You greedy, greedy bastards

I wouldn’t know a ‘credit default swap’ if it kicked me in my lovely, brown nuts. But I do know greed when I see it. And the more I learn about this country’s economic woes, and the more I learn about how our economy runs, the more I realize how much our financial health depends on a culture created by a bunch of insufferably greedy bastards.

First off, I’ve learned that our financial system is an elaborate house of cards. No. Wait. Cards are much too sturdy and tangible. Our system is more like a house built from a delicate, gossamer thread, spun by invisible fairies. In other words it’s a system built on wishful thinking, speculation, confidence, gut feelings and the opinions of others here and in other parts of the world. Wall Street is like a house which is only as strong as the people inside it think it is. Does that make sense? And the strength of the house changes from day to day depending on how confident Wall Street thinks it is.

To continue with the house metaphor – apparently a few years ago bankers and other capitalists decided that the mansion needed a new wing. Perhaps they wanted somewhere to put the new 102” plasma screen HDTV. So they created a new way to make profit.

Please admit the following simplification of the situation:

It was the turn of the new millennium and home values were booming. People were flipping properties and making profits by the basketloads. Greedy bastard mortgage loan officers made sales pitches worthy of used car hucksters on late night television commercials. “Bad credit, no credit? No problem!”

They offered loans for little or no money down, with no income verification. Granted there were greedy bastard homebuyers who bought 4,000 sq. ft. mcMansions they knew they couldn’t afford. But greedy bastard homebuyers were reinforced in their greed by greedy experts who told them, housing values ALWAYS increase. They don’t go down. So don’t worry about your adjustable rate loan. Don’t worry that you’ve got a $250,000 home with a household income of $80,000. In a few years, you’ll be able to turn around and sell that baby for a million dollars.

Enter the greedy bastard bankers who saw the potential for profit on these loans. The loans were turned into things called ‘mortgage backed securities.’ Again, I wouldn’t know an asset-backed security if it punched my grandmother in the throat, but apparently, if you’re holding someone else’s loan, you’re making money on the interest the borrower is paying. And if you’re holding 10,000 loans, especially sub-prime loans where the interest rates are 10, 12 even 15%, well, my friend you stand to make a shitload of money.

But, it doesn’t take a financial whiz to figure out that the loans won’t be worth the paper they’re printed on if the borrowers can’t pay them back. And that’s what started happening. People began defaulting on their loans, left and right. Unfortunately, some of the world’s biggest financial institutions like Lehman Bros. and Bear Stearns were holding billions of dollars in this bad paper. Worse than that, it turns out that one of the world’s largest insurance companies – AIG – was insuring those risky investments for the big financial institutions. These are the aforementioned ‘credit default swaps.’

So I’m asking myself, how did all these smart people, who already knew how to make millions of dollars get caught in a shitstorm without an umbrella? Seems to me, the millions weren’t enough. They wanted billions. And they didn’t like the rules which kept them from getting there like the Glass-Steagall act passed during the Great Depression (doy). 10 years ago Sen. Byron Dorgan predicted massive bailouts of the industry following the passing of the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act which allowed big financial institutions to merge into mega-financial institutions:

You should read more about this – this is fascinating:

(You know who else voted against G-L-B? Paul Wellstone – bless his soul.)

My very good Libertarian friend Eric is fond of a saying that goes something like, ‘A government that is big enough to give you everything can also take it away.’

Well, I think Americans should be equally – no much, much more suspicious of big banks and big business. Unlike most of the government which is actually, pretty transparent, big banks and financial corporations don’t have to tell you what they’re doing unless they’re a public company and you’re a stockholder.

As this latest episode shows, financial institutions that are ‘too big to fail’ are just plain TOO BIG. And that’s because too many people are just too damn greedy to be trusted.

Evil gets old

I was struck by this photo when I came across it on CNN's website. This is Charles Manson at 74. This is the face of evil -- or should I say, 'insane evil' -- in old age. Clearly the man is going to die in prison, and rightfully so. I guess this is exactly why I'm against the death penalty. I believe life imprisonment is worse than death. Had the state of California executed Manson when he was a dark-haired, crazy-eyed icon, it would have made it easier for people to glorify him.

Despite his horrific crimes, Manson is not a demon. Demons don't get gray hair, calcium deficiencies, prostate cancer or dementia. Humans do.

Farewell, sweet Boo

Me and the Boo got off to a bumpy start.

