All the rich people are in a panic. They’re not as rich as they thought they were. Many of them will now stiff housekeepers, bellmen, waiters, drivers, and all manner of service people in the name of austerity. That’s the way. Some look at it like a party, where everybody gets to dress down and use the kitchen, fire up the Viking, watch some movies. Great Depression nostalgia, but with good wine. Sometimes, you just have to spend a buck. After all, it’s Christmas.
Many rich people don’t know a thing about money, except how to spend it. One guy I know said that it’s a good thing that rich people have money, because they know what to do with it. True enough, but many of those people haven’t a clue how to get rich, only how to be rich. And they love each others company, unless they invested with Bernie Madoff, which is like being in a club that practices cannibalism, only you don’t find out until its too late.
Bernie’s sales force was legion and none of them were on the payroll. They were just getting dividends, proud to say: The fund is closed. You can’t get in. But I know someone who knows someone. And boy, do they have money. That money was taken care of by Bernard Madoff, the rabbi of have some, get more. There were so many people clamoring to give their money to Bernie that the world was too small. There was more greed than planet. But the only people who got health insurance were his kids, who seemed to accept greed as the way of the world, as a virtue that trumped the other Cardinal Sins. The rest ate each other.
It all fell apart in China, where they'll eat anything but money. Money they burn, but only the fake stuff. The Chinese don’t understand the ephemera of money, the burden of money, the idea that money is something to turn over to someone else because you can’t do a thing but spend it. The Chinese like to see the money – on the table and into their pocket. Whenever I’m doing business with those guys I bring cash, which is going to happen more often since The Fed just lowered interest rates to zero, which doesn’t hurt the Fed too much, since the Chinese are the ones holding all the cash. And you can forget tips in China.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Taking Inventory
I have two girls working for me. They handle concessions. They both want to take over the world. The problem is, they just got started. They hate each other and they hate me. They haven’t figured out how to hate me together, which is good. And it hasn’t dawned on either of them how to actually make a sandwich. Once they figure it out, I’m toast.
One of them came to talk about 'branding.' I told her that I hate that word. I told her to substitute the word ‘reputation.’ She looked at me like I was a dunce. I explained to her that a sandwich is eaten one person at a time and that you have to make each person want more than one sandwich. Think content, I told her; style will take care of itself. Besides, style is not your strong suit. Boy, was she pissed. I’m sure I should have said: “play to your strengths.” It was a failure of tact, which makes everybody suffer.
The other one wanted to tell me how to truck cheese. She just read an article on line somewhere and she was crazed – times and temps, air pressure, crust, shelf life. She was shouting at me. At first I was amazed and then, as she kept talking, my mind started to wander from the certainty of cheese to her contempt for me. She was talking to me like I was two years old and knew nothing of cheese. I wanted to throw a tantrum. I am cheese. I know where in Caserta to go on Christmas but here in town I get my cheese from one guy, who delivers, and if he dropped dead I know where I’d go next. In fact, I might go there sooner than later. One thing is for sure. Cheese is not a problem. And that’s what I said, perhaps too loudly.
Neither one is talking to me, but neither to each other. Every time one gets an idea, the other accuses the first of stealing her idea. I’ve explained my belief that ideas are useless. It’s all in the making. They have some crazy sandwiches in Hanoi, but I couldn’t deliver them here. Besides, people aren’t calling me up looking for a duck slider or soft-shelled crab on a bun. Roast pork is more like it, with some tooth to the bread. Rare roast beef, mortadella, the stuff we know. I once had a cook in Milan tell me: This recipe is 1000 years old. Who am I to change it? My father made it for 70 years. I’d rather spend my life perfecting it.
I told this to the girls. One said that it sounded boring; the chef must be boring, likewise his restaurant. The other one agreed. In a rare moment of harmony, they trashed a thousand years and a family’s pride. I was worried that it might interfere with the normal work flow, but the next day they were back to suspecting each other’s motives as they filed their inventory sheets, which is the good thing about doing inventory, it keeps everyone quiet.
One of them came to talk about 'branding.' I told her that I hate that word. I told her to substitute the word ‘reputation.’ She looked at me like I was a dunce. I explained to her that a sandwich is eaten one person at a time and that you have to make each person want more than one sandwich. Think content, I told her; style will take care of itself. Besides, style is not your strong suit. Boy, was she pissed. I’m sure I should have said: “play to your strengths.” It was a failure of tact, which makes everybody suffer.
