Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Mah Jongging While America Burns

To take my mind off my worries, a friend suggested I come to her house last night for a round or two of mah jongg. I went, expecting a relaxing evening of casual conversation and a light mental workout. What I got was much hand-wringing and knee-jerking on the part of some of the players. President Obama was talking in the other room (on TV) about his plans to stimulate the economy. This provoked outrage at our game table. Why should I pay for my neighbor's greed? Why should illegal immigrants be allowed to work in Rhode Island? The latter is a common mantra where I live. Illegal immigration is the cause of all our woes. At least so sayeth our governor, who's best buds with Lou Dobbs.

All the railing took me back to another mah jongg game I happened to be playing nearly six years ago. Strange. At big moments in American history, I seem to be playing games. It was six years ago in March that American troops marched into Baghdad and toppled Saddam Hussein's regime. A number of the people I was playing with reacted as though we were viewing a Super Bowl game. Yay America! I was appalled by the turn of events. I couldn't believe how easily Amercia could be misled. This was only the beginning of the misleading, of course.

Gadzillions of dollars and a decimated economy later, many Americans are now screaming about not wanting to pay for their neighbors' poor decisions, not wanting to saddle their grandchildren with crushing debt, not wanting to reward the go-shopping mentality that's left us gasping and horrified as we scrutinize our fat credit card bills. Where were the complainers when the government reached into our pockets and took wads of money for a war we went to on false pretenses? Where was the oversight when Wall Street built an empire out of nothing, sold it at a huge profit, and then walked away from the mess? How's your portfolio doing?

Maybe "big government" is not the solution. Or even small government. Maybe we should dismantle the whole thing and figure out how to be a nation without spending a nickle on it. Give everyone a gun and a pamphlet on self sufficiency. Homeschool your children; toss your trash in the river; definitely get a horse.

Friends, I'd rather pay for my neighbor's extra bathroom that they didn't need, and as much as it kills me, I'd rather prop up banks and industries than let the country sink into the slime. I'd rather pay to build a stronger America, not just militarily, but structurally and morally. I've already paid dearly for what I didn't need and didn't want. What's a few trillion dollars more? If anyone has any genius plans on how to accomplish this on tax cuts and a prayer, speak now.

Mah jongg anyone?

Monday, February 23, 2009

Latest Sacrilege

When I think about my grandfather, I see him sitting in his easy chair reading The New York Times. He always wore white cotton gloves when he handled the newspaper because he was allergic to the inky residue. If you asked him a question while he was reading, he'd peer over the tops of his glasses and shoot you a look that said this better be good; you're interrupting me. If you asked him what he was reading, he always said the Obituaries. He'd been an actuary with the Equitable Life Assurance Company, and reading the obits had been part of his job. Or so he said. I think he enjoyed the little story each life summation told.

My grandfather would no doubt be shocked to pick up the Times today, and not just because he wouldn't need to wear those little white gloves anymore. Newsprint ain't what it used to be. No, he'd be surprised by the content, I think. Newspapers try to be most things to most people these days, and the Times is no different. I still read the paper on line every day (or parts of it), but last week I did the unthinkable: I canceled delivery of the Sunday Times.

The customer service rep couldn't believe it either, offering to halve my subscription price for 6 months and suggesting that if I didn't have time to read the entire paper on Sunday, I had time during the week. That's when I got a little testy and told her she had no idea how much time I had to read during the week. As I was writing this post, I received a telephone call from the Times confirming my cancellation and reiterating the special offer. Thanks, but no thanks.

It's the end of an era. If I move back to the New York metro area, I'm sure I'll subscribe to the hometown rag. For now, I'm sticking to the electronic version. That'll be the only version there is one of these days.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

My Swiss Bank Account

A Swiss bank is about to do the unthinkable: release the names of American's who've stashed money there to avoid paying taxes. Is nothing sacred? The tax man can't wait to get his paws on that pile of back taxes, estimated at $300 million a year, plus penalties and interest. This is only one bank. Imagine the tax money that could be collected from offshore banking accounts worldwide. What's a wealthy person to do?

I can afford to be smug. Not only do I not have any money squirreled away in foreign accounts, I haven't any in on-shore accounts either. Sure, I have my rapidly dwindling home equity line, and several IRA/529 accounts from which I was planning to fund my kids' education and my retirement, but these have mostly been eviscerated in the market crash. My daughter earned a whopping $1400 in 2008, but because she cashed in $3200 worth of shares from a Fidelity account we created to help pay for her education, she owes $3 in capital gains taxes.

