Stock is Falling, Number Two

Kind of a two-part entry here.

ECONOMIC UPDATE:

First of all, I've been reading a book by Barton Biggs called "Hedgehogging" off and on for the past year or two. It's an account of Biggs' efforts to raise capital and run a hedge fund, and consists mainly of anecdotes about the hedge fund space and various characters he met who inhabit that space. Biggs changed the names of the characters to protect the innocent, but I came across the passage below (not a sexual reference, no matter how