The other one wanted to tell me how to truck cheese. She just read an article on line somewhere and she was crazed – times and temps, air pressure, crust, shelf life. She was shouting at me. At first I was amazed and then, as she kept talking, my mind started to wander from the certainty of cheese to her contempt for me. She was talking to me like I was two years old and knew nothing of cheese. I wanted to throw a tantrum. I am cheese. I know where in Caserta to go on Christmas but here in town I get my cheese from one guy, who delivers, and if he dropped dead I know where I’d go next. In fact, I might go there sooner than later. One thing is for sure. Cheese is not a problem. And that’s what I said, perhaps too loudly.
Neither one is talking to me, but neither to each other. Every time one gets an idea, the other accuses the first of stealing her idea. I’ve explained my belief that ideas are useless. It’s all in the making. They have some crazy sandwiches in Hanoi, but I couldn’t deliver them here. Besides, people aren’t calling me up looking for a duck slider or soft-shelled crab on a bun. Roast pork is more like it, with some tooth to the bread. Rare roast beef, mortadella, the stuff we know. I once had a cook in Milan tell me: This recipe is 1000 years old. Who am I to change it? My father made it for 70 years. I’d rather spend my life perfecting it.
I told this to the girls. One said that it sounded boring; the chef must be boring, likewise his restaurant. The other one agreed. In a rare moment of harmony, they trashed a thousand years and a family’s pride. I was worried that it might interfere with the normal work flow, but the next day they were back to suspecting each other’s motives as they filed their inventory sheets, which is the good thing about doing inventory, it keeps everyone quiet.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Jersey Tomatos
I just got back from Miami. It was a trade show, so I can write it off in 08, which is going to be the last good year I’ll see for a while. From now on, break-even is the name of the game. That’s what I told everybody down in Florida. I call it the 99-cent club. Count us all in for a dollar, along with the three stooges from Detroit. But they have their expenses covered. And compensation is deferred I’m sure. By the time they’re gone, they’ll be set. The rest of us will have to settle for less.
People tell me my prices are too high. I had a guy who made me explain to him what I spend all the money on. We were both at The Raleigh. He’s buying drinks for $20 apiece and he wants to complain about the price of a hoagie. When I look at a prosciutto, I understand why a guy wants $300. It makes sense to me. But some guys want 5. I met a couple of guys who wanted 7 - Italians, selling the last pigs on earth. And they didn’t care that the guy from Michigan could deliver bulk at 2 and change, because it’s domestic. They laughed at him. And you know what? Most of my customers wouldn’t know the difference. And neither would you. But that’s the thing with ham. It’s a cult.
I like to walk the floor at trade shows, see the people. I go to fairs all over the world. It’s a way to get around. It doesn’t add much to the price of a sandwich, and I always come away with something good. That’s how I met my wife. She was helping out her brother, who was selling oxygenation, which you need to farm fish. My wife was the beautiful girl attached to the pitch, which everybody needs. It’s no wonder the Italians can charge so much. We were introduced at a party given by some vacuum packers. The minute I met her, I was ready to start a fish farm. But I tend to stick with what I know, which is what I tell my wife, now that I know her.
Here, a global sandwich. That prosciutto is domestic, in case you were wondering. That tomato? Some guy in Chile grew it for a guy in Holland who uses a Greek to get it here, where I buy it from you know who, who got it from some Chinese. I used to get my tomatoes from Jersey. The guy who grew them drove them here in the back seat of his car and took the money in cash. Those tomatoes are easy to miss, I'll say that.
People tell me my prices are too high. I had a guy who made me explain to him what I spend all the money on. We were both at The Raleigh. He’s buying drinks for $20 apiece and he wants to complain about the price of a hoagie. When I look at a prosciutto, I understand why a guy wants $300. It makes sense to me. But some guys want 5. I met a couple of guys who wanted 7 - Italians, selling the last pigs on earth. And they didn’t care that the guy from Michigan could deliver bulk at 2 and change, because it’s domestic. They laughed at him. And you know what? Most of my customers wouldn’t know the difference. And neither would you. But that’s the thing with ham. It’s a cult.
