What was to be Free to Trade

Oh hey kids, it's me old-man Geoff.  Why not turn down the Pit Bulls and Tailors Swift for a minute and let's talk about free trade.  Now, I know most of our interaction up 'til now has been me yelling at you to get off my lawn and to stop stealing all of my WifeFies, but Free Trade is actually an important concept that is being distorted by one-sided articles and populist politicians on both wings of a pretty sick bird, most recently Hillary Clinton who knows better (seriously, Hil, you know better). 

Some examples of global free trade: if I live in Colorado and I make big hats and a guy in Texas and  guy in Chihuahua Mexico each want to buy a big hat (Texans and Mexicans love big hats) I can sell it to each of them and they will pay for the hats and at certain thresholds I may pay (1)the sales tax to State of Chihuahua (2) sales tax to the State of Texas (3) income/corporate tax on my profits to the Colorado and the Federal Guberment.  So it's not really all that free, but we call it free trade because the Mexican government does not charge me an additional tax to sell the hat to their citizen.  When a country charges an extra tax for foreign goods sold in their country that is called  a tariff.  An awful device to remember this term: Tariffs are not tariffic. Or rather, they are...never mind let's move on. 

The argument against Free Trade and for Tariffs being made right now is that there are too many poor people in the world because of either not enough or too much capitalism/socialism.  And these poor people are willing to make the same widget that a guy in Ohio has been making for 30 years  but the poor people will work for $1 to $2 per hour instead of $30. The argument goes that the rich owner of the company who lives in LA and is a racist owner of a basketball team will move his factory to Mexico, fire 400 workers and pocket an extra $3 million a year so he can pay Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton to come to his daughter's sweet 16 party. The argument also nebulously points out that the free trade initiatives of the last 40 years have disproportionately hurt America and we are net losers for it.  

This is good rhetoric for drumming up votes because there are more people making around $30 an hour than there are millionaires, and neither Kim nor Paris really wake up early enough to vote anyway.  Simultaneously, it is easy to find the face of human suffering in the down side of free trade; there are many thousands who lose jobs every year.  

The upside is harder to find in faces and in personal stories but is stark in terms of dollars.  From 2010 to 2015 alone, the value of a years worth of US exports to Mexico grew by over 73 billion dollars.  This growth is not driven by exports of college students on Spring break or the terrible price of our failed war on drugs but by factory and agricultural machines, electrical equipment, and car parts.  They are buying ways to grow and then they grow and buy more from us.  

We should not be looking for ways to prop up noncompetitive industries, but rather we should be implementing better methods of retraining those displaced workers so they can join those US industries that are growing with the increased trade.     

The costs of free trade are short term as are the benefits of protectionist tariffs. When the cost of foreign goods drops and your protected domestic goods stay stagnant, gradually, your market shrinks to a domestic market only as other global markets purchase the less expensive foreign product.  I don't have a joke for this paragraph, it's just what happens.  In fact, I'm sort of done with the jokes it's going to be pretty dry from here on out, because we're about to start talking about US-China trade relations which is only a funny topic if you are Vladimir Putin.  One of Vlad's favorite jokes is, "The US walks into China's bar, the US says, 'I need to borrow some money to buy a bottle of whiskey from you', China says 'sure'. The US takes the whiskey and runs out side, China hears a small explosion and the US runs back in asking for another bottle on credit 'sure says china' but what are you doing with it?' the US says, 'The Middle East is on fire, I'm trying to put it out." 

Free trade is not always unambiguously good.  It's not really free if it's unilateral or distorted.  We've made some mistakes with China.  We kept trade relations normalized even though they were pretty clearly manipulating their currency.  They have kept out some of our highest margin businesses to protect/develop some of their own.  But in recent years there have been large improvements here and the heated political sputum that the Sanders and Trump rhetoric against China share is about 3 or 4 years too late.  Their currency is floating more freely (it's diving all on it's own now :)   And the ratio of US Imports to Exports with China has grown from 19% to 24% since 2007.  We should still target products and industries where China engages in dangerous or illegal practices, but we cannot define dangerous activity if it's only danger is to US jobs.  

We could go further into how the cheaper goods that we import from China and Mexico lower the cost of the living benefiting the poorest segments of the US population disproportionately.  We could mock out the recession we would be inviting if we implement the Sanders-Trump style protectionist policies.  We could make fun of Hilary's collapsible spine.  But I think I've said enough for now.  I wanted to say something in defense of free trade and I've said it.  A few times.  

 

What was to be a Dead Cartoonist

"Brad Anderson" strikes me as a pretty normal, run-of-the-mill sort of name.  The kind of normal name that Monty Python would use to humorous effect just because it was so ordinary, "Yeah, we get it, you're gluten-free, no one was going to force-feed you the cheesy bread, Brad!"

But don't let the name fool you, because that is the name of the cartoonist who produced a pretty mediocre comic called Marmaduke for over 50 years.  And the only reason that I say mediocre is because I am a pretentious snob.  And because I live within such a thick bubble of pretention I am looking for art and entertainment that cuts through my expectations, that informs, enlightens or subverts my expectations.  But that is not a job that Marmaduke was ever applying for.  At least not since the mid 50s.

I have to imagine that when he was introduced in 1954 the concept of a huge dog and how his size and personality would make every day events a little more humorous broke a kind of mold.  A mule had started talking a few years before, but horses wouldn't start talking for another decade and cats wouldn't start eating lasagna for another 20 years.  But Marmaduke never ever even spoke, except with his eyes and his tail. 

I can't imagine that Brad ever had writers block.  He could go anywhere or do anything and superimpose the idea of a giant Great Dane on the situation, draw it, and then go hit some golf balls or play with his kids.  He had a large following of readers who just wanted to see what the big dog was up to today.  There is little evidence that he ever had a crisis as an artist, that he ever felt that he needed to come up with something new and edgy; he was content to give a group of people what they wanted. 

