...and the winner is...

The Harris Poll announced that New York City is the most popular city that people want to live in or near.  San Diego, which bills itself as "America's Finest City", finished second to "The Big Apple."  Ironically, New York City also finished first in the least desirable city poll as well. 

These ubiquitous city polls always seem a bit strange to me.  Healthiest city, greenest city, you pick it.  From Outside to Money, everyone has a different yardstick.

As my mates in Glasgow would say, "What a load of bollocks!" or perhaps, "At's a load of shite!"

People ask me my favorite river for fly-fishing, and I answer, "I haven't found it yet."  When asked what his favorite wine was, a friend of mine answered, "The one that's in my hand."

This lusting after what we don't have is almost as pernicious as the pomposity of actually basking in these spurious polls, as if you had something to do with it.

I have many "favorite" cities:

• San Diego...I live here, the weather is great (well it used to be great, we've had a challenging few months), there's a decent Little Italy, many of my friends also live here, and it happens to be the place where I earn a living.
• San Francisco...former haunt, current mailing addresses for the Tenuto heir and heiress, who are following their artistic dreams in the People's Republic.
• Chicago...city of broad shoulders, hometown, the Bulls (last professional sports team I can muster any interest for), wonderful restaurants, and The Hawk, a wind so fierce that it takes the breath away.
• New York City...swagger, strut, the best Little Italy (Mario Battali has superceded Umberto's Clam House where Joey Gallo had some lead with his dinner), teams you love to hate, and parking rates that take your breath away faster than the aforementioned Hawk.
• London...gentile, historic, so pukka.
• Glasgow...Scotland's version of Chicago, the blue-collar city teeming with hospitality, pubs, culture, and a number of great names for rain.  If the Eskimos have scores of nuances for snow, Glaswegians have a similar number to describe the rain.  Like smirr.

To quote Gandhi, "Wherever you are, be there."  That's the point of this exercise.  Why have a favorite when there are so many wonderful places in the world?  Learn to enjoy where you are.

OK, maybe not Detroit.

Footnotes...

Yesterday I heard Mayor Jerry Sanders, Eddie Osterland, (America's First Master Sommelier), and Russ T. Nailz, politically incorrect comic, all within the space of three hours.  This is a real feat of mental legerdemain.  The wine certainly helped.

Midweek I had lunch with my good friend, Alan Russell.  Alan is the tallest mystery writer in America, and maybe the best writer you don't know about.  He is the mystery writer other mystery writers read.  Check out his award-winning Mortal Wounds.

Wall Street My Money Slept and other pop offs on pop culture

Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps, the sequel to the Michael Douglas-Charlie Sheen-Oliver Stone Academy Award Winning 1987 movie, maybe one of the worst movies of all time.  An instant Razzie candidate.   Where to start?  Michael Douglas sleepwalks through the part, he's more a mannequin for really beautiful suits and ties.  Shia LeBeouf?  I don't get Shia LeBeouf...at all.  Carrie Mulligan cries throughout the entire movie.  Charlie Sheen makes a gratuitous cameo, with two women on his arm, perhaps some cross marketing for his tasteless television show.  The movie's only redeeming quality is Josh Brolin, who plays an amoral banker.  He got his moral compass the same place Carrie Mulligan's character got her wedding ring, out of a Cracker Jack box.  The plot is predictable, the only surprise being that the tickets cost $13.00 each. 

Let's just say that the weekly box office is dropping faster than the Dow Jones Industrial Average did in 2008.  Look for this one in Blockbuster Video...what, they filed for bankruptcy?  OK, Netflix...add this to your Netflix queue.  The wait won't be long.

As a recovering Wall Streeter myself (I left in 1996), and a fan of the previous movie, I felt somewhat obligated to go, despite the suspicion that the movie was going to be a dog.  I based that on the not very scientific observation that every third commercial was the trailer for the movie. 

The trailer was interspersed between Jerry Brown and Meg Whitman ads.  I'm including political ads in the pantheon of pop culture.  These two are vying for the governor's mansion in Sacramento.  If Brown wins he may symbolically close it down to live in his Jesuitical austerity in an apartment, or maybe an ashram.  If Meg Whitman wins she may symbolically close it down to live in something with a bit more square footage.  With a population larger than Western Europe you'd think that the state of California could produce two better candidates than this lot.