I like to walk the floor at trade shows, see the people. I go to fairs all over the world. It’s a way to get around. It doesn’t add much to the price of a sandwich, and I always come away with something good. That’s how I met my wife. She was helping out her brother, who was selling oxygenation, which you need to farm fish. My wife was the beautiful girl attached to the pitch, which everybody needs. It’s no wonder the Italians can charge so much. We were introduced at a party given by some vacuum packers. The minute I met her, I was ready to start a fish farm. But I tend to stick with what I know, which is what I tell my wife, now that I know her.
Here, a global sandwich. That prosciutto is domestic, in case you were wondering. That tomato? Some guy in Chile grew it for a guy in Holland who uses a Greek to get it here, where I buy it from you know who, who got it from some Chinese. I used to get my tomatoes from Jersey. The guy who grew them drove them here in the back seat of his car and took the money in cash. Those tomatoes are easy to miss, I'll say that.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
more leftovers
I hate terror and death. They just stopped shooting in Mumbai and I’m still slicing turkey - that’s how much I don’t want to think about it. I could have been one of those people taking advantage of a special rate at the Taj, tooling around old Bombay having the time of my life. That’s what they come to take.
They sow fear. Sowing fear in America is like announcing a sale at WallMart, where everything is already half-off, including firearms. They trampled a store employee to death yesterday, on Black Friday, where people go crazy shopping. The police are looking for suspects. Where would you like to die? India or Underwear? It’s Black Friday all over, though shopping is the only thing they talk about on TV. That's what Bush told us to do after 9/11: Go shopping. I wonder what they're saying in Mumbai?
I’m out of Mayo. In fact, we’re closing early. My wife insists on seeing Slum Dog Millionaire, about a peasant in Mumbai who wins money on a game show but is tortured by the authorities because they think he was lying about where he got the answers. They say it’s good. I think it has a happy ending.
They sow fear. Sowing fear in America is like announcing a sale at WallMart, where everything is already half-off, including firearms. They trampled a store employee to death yesterday, on Black Friday, where people go crazy shopping. The police are looking for suspects. Where would you like to die? India or Underwear? It’s Black Friday all over, though shopping is the only thing they talk about on TV. That's what Bush told us to do after 9/11: Go shopping. I wonder what they're saying in Mumbai?
I’m out of Mayo. In fact, we’re closing early. My wife insists on seeing Slum Dog Millionaire, about a peasant in Mumbai who wins money on a game show but is tortured by the authorities because they think he was lying about where he got the answers. They say it’s good. I think it has a happy ending.
Turkey Hero
Some people think I have time on my hands, but in case you didn’t notice, I’m doing more than one thing. Did you see what I have going on out back? There’s 50 kids slicing meat and running around on bikes. You don’t want to be here when I open that door and start shouting. I just like to keep it quiet out front, so I can wait on my old customers.
I try to be like my cousin, who works all the time. But the minute you need him, he's there. Plus, he’s a funny guy who laughs at all your jokes. I’d give him my last dime, but he needs nothing from me. He’s the one with hot rolls. He’s got people driving down from Connecticut and up from Baltimore and he tells them all the same thing: Don’t park in front of the store. My cousin parks around the corner. He drives a different car every day. Three are new, the rest are vintage. He says he collects nothing but gold, of which he has an enormous amount, and French Impressionists, a collection of which he knows nothing but names, like horses, a few of which he also owns. He says that the only thing he’s serious about is bread. He’s got bakeries all over New Jersey, plus an oven in Pennsauken for the restaurants, but no matter what they say, we all know they make the real bread on Mole St. Just don’t park there.
My cousin makes money no matter what. The less money people have, the more they want baked goods. There’s a lot of people who would give my cousin their last dime, and for a good reason. And it’s all in cash, at least around the corner, which is not to say my cousin doesn’t pay taxes. He’s proud to pay taxes, which he supplements with countless rolls distributed at no charge to the local citizenry, often one at a time.
I don’t use my cousin’s bread. Don’t get me wrong. It’s what we eat at home. My cousin would be offended. Besides, we don’t pay. But over here, I’m making a lot of sandwiches, and I don’t want that shit from Pennsauken. I’d bake my own, but then my cousin would be really offended, so I have to buy rolls from some other guy. My cousin loves the idea that I buy my bread from this other guy. This way, he doesn’t have to imagine that he can make a better sandwich, he keeps an eye on this other guy, and I don’t presume to bake bread. It makes the whole picture cozy, everybody with a slice. The way he sees it, between us we feed the whole city. And everybody has to eat. Even today. Look at this. What amazes me is that half the people still want turkey.
