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A Belated New Year’s Resolution

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On Retiring from Politics

On Retiring from Politics

I have finally decided to stop writing about politics. I find I get too involved reacting to idiocies, mostly from the Right—but I do not exempt so-called Progressives either. I think I’ve already said just about everything bad I can think of about the people, parties, and media that, over the last thirty years, I have come to detest. So, to hell with them all! Bad cess on them and their vile progeny!

The world is a wondrous place: I don’t want to spoil my enjoyment of that wonder by venting my bile at the slightest provocation.

Oh, I will still actively participate in politics by voting, signing petitions, and so on—but what passes for political discourse in this country will henceforth be closed to me.

And this on a day when there were so many stupid things said or proposed, any one of which could have set me off. I don’t care any more if an Idaho legislator wants to make Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged mandatory reading in order to graduate from high school in his state. It no longer matters that an Alabama legislator wants to ban abortion because his interpretation of the Bible is that the souls of aborted fetuses will wind up in hell. I no longer care what Wayne La Pierre and his pasty crew of gun collectors say about anything—it’s bound to be crap in any case.

Let these simpletons stew in their own juices. I just refuse to take them seriously any more. Life is for living, not for crass stupidity.

What Matters …

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Martine and the Moose

Martine and the Moose

If there was no blog post yesterday, it was because Martine was ill, and I thought I would have to take her to the hospital. Fortunately, after two weeks of illness, she suddenly got better.

It all started two-three weeks ago, when she started complaining of muscular back pain. It was her decision to go to a clinic and get some sort of pain killer. And that’s what almost did her in. The physician on duty prescribed hydrocodone acetominophen. Literally minutes within taking it, Martine developed a nasty reaction which, while not alleviating the pain in her back, made her feel week and took away her appetite for food.

Martine’s bad reactions to prescription drugs are hardly new. She has been suffering for over a year from the anti-malarial chloroquine she took on our Argentina vacation. Then, when she had the flu, she developed a bad reaction to cipro.

All week, I was haunted by this feeling that I might lose Martine. Although we are two very different people, I love her such that it would be difficult to imagine my leading a happy life without her soft voice and gentle smile.

People who know us sometimes have a hard time imagining the depth of my feelings for Martine, but that’s because they do not necessarily know about how our relationship functions.

Nothing in this life is guaranteed: I know that, at some point, I will either lose her or she will lose me. Fortunately, it has not come to that yet.

[St. Peter] Chanel High School (1957-2013)

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Seal of Chanel High School

Seal of Chanel High School

I was there when St. Peter Chanel High School in Bedford, Ohio, was born—I was in the school’s second graduating class in 1962—and now it looks as if I’m around when the school dies later this year. When I attended, it was called simply Chanel High School and was run by priests of the Society of Mary (Marists, not Marianists).

My four years there were largely happy ones, even though the brain tumor that was to come to a crisis later on was already causing frequent severe frontal headaches. My teachers were excellent, particularly the priests who gave me the best background in high school English it was possible to receive anywhere. My teachers were, in order,  Fathers Gerard Hageman, Raymond E. Healy, Alan Parker, and Edward Murray.

Back then, Chanel was strictly a boys’ school, with girls being admitted much later, probably when the school was taken over by the Catholic Archdiocese of Cleveland, which changed its name to St. Peter Chanel, after the 19th century Marist martyr of Polynesia after whom the school was named.

In recent years, the enrollment has plummeted, with only 54 students enrolling for the current ninth-grade class.

I feel a great sadness about the school’s passing, because now I will never to be able to indulge in my fantasy of coming to the school’s aid with my millions. (Who am I kidding?) I feel I owe a debt to the good men who taught me—dedicated, smart, and devout men who gave their lives to God and to an ideal of education that seems to be passing away before our eyes. Who is that dedicated today? Few, very few. And those that are are under constant attack by Conservatives who back a misguided goal of home schooling by idiots.

Dinosaur

Okay, Jim, so you’re a dinosaur. It is your sad role to note the passing of things that meant a great deal to you, while so many contemporary phenomena leave you cold. All those girls in jeggings and boots with their smart phones. All that cacophonous pop music. Television. Celebrities. Will you kids get off my lawn before I call the police!