I'm not sure if that's noble, or lazy; but it was certainly lucrative.  And as someone who has spent the last 10 years in publicly traded companies, there is also a part of me that years for that sort of contented zen of this cartoonist.  The demands to not only grow the revenue this quarter but to grow it by more than anyone could reasonably expect gets tiresome after a while.

Why can't it be enough to just do my job really well?  Why do I always have to be revolutionizing within a fail-fast paradigm?  Why not just be consistently successful with time-tested methodology? 

But the world moves too fast now for those kinds of sentiments.  So maybe it's nice that Marmaduke stays around, just being big and in the way and comforting in his stability.   

What was to be A Long Walk down 20th.

On June 7th, 1494,  Portugal and Spain signed a treaty that divided the non-Christian world between them.  This was adorable, hilarious, and selfish.  94 years later, English fireships (presumably these were wooden boats that launched fire and not an unholy manifestation of hell's navy temporarily aligned with Elizabeth I) and Dutch flyboats (again, we presume these were actually floating boats and not holy manifestations of heaven's flying navy temporarily aligned with the Dutch Republic) destroyed the Spanish Armada and that was the last that anyone ever heard from Spain until Hemingway started drinking there and European Football became popular.

In July 1944, as the Second World War was fitfully winding down, it was time to divide the world up again, not to decide who would plunder which indigenous people's homes but to divide up the responsibility of ensuring global order and prosperity (Goldman and Sachs would come by later for the plundering).  730 delegates from all 44 allied nations met in a hotel in New Hampshire and established two main organizations

International Monetary Fund (IMF) tasked with fostering economic growth and cooperation by providing policy, advice, and financing to its members; and later, funding Mr. Phelp's Impossible Mission Force to defeat evil organizations and make Tom Cruise look taller than he is.

International Bank for Reconstruction and Development (IBRD) Which we know better today as part of the World Bank, tasked with providing loans to devoping nations and providing riots to cities where it has its meetings.

After these meetings, New Hampshire had largely served it's purpose, but it was decided we would keep it around for sentimental reasons.

I'm not sure that it's in the charter, but traditionally the IMF is headed by a European and the World Bank is headed by an American, but both headquarters are still in Washington D.C.

The IMF has a board of governors that is made up of a Governor from each country (except the smaller ones which gets a governor to represent several of the countries) as well as a Alternate Governor.  For the US, the Governor is the Secretary of the Treasury, and the Alternate Governor is the Chair of the Federal Reserve.


And so, I tell you that story to tell you this one: when the IMF delivers a public report saying that the US Federal Reserve (whose friends call it The Fed not unlike Brittney Spear's ex-husband) should not raise interest rates, we are in part hearing about the recommendation following a thorough analysis, but mostly we are watching the theater of global finance.

The head of the IMF (Christine Lagarde) works for a board that the head of the Fed (Janet Yellen) sits on.  Along with Angela Merkel (arguably the most powerful woman in the world: politically, physically, and magically) these are the two most influential women in global finance.  They work 5 blocks from each other.  It's a $6 to $7 dollar Uber trip down 20th street.  If they don't talk to each other twice a week or more I would be shocked.

If Christine Lagarde really wants Janet Yellen to have her input she calls her; on her cell phone.  The recommendation we read this week is driven as much by political exigencies as economic review, and the decision of the Fed should be largely independent of that.     
   

  

What was to be Self Respecting

On those nights that seem as dark within as without; when the dawn seems impossibly far away and you think there is no way you will make it alone, it is invaluable to know where a dozen warm friends can be purchased for 7.99 before tax.

I know there are other more mature forms of companionship that can be purchased, and look no judgement, but my personal proclivities don't include $200 an hour payments and a course of antibiotics.

So I pull up to the Krispy Kreme drive-thru window after 11 pm and I feign surprise that they are open.  And they kindly explain how their drive thru is open 24 hours a day.  And they humor this pleasant fiction of mine that I am not a repeat offender of good sense and healthy habits.

And similar fictions play out throughout the day all over the place because we live in a society that depends on people being responsible and reasonable, which we know is not always the case, but the continuation of these symbiotic relationships depends on our treating others as if they are responsible professionals and them treating us as if we are the same, and not emotional wrecks who are just waiting for the first opportunity to slink back home to eat donuts and read Alan Greenspan's new Janet Yellen fan fiction (bonus fan fiction content included at the end of the essay!*)

The 'clown' is the exception that proves the rule.  The clown sacrifices the veneer of self-respect to entertain the crowd.  This is an important and valuable role and over the centuries many of our clowns have advanced their art to make their entertainment poignant, informative, and even important.  

But let's be very clear, Donald Trump is not one of those clowns.  He is an oddly personable buffoon who has built his fortune by over-leveraging other people's money in real estate investments which have benefited from strong  overall real estate markets but the over-leveraging is evidenced by his consistent declaring of  bankruptcies  (1991,1992, 2004, 2009).  This is not an unusual or even deplorable approach, but it is consistent with the portrait of someone who garners capital and leverage by promising incredibly ambitious outcomes which he cannot control, and when he cannot deliver, it is not him who bears the brunt of the loss.

For most of the last decade he seems to have been engaged largely as a full-time entertainer where his bluster and outlandish antics have been rewarded with viewers and endorsement deals.

And now (if for no other reason than I don't want to scroll up and down when I proof read this) let's get to the point.  It's fine to love Donald Trump, clowns are lovable.  It's fine to agree with what he says (I don't make a habit of it, but it's fine).  But there is no reason to believe that this particular clown can or will deliver on any of the promises he makes during his performances.