I try to be like my cousin, who works all the time. But the minute you need him, he's there. Plus, he’s a funny guy who laughs at all your jokes. I’d give him my last dime, but he needs nothing from me. He’s the one with hot rolls. He’s got people driving down from Connecticut and up from Baltimore and he tells them all the same thing: Don’t park in front of the store. My cousin parks around the corner. He drives a different car every day. Three are new, the rest are vintage. He says he collects nothing but gold, of which he has an enormous amount, and French Impressionists, a collection of which he knows nothing but names, like horses, a few of which he also owns. He says that the only thing he’s serious about is bread. He’s got bakeries all over New Jersey, plus an oven in Pennsauken for the restaurants, but no matter what they say, we all know they make the real bread on Mole St. Just don’t park there.
My cousin makes money no matter what. The less money people have, the more they want baked goods. There’s a lot of people who would give my cousin their last dime, and for a good reason. And it’s all in cash, at least around the corner, which is not to say my cousin doesn’t pay taxes. He’s proud to pay taxes, which he supplements with countless rolls distributed at no charge to the local citizenry, often one at a time.
I don’t use my cousin’s bread. Don’t get me wrong. It’s what we eat at home. My cousin would be offended. Besides, we don’t pay. But over here, I’m making a lot of sandwiches, and I don’t want that shit from Pennsauken. I’d bake my own, but then my cousin would be really offended, so I have to buy rolls from some other guy. My cousin loves the idea that I buy my bread from this other guy. This way, he doesn’t have to imagine that he can make a better sandwich, he keeps an eye on this other guy, and I don’t presume to bake bread. It makes the whole picture cozy, everybody with a slice. The way he sees it, between us we feed the whole city. And everybody has to eat. Even today. Look at this. What amazes me is that half the people still want turkey.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Home for the Holidays
Here come the holidays. I hate the fucking holidays. But I’m glad to be home in time for turkey. Sure I have to make it. Who else? My wife doesn’t get the whole turkey thing. She wants to make spaghetti. My son is coming over. The other one is still sleeping. That kid keeps some strange hours. But what can I do? There’s no way to punish him. He’s too big. Besides, his grades aren’t bad.
I get depressed during the holidays. And I have a lot of things to be depressed about. Sure, I have enough to eat. But this is fast food. I want to eat life, and who gets enough of that, especially when the economy is bad? Fuck gas. Have you checked out the price of cigarettes? But they make sure everybody can buy a turkey. I went all the way - free range, organic, kosher. I’m not Jewish, but those extra rules can’t hurt, especially considering where I've just been.
I had a great trip. Everybody over there couldn’t figure out why I left in the middle of the week to go back home and eat turkey. They hate turkey. But you ought to see what they eat when they run home. They’re crazy to get back and worship whatever moon, so they can blame the parents, push each other around, and generally share the love. They eat hairy crabs in Hangzhou.
I’ll spend my last dime on a plane ticket, that’s for sure. I was worried that the airports would be crowded just before the holiday, but they were empty. Over there, there were more security people than people. Over here, it looked like a lot of illegal aliens got jobs and uniforms over at Immigration. That’s the best thing we have going for us on the approach to America. Otherwise, we’re left with the road to NY for a first impression. My friend from Korea asked me if the BQE was the regular road or the back road. He said ‘third world’ and New York in the same sentence. But it didn’t look too bad last night, with all the lights on.
I’m not sure if I can get through today without crying. More than likely, I’ll start yelling. I pity my sons, not to mention my wife. You’d think I could control it. The problem is, I think so too. I start by being in a good mood, full of love and happiness. But the next thing I know, somebody is all fed up. Fuck it. Fuck all of you, I start shouting. And then it’s all my fault, and everybody hates me. I should eat early and take a nap while everybody else is having dinner. There would just be a leg missing and everybody would be happy. Or maybe they’d complain that they were short-changed.
I get depressed during the holidays. And I have a lot of things to be depressed about. Sure, I have enough to eat. But this is fast food. I want to eat life, and who gets enough of that, especially when the economy is bad? Fuck gas. Have you checked out the price of cigarettes? But they make sure everybody can buy a turkey. I went all the way - free range, organic, kosher. I’m not Jewish, but those extra rules can’t hurt, especially considering where I've just been.
