A Candle for Katie

Our life stories could break our hearts if we only let them. A work in progress...When film director Claude Lelouche was asked why his Paris apartment was always in a state of upheaval, he exclaimed: "It is like life... a work in progress. When it is finished, it's over!" We've spent a lifetime apart and I look at where we've been and with whom. For my own peace of mind, I stop short of asking myself the reasons why.

Soon after I left Lehman Brothers, I leased an office space two blocks down the same street on Kearny at the base of Nob Hill. Right around the corner and up a block on California was the Old Saint Mary's Catholic Church. It stood like a missionary sentinel in the midst of Chinatown. Rising from the crowded throngs on the corners of California and Grant Streets, its red brick facade was streaked in dark gray stains making it resemble a widow in mourning. Its diminutive silhouette was draped in the long afternoon shadows from a sea of lifeless skyscrapers. Across the clickety clack sounds of cable car tracks was a McDonalds filled with tourists.

I used to go up on the roof of my building to escape reality -- sometimes I'd smoke a little grass. I'd watch the pigeons fly in sweeping formations around the steeple of the old brick church...the late afternoon sun would reflect off its spire. The clock hands never moved. I lived not too faraway up several steep flights of stairways ascending the southern slope of Telegraph Hill.

Sometimes on the way home -- if it was early enough -- I'd stop into the gift shop of the church. They had an amazing collection of not just Catholic articles of faith, but ecumenical items from around the world. Anyway, my questing led me to browse various spiritual readings. I bought my first Coptic cross there. I wore it around my neck on a rawhide string for a few years.The day I broke my neck was the last time I wore it. Something was lost -- my innocence, perhaps -- and with it, the kismet had vanished... our connection was gone. Somewhere in a long forgotten jewelry box lies a cold piece of tarnished pot metal that used to carry the heat from my body...

Yes... I remember Old Saint Mary's...The next time in the old neighborhood, I'll stop in and light a candle for Katie and say a little prayer for what is to become of us...

A Trillion Here...A Trillion There

Much to my surprise, I recently found that we now own AIG…??? So here is another proposed solution... I’m against the $85,000,000,000.00 bailout of AIG.

Instead, I’m in favor of giving the $85,000,000,000 back to America in a We Deserve It Dividend.

To make the math simple, let’s assume there are 200,000,000 bona fide U.S. Citizens 18 years old and over. Our population is about 301,000,000 +/- counting every man, woman and child. So 200,000,000 might be a fair stab at adults 18 and up..

So divide 200 million adults 18+ into $85 billion that equals $425,000.00.

My plan is to give that $425,000 to every person 18+ as a We Deserve It Dividend.

Of course, it would NOT be tax free.

So let’s assume a tax rate of 30%.

Every individual 18+ has to pay $127,500.00 in taxes.

That sends $25,500,000,000 right back to Uncle Sam.

But it means that every adult 18+ has $297,500.00 in their pocket.

A husband and wife would have $595,000.00.

What would you and your family do with....$297,500.00 to $595,000.00?


Pay off your mortgage – housing crisis solved.

Repay college loans – what a great boost to new grads

Put away money for college – it’ll be there

Save in a bank – create money to loan to entrepreneurs.

Buy a new car – create jobs

Invest in the market when it recovers – capital drives growth

Pay for your parent’s medical insurance – health care improves


Remember this is for every adult U S Citizen 18+ including the folks who lost their jobs at Lehman Brothers and every other company that is cutting back and, of course, for those serving in our Armed Forces.

If we’re going to re-distribute wealth let’s really do it instead of trickling out a puny $1000.00 ( “vote buy” ) economic incentive that is being proposed by one of our candidates for President.

If we’re going to do an $85 billion bailout, then let’s bail out every adult U.S. Citizen 18+!

As for AIG – liquidate it.

Sell off its parts. Let American General go back to being American General. Sell off the real estate. Let the private sector bargain hunters cut it up and clean it up.

Here’s my rationale. We deserve it and AIG doesn’t.

Sure it’s a crazy idea that can “never work.” But can you imagine the Coast-To-Coast Block Party! How do you spell Economic Boom? I trust my fellow adult Americans to know how to use the $85 Billion We Deserve It Dividend more than I do the geniuses at AIG or in Washington DC .

And remember, this plan only really costs $59.5 Billion because $25.5 Billion is returned instantly in taxes to Uncle Sam.

PS: Feel free to pass this along to all of your pals as it’s either good for a laugh...or a tear...or a very sobering thought on how to best use $85 Billion!!

By the way, America will be borrowing this money from China just like they have already done to pay for the war in Iraq.

On Stargazing

You send me to the moon...

Would love to go there with you - having a "roller coaster day." May skip lunch and just have a Grey Goose Martini!

Your taste is impeccable as is mine. Grey Goose or nothing at all!

Agreed!

Here's to happy landings!

Cheers!