Redemption of the arts came in the form of a book.  Each year I am fortunate enough to stumble upon a sleeper, totally unexpected.  A couple of years back it was The Cellist of Sarajevo, Steven Galloway's fictional take on a true incident from the siege of Sarjevo.  A big tip o' the hat to John Hamilton, that irrepressible Kiwi, for loaning me a copy of this year's sleeper, The Amateurs, penned by John Niven.  The funniest book I have ever read.  Since I read most of the book armed with a cigar and a Guinness in my backyard, I am somewhat surprised that my neighbors didn't call the police to report a cackling madman running amok on my property.  Laugh out loud funny...or LOL, I guess for you emoticons.  (Though, parenthetically, emoticons are preferable to neocons.)

The premise of The Amateurs: a golfing hackmeister in a dead-end job and a loveless marriage, connects with the purest golf shot he has ever hit, at the same time he is felled by a errant drive, denting his skull and sending him to hospital and a long coma.  When he recovers his senses he lives with three aftermaths: he cannot hit a poor golf shot, he has a wicked case of Tourette's syndrome, and another malady that results in his never needing any Viagra, a priapism of palpating proportions.  He wins his way into the British Open.  The book is set in a small town in Scotland and peppered with colorful Glaswegian phrases.  Caveat emptor:  There are any number of books with the same title.  Look for the cover with a bloody golf ball.

                      





Old School or I see dead animals

Spent most of the week with the team from LAZ Parking, which resulted in a trip to Hartford, Connecticut.  As always, we were swept up into that vortex, that force of nature, Alan Lazowski, LAZ Parking's CEO, who seems to get more stuff done in a week than most mere mortals do in a month.  In addition to two days huddled up with the senior leadership team, there was also a political fund raiser he hosted for Mike Blumenthal, Democratic candidate for Chris Dodd's abandoned seat.  Frankly, Al should be running.

The meetings and the fund raiser, conveniently were held at The Hartford Club.  The company's new CFO, Nathan Owen, an English fellow, immediately submitted his application for the club, because "It reminds me of England."

I don't know if Nathan meant the food, but he certainly meant the decor.  And since it is a private club there is actually a "Gentlemen's Cigar and Billiards Room."  (I am quite certain that distaff members of THC are quite welcome.)

The room is redolent of the pleasant smell of cigar.  Wood panelling, private humidors, leather chairs, a bar, dead animals on the wall, and the requisite photo of Samuel Longhorn Clemens, better known as Mark Twain.  Clemens was a member, and the photo showed him in his trademark white suit, leonine head of hair, and the ever-present cigar.

While we never saw the room in actual use, one imagines suited gentlemen rustling their copies of The Wall Street Business Journal or The Hartford Courant, sipping a glass of port, and indulging in their favorite smoke.  Harkening back to simpler times. 

My cigar venue of choice was a bench outside of McKinnon's Pub on Asylum Street.  On Wednesday evening the pub was packed with musicians who played Celtic music in a come-one-come-all style.  A squeebox, a few fiddles, guitars, a mandolin or two.  No pipes.  The only drawback was having thye Guinness served in a plastic cup, as pint glasses were not allowed outdoors.  One must suffer occasionally for one's vices.

And now back to San Diego, where it is becoming increasing difficult to find a place to indulge in a cigar.  Beaches and parks have banned all smoking.  You can't drink on the beach, either.  There are a few cigar stores where patrons can light up.  But a private club...if you know of one I'd like to know.

My life in nine weeks & Hypocrisy

First, it was March 12th, nine weeks before our trip to Scotland.  Suddenly the plans and time telescoped.  Books on Scotland's rich and warlike history to read.  Highlighting Rick Steves and other guidebooks on planned sites to visit.  Telephone numbers, addresses, signing up for Skype, getting the iPhone...

Then, the trip itself.  Nine weeks chronicled here in detail.

Now, nine weeks after our return.  To mark the occasion I called Callum and caught him (shockingly!) at Jelly Hill.  The turnout, he said, was low.  He and Lucy were there along with Kirtseen and Callan.  The fire fighting duo were expected.  Callum blamed the weather, 55 and raining...true Glaswegian weather. 

So, half a year passed in this trio of nine week blocks.  A certain symmetry if you will.