At the time I picked her out of the lineup at the Animal Humane Society, I was a barely 30-ish bachelor. I was at a point in my life where I felt like I was missing something. I realized I wasn't very good at relationships with women. I'd gone through a couple uncomfortable break-ups in the past few years, including one with a live-in girlfriend. For some this may be considered a 'come to Jesus moment.' But since that route didn't and doesn't appeal to me, I decided I wanted a cat.

I fell for the Boo - actually, her previous owners called her 'Smudge' which I thought was kind of slur for a black cat, you dig? Boo, fit much better. At times I called her Boo-trous, Boo-trous kitty and the Boo-dah, partially because she weighed in at 18 lbs.

The day after I brought her home, she picked up an upper respiratory infection. Which meant I had to go through the painful motion of packing her back in the box she'd been rescued with and bring her to the vet. It broke my heart, because to her it must have seemed like she was going back to Death Row.

The vets gave me antibiotic pills to give the Boo. "Just pry her mouth open and drop it in. And rub her throat to make sure it goes down," they told me. That proved to be much easier said than done. She fought like a beast as I tried to hold her still and get my fingers into her mouth. She growled, scratched and cursed at me. And she made me cry. I couldn't do it. I was going to fail this little animal.

I had to call a friend over to come help me wrestle down the Boo the first couple times. Finally, I figured out how to immobilize her by wrapping her up in a blanket up to her neck - 'kitty burrito' style. It was still tough, but my will triumphed.

The Boo was with me through my ups and downs. She liked to sleep with me on the couch in front of the TV. If you looked at her and said, "Hey Boo." She'd chirp back at you. The Boo also loved to eat. Like a dog, she'd snatch food off your plate if you weren't looking.

In her last year of life, the Boo caught a bout of hyperthyroid, cancer and kidney failure. Once again, I had to fight with her in order to save her life. There were pills, and chemotherapy for the cancer and the kidney failure. The hyperthyroid caused her to lose weight rapidly.

Despite all this, she was still the Boo. She still wouldn't let you sit down with a plate food without trying climb up on you to investigate it. She'd still chirp at you, although not as frequently. And she was still not fond of being medicated. Because she'd become so dehydrated, the vets gave us a bag of fluids and a set of needles which we used to inject water under her skin. And even though by this time she had withered down to about 5 lbs., she still fought us.

On her last night, the Boo was too tired to fight. Sensing that the inevitable was coming very soon, Mecca wrapped her up in towels and stayed up with her much of the night. In the morning, I held her as she took her last breaths.

I'm still deeply sad about losing the Boo. But I'm also relieved that she's no longer sick. And I'm relieved that she died at home in familiar surroundings, with the people who cared for her the most.

Watch this movie

I'm always fascinated by people who were apparently born knowing what they wanted to do and be. And that's the case with Phillippe Petit. The filmmakers of Man on Wire brilliantly juxtapose images of the construction of the Twin Towers and pictures of Petit's childhood. He was apparently a little impish French monkey, always climbing things and performing tricks. And everybody around him knew it and apparently accepted it. I won't give away too much of the documentary - although - obviously, the main character lives. But it is as much a story about Petit's accomplices in his 1974 trans-Tower wire walk as it is about him. What would you do if your best friend told you that the most important goal in his life was to string a wire between two tall buildings and walk across it? Would you help him? Knowing that he could die? And that you could also face harsh legal consequences?

The other really fascinating thing about Petit's clandestine plan was that he and his friends didn't get busted before they could pull it off. Amazing. The documentary mixes a series of reenactments with actual footage. Of course, watching Petit walking 476 meters above the streets of New York is breathtaking. Especially considering he walked across 8 times and was on the wire for 45 minutes.

Walking down musical memory road

Lately, I've started making a list of the 15 records that have had the most impact on my life and why. It's been so much fun, that the list has expanded to 20 and is still growing.

The list includes several moments where a piece of music hit me like a sledgehammer and made me rethink what I thought I knew about being a guitar player.

Here's an excerpt:

No. 5 -- Eat ‘Em and Smile – David Lee Roth

To this point, I’d thought Eddie Van Halen was the greatest guitar player EVER. And being that this was Roth's first solo effort since leaving Van Halen, I was anxious to hear what kind of guitar player Roth would recruit to – let’s face it, replace Eddie. I was skeptical. I mean, Eddie was my guy, right? He was like the tough kid in the neighborhood who the other guys feared and admired at the same time - partially because you thought no one could beat him.