I'll be fine. Really. But where will these poor billionaires shelter their cash now that the offshore banking world is coming unhinged? Egads, they might even have to start paying employment taxes on their staffs, too. This is a sad day for rich folks.

My own Swiss bank account has nothing in it but chocolate and cheese. I'm pretty sure I paid import taxes on them, folded into the price. What a dope I was, playing by the rules, actually paying my share of taxes to my country all these years like a good citizen. I'm so thankful capital gains taxes were lowered years ago. Gosh, my daughter might have owed $6 on her windfall profits. What a fool I was not to shelter that money off shore.

Maybe the meek (read: poor law-abiding saps) shall inherit the earth after all. At least we won't be outed, and although we haven't kept our cash, we've kept our good names.

I need some chocolate.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Running Thoughts

My normal running speed is slow. Very slow. There are two reasons for this: I'm slow; and while I'm running, I'm thinking about the day ahead, and many times, the days behind. The present counts for little when I run, which is why I'm not much of a runner.

The truth is, I don't much enjoy running. I do it for my health, physical and mental. Running is work, and it hurts. It's also very dull, which is why I fill it with all those thoughts. Some days at the end of a run, my only proof that I've exerted myself is that I'm sweating. I get so lost in a mental maze, I'm not conscious that my knee hurts or my face is frozen or my heart is pounding. Usually it's not pounding because I'm running in slo-mo. Only thinking about running makes you push for a faster speed. It does not guarantee it, of course.

My running thoughts have helped me work through problems. They've helped me focus my ideas and energies in ways that sedentary thinking does not. I have conversations with people dead and alive and occasionally out loud. Running has helped me claw my way back from serious illness and been a tremendous boost to my self -esteem. It's therapeutic in so many ways I often wonder why more people don't do it.

I'm not here to promote running or thinking on the run. It's not for everyone. But it's a way of multi-tasking that works for me.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Rhode Island Takes New York

We took our first 24 hours in New York at a slow pace. We arrived in Brooklyn shortly after noon and thought about lunch. Three of us wanted pizza but Mark wanted race fuel. No problem. There's a bagel store and a pizzeria within two blocks of our friends' house.

While Mark rested, Marty made phone calls to area colleagues and Harry and I read. Then it was off to the subway and on to Manhattan. Most subway rides can put you to sleep, but not this one. We had entertainment in our car, in the form of a raving pole dancer. This was one of the more creative uses of a subway pole I've seen. Normally, riders are hanging onto the pole for dear life as the subway hurtles through dark tunnels, grinds to a halt and then lurches forth once more. The pole dancer had plenty of room to do his thing though, complete with inappropriate commentary.

We delivered Mark to Madison Square Garden and went off in search of our daughter who was arriving by train from Phillie. The Gyro place we used to eat at all the time when we lived in New York was still serving up heaping Greek delights so we went in for some dinner before the races. I'm happy to report that the gyros are still an absolutely delicious mess--just like we remembered them. We've been eating imposter gyros for years. It was nice to be home.

The Garden is directly across the street from the building where I worked during my first years in New York, so I know this area well. It hasn't changed much at all. At 6pm on a Friday, thousands of people are scurrying from work, and since Penn Station sits right below Madison Square Garden, it's swirling with bodies streaming every which way. Your Alive Meter can't help but surge upwards.

We went inside, found our seats and watched the track and field events as they unfolded before us. One highlight was pole vaulting. Nothing thrills a crowd like this event, and the evening's vaulters didn't disappoint. An Aussie managed a personal best just under 20 feet. Wow.

The moment we were waiting for arrived. There's my lanky son, briefly in the spotlight, waiting to enter the track. There he is warming up with his competitors. On the starting line. Getting out in front. Leading for five laps. The pace seems very slow, although in truth, time has little meaning at this point. Around and around the banked track they run, Mark losing the lead, dropping back to fourth, fifth, then speeding up and passing runners. Around the final turn, Mark kicking and finishing third. I know he wanted to win but that he is happy with third place. I am so happy for him.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur. There's much running and hurdling, jumping and throwing, but the meet's over for me. I enjoy visiting with the friends who've joined us. I watch as Mark joins a group of Columbia track athletes and sits with them in the stands. They will be his teammates next year. Maybe Mark will run the college 4x800 relay at Millrose 2010 wearing Columbia blue. He's already there.

Good things, as my mother-in-law says, good things.