No doubt he will be entertaining, such is the nature of the clown, but let's remember Pagliacci and that "La commedia è finita!" when you give the clown a knife.    
 

*Alan Greenspan's Janet Yellen fan fiction:

Alan's phone began to vibrate and the ringtone began, "I just met you, and this crazy, but here's my number...so call me maybe?"  The photo of Janet's stern face stared back at him as he looked at the caller info, he swiftly slid his finger across the screen to begin the call.

" Hello Janet."
"Hello, Alan, I need your advice again."
"I know Janet. I'm here for you. I will always be here. For all of you."    

What was to be a Volatile Stock Market

You know, over the last few years a lot of people have told me, "Welcome to Jack in the Box. Order when you're ready."  They've told me this because I believe in America and its businesses, and I support them and their efforts to provide jobs and make sure that our purveyance of  Monster Tacos remains the de facto global Monster Taco standard.

Jack in the Box has what we call a competitive advantage compared to foreign suppliers of Monster Tacos, because it has access to me as a consumer.  Because the Parisian based Jacques dans la Boite doesn't have access to my orders it can't grow it's receipts like the domestic Jack.

For years now the world has been watching China (really reading stories and reports about china; we haven't been sitting on lawn chairs in Mongolia and Burma (Yeah that's right, I went there!) with binoculars) with the understanding that it was going to transition from an industrial/export-based economy that relies on other countries buying its products to a service based economy that creates and satisfies much of its demand internally and that this would be a huge engine for growth and would be what would propel it to become the world's largest economy.

Over the last year a lot of investors have felt that the time for this was drawing near enough that they should start investing heavily in local Chinese firms that would have the best access to these growing sources of local demand. This contributed (along with some currency speculation which, let's not even get into this is complicated enough) to an increase in the valuation of publicly traded Chinese stocks of over 135% from last August to early June.  But then a few things happened, investors didn't see the growth they wanted, exports started to decline, and a lot of loans were not being paid back.  All of a sudden Beanie Babies and the loose floor board in the closet started to look pretty good to investors and they started selling their stock, and when others started to see the prices fall they started to sell their stock, and... well you've seen bugs bunny tumble down the mountain and become a huge snow ball.

China's government was adorable though, like kids who set up a lemonade stand but weren't getting any sales and whose parent's ended up buying most of the lemonade, China spent around $156 billion buying up stocks to stabilize the markets, but the stocks continued to fall.

All that said, this isn't as bad as it may sound.  Firstly, China's exposure to its stock market is a lot lower than most Western countries: it's not the same as our stock market experiencing the same drop.  China's property market is a lot more important and makes up about  25% of GDP and the property sales have been doing very well during these same months.  Secondly, the value of those stocks is still up 43% from the same time last year, so while a lot of the gains have been wiped out, the long term investors and prospects of the market itself are still positive in the wider view.

So I think the world will probably be fine, though the story is not over yet, we'll get a better idea of what the new normal looks like over the next few weeks, but I won't be writing about it, this stuff hurts my head.

The lesson for you, if you've made it this far, will be disappointingly familiar: markets everywhere go up and down.  Long term, diversified investment portfolios don't get you those 135% bumps in a year, but you also don't get those 75% drops.  Also, invest in tacos.  No one ever went wrong investing in tacos.

What was to be Life in America

A friend of mine ( I call him a friend, but really he's more of a giant than anything else and the laws of physical comedy almost demand that there be a emotional closeness between us as a counterweight to the physical variance) is getting ready to move to Hong Kong.  He'll be working a lot and I'm concerned that the comings and goings of American life will go unnoticed or unresearched by him, so I'm repurposing the blog to provide a one stop shop of the most important news in America.

I'm going to bury today's lead for a post with a more somber feel and move onto the b story of the ongoing fallout from the Ashely Madison hack.

Ashley Madison is a website on the internet in and around your computer.  The reasons you might visit that website includes at least two scenarios (1) you went to school with a girl named Ashley Madison, and now you are trying to see where she ended up and the BinGle engines sent you there (2) you married someone, but also you are kind of the worst and watch a lot of tv and think that just one or two affairs will have no long term repercussions other than the callouses on your hand from high-fiving all of your buddies.

Unfortunately, the premise is incorrect in both scenarios.  In scenario one, you should be looking for Ashely on facebook: she is married and living in Fort Collins.  In scenario two, you relied on anonymity after providing someone your name, address, and credit card and trusted them to take better care of that information than you took of your wedding vows.

Anyways, a group of hackers (computer scientists who use the internets and energy drinks to access other people's computer boxes without permission) retrieved the user information and let it run free on the internet.

As a newly minted journalist, I am covering this impartially so I'll reserve judgement on the morality of the hackers or the alleged cheaters.  But there are lessons in this story for those of us who fall outside of either group

Lesson the First: never do anything on the internet that you are not comfortable sharing with the entire world.  This may seem unfair, but fair has nothing to do with it.  I am just now coming to grips with the fact that one day my entire Netflix viewing history will be made public and everyone will know that I have tried no fewer than 5 separate times to watch Gilmore girls, but could never get more than 30 minutes into an episode. I encourage you all to try to get out in front of these eventual embarrassments.

Editor's Note: A car alarm is going off outside and has been for about 5 minutes now.  Ideally car alarms would have a time limit and if no one had come to see about the car in that time it would automatically unlock and start itself so the thief could remove the annoyance from everyone's ear shot. 

 Lesson the Second: I can't remember what this one was now.  That alarm drove it right out of my head.  I guess the lesson here is to make a note of what you want to write before tangentially writing a ridiculous editor's note.