I wanted to hear what this new dude -- this Steve Vai -- could do. I bought Eat Em and Smile at the Musicland in Southdale and put the tape in my Walkman. I’d heard the first track, “Yankee Rose,” and while the song was cool, I wasn’t blown away. I was walking home to the Edina Towers and was just crossing 66th on to Barrie Road when the second track came on, “Shy Boy.” I stopped in my tracks in the middle of the street and my jaw dropped. I kid you not. I laughed out loud. I couldn't get my teenage guitar player head around what I was hearing. Then I listened even more carefully and discovered that the bass player -- Billy Sheehan -- was matching Vai, lick by lightning-fast lick.

"That's not fair," I thought. "Bass players are NOT supposed to do this. God, I suck." But as tempted as I was to put the guitar down after hearing this, I soon discovered that Vai was much more than a shredder. The song "Big Trouble" is a slinky vamp that contains perhaps the most perfect guitar solo ever created. "Ladies Night in Buffalo" is also kinda groovy. And Vai's riffs in "Goin' Crazy" was a tip of his hat to Eddie Van Halen. And while I knew I couldn't reproduce what Vai was playing, I just learned to enjoy listening to his music - just for the sheer pleasure of it.

From there I listened to other Vai classics as Flex-Able Leftovers, Passion and Warfare and Alien Love Secrets. And I listen to these in the same way classical music lovers listen to Mozart or Mahler. Vai is a brilliant soloist, but an even greater composer.

Zen and Mondays

Here's the scene: It's Monday morning and I'm in the elevator as three more cube jockeys trundle in and watch the door close. The three apparently work on the same floor, so they recognize each other. As the elevator lurches upward, one of the heavy set office ladies wearing a full length down coat which smells like a recently burned cigarette, turns to the other similarly dressed woman and says, 'Well, is it Friday yet?'

They share a giggle and lament about the beginning of the week. In my short journey to the 6th floor, I listen quietly as the women proceed to blame all the world's ills on Mondays. Apparently their souls have been crushed by the first day of the week.

I'll preface my rant with this: I'm lucky to have a job that on most days doesn't make me sick. It really is a boost to my personal constitution. But, 'Gah,' life doesn't only happen on Saturday and Sunday. Do shit Monday through Thursday. Do happy hours with your friends or co-workers, go bowling on Tuesday nights, get a hobby, learn how to speak Yiddish -- anything.

Pretty soon, your weeks will get shorter.

You know what? I betcha I've written this rant before. I think columnist and local hipster zen guru Jim Walsh sums it up best in the latest issue of the Downtown Journal.

His take is broader than mine. Walsh says Americans, in particular are "born to run and so unsatisfied and constantly striving for more, bigger, better freedoms." It sounds to me like we're pursuing this happiness horizon which never comes -- it's always just out of reach. And that reminds me of the office ladies and millions of others who are 'working for the weekend.' They are the people I stand next to on the elevator everyday.

To be honest, I'm not much different. I try to 'be in the moment' and appreciate the little things and to be comfortable in silence and stillness. I think I'm better at it than I used to be. But it's hard. There are still moments of my day that I'm not trying to 'be in' and appreciate. Take flossing. I look forward to being done with flossing my teeth, because then I know I can go to sleep and feel a bit better about myself for having struck a blow against placque.

I'll keep trying.

I'm not saying these folks are in a cult...

I was walking through the skyway over 7th street this morning and saw a woman walking toward me who looked like she had some kind of smudge of dirt on her forehead. I was like, 'oh, how embarrassing, her pen must have exploded in her purse and then she smacked her head in frustration thus leaving a mark.' Then I noticed she was walking with a dude who was looking at her as he talked to her, and I'm thinking, 'why doesn't he tell her she's got schmutz on her punum?'

As I approached Cousin's Subs I noticed three more people with smudges right in the middle of their foreheads. Then, it hit me. It's Ash Wednesday. Which means the Easter bunny is busy hatching his eggs in preparation for his big day.

Here's what Wikipedia has to say about the actual meaning of the day:

"Ash Wednesday gets its name from the practice of placing ashes on the foreheads of the faithful as a sign of repentance. The ashes used are gathered after the Palm Crosses from the previous year's Palm Sunday are burned."

So they make crosses out of palms and then burn them - burn crosses - and then rub the ashes on their heads in the sign of the torture instrument used to kill people back in the day.

I'm not sayin'...I'm just sayin'.

Bad hair day

I'm feeling kinda like this little dude today. I need a haircut. Normally, I'd just zip over to Eddie's Barbershop. But a few months ago, the shop looks like it experienced some kind of fire. Now, considering the somewhat shady history of the shop as a place to make illegal bets on sporting events as well as get haircuts, I would not be surprised if the cause of the fire was not accidental.