I had a great trip. Everybody over there couldn’t figure out why I left in the middle of the week to go back home and eat turkey. They hate turkey. But you ought to see what they eat when they run home. They’re crazy to get back and worship whatever moon, so they can blame the parents, push each other around, and generally share the love. They eat hairy crabs in Hangzhou.
I’ll spend my last dime on a plane ticket, that’s for sure. I was worried that the airports would be crowded just before the holiday, but they were empty. Over there, there were more security people than people. Over here, it looked like a lot of illegal aliens got jobs and uniforms over at Immigration. That’s the best thing we have going for us on the approach to America. Otherwise, we’re left with the road to NY for a first impression. My friend from Korea asked me if the BQE was the regular road or the back road. He said ‘third world’ and New York in the same sentence. But it didn’t look too bad last night, with all the lights on.
I’m not sure if I can get through today without crying. More than likely, I’ll start yelling. I pity my sons, not to mention my wife. You’d think I could control it. The problem is, I think so too. I start by being in a good mood, full of love and happiness. But the next thing I know, somebody is all fed up. Fuck it. Fuck all of you, I start shouting. And then it’s all my fault, and everybody hates me. I should eat early and take a nap while everybody else is having dinner. There would just be a leg missing and everybody would be happy. Or maybe they’d complain that they were short-changed.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
The All American
Barack Obama is the American hero. Our blood brother, best friend, south paw, first pick, jump shooting mutt with big ears that stand straight up in the woods is the quintessential American, an archetypical case of a boy wanting to be president - a westward ho-ing, Harvard going Chicagoan whose Mom got lost in the 60’s and brought someone home to dinner (wow) which guy then disappeared, leaving behind a single mother with a black baby, raised by his grandmother in a middle class white family out in the sun belt whose retirement was suddenly interrupted by a devastating and unexpected development - our first begotten, 21st century son: Barack Hussein Obama.
My grandmother always said: be careful what you wish for - which I know Barack’s grandmother told him, which was advice from our common, and much greater grandmother, who is either German or Swedish, from the Italian half of our people in Spain, or so I’m told by the Jewish side, who married into those Greeks, just before they left for America. They settled in Brooklyn and opened the bakery in California on their way from St. Louis. Boy, they made money. After the one son married that Puerto Rican girl, his brother got with those people from Wisconsin, who came from Detroit, Indians I think. They loved those girls, who looked like the mother. They came from Dade County, before they moved to Hawaii, which was lucky for them. But that was the white side, out of Ireland. We didn’t hear much from his father, who went back home to Africa. But we’re all so proud of Barack.
We’re having a reunion during the inauguration. The only reason I go to these things is to see some cousins who like to play cards. We keep in touch, but to have a conversation we gamble. Usually it’s small stakes, unless my cousin from Texas is there. Then, you better have some money. My cousins say that Barack has shit in his hand, which is the way they talk after a few beers. You can bluff or you can draw, they say, but you can’t fold. You just lose. It isn’t poker, I say, it’s more like rummy, or bridge. You just have to be patient and stay in the game. You have to concentrate.
We all agree that Barack can concentrate. He’s intense. He’s like Dr. J, Jack Nicklaus, Willie Mosconi. Michael Jordan. Lance Armstrong. Try Tiger Woods, says my cousin. Barack is a regular machine, I say, but a machine with a brain, a heart, a sense of humor, a team player, a superstar. Barack is in it for the long haul, all 9 innings. Barack only needs one name, like Ali. (That third debate? Rope–A-Dope) But one name isn’t enough for Barack. He needs two. Add Obama. Hey, add Hussein, says my cousin. Yo, I say, Hussein is a holy name. There are plenty of crooks named Jesus, down your way. I say this to offend my other cousin, a deacon in the church, but he never pays any attention to me.
We’re supposed to meet at the airport in Fort Worth, before we go, which makes it easy since nobody is traveling much these days. I got a great deal at the Haytt. My brother is at the Holiday Inn, but I didn’t say anything. My mother may come with my aunt, though she may just stay home. She’s 85, after all. She’s crazy about Barack, but she’s not sure if he’ll actually show up. She imagines Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Clinton. We're all Democrats around here. Check the window.