What was to be writing in recursive

I leave my phone on vibrate for most of the day.  It is not until I check the alarm and plug it in for the night that I turn the ringer on, so when I close the display it makes a loud click of finality.  The phone is saying that it is time for bed, but tonight the laptop had other ideas. 

I originally imagined that moving to a new a new state away from family and friends would prompt more frequent posts on my part, but my time here in the frozen tundra has not felt conducive to reflection. Life here is about survival.  I have some things to say about the move and selling the house, but the house has not yet closed and my furniture does not get here until Saturday, so it doesn't feel like it's over yet.  And I liked the Genghis Khan quote I heard recently (not from him) "Nothing is good until it is finished." obviously this is not true in all circumstances, (cookies in their dough form jump to mind) but I definitely feel this way about the selling of the house and the move to Denver.

I mean, I'm pretty sure I moved to Denver, but also a small part of my mind wonders if this is all a fevered fantasy, and I am really at the bottom of a hill off a highway in Wyoming; covered in deep snow drifts, destined to be entombed there til spring. 

Purgatory has never really fit into my belief system, though maybe there is something to it after all because that seems to be the state that my furniture is in. I'm told it's in a warehouse somewhere in Idaho or maybe Utah (that the moving company representative is unsure of the State is the kind of surreal texture that lends credence to my dying in a ditch theory).  Today I learned that it is scheduled to arrive on Saturday, but I will continue to visit the cathedral and light candles for my desks and dressers.  Maybe I'm lighting them for myself though, so either I am in that ditch or I took a wrong turn at Cheyenne and ended up in a Christopher Nolan movie. 

What was to be a Lync to the Past

Sometime between becoming an alcoholic and dying in Baltimore (themes that would lay the foundation for HBOs "The Wire"), Poe wrote a short-story about a man who travels to a grand old house to visit his friend.  Strange events ensue, culminating with the main character fleeing the house as it cracks, crumbles, and falls into the earth behind him.

Today was my last day working for a company where I have spent the last 5 years.  And as I walked away from my building of 4.25 years without my laptop, keycard, corporate credit card, lanyard, or Google voodoo doll (Voogle Doll) I was finally struck by the finality of it.  I looked back, half expecting to see a great crack appear in the center as the sheer weight of the situation bore down on the building.  All I saw was a glass door next a security panel that used to make sure that only my colleagues and I could enter, but whose purpose was now to make sure that I was kept out. 

At this point, the wind must have kicked up, delivering a dose of pollen and other allergens to my sinuses because for the first time since announcing that I would be leaving the company I felt my eyes begin to moisten usually quickly.

I got myself under control and continued to walk to car and thought about what Monday would be like for everyone.  Before I left, I had started hiding notes for people, but I quickly grew bored of this so only a few were left behind.  But one note about me would appear in everyone's contact list. This company uses an internal messaging service that will show your colleagues if you are online, whether you are on a call or in a meeting, and if you are offline it shows how long you have been offline.  However, if your id is no longer live (say your email account has been deactivated because you left the company) it will likely deliver the message "Presence Unknown". 

This had been a benign phrase up until now, but one that began to haunt me as I continued to walk back to the car.  It struck me as ethereal: "presence"; it's more than a location, it seems to  include something of your personality and impact.  And if a colleague was looking at their contact list and I happened to be on the screen they would be reminded that I am no longer down the hall, or offline for 30 minutes, maybe driving into the office or skipping over to buy myself a pasty, they would be told than my presence is now unknown.  My presence exists outside the realm of what can be systematically known.  "Gone and best forgotten", Lync will seem to say, "his presence is absent, the circle next to his name is grey.  He has joined the null set of deactivated employees"

I patted my arm and thumped my chest to make sure that I still had a good idea of my own presence, and was reassured by a corporeal (though pathetically soft and pasty) resistance.  I was glad that I had hugged and shook hands with many people before I left.  I hoped that somehow something of my presence stayed with them.  Like radioactive particles of friendship which ignore the surface and settle near the heart, so when they see Lync tell them that my presence is unknown they can assume a smug expression and know that they know better. 

Also I'll be on Skype. 

What was to be the tangental ramblings of a perfectly good Mothers' Day post

In sharing his thoughts on 'duties', Cicero said

"For surely to be wise is the most desirable thing in all the world.  It is quite impossible to imagine anything better, or more becoming for a human being, or more appropriate to his essential nature.  That is why the people who try to reach this goal are called philosophers, because that is precisely what philosophy means, the love of wisdom.  And wisdom, according to the definition offered by early philosophers, signifies the knowledge of all things, divine and human, and of the causes which lie behind them.  If anyone is prepared to disparage so noble a study as that I cannot imagine anything he would find himself able to approve of!"

Now that will play into the spirit of this post but mostly I quote it hoping that the majority of readers will have gotten bored and stopped halfway through, because I'm going to take a position in this piece (always a mistake) and I'm concerned that people may make inferences about this position that they find offensive.  And I suppose all I can hope for is that they will hearken back to Cicero's words and interpret this in the best possible light as a philosopher reasoning through the complexities of human nature in the pursuit of wisdom.  This started out as a light hearted piece for mothers day, but perhaps mothers are just too important for any reference to be without substance worthy of debate.

First, let me make very clear that I see a clear distinction between Civil Rights and Human Rights and I feel like these distinctions were clearly made in the last century so I get frustrated when I see them combined and confused in recent positions and editorials. 

Civil rights  are privileges and freedoms that a society agrees the individuals within it will be afforded within their boundaries.  Virtually anything may be decreed a civil right by a society; it is up to them. 

Human rights must be more intrinsic to the human condition and experience. They must be fundamental to our humanity and natural cycle of life, so that when we see them violated it strikes us as a clear aberration of the template of the human life.