In the meantime, I feel compelled to hang upside down from a tree branch and pick tasty grubs out the bark. mmmm...

My solution to the mid afternoon doldrums

If you walk the skyways of downtown Minneapolis at around 2:30 in the afternoon, you'll see a wave of cubicle dwellers stretching their legs carrying cups of coffee. It's the choice of many to cure afternoon sleepiness. Lucky for me, I work alone. So, I can actually lay down on the floor and close my eyes for a few.

But, sometimes I opt for a little musical pick-me-up on youtube. Lately, it's been this one.

Hail Satan, kiddies.

Toilet stories, part 1

(warning: this blog post contains kind of graphic references to pooping)

Every morning, after the caffeine does its thing and I'm on my way to the bathroom to do my thing, I say something like this to the toilet god:

'Please, just a few minutes of solitude while I purge my guts of the evil within. Amen.'

Six out of ten times, this works. I'm in - I drop a deuce - and whoosh - I'm out. My guts won't work properly with others in the bathroom. They're shy. Especially, when someone is parked in the stall right next door.

Last week my solace was breached when what sounded to be a silverback gorilla entered the next stall. And apparently this beast had eaten and was trying to pass a handgrenade. A series of guttural grunts and groans were quickly followed by several loud explosions and splashes. I aborted my mission and hastily exited before the inevitable olfactory fallout contaminated the room.

I waited an hour to retry the mission -- just to make sure the odor and the coast was clear. At first, the mission was a go. And by this time, the guts were beginning to get angry. But before the soldiers could deploy, there was a revisit by if not the same gorilla, another who'd eaten at the same munitions dump.

Throughout the day, I had two more failed missions before success.

My kingdom for a private loo...

Hey, snow

Ah, nature's way of doing a half-assed clean up job. Instead of melting away all that nasty, brown, crusty ice and sand and filth, she just covers it up with a pretty, white blanket.

Nice job, nature. No, really. I think it looks nice.

Sandwiches I have loved

Oh, sandwiches I have loved. I miss you. From the tasty muffaletta in New Orleans, to my latest love, the Mort's Reuben, you've passed through my intestines, but you're still very much alive in my heart. (Well, I probably still have some corned beef in there somewhere)...

Stuff white people like...

The Medicine Lake Art Shanty is like a cross between ice fishing and an arts crawl. On Saturday - Valentine's Day -- me and the Mrs. joined the crowed of cold-ass, (white) hipsters skooching carefully across the ice to keep from falling.

We managed to stay upright, while we visited just about every shanty on the lake. The shanties are like ice houses full of displays or activities or performances. The 'Dance Shanty' was bumpin Beyonce. The Word Shanty was full of old books. But the best was the 'Sauna Shanty.'

Very, warm.

Christmas comes late

My folks sent a package full of Xmas presents about 4 or 5 days before Xmas. But come the big day, nothing. So, I started thinking that somebody may have stolen our box of goods from the lobby of our building. I mean, what kind of a friggin' Grinch takes someone's package?

So then, I find out my dad sent the box to the wrong address. He had the street name right, but the numbers were off. Then I'm thinking, what kind of jerk takes a box of stuff that's obviously sent to the wrong spot and keeps it?

My faith in humanity has been pretty wobbly for a while and this wasn't helping. My dad even sent a letter to that same wrong address, asking them to put a note on it for the postman to take it back. If that didn't work, I was considering driving by there and asking the folks, 'where's my box?'

It's not that I'm so hyped up about getting more stuff. I really have most of the stuff I want or need. But my parents were crushed at the notion that the presents they sent would not get to us. We've been living apart for going on 19 years now. And we rarely spend Christmastime together anymore. So I know, they're just sweaters and gift certificates and maybe an occasional kitchen gadget, but as the saying goes, 'it's the thought that counts.'

There's a happy ending to the story. The people at the wrong address made sure the box got back to Denver and my folks sent it back this time by registered mail - just to make sure. I picked the box up from the post office yesterday.

So this year - I don't care if it's here or in Denver, I want to see my folks for Xmas.

L-O-S-E-R

Nothing like the feeling you get the day after your football team loses a winable home playoff game. It's 2 below zero. The car reluctantly starts. It's the first full week after the holidays. Which means no day off this week. And as you sit on the frozen seat, waiting for the heater to clear a spot on your frozen windshield, you ponder your feelings. Why in the hell do you care? Why in the hell do you hope next season will be better?

ugh.