The Fall Classic

I have always considered myself a dog lover. When my son Cole was eight years old, he had this little smooth coat fox terrier -- Lulu. Perfectly adorable to look at, the reality was quite the opposite. In fact, she was the most neurotic, high strung little cur that ever existed. Clearly, a misspelled breed name. It should be terror -- not terrier. When Lulu wasn't chewing on woodwork and baseboards, she'd jump up on the table at fancy dinner parties and break crystal. And, mind you, this was while the guests were seated. Red wine everywhere! To this day, the memory of her incessantly shrill yapping and schizophrenic behavior provide me with a spot on definition for the French word migraine.

It is October 2002. A date seared into my mind like a branding iron straight through my skull and into my cranium. The Giants are leading the Series against the Angels 3 games to 2. Right before game six, my Giants cap that I've had since I was a kid vanishes into thin air. Now, I wear that hat for all the games. I can't find it anywhere. The game starts. Our pitcher, Russ Ortiz takes a five to nothing lead into the seventh inning. Nine more outs and we are world champions! Dusty walks out to the mound and hands the game ball to Russ. The Angels are so incensed, they rally back to win the game and win the Series the next day in game seven.

After an epic choke job of that magnitude, I polished off a pitcher of martinis and headed for bed -- teetering and bewildered. There on my bed rested the tattered remains of my beloved cap. Compliments of Lulu. She hid it, destroyed it and then added insult to injury by thoughtfully placing it on my pillow after the devastating loss. The little devil dog knew exactly what she was doing... She had deliberately stolen my mojo solely to place a hex on my team. And, then the crafty little bitch had chewed it up to spite me forever.

That hat was more than just a symbol of support for my team. For though it was faded with age, it's kelly green underbill and inner head band liner stained with the sweat of my brow from years of passionate campagning, it was also a totem for all the generations who have loved the orange and black -- the most honored and venerated professional team in all of sport. A team that has won more games than the Yankees, Dodgers, Cardinals in baseball; Lakers, Celtics, Knicks in basketball; Bears, Cowboys, Giants, 49ers, Steelers in football or Manchester United in soccer. The franchise with more hall of famers enshrined in Cooperstown than the fabled New York Yankees despite their impressive array of hardware accumulated from 26 world series championships. The roll call of greatness whose names personify the very essence of the sport itself. Christy Mathewson. Willie Mays. Willie McCovey. Juan Marichal. Orlando Cepeda. John McGraw. Carl Hubbel. Cap Anson. "Wee Willie" Keeler. Rube Marquard. Joe McGinnity. Mel Ott. Gaylord Perry. Bill Terry. And, the countless others who on their way to the hall wore the Giant uniform with distinction. Not forgotten and shrouded in a controversy that only true greatness can court is Barry Bonds. The ultimate anti-hero to those who wrap themselves in the cloth of hypocrisy, but, undeniably the greatest player to ever suit up. These are my heroes. This is my team representing a line up card for the ages. And, in the 50-years since the club moved from the Polo Grounds in Manhattan to San Francisco, Giants fans remain among the most loyal and devoted in all of sports, awaiting their first world series championship title in the City by the Bay.

Former Giant skipper Roger Craig had a way of spinning folksy homilies into the lexicon of San Francisco sports lore. When Scott Garrault was a young pitcher for the club during its late 1980s resurgence, he experienced a losing streak that threatened his confidence. In his reassuring North Carolinian voice, Craig intoned to his young pitcher: "Don't get your dobber down." The dobber in baseball is the little button on the top of the cap. As I turned out the light to sleep that fateful night, I stared up at the darkened ceiling and thought, "I am losing my faith. My dobber has never been this down. Hell, she chewed the dobber completely off and buried it!"

Somewhere out there on a sand lot, a small group of kids laugh with glee as they circle the bases with reckless abandon. The crack of a bat echoes across a diamond. The crowd roars in the chill of autumn. Above it all, presides a baseball god with a sword of justice in one hand and judgment book in the other. Karmic justice for the deserving and the damned.

It is with only a tinge of sadness that I must report Lulu was run over by a car less than three months later. As we stood by Lulu's little grave with the hard, dark earth and shovel at its side, the sun glared brightly upon a frost covered January morning. Wincing in the harsh light, I told myself that duty demand I utter a brief, solemn benediction for the comfort of my surrounding family, which I did. But, as the children wailed balefully, it was all I could do to restrain myself from smiling just a little. For with a little patience, comes justice in this world. Such are the roles of fathers and baseball fans alike.

Square One

The problem with closure is that it rarely works. At least when it is unexpected.

Eight hours in from Vegas. My mind is a blur. I try to clear the cobwebs from my brain, but nothing seems to do the trick. I decide to check my emails and attempt some followup correspondence. I'm on Facebook and add as a friend one of the guys I've been partying with in Vegas. While reminiscing over a drink in the desert, we'd thrown around a few names of people from our past. One had stuck right smack in my craw and I couldn't quite shake it. I haven't seen her since Jimmy Carter was president. I wonder if she is on Facebook. Nah. Highly unlikely. I enter her name and bingo!