So, it is hard for me to take you seriously, I'm looking at you United Nations, when you say something like, "the use of the internet is a fundamental Human Right".  It makes me think that your views and priorities are hopelessly confused and outdated.  It strikes me as maddening that you would put the denying of someone use of the internet in the same class of violation as torturing a person. Surely, along the way, we have missed some other rights, some other elements of the human life that more fundamental than that. 

Don't get me wrong, the internet is great, no government of corporation should deny its use, it should clearly be a Civil right in every modern society and the United Nations should urge its members to enact laws securing such rights.  But if we are talking about fundamental rights let us take a few steps back to what humans are more organically entitled.

When you are pulled from the womb (even if, like me, it is temporarily without breath and with a squished, purple head from too much forcep pressure from a stupid doctor) you come out with at least two things: your body and your will.  The use of these two forces are, by definition, your birth right and these above all other things must be the focus of human rights protection.  If babies start emerging Wi Fi enabled I am open to revisiting this issue.

If you having something else at this point in life, it is your mother.  Technically you have a father somewhere as well and hopefully he is there holding your mother's hand beaming down at you, or failing that he is close by throwing up in a sink or wearing a Yale sweater and handing out cigars in the waiting room.  But we can come back to him later.  For now all you have is your body, your yet unfocused and undeveloped will, and your mother. Surely, if there is a human right after the first two we discussed then it would be a right to your mother. 

So why are mothers not listed on the UN's list of substantive rights?  Why would we turn our focus onto anything else until we had made sure that everyone had access to their Mother or having lost her a suitable substitute?

I know there are myriad of social programs both governmental and non that seek to provide this for those who are unfortunate enough to not have their mothers in their life, but again, I point this out as an example of what I see as missing when something is discussed as a human right.  I accept the idea of human rights, but for me it is an issue organic along the path I have presented above.  If you have the right to something after your mother it is your father.  If you have a right after that it is to your extended family.  If you have a right after that it is to listen to Zeppelin as loud as you want with the only constraint being the structural integrity of your ear drums.  I am open to the idea of natural law and social contract but to me the first of those would be with your family. 

I am open to broader extensions of those laws and contracts with your broader human family but if you are attempting to discuss with me social issues you would need to understand that for better or worse to me the basic unit of a society is that family and I will interpret alternative views as ignoring tens of thousands of years of human and social evolution. 



 

What was to be Barcelona: Day 2

I thought communicating with the locals would be easier than it has been. I feel like we don't share some of the basic vocabulary of nouns.  And I definitely don't recognize the names of any of the food.  Luckily, this is a city designed to service an international variety of tourists, so almost every place has pictures of the food and the pricing out front.   

So getting the food is easy, but the question then becomes, do I want any of it?  Every dish I have tried here has just seemed little off.  It's hard to put my finger on what it is, the meat is somehow too salty and oily, the vegetables seem like they have spent too much time in vinegar.  The bread is fine.  Apparently we agree on the way bread should taste.  I thought about staying here for the next few weeks as a weight-loss strategy, but I'm sure I would eventually find an acceptable way to overeat again.

Barcelona is a city waiting for Summer and unsure of what to do with itself in the mean time.  It has magnificent beaches but not a ton of use for them in the current weather of 50-55.  Each restaurant I have entered has been empty, so you would think that there would be some level of enthusiasm at my arrival, but everyone acts the way the locals do in the movies when a Nazi officer comes into the store or tavern of the occupied city, or when the bad guy walks into the bar in an old Western. 

Everyone scatters to the back, and one person tentatively walks up and just stares at you.  We stare at each other before I bungle through some greeting and then we kind of go back and forth in a mixture of Spanish/Catalan/English until I am sitting down.  By now they have figured out that I am American, and despite the frosty reception, they clearly want me to feel at home, so the music changes.  seriously, every time, each restaurant must have a cd it keeps and written on it must be, "Play in case of American"  It has been the most eclectic mix of music with the one common thread being that the songs are in English.  For example:

"The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers
"Imagine" by The Beatles
"Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton
Something by the Ramones
"Talk that Talk" Rihanna and Jay-Z

Probably not a great surprise to those who know me that I have found the interpersonal experiences awkward and difficult to navigate, but Barcelona in the Winter is great for wandering around by yourself.

I spent most of the day exploring Montjuic.  Which, as near as I can tell is either translated Mount Judah, or Jew Mountain.  This is a very broad hill that offers a gorgeous view of the city and harbor and has many museums, gardens, and a large stadium.  The view might have changed my life a little bit. 

What was to be Barcelona: Day 1

The first thing you notice about Barcelona is that sound only enters in from your right ear.  This is such a remarkable feature that you cannot fathom why it was not mentioned in any of the travel literature.  However, upon further review you realize this may be a issue localized around yourself due to descending 35,000 feet with a cold.  This leads to the embarrassing scene in the airport restroom where you are observed pinching your nose while simultaneously attempting to blow out of it.  I'm told this can be bad for your eardrum, but they said the same thing about rock music and pouring pop rocks in your canal; so, whatever.

With your hearing back up and running it's time to find a taxi.  Despite a pretty good grasp of the Spanish language, you are not really clear how to pronounce the address to your hotel (Avenida Paral-Lel 76-80) so your driver assumes you are an idiot and doesn't talk to you for a lot of the ride. 

About halfway between the city and the airport a large and magnificent cemetery comes into view on your left side.  This is the locals' way of letting you know that death is a common and celebrated certainty here so you best step correct lest you wind up on that hill as well. 

But the hill gives you the opportunity to try out some Spanish interrogatives on your driver who slowly decides that you are not the moron he originally took you for, and is now happy to discuss the local area and culture in the few minutes of the drive you have left. 