Lately, she’s never watched so much TV, forgoing Raymond to watch the Phillies win the World Series and Barack get elected. She says she watched the World Series for my Dad, who recently passed away and was buried with an Honor Guard, which made everyone cry all the more. Obama she watched for herself, though she did pay a price over at the Senior Citizen Center, where nobody wanted to talk about Barack. This led my mother into a few confrontations, where she called some fellow seniors, racists. Just vote for the white half, she said. In the last weeks of the campaign, she stayed home. As it turns out, she convinced more than a few elders, ever the activist. Her parting advice was: Let the kids have their own President.
My wife's family back in Europe is also very excited, and many want to come over for the party, but they’re bound to be disappointed. They have this funny idea about America, and usually end up disappointed. But when someone like Barack comes along, a once in a lifetime, only in America miracle - the genuine article, a new invention that could change the world brought to you by the only country in which he could ever exist, they pay attention. Some are even jealous that we’re Americans. Imagine that, in this day and age. I’ll be making some sandwiches, but nothing special. Just some hamburgers and hot dogs. Maybe some corn. If my mother comes, she'll bring a pie.
My grandmother always said: be careful what you wish for - which I know Barack’s grandmother told him, which was advice from our common, and much greater grandmother, who is either German or Swedish, from the Italian half of our people in Spain, or so I’m told by the Jewish side, who married into those Greeks, just before they left for America. They settled in Brooklyn and opened the bakery in California on their way from St. Louis. Boy, they made money. After the one son married that Puerto Rican girl, his brother got with those people from Wisconsin, who came from Detroit, Indians I think. They loved those girls, who looked like the mother. They came from Dade County, before they moved to Hawaii, which was lucky for them. But that was the white side, out of Ireland. We didn’t hear much from his father, who went back home to Africa. But we’re all so proud of Barack.
We’re having a reunion during the inauguration. The only reason I go to these things is to see some cousins who like to play cards. We keep in touch, but to have a conversation we gamble. Usually it’s small stakes, unless my cousin from Texas is there. Then, you better have some money. My cousins say that Barack has shit in his hand, which is the way they talk after a few beers. You can bluff or you can draw, they say, but you can’t fold. You just lose. It isn’t poker, I say, it’s more like rummy, or bridge. You just have to be patient and stay in the game. You have to concentrate.
We all agree that Barack can concentrate. He’s intense. He’s like Dr. J, Jack Nicklaus, Willie Mosconi. Michael Jordan. Lance Armstrong. Try Tiger Woods, says my cousin. Barack is a regular machine, I say, but a machine with a brain, a heart, a sense of humor, a team player, a superstar. Barack is in it for the long haul, all 9 innings. Barack only needs one name, like Ali. (That third debate? Rope–A-Dope) But one name isn’t enough for Barack. He needs two. Add Obama. Hey, add Hussein, says my cousin. Yo, I say, Hussein is a holy name. There are plenty of crooks named Jesus, down your way. I say this to offend my other cousin, a deacon in the church, but he never pays any attention to me.
We’re supposed to meet at the airport in Fort Worth, before we go, which makes it easy since nobody is traveling much these days. I got a great deal at the Haytt. My brother is at the Holiday Inn, but I didn’t say anything. My mother may come with my aunt, though she may just stay home. She’s 85, after all. She’s crazy about Barack, but she’s not sure if he’ll actually show up. She imagines Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Clinton. We're all Democrats around here. Check the window.
Lately, she’s never watched so much TV, forgoing Raymond to watch the Phillies win the World Series and Barack get elected. She says she watched the World Series for my Dad, who recently passed away and was buried with an Honor Guard, which made everyone cry all the more. Obama she watched for herself, though she did pay a price over at the Senior Citizen Center, where nobody wanted to talk about Barack. This led my mother into a few confrontations, where she called some fellow seniors, racists. Just vote for the white half, she said. In the last weeks of the campaign, she stayed home. As it turns out, she convinced more than a few elders, ever the activist. Her parting advice was: Let the kids have their own President.
My wife's family back in Europe is also very excited, and many want to come over for the party, but they’re bound to be disappointed. They have this funny idea about America, and usually end up disappointed. But when someone like Barack comes along, a once in a lifetime, only in America miracle - the genuine article, a new invention that could change the world brought to you by the only country in which he could ever exist, they pay attention. Some are even jealous that we’re Americans. Imagine that, in this day and age. I’ll be making some sandwiches, but nothing special. Just some hamburgers and hot dogs. Maybe some corn. If my mother comes, she'll bring a pie.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
An Audience of One
Every cook knows what every artist knows of every actor who abides by the writer’s creed. The only person who matters is the one who doesn’t get it. Conversely, everyone who gets it gets it one person at a time. Whatever its effect on the crowd, meaningful art strikes at one person, is inspired by an individual, and that person usually has a name. So what’s your name? Did you see the Olympic ceremonies in Beijing? I did. I thought of you.