Yummy! Fried Brains!

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Some Days You Just Can’t Describe in Any Other Way

Some Days You Just Can’t Describe in Any Other Way

Today was the most brutal day of tax season so far. In addition to continuing securities analysis on our biggest client, there were a half dozen 1099s to print, tax returns on partnerships and fiduciaries (neither of which entity types I understand), installation of a new version of our tax program, filing our 4th quarter 2012 payroll tax returns to the IRS and California Employment Development Department, and miscellaneous other administrative duties. The net result: At least another half day or more tomorrow just finishing up today’s work.

In the next three months, there will more more days like this. I just want to hang it up, go home, eat dinner, drink some iced tea, and finish reading Jason Goodwin’s Lords of the Horizons: A History of the Ottoman Empire.

There will be better days to come. And there will be worse days. May the latter be few and may they pass quickly.

Accounting Nightmares

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Some Things Just Won’t Reconcile

Some Things Just Won’t Reconcile

Even though my first memories are of childhood nightmares, my dreaming has, over the last few decades, been remarkably free of anything scary. Those first nightmares, however, were real wowsers: In response to toilet training, I would be stuck in the bathroom with the walls closing in on me with the sound of a steam engine. Or there were the times I was being chased around our home on East 120th Street by a lion.

Since I started working in accounting, I have had a different type of dream—particularly when I am facing some problem of whose resolution I am uncertain. Right now, I am trying to analyze the sales of government securities that just don’t seem to reconcile. First of all, there are Fannie Mae investments with a monthly Return of Principal, which I am not sure is being accurately registered in the brokerage statements. And then there was the mistaken sale of three securities that had already been sold earlier that month in the same statement. What was even stranger was that, when the sale was canceled, in each case it was assessed at a different value than the value at the time of “re-sale.”.

When I have trouble dropping off to sleep, I occasionally revisit these technical problems; and the numbers swirl around and around in my head. Sometimes, in my half-sleep, I come up with brilliant solutions. Almost always, I gain some insight, even though I lose some sleep in the process.

If you were to ask me, I think I would prefer the extra sleep.

 

The Man Who Walked Through Time

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ColinFletcher

Colin Fletcher (1922-2007)

Today I got into a conversation with my co-workers on the subject of footwear. It’s not something I talk about very much, so I surprised myself how much I was influenced by the thinking of one man some thirty years ago. The man was Colin Fletcher, an indefatigable hiker who wrote several books about his long walks, most notably:

  • The Thousand Mile Summer (1964) about a walk from Southern California by the Mexican border all the way to the Oregon border—along the ridge line of the Sierras.
  • The Man Who Walked Through Time (1968) about his hike along the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon.
  • The Complete Walker (several editions) in which he talks about the gear you need (and what you don’t need) to walk long distances.
  • The Man from the Cave (1981), about his researches tracking down a man who lived in a cave in the Desert Southwest and left many of his belongings behind.

From Fletcher, I learned to wear only socks that have wool content, the more the better. And I learned to buy only those shoes whose soles and heels would wear like iron—which is why I am partial to Rockport walking shoes and various well designed hiking boots and shoes.

For many years, shoe salesman lied to me about my size. At best, I wear a size 9-1/2 shoe (American) EEE, though I can wear a 10 EE. Most shoe stores, however, stock only D-width shoes. Rather than lose the sale, they will sell me a size 10-1/2 D or even an 11 D, which leaves about two inches of storage space between my toes and the leading edge of the shoe or boot. Needless to say, I avoid shoe stores like the plague. It’s L.L. Bean or OnlineShoes.Com for me.

Being reminded of Colin Fletcher, whom I had forgotten for so long, I remember the happy hours I spent reading his books and paying close attention to his advice. Much of his hiking advice is now a bit dated because of the recent influx of new materials that have revolutionized the gear situation for camping and hiking, but the basic information was solid; and Colin tested it all himself the hard way.

If you can find any of Fletcher’s books, you may well find yourself falling under the man’s spell. I particularly recommend the first, second, and fourth books I listed above. The Complete Walker needs to be substantially revised, though I have no plans to get rid of my fourth edition copy.