At the hotel, your room is not ready yet so you trade them your luggage for a ticket and a local map and go out to experience the city which your stomach is looking forward to, but your left knee which has never really recovered from its last set of tennis is grumbling about. 

You feel comfortable here as the average height is much closer to your own.  You have read about the expert Barcelonian pick-pockets but most of the populous appears benign, either through age or accompaniment of children or the choice of unisex neon tights for jogging.  This give you confidence to wander the streets until you find yourself in a quaint alley when a small shop opens to exhale a woman with two pit bulls and what is either a large lighter or a taser.  So taking the defensive cue from the locals, you meander back to the more populated district.

What you observe as you go up and down the streets is that  Barcelona is an economy based on Tapas and alcohol served in long narrow shops or tables and tents right outside. 

There is a large statue of Columbus in the middle of a roundabout near the piers. I can only imagine that the message here is, "Look, if you're stuck in traffic just imagine how bad it would be to have been him.  He didn't even know where he was most of the time."  Not to be confused with Columbus Circle in New York, though I suspect the message is meant to be the same. 

Near the ports there was some kind of televised cooking competition with over a hundred participants.  Friends, family, and onlookers stood round, but I couldn't figure out what the prize was. It couldn't be your own restaurant as clearly everyone in the city already had to own their own given the volume of small establishments I'd already viewed.  I determined this was just an elaborate distraction ploy for pick pockets and I moved on.

Eventually I made it back to my hotel, got into my room, a shower, and then a bed.  In that order.  Where I have been until now.  Day 2 holds the promise of a gothic district and Gaudi architecture before work starts in the early evening, so I need to stock up on {insert goth/gotic pun here}. 

What was to be gang related

I'll never forget the first time my mom put me on a bus to go to school.  She waited with me at the stop until the bus arrived, and as I began the ascent up those rubber coated stairs she said to me, "Whatever you were before, you are entirely alone now." 

She may remember the experience differently and perhaps those were not her words verbatim, but that was certainly what I felt as I navigated my way through the noisy metal box.  Once I sat down though, I looked at my lunchbox and realized that I was not entirely bereft of comfort.  On my lunchbox was the image of He-Man holding his sword aloft as his allies stood at his back in the face of the onslaught of skeletons and monsters in the lower corners of the case. 

There are a lot of lessons that my young self could have taken from that moment.  I could have learned that as long as I was brave, just, and true that I could stand up to anything.  Or that I too could find friends and allies to unite with against the terrors of the unknown.  But instead I thought, "I wish I were home watching He-Man". 

Between fight or flight, I had opted into flight, but since mobility was limited I practiced mental escapism into an imaginary world.  When I got to school I continued this strategy by finding a book and fortifying myself against the world within its pages until the bell rang.  Over the weeks this behavior attracted like minded children.  Now, with a  small gang, we felt more confident venturing into other parts of the playground and talking out in class. 

I have always been fortunate in this way, that my introverted behavior has still been rewarded with very close friends.  So when I saw on facebook that a friend was seeking counsel for what she should do about a son who was being bullied, the advice that I wanted to type was that he needed to get a gang together.  I was never bullied in school, despite personal and aesthetic peculiarities.  I think I insisted on wearing sweatpants to school well into my elementary school years, and spent much of second grade reading babysitter club books rather than talking to actual girls.  But again, I was never bullied, probably because I always rolled 5 or 6 deep, making the true loners the more likely targets for misdirected aggression and insecurity. 

We have a problem with the term 'gangs' as they are associated with escalating violence, peer pressure, and bullying themselves.  But in a scenario where you are basically in a prison with one guard per 30 inmates, and less than that on the playground.  You would be well advised not to try to go it alone.  Plus, Red Rover doesn't work by yourself. 

What was to be extinct

The Western black rhinoceros was declared officially extinct today as no one has recorded the existence of a living specimen since 2006.  Apparently, absence for 7 years is the benchmark to declare a species extinct.  This is interesting as it is the same amount of time that a person must be missing before they are declared 'dead in absentia' in the United States and England.  If you want an example of the wrong way to do it, you can (as per usual) turn to Italy where you must be missing for 20 years.

This is a time of mourning and serious contemplation regarding the conservation efforts we make to save such species.  Even if you are a Northern white-supremacist rhino, you cannot wholly rejoice in the extinction of your enemy because you, and all of the other Northern white rhinos, are also teetering on the verge of extinction.

Or you may be like me, the typical armchair skeptic at his desk in his pajamas, robe, and slippers, sipping his tea, rubbing out scratches in the wood with walnuts, and shaking his head thinking, "Well, what could have reasonably been done? It must have just been their time."

Except that the Southern white rhino was culled down to a population of less than 100 at the end of the 19th century and now has an estimated population of 20,000.  But the conservation measures taken to achieve this were not implemented in the Western black rhino's habitats.

I know that we live far away, and that we are extremely busy, I myself have dozens of square feet of desks that require constant finishing with walnut oil as I persist on scratching it as I set down my many remotes, devices, and tea cups on it. 

There is also an excruciatingly limited portfolio of action we can take, living where we do.  The biggest threat these animals faced were poachers, and as political instability increased in those areas, so did the poaching instances.  I know we all love the idea of sitting atop a black rhino, our rifles trained on the jeep of approaching poachers, as we swayed from side to side as our terrible rhino mount glared at the poachers, shaking his head in disgust.  But these regions have harsh political realities that makes this scenario unlikely. 

In the case of the Northern white rhino, 5 of the surviving specimen are being moved from their home habitat in the Democratic Republic of  Congo to a preserve in Kenya, as the security of the Congo park can no longer adequately ensure their safety. 