Angus throws a wobbly

I met my little godson Angus today. And I'd say we hit it off pretty well. He slept most of the time. He was likely exhausted from all the brain-learning through osmosis which newborns are supposed to be doing. I think his parents, Liz and Bill (pictured) were a bit worn out too. Angus, like most new humans - male or female - slightly resembles actor Burt Young. Well, at least a little bit.

Like I said, me and the boy hit it off well, until he got cranky. And here's what he had to say:

New Year's resolutions for 09

#1 - Keep up with blog

2 - Read a book per month. By the way, I highly recommend "Outliers" by Malcolm Gladwell. It's non-fiction. Gladwell looks at successful and not so successful people and explores the circumstances around their situations. He makes a compelling case to show there are no 'self-made' people. We're all molded by forces we can't control. For better or worse.

Right now, I'm getting ready to read some fiction. I heard "Midnight's Children" by Salman Rushdie is pretty good.

3. Be with my family at Christmas time. At least. I miss them too much.

4. Ride the bicycle more this year.

5. Take more pictures. I've got a Flickr Pro account and enough flash memory in my camera to hold several hundred pictures. Why not?

6. Make a bunch of raviolis and freeze them.

7. My biceps could be a little bigger...

8. And I should keep up with the blog more...Did I say that already?

What a night

I watched the election returns with a group of black civil rights activists, some of whom had been working in 'the struggle' for longer than I have been alive. I still don't have words to describe the jubilation in the room. I teared up a bit as Matt Little, 87, a man who led the Minnesota delegation of the NAACP to the March on Washington in 1963, grabbed my arms and told me that at this moment he felt like his life's work was nearly complete.

People in the room immediately grabbed their cell phones to call or receive calls from loved ones. Tears rolled down their cheeks. People were hugging and shouting, 'we did it!' I was struck by an image on CNN in the background of a group of Kenyans, in Kenya, celebrating Obama's win. I got the sense that the whole world was on Cloud Nine.

I left the site of the party and headed back downtown to the office to file a story. In the car, I listened to John McCain's concession speech. I got choked up as he so gracefully offered his congratulations to his opponent - but also his condolences to Obama over the loss of his beloved grandmother. I can't imagine the mix of emotions going through the president-elect's head over this. The woman who played such an integral role in his ascendency died just hours before he made history.

I got into the office just in time to see Obama's acceptance speech in Chicago. His address was perfect. It set the right tone and completely captured the moment. Then they turned the cameras on the crowd and focused on Jesse Jackson. He wasn't just teary eyed - he was crying. I got chills and my eyes welled.

I finally finished my story and got home around 3 a.m. I had to watch some more election coverage before I could sleep. I asked Mecca, 'when was the last time so many Americans felt so much joy about the selection of a president?' I can't remember in my lifetime. People who voted against Obama just don't get it. Obama's transformative appeal is not about some 'cult of personality' or 'celebrity.' He has struck a legitimate nerve in people all over the world.
And yes, I too, have had my faith in this country restored. But Obama's got a lot of work to do now to rally the rest of the troops. There will no doubt be pockets of this country that will push back and you will probably hear some white folks say, 'he's not my president.' I hope this period doesn't last long. We can't afford that.

41 today

This year's celebration is definitely a little more low-key than last year, when I went to Houston and bought a new computer.

41 is - well - ho hum.

I had drinks with my buddy Eric the other day, (he's 45) and he told me, "you can't be 41. You have to be in your 30s." Like it would make him feel younger.

Yesterday, my doc called me and told me these words, "The results from your blood tests are in." I froze.

"They're normal," she said. "Except you have really low levels of Vitamin D."

I'd gone in earlier in the week because of pains in my wrists and arms. I also had some blurry vision in one eye for a short spell last week. I'm not a hypochondriac - but at 41, I'm not taking any chances. I don't want to be the one, after they get diagnosed with eyeball cancer, saying, 'Well, if I had only told the doctor earlier, they could have caught it in time..."

Not me. If I feel pain in a part of my body for more than 12 hours, that I didn't bump into a kitchen counter or fall on, I'm going to the doctor.

Anywho. I'm taking the vitamin D supplement and reading articles about what vitamin D deficiency can do to a person. Apparently, it can lead to all kinds of nasty things, like cancer - but it also can make your joints ache and give you rickets.

But I'm not one of those people who dreads having a birthday. I love birthdays and I plan on having a great time today. I'm going to try and fill the day with stuff I like to do, like napping, power-napping and watching tv. On tap for tonight: a rare steak, some 12-year old scotch and shagging the love of my life.

happy birthday to me.

Crossing the new 35W bridge

Crossed the new bridge at 6:15 a.m. 9/18/08