And now to the purpose of today's missive.  Hypocrisy.  Two events from the sporting world and from a world (football, or American football) where my interest is slightly less than studying the mating habits of three-toed sloths.  My friends know that I have watched less than five professional football games in the last five years, even eschewing last year's Super Bowl.  You can blame the over-entitled pissant Eli Manning, whose fit of pique and refusal to play in San Diego finally demonstrated what a callow bunch runs across our less than Elyssian Fields.

Reggie Bush, the electrifying all-purpose back who was indeed the best college player in 2005, returned his Heisman Trophy.  His crime, he took some money when he was an undergraduate, thus making him ineligible.  The results of that are now visited on a coach and players who were nowhere near the campus in 2005.  The irony of the NCAA and its punishment.  The USC coach at that time, Pete Carroll, now coaches an NFL team and makes a multi-million salary that has him rooting for an extension of the Bush-era tax cuts.  (In this case the Bush in question would be George W. and not Reggie.)  Reggie is a pro football player with the current world champions, the New Orleans Saints. 

The report was that the Heisman committee was considering asking for the trophy back.  Bush relieved them of that hollow wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth by returning it of his own volition.

The hypocrisy is the entire system of college athletics.  Coaches who earn millions of dollars, schools that earn comparable sums for appearing in bowl games, ticket sales, television revenue.  Hell, Notre Dame has its own network, NBC!  The only ones not making money, the kids on the field.  Who are also banned from holding jobs or risk loosing their scholarships.  And the Heisman itself.  If you want to go and watch the presentation, a ticket will cost you $500.00. 

Our second example of hypocrisy is Ines Sainz.  Ms. Sainz, who might be a member of Mensa, was certainly not hired for her intellect.  She is a stunning beauty.  Walking Cialis.  She would get the College of Cardinals electing the next Pope to melt into paroxysms of cat-calls and wolf whistles.  Ms. Sainz walks into a locker room full of naked Jets and expects what?  She was also upset that the team ran a play near to where she was standing on the field.  These two incidents offended her.  She was, well, treated like an object.

No journalist, male or female, actually needs to be in a locker room.  There are press areas and mandates that require athletes to make themselves available to the press.  This access is an anachronistic throwback to the days of fedoras, spiked stories, and cigarettes drooping from the mouths of Heywood Hale Broun or Red Smith.

The hypocrisy...do I really need to explain it?  Thought not.  But you might be interested to know that male reporters are denied access to the locker rooms of the WNBA, the Women's National Basketball League.

Working on my intolerance

Reverend Terry Jones, a Gainesville, Florida man of God, wants to burn the Koran, his personal and peculair way of commemorating September 11th, which also happens to be his right under our Constitution.  How is burning the Koran any different than burning the flag, or hanging and torching various politicians in effigy, or placing a crucifix in urine and calling it art?  And that's just here in the good old U. S. of A.

We have all been treated to countless scenes of "the Arab Street" burning Old Glory.  We have all witnessed what to our minds have been disproportinate displays of displeasure at political cartoons, or comments from Pope Benedict.  These responses went well beyond burning a flag or two, they blossomed into arson and general mayhem.

Our Consitution guarantees Rev. Jones' right to burn the Koran. It is called free speech. Once we start to make decisions on what type of free speech is protected by the Constitution we begin a slide down a slippery slope. Years ago I read Nat Henthof's wonderful book, "Free Speech for Me, But Not for Thee." The book should be read in every Civics and Government class.  While I may not agree with Rev. Jones' act, I hold his right to do it as sancrosanct. The media has whipped the flames of this fire into a conflagration of Biblical proportions without the good reverend even striking a match. (Poetically a match works better than a Bic lighter. You've got the whole smell of sulphur and the fire and brimstone thing going for you.)


Frankly, I am getting a bit weary of being asked to understand this or that abomination under the guise of political correctness.  I am also bone tired of being tolerant.

Especially since our call for tolerance (and let's broaden this to include all of Western Culture) seems to fall on deaf ears.  The Taliban destroying the ancient Buddhas of Bamyan comes to mind.  How many Catholic Churches are in Saudi Arabia?  None.  See this Time Magazine article: http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1723715,00.html  Somehow, we have the burden of tolerance and must forgive intolerance in others.