So, again, I come to. "What can we do?" and I've reached the end of this post, and I still don't have a satisfactory answer.  Maybe donate some money to the http://www.olpejetaconservancy.org/ which is the park in Kenya where the white rhinos are being taken.  But our finances are stretched, and there is a lot of human suffering that is also asking for monetary relief. On top of that, the IUCN reports that 25% of the world's mammals are at risk of extinction, so there is a lot going on outside of the world of rhinos. 

In an interview a few days ago I heard a congresswoman from Florida say that what we need is for everyone to pick one issue and get really passionate and involved in it, she sees this as the way to get people back in government.  And I mention it because I couldn't disagree with her more completely.  We need to all strive for the Renaissance Ideal, we need to become people who can speak and debate intelligently across disciplines and issues.  We need to move our debates away from derisive comments about one ideologies conclusions, and towards a debate and discovery about the assumptions that led to the conclusions, because that is where sharing and learning happens.  An argument is only negative if you walk away from it without learning something. 

If Oprah Winfrey wanted to save the Western black rhino, she probably could have done it, she probably had the money to buy them that time.  But even if she gave every dollar she had, she could not have stemmed the root cause of their extinction.  That is going to require an informed populace pushing political leaders to make intelligently aggressive decisions across the board.

Getting there is beyond the scope of any blog, but I think it has to start with making our communication more informed and informative.  We must owe the rhinos as least that.   

What was to be donated

I was lured into my company's Health and Wellness center today with the promise of  $50 gift card if I would let them give me a flu shot, weigh me, measure my waist, measure my body fat, take my blood pressure, and take a blood sample to gauge cholesterol/glucose etc.

After being poked and prodded, I asked for my gift card and was directed to a website where I could redeem it, but here is what I found there:

I wanted that $50.  I didn't need it.  I've never needed $50.  But I wanted it.  And what really was the difference between taking this $50 and not donating it.  I have hundreds of $50 in various accounts that I don't donate everyday.  What was one more?  I mean, what if Microsoft started pitching all my incentives this way:

"Congratulations, your 2010 stock award has vested! Click here to redeem OR look at these pictures of 100 dying babies and donate this to save their lives. Or you know, buy a hot tub, and just know that you are soaking in the blood of innocents every time you get in it."

I ended up donating to fund the vaccinations.  And while my suspicion is that these vaccinations would have been given out somehow anyway, this money came too easily to really feel that attached to it.

I'll probably spend $50 this month on desserts and treats ( it's fine, my glucose is below 90 and my triglycerides are less than 45) and won't feel like I've taken food from anyone's mouth.  I'll buy a beautiful new desk set without feeling like I left anyone homeless.  Maybe I should, but I won't. I lack that level of compassion or empathy.  But when the money comes that easy and it is easier to give it away than give them my address, open a letter one day and put a card in my pocket, even I can reach beyond my 3? inch waist and click the kindest option. 

  

What was to be happily ever after

During the Spanish colonization of California, the Franciscan and Jesuit orders built missions to spread their religion and confirm territory for Spain.  As you would imagine, they started in San Diego merged onto I-5 then took the 405 exit north and onto the 101 in Los Angeles,  this they followed North, building their missions and eating at In-N-Out along the way until they got to the Sonoma Valley where they stopped. 

Why did they stop?  Why not continue to consolidate their dominance of wine country and journey into the Napa valley?  All historians in my office as I write this agree, that to do this they would have had to take highway 29 through Robert Louis Setevnson State Park.  And though these were men who had ridden the stormy Atlantic, could force unpaid laborers to build without ever feeling sick to their stomachs; that road just made them way too queasy.

 The map below probably does not do justice to the experience, because what you need to understand is that this is straight down/up hill at 40 to 60 miles an hour if my dad is driving late to a wedding. 

Being braver or more foolhardy than any monk or conquistador, we traveled this road at breakneck speeds to make it on time to my cousins wedding at a vineyard in the Sonoma Valley.  We got there about a minute before the wedding was scheduled to begin, but luckily other more important people were late too, so there was time to say hello and take our seats before the procession began.  Which was good, because I was feeling very sick from my journey down the road which could have served to uncork any of the fine bottles of wine at the bar. 

So I was not particularly focused as the family members and friends came down to the aisle, and it would be a few minutes before I was really up to taking in what truly beautiful scenery surrounded us. And now, if you'll allow me (and I think you will because it's my blog) I'm going to get sappy for a bit. 

You spend so much time watching Hollywood's approximation of wedding-day love in the eyes and faces of two people that it is almost surprising when you see it for real in person.  Not the manic passion of adolescent infatuation, not the disturbing fervor of the co-dependent, and not the sort of unexpected resignation so common in today's romantic comedies.  It's a kind of excitement, muted by time and commitment, but enhanced by the events of that day. 

It's has a light to it that somehow makes the sunniest day and most beautiful vineyard a little dimmer in comparison, and you almost wish you were in a plain cellar somewhere so there wasn't so much distracting you from their faces.  And you definitely wished it on that day, because it was hot as hell out there in that suit. 

 

What was to be a sword of Damocles

I have always felt that the problem with the message of the legend of Damocles is that really we all live our lives under the threat of violence, misfortune, and tragedy.  It is not only those who are well off or in positions of authority.  It is absurd to think that at any time during or after the period of this legend there has been a higher mortality rate/lower life expectancy among rulers than the average person in the area. 

So instead of complaining or devising clever ways to make his courtiers look stupid, you'd think Dionysius, would just enjoy the things he had while he waited to be assassinated.  Though maybe terrorizing his court was the way he did this, in which case, good for him, I suppose.

As I sit in my own palace this week, with the sharpened point of rejection hanging directly above my heart, I should apply the lesson of my own critique and not feel sorry for myself but recognize that really all my fellow beings are in something like the same scenario, and the way to expunge my dread is to course with them, shoulder to shoulder, on life's road.