You are my heart’s desire and you know it, you fuck. I long to be with you but hate it just the same. At least it seems so, whenever we’re together. But it’s not true. I adore you. I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I want to shout it to the world. And when I think of all the people who might hear me, I want each one of them to know that I have a very strange way of showing it.
Want a sandwich? Let me make you something to eat. Nothing makes me happier. I'll put it on the grill. No butter or mayo, I promise. Just some ham and cheese, a little olive oil outside to make it crispy. Or do you want veggies? If you didn’t eat breakfast, you should. Can I make you something with an egg? I can wrap it up, if you want.
You are my heart’s desire and you know it, you fuck. I long to be with you but hate it just the same. At least it seems so, whenever we’re together. But it’s not true. I adore you. I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I want to shout it to the world. And when I think of all the people who might hear me, I want each one of them to know that I have a very strange way of showing it.
Want a sandwich? Let me make you something to eat. Nothing makes me happier. I'll put it on the grill. No butter or mayo, I promise. Just some ham and cheese, a little olive oil outside to make it crispy. Or do you want veggies? If you didn’t eat breakfast, you should. Can I make you something with an egg? I can wrap it up, if you want.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Financial Crisis for Dunces
There was no money in the first place. This is, or rather was, the problem. We thought there was money when there was none, and we wanted what wasn’t there. Yet we bet most everything, like a dunce at the carnival. Now, that money is gone too. But don’t worry, there’s still hope - and maybe even some money. Who has it? Us dunces, of course.
We thought that the banks had the money. But if a bank sells a mortgage to someone who, by every reasonable standard, cannot pay that mortgage, and they call that debt “money”, we have a problem - especially if we keep our money in that bank. Because debt is debt and money is money. Debt is the opposite of money, and a bank should know that.
The guy who sold that mortgage retail wasn’t at fault, because he was busy making money, working hard for a living like any regular Joe pulling down 200k a year. The John to whom he sold the mortgage wasn’t making 20, but that didn’t matter. It was all legal, the dream of home ownership come true. Home ownership was now possible for every American, as The President was proud to say, though he failed to mention that debt is still debt.
Back at the bank, they had a lot of these mortgages. So they lumped them all together and sold them to bigger banks who wanted to participate in the dream of home ownership. They sold them to smaller banks as well, who were also dreaming. But the wise hardly slept. They re-sold the mortgages, wholesale, to the companies who manage our saving and retirement funds. And this debt, called money, was considered an excellent investment because it involved home ownership, shelter itself, and isn’t that what we all need? That’s why we saved our money in the first place.
Every time these mortgages were re-sold, bigger and bigger amounts of debt changed hands. These transactions involved a lot of work, and the people involved had to be paid. They were paid in real money, and some of these people became very rich. Getting rich is the next part of the dream, the happy ending. Getting rich is what it’s all about, after food and shelter. And if you’re competing with another banker or fund manager for deals in a global economy, you need every bit of real money you can get your hands on. Of course you’d need a boat, a helicopter, and an airplane to find that money.
The accounting departments for the people buying and selling these debts were charged with the daunting job of making this debt look like money when written into a ledger. Further, they had to make projections that assured the stockholders that they would continue to make debt look like money going forward, with real mathematics to bear them out. They developed some very obscure models toward that end, rendering the fundamental flaw imperceptible under a thousand veils, promising everything and concealing all.
But once they had mathematics, the bankers themselves started to believe it - and they had the boats, helicopters, and airplanes to prove it. They even went so far as to put their banks into debt, believing it to be an asset. They borrowed cash to meet their payroll (I run a small business. If we had to borrow money to meet the payroll, we would consider our demise imminent. Any banker crazy enough to approve such a loan would deserve what he got. However, if I ever applied for such a loan, I would expect to assume some personal liability, as would my fellow directors. I would put my money where my debt was. It is the logical extension of my responsibility, not to mention the banker’s), so that the accountants, clerks, secretaries, and janitors got some real money too, so they could buy into the dream. Most of these people decided to save for their retirement with this borrowed money, putting it back into the new system of calling debt, money. Some were even rewarded with company stock, debt now being its own reward.