The Hundred Days of Hell

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Nothing But H-E-Double Toothpicks!

Nothing But H-E-Double Toothpicks!

Between now and April 15, the IRS deadline for tax submissions, we in the accounting profession are trying to survive what I call the Hundred Days of Hell. It will be more so this year because of the dilatory tactics of the baboons in Congress over the so-called fiscal cliff. They not only dragged that out, but the process led to a delay in the final design of hundreds of tax forms, with the result that the IRS cannot even process tax returns right now. Many will not be ready until March 1—and March 15 is a tax deadline for corporate tax returns.

At least we will not have as many days in tax season as last year. 2012 was a leap year, so we had February 29 to contend with. And then the tax deadline date was April 17, because April 15 fell on a Sunday, and April 16 is a holiday in the District of Columbia (“Emancipation Day”).

There will be days I will not be able to post any blogs because I am too busy at work and too tired once I step into my apartment. (Because I feel a furor scribendi virtually every day, I will try anyhow.)

 

44

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Another Birthday, Already? Jeez!

Another Birthday, Already? Jeez!

Again I survived! Today is my 44th birthday. Before you smirk, I now measure my age strictly in the hexadecimal numbering system, which counts 0, 1, 2, 3 and on to 9, A, B, C, D, E, and F. I think you will agree that it’s a much more flattering number, until the letters of the alphabet start showing up, making people say, “Hold on thar!” Of course, I won’t get to be 4A years old for another six years. By then, I may have to find a still more flattering number system—perhaps vigesimal (to the base twenty).

If you are not a computer wonk and want to find out how old I really am now—in the decimal numbering system— you just follow these simple steps:

  1. Take the number of Muses in Ancient Greek mythology.
  2. Add the number of the current Baktun in the Long Count of the Mayan Calendar.
  3. Multiply the result by the number of Theological Virtues in Catholic dogma.
  4. Add the number of scoops of raisins in every box of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran cereal.

There, that wasn’t so very difficult, was it? Easy as pi!

A Family Christmas

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Lori, Hilary, Danny, Jennifer, and Dan

Lori, Hilary, Danny, Jennifer, and Dan

I just returned from Palm Springs about an hour or two ago after spending one of the best Christmases in my adult life. My brother and sister-in-law rented a house in PS’s “Movie Colony” neighborhood.

Present were Dan and Lori, my brother and sister-in-law; Hilary, just returned from Guatemala by way of her home in Seattle; Danny, from L.A.’s South Bay; Jennifer, from San Diego; and Martine and me from West Los Angeles.

As you know, I tend to be something of a Grinch; but the events of the last five days have melted the residual ice that encased my heart. It was great fun talking with my nephew and nieces, and spending the days touring the Coachella Valley with Martine while the kids were involved in hiking, swimming in hot pools, and such like.

Martine and I got to visit the Living Desert Zoo and Botanical Gardens in Palm Desert, which we’ve seen two or three times before; the Palm Springs Air Museum, a labor of love by WW2 veterans; the Oasis Date Gardens in Thermal, California; and the Shields Date Gardens in Indio, California. (Yes, I guess I really do enjoy eating dates.)

In the days to come, I will post blogs about the first two places above, which I think are world-class tourist destinations. And I will try to write something about the Coachella Valley’s date palms.

In the meantime, I hope all of you had a Merry Christmas!

 

Down Time

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Palm Springs

Palm Springs

In a couple of hours, Martine and I will be heading to Palm Springs, where my brother and his family have rented a house for the holiday season. Because I do not happen to have a laptop computer. you will probably not hear from me until we return in a few days.

I plan to spend some quality time with my brother and his family, and to see some films and read some books. I will continue with my least likely Christmas book ever—Antony Beevor’s Stalingrad: The Fateful Siege 1942-1943, as well as some other reading interspersed.

We hope to visit one of our favorite zoos, The Living Desert in Palm Desert, which is also a botanical garden. (That, of course, depends on the weather, which is always dicey this time of year.)

So far the world has not ended yet, and it shows signs of persisting through the holidays. I’m sure a lot of people will end the day with egg on their faces, which is only right. As Monty Python warned us, “NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!”