But that is not what I am going to do.  I am going to spend a lot of time in silent thought, remembering the times this has happened before.  The feelings of those events will return to me, and I will chew on nothing as the bitter taste refills my mouth.  I will draw sharp, rapid breaths as the crushing feeling returns to my chest.  Pavlovian responses to the ringing bell of "I think we need to talk..."

What was to be a b'ar in them thar hills

I went back to the office late last Wednesday night, mostly because I had a call with a colleague in Italy, but I had let myself get pretty far behind on some other projects as well, and I didn't end up leaving until about 2 am on Thursday. As I was about halfway home, something darted out of the tree line on my right about 100 to 150 yards up the road.  In no time, it was halfway across the road then disappeared into the bushes on the other side before I could get level with it to stop and get a closer look.  But the image burned in my mind is the large black bear halfway through the road illuminated by my headlights. 

It was one of the most awesome experiences in my life.  The combination of the shock of the unexpected and the surprising speed it displayed contributed to the initial excitement, but the significance of it has been growing for me. 

The bear ran across the street about here.  If you zoom out a bit, you notice that where it was running to (the north) is full of trees and largely uninhabited, but to the south is practically a subdivision.  It is not clear to me what the bear was doing there, but I suspect either he was comparing house prices and wishing he had bought a few months ago when interest rates were lower or HE WAS DOING WHATEVER HE WANTED BECAUSE HE IS A BEAR!

This bear has become a hero of mine.  Life is not what it should have been for him.  Not long ago his family was roaming these woods and mountains at their leisure; kings of all they surveyed.  The only time they had to run in those days  was when they wanted to catch up with some fast food.  Now, if he wants to pursue game a little further south than usual he has to book it for all he is worth across a hard smelly surface just to avoid some nerd in a Prius.

But the bear does not let these inconveniences, indignities, or dangers impede his life.  He charges through them with power and grace, and I wish him the best of luck.  I am back in my office at too early of an hour trying to get a head start on monthly reporting, but mostly I think I wanted another shot at seeing my friend sprinting through his town.   

I would like him to come visit me closer to home so I can observe him again (hopefully through the safety of my windows) but there is a family of deer that lives near my house and spends a lot of their time in the Fall in my yard or on my street.  I enjoy it when I have to stop my car until they decide that they are ready to move out of my way.  It is inspiring to watch them up close and feel a little connected with nature, but now I worry about them meeting my bear. 

If they could put aside their differences, I think they would have a lot to learn from each other about living amongst the humans, and I for one would love to see more of him ambling about the neighborhood, eating our berries, and digging up roots.  But the deer, cats, dogs, and toddlers in the area might look more appetizing.

So, I am torn.  I want to see more of him, but I'm not sure there is a setting where we would both be comfortable and our activities would be mutually beneficial.  So, maybe I should just be grateful that I had that moment where I was privileged to observe him at the peak of his physical prowess and should stop looking for reasons to come into the office at 2 am.    

    

What was to be a chosen adventure

Choose Your Own Adventure books were a big part of my 2nd and 3rd grade school reading experience, and sometimes I miss this infuriating and recursive genre.  So in case you feel the same:

You sit alone in your office, flipping through jewels pictured in a game on your phone so they would line up and disappear.  Time runs out on this level: game over.  You look up at the absence of any client in sight.  Maybe they all lined up too well and disappeared like the jewels.  The phone vibrates to alert you to a new email from the property management company.  Rent is four months late now, times run out: game over.

Call the bank for a loan

Start selling your office furniture on Craigslist

Rob a liquor store

What was to be improved

I am not really comfortable acting in positions of authority.  It doesn't seem to fit my temperament.  However, these positions must exist for the stable and efficient caretaking of any social or physical structure, and as we gain experience and stewardships in this life it is incumbent upon us to graciously accept new responsibilities and challenges.   So it is that on some Saturday mornings, I don the ceremonial denim and cotton and make the pilgrimage to the temples of home improvement to perform the rituals of home ownership.

The priests who officiate in these temples are friendly and helpful enough, but as any expert in their field they would much rather speak at length with skilled and experienced practitioners.  It becomes apparent that they quickly tire of repeating the simple liturgies to the neophytes and our puzzled expressions annoy them when they have finished communicating the most basic of principles.

I miss the days when I would follow my dad into these massive structures, where he would navigate the maze of relics; select the exact items, their quantity and measurements, and all that was expected of me was to do some lifting and eat the ice cream purchased on the way home.  Don't get me wrong, the ice cream is still purchased, it is just no longer consumed with the same ignorant peacefulness enjoyed by those who are not thinking about how to replace small parts of a spigot.  Or if that person at the Home Depot had just made up the word 'spigot' in hopes of getting other people to think I was using some racially insensitive term.   

What was to be abstract

I understand that painting is a difficult art form to master, and can take years of training and practice before one can produce a significant piece; however, that is no excuse for taking shortcuts and cheating. I am, of course, speaking of abstract art.  Abstract art is cheating. 

Instead of the artist owning the responsibility to decide on an image and then painting the image so everyone can recognize it, they just put any old mixture of paint on the canvas, throw it out to the public and say, "Here you go, figure it out, feel however you want about it, just give me a million dollars." 

From time to time though, I cannot help but fall into a feelings trap with certain pieces.  For example, I had never heard of Zao Wou-ki until I read his obituary a few weeks ago. There was a link to some of his work and the piece below trapped me.  I've spent what adds up to hours staring at it over the last few weeks and just when I think I'm done, there is a perspective shift and there is a whole new painting pulling me in.  It is calming, haunting, hopeful, and sad (like an old Disney movie).

But, it is still cheating. And Zao should be ashamed of himself for not painting horses or old boats or something. 


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