You might think that there ought to be a law against the kind of ploy that preys on people’s desire, their belief that the pig in the poke is real, and wearing lipstick. And there were some laws. Not too long ago, banks were obliged to call a debt a debt. But the bankers were rich enough to lobby the government so that the laws could be changed. Spades were called hearts and jokers, aces. After all, there were millions of dunces left, and plenty of debt to go around, artfully obscured by incomprehensible math. And it remains legal, as the government has done everything possible to free-up the markets, which are largely pre-occupied with the business of turning debt into money. In this case, freedom is a necessity.
But now we’ve come to the end. The only deal left is the mortgage on a burning house (the lot, we are assured, has value). If we bought a mortgage on a burning house, who could be blamed? Nobody forced us, although they did point out the excellent interest rates available at the time. And who doesn’t dream of owning a home?
We thought that the banks had the money. But if a bank sells a mortgage to someone who, by every reasonable standard, cannot pay that mortgage, and they call that debt “money”, we have a problem - especially if we keep our money in that bank. Because debt is debt and money is money. Debt is the opposite of money, and a bank should know that.
The guy who sold that mortgage retail wasn’t at fault, because he was busy making money, working hard for a living like any regular Joe pulling down 200k a year. The John to whom he sold the mortgage wasn’t making 20, but that didn’t matter. It was all legal, the dream of home ownership come true. Home ownership was now possible for every American, as The President was proud to say, though he failed to mention that debt is still debt.
Back at the bank, they had a lot of these mortgages. So they lumped them all together and sold them to bigger banks who wanted to participate in the dream of home ownership. They sold them to smaller banks as well, who were also dreaming. But the wise hardly slept. They re-sold the mortgages, wholesale, to the companies who manage our saving and retirement funds. And this debt, called money, was considered an excellent investment because it involved home ownership, shelter itself, and isn’t that what we all need? That’s why we saved our money in the first place.
Every time these mortgages were re-sold, bigger and bigger amounts of debt changed hands. These transactions involved a lot of work, and the people involved had to be paid. They were paid in real money, and some of these people became very rich. Getting rich is the next part of the dream, the happy ending. Getting rich is what it’s all about, after food and shelter. And if you’re competing with another banker or fund manager for deals in a global economy, you need every bit of real money you can get your hands on. Of course you’d need a boat, a helicopter, and an airplane to find that money.
The accounting departments for the people buying and selling these debts were charged with the daunting job of making this debt look like money when written into a ledger. Further, they had to make projections that assured the stockholders that they would continue to make debt look like money going forward, with real mathematics to bear them out. They developed some very obscure models toward that end, rendering the fundamental flaw imperceptible under a thousand veils, promising everything and concealing all.
But once they had mathematics, the bankers themselves started to believe it - and they had the boats, helicopters, and airplanes to prove it. They even went so far as to put their banks into debt, believing it to be an asset. They borrowed cash to meet their payroll (I run a small business. If we had to borrow money to meet the payroll, we would consider our demise imminent. Any banker crazy enough to approve such a loan would deserve what he got. However, if I ever applied for such a loan, I would expect to assume some personal liability, as would my fellow directors. I would put my money where my debt was. It is the logical extension of my responsibility, not to mention the banker’s), so that the accountants, clerks, secretaries, and janitors got some real money too, so they could buy into the dream. Most of these people decided to save for their retirement with this borrowed money, putting it back into the new system of calling debt, money. Some were even rewarded with company stock, debt now being its own reward.
You might think that there ought to be a law against the kind of ploy that preys on people’s desire, their belief that the pig in the poke is real, and wearing lipstick. And there were some laws. Not too long ago, banks were obliged to call a debt a debt. But the bankers were rich enough to lobby the government so that the laws could be changed. Spades were called hearts and jokers, aces. After all, there were millions of dunces left, and plenty of debt to go around, artfully obscured by incomprehensible math. And it remains legal, as the government has done everything possible to free-up the markets, which are largely pre-occupied with the business of turning debt into money. In this case, freedom is a necessity.
But now we’ve come to the end. The only deal left is the mortgage on a burning house (the lot, we are assured, has value). If we bought a mortgage on a burning house, who could be blamed? Nobody forced us, although they did point out the excellent interest rates available at the time. And who doesn’t dream of owning a home?
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