with me, but that’s it.

I could click Add Friend.

What do I have to lose?

A little time, a little privacy, and the illusion that I understand how social media works.

If the stranger turns out to be my next best business partner, I’ll owe Facebook an apology.

In fact, I’ve made money through social networking. That’s why I’m on Facebook in the first place. I’m trying to figure out how to do more of it.

So far, Facebook has suggested hundreds of people I might know. Some have hundreds of friends in common with me. Others have none.

Maybe one of them will become my next best business partner. Maybe I’ll sell a few books. Maybe I’ll get another invitation to invest in cryptocurrency.

If I figure out the secret, I’ll write a blog post about it.

Facebook can suggest potential readers.

Exploring the Shift: Sports Betting from Casinos to Your Couch

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As technologically savvy as I like to think I am, I have a confession. I don’t have a single sports app on my iPhone.

No DraftKings. No FanDuel. No betting app of any kind.

When I was younger and more competitive, gambling didn’t do much for me. I couldn’t win enough to make me happy, and I couldn’t lose enough to make me angry.

A man sitting at a casino table with a concerned expression, wearing a baseball cap and a light sweater, in a vibrant casino environment with digital screens in the background.

What kind of entertainment is that?

My last bet was a hand of blackjack at the Tropicana in Las Vegas, shortly before its new owners razed the place. That was an appropriate ending to my gambling career. I lost the casino, and the casino lost its building.

Gambling hasn’t changed, but gambling is now more accessible.

From the casino to the couch

I remember sitting in old casino sportsbooks.

I liked the Flamingo.

A wall of televisions showed different games. Baseball here. Horse racing there. Basketball on another screen.

My fantasy Buttheads Baseball League made pilgrimages to Vegas. A few Buttheads gambled heavily. I placed a few bets and enjoyed hanging with my friends.

Today, you don’t have to travel to Sin City to enjoy that experience. You don’t even have to leave the couch.

Modern televisions can display four games on one screen. Add another big screen, a tablet, and a smartphone, and turn your living room into a casino sportsbook.

Except you don’t have to tip a cocktail server.

The smartphone provides the betting window. You can check the score, look up the odds, and place a wager without getting up.

A cartoon depicting two men watching a baseball game. One man, visibly anxious and holding a phone, asks how to watch without betting money. The other man, relaxed with a drink, humorously replies that he prefers to lose for free.

The transformation accelerated in 2018, when the U.S. Supreme Court struck down the federal law that had prohibited most states from authorizing sports betting. The decision allowed states to decide for themselves, and online wagering spread rapidly.

Professional sports leagues, which once treated gambling as a threat to the integrity of their games, have embraced partnerships with betting companies.

The NFL has partnered with DraftKings, FanDuel and Fanatics. Casinos like MGM have joined the online action. The NBA, MLB, NHL and WNBA have also established relationships with sportsbook operators.

At one time, casinos wanted you to visit their establishment.

Now the casinos want to come home with you.

The sports year used to have a rhythm.

Now the seasons overlap. The sports calendar is like the 24-hour Denny’s menu.

Baseball stretches from spring into fall. The WNBA occupies the warmer months. Football begins in September. Hockey and the NBA arrive in October.

I have YouTube TV and discovered that I now get a cricket channel. I tried to understand the game when I went to South Africa for a movie project.

I’ll never figure out the T20/Limited Overs statistic.

All leagues always play on weekends.

Tuesday? There are NBA games.

Wednesday? Any sport except NFL games.

Thursday? Another football game.

Friday? More games, but I don’t think you can bet on high school football.

You’d better have stopped at Costco for snacks.

A minority with a lot of money

Most Americans don’t bet on sports online.

A couple sitting on a couch, with the woman looking at the man holding a tablet, expressing confusion about quality time together. They are watching a football game on TV, emphasizing their shared sportsbook account.

Pew Research Center reports that in 2025, about one in ten U.S. adults had placed an online sports bet during the previous year. The percentage was higher among younger adults.

Despite few sports bettors, gambling has become a multibillion-dollar business.

The American Gaming Association reports that in 2025, gamblers accounted for $17 billion in U.S. commercial sports-betting revenue. That’s the money sportsbooks retained after paying winning bets, not the total amount wagered.

You don’t need every sports fan to gamble. You need a small group of customers who place bets frequently enough, and in large enough amounts, to support a very profitable business.

Broadcasters get more ways to hold our attention. The rest of us get to watch the games, whether we bet or not.

That’s the irony. The gambling minority has financed a business that influences the sports-watching experience of millions of people who never place a wager.

Multiscreen America

This is where technology has changed how I watch sports.

A man sitting on a couch watching multiple sports games on a large TV while using a tablet and a smartphone to place bets. A cat is resting nearby, and there are snacks on the coffee table.

I like NFL RedZone.

RedZone solved one of my least favorite Sunday football activities: channel surfing.

I used to spend Sunday afternoons with the remote in my hand, searching for another game during commercials. Now the two-minute timeout equals five minutes of TV ads.

I’d switch channels just in time to see a replay, or the announcer explaining what I’d missed.

RedZone does the searching for me. It jumps among games and shows scoring opportunities across the league.

I can see a key play in Cleveland without missing a touchdown in Kansas City.

Now I can watch the Broncos on one multi-view screen and RedZone on another. Baseball plays on the third screen, and news on the fourth.

The old casino sportsbook had a wall of televisions because bettors didn’t want to miss anything. Now we can reproduce that convenience in our living rooms.

The difference is that the casino provided the televisions. Now, we have to buy our own.

The smartphone lets us carry the betting window in our pocket.

The gaming transformation fascinates me, even if I have no intention of joining the betting public. I’m interested in the technology, the economics, and the way a business can change an entire viewing culture without requiring most viewers to become customers.

I don’t need to bet

For all this technology, I can still enjoy a Yankees game without having 20 bucks riding on the outcome. I can get emotionally invested in a Cleveland Browns football game without consulting the point spread. I can watch a spectacular catch, an acrobatic interception, or a last-second field goal without calculating what it means for my betting account.

Football trading card featuring a player in a red uniform with the number 20, representing the Kansas City Chiefs.

I prefer sports pools that are based on the luck of the draw.

I once won $2,500 on a progressive football pool at the Stockgrowers Bar in Lander, Wyoming. Patrons chipped in $5 a week for the entire season.

There were weekly winners, but the bar reserved the big prize for the last game. I sat at home and watched the Chief’s DB Deron Cherry intercept a pass, stalling what would have been the Vikings’ game-winning drive.

My numbers hit.

When my birthday falls on Kentucky Derby Day, my upstairs neighbor from Kentucky runs several horse-race pools. I’ll buy a $2 chance.

Over my life, I’ve learned there’s freedom in not having to watch every game. I missed the Browns game yesterday, but my dashboard screen showed live updates from Google.

A group of people engaged in a discussion around a table with brown paper bags marked with numbers. A woman in a black hat is displaying an object, while others watch and interact in a casual setting.

I made it home in time to see Andre Szmyt kick a game-winning field goal as time expired.

I don’t need to know every betting line. I know enough betting jargon to have a conversation with my gambling friends.

When I gambled in Las Vegas, I had to go to the sportsbook. Now, if I choose, the sportsbook can come to me on my 65-inch, four-screen setup.

I still won’t download a sports-betting app on my iPhone. Some vices are better left out of the house.