My recent travels to Scotland were edifying in a number of respects.  The Scots are fiercely proud of their country, their heritage, and their history.  They make no apologies for who they are.  They are independent and outspoken. 

I wondered and continue to wonder how many of us in America can make the same claims. 

I am proud of my country.  I am proud that I live in a country where every crackpot or nutcase can express his opinion.  I am proud of our heritage, a country of immigrants (though these days it feels like the melting pot is being sectioned like a bad TV dinner.)  And I'm proud of our history.  We haven't got everything right, but we get most of it right. 

A Clean Sweep

As more dreck oozes out of the monumental cluster-fuck known as the Obama Healthcare Bill, I am again stunned by the "work" of our fine elected representatives in the House and Senate. 

You might recall that the bill weighed in at a staggering 2,000+ pages.  Did anyone know everything that was in the bill?  Of course not.  We were reassured that we would deal with individual problems associated with this legislation as they arose.

So here are just a couple of things that have come to light:

• A 3.6% tax on the capital gains in the sale of your residence.  Assume you sell your home and have a $200,000 gain.  Suddenly, Obama-Care is the receipient of $7,200!
• A requirement for all businesses to file 1099s on all vendors where the company has spent $600 during the business year.

Absurd!  Staples, Starbuck's, Von's, Time Warner, AT&T, San Diego Gas & Electric, Barnes & Nobel, Amazon, a number of cigar stores...I figure that I will have issue about 50 1099s.  For what purpose?  Will Staples, on the receiving end of millions of these forms, need to hire an army of people to process them...and again, to be perfectly redundant, for what purpose.

So, I have a new political outlook.  My voting pattern will be simple.  If you're currently in, you're out.  Republican, Democract, Independent, it doesn't matter.  Whether or not I like you, your views, or even know you personally, you are O-U-T.  That's the only message the electorate can send that will truly resonate in Washington.  Let's give them a dose of what this economy is really all about.  Wouldn't it be wonderful if 468 numb-nuts were suddenly unemployed on November 3rd?  (That's all 435 members of the House and the 33 or so Senators standing for re-election.)

When I share this view to friends in my rare political discussions I always get push back.  Always in the manner of "Well, what about Mr. X?  He's a good ___________ (fill-in-the-blank) and has always had our interests in mind."  Frankly, I don't care if Mr. X did have our best interests, and not his own, in mind.  OUT! No exceptions.  All means all.

Another argument is that then Congress would be filled with neophytes.  So what?  Can they do a worse job than the Moron Tabernacle Choir in there now?  Is there a single statesman in government, at any level?  (Maybe Robert Gates, maybe Hillary Clinton.) 

No, we would all be well served by being well served by someone else.

Cheers!

Today marks the fourth week of our return from Scotland, and the fourth Friday where we will NOT be heading off to Jelly Hill to see our old friends and make new ones.  Tonight we'll have a nice dinner and watch one of the Netflix movies.  Lynn put it best, "In Scotland we actually had a social life!"

When we returned we sat down and created a list of our favorite phrases or words that we heard bandied about.  In no particular order:

• "Do it, do it, do it!" 
• "Shockin'!"
• "Fantastic!"
• "Sorted."  (One of my personal faves, with many applications, and incredibly versatile when it comes to agreement on any number of issues.)
• "Do we have a problem, friend?" (Delivered in a perfect American accent, this phrase was a favorite of Tom's Yank boss in the 1970s)
• "Pardon us, but we seem to be having a domestic."
• "Massive."
• "Stupid, stupid, girl."  (See earlier post about the Great Race.)
• "At's a load of shite." 
• "Brilliant." (Wonderful.)
• "Dead brilliant." (More wonderful.)
• "Pure, dead brilliant." (Most wonderful.)
• "Wee."
• "For fuck's sake!"
• "Oh, aye."
• "I'm going mental."
• "Cheers."

What has become a permanent fixture in my vocabulary has been "Cheers."  Like "Aloha" it works equally well as a greeting or in taking one's leave.  It is so much better than saying goodbye, and imparts more than a simple "Thank you."  I even added it to my online signature.

"For fuck's sake!" isn't bad either.  And, as F-bombs go, this one is more expressive and less offensive than most.

Lynn and I have both been "Oh, aye"-ing each other to the most serious and mundane of questions.  But an "aye" seems to carry more import than a simple yes.

In any case...

Cheers!