Wow! There she is. And, man... I am not ready.

The picture reveals a lot. Timelessly gorgeous, she has taken good care of herself. She is the same age as me and looks a damn sight better for the years. Her dark hair flows from a widows peak sweeping across a sculpted brow. With a pair of silver hoop earrings and an open neck blouse, her complexion radiates a healthy southern California glow. She possesses a Mona Lisa smile quixotically translating the sacred mysteries of her inner thoughts. All of this is good. I think.

But, it's those damned eyes that I lock into and I know at once this is the woman I had fallen head over heels for as a girl. It seems as if the stars have traveled a billion light years to land in her eyes and now shine back at me.

No, I tell myself. I am not that boy searching for love from so long ago. I am a middle aged, single man with three children who look up to and need my unconditional love and support. I wear the scars of the intervening decades that have forged my character and strengthened my identity. Where I was once a callow youth, experience dictates that I should by all rights have more answers than questions to the riddles of life.

And, there I stare in silence. For on that screen smiles a lovely face that once intoxicated me with its scent, gentle caresses and vibrancy. It is an overpowering sensation. I feel a release of energy rising from my stomach and a hot flash across my cheeks. Why am I blushing? My conscience quickly responds. You're blushing because of what you did to this beautiful woman. And, I know that little voice inside is shooting straight with me.

Do our choices in life shape our character? Or does our character teach us about choice? The weight of the question drifts off in the ether of pheromones I emit as I study her face. Jesus. Over the years, I've frequently wondered what became of her and my love. And, staring back a foot away is a smiling face with all of the answers to the countless questions I've asked myself since I was that boy. This is the very moment of truth. The years of anticipation and expectation are at an end. All I need to do is send a message and hope she responds.

Amidst the champagne euphoria of rediscovery, a nagging doubt bubbles up to the surface threatening to turn my emotional elixir flat. Why would she respond to me? In that instant of recognition, my conscience is laid bare. Drawing a long, deep breath, I stare back into those soulful eyes -- reflection pools of hope. I want to make certain that those are real sparkles and not just pixels manipulating my heart.

Sure, she'll reply I tell myself. Just click the mouse and wait. After 30-years, what have I got to lose?

Surf and Turf

The differences between San Francisco and Las Vegas are, if not abundantly subtle, transparently clear. Both are islands of a kind, one being surrounded by water on three sides while the other stands out like a shiny trinket amid a vast wasteland of sand. You sink or swim in one town. In the other, you begin to wither from extreme exposure the minute you arrive and end up crawling to survive for the remainder of your stay.

Vegas could only be built in the middle of a desert. Everything is truly a mirage. As my plane taxis down the runway toward the terminal, the hotel where I am staying appears right over the fence and down the street. God isn't that great. Everything is so close by. Wrong. Once in the cab, it takes an agonizingly slow ten minutes as we drive eight miles to reach my seemingly nearby destination at Mandalay Bay. Only as we approach it, do I realize the epic scale of the structure. It is 64-stories tall, which would make it the tallest building in San Francisco by a considerable height. By contrast, along the Vegas Strip it's only slightly above the local average.

The valet graciously opens my cab door greeting me as I fumble through a stack of small bills for the driver. Standing at the registration desk, a tour guide from Denver leads a group of jack Mormons through reception. At least this is my educated guess, since the men have all been attired from a Sears Roebuck catalog and each are trailed by their own individual harems not of the local pay-for-play variety. After checking into my suite, which at a luxurious 800 square feet for only $109 seems criminal, I change into a swim suit and head down to the pool area to meet two college friends I haven't seen in close to 30-years.

Referring to Mandalay Bay's outdoor water facilities as a "pool area" is like calling the Taj Mahal a building. About a thousand bronzed and tightly toned figures lie on chaises in the whitest sand I've ever beach combed around a man-made oasis with a gentle three foot swell breaking about every minute. Surrounding the lagoon are several enclosed palm fringed pool areas with naughty laughter emanating from private cabanas. Promenading through the maze of endless rows of beach goers, I feel the constant gazes of people eyeballing me, checking to see whether I am someone famous. No celebrities today. Only celebrity seekers. After I pass, their disappointed looks return to their Star magazines.

I spot my friend in the distance. He holds his cell phone against his ear and waves to me with a rakish grin. His fit physique does not jibe with my memories of a doughy college student. Mike is now a sought after film producer in Hollywood who in recent years has hit his full stride. Perhaps, he is not quite an A-list producer, but, with a beautiful former soap opera star for a wife and two young healthy children at home, he has a good life and he knows it. He reaches out confidently to shake my hand with a firm, but relaxed grip. No wonder the fucker has a beautiful golf swing.

"TJ," he tees off. "It's been far too long." Hell of a back swing I think. Damn near perfect form. Mike adjusts the USC golf cap shading his piercing blue eyes.

"Forget it," I reply skipping a beat. "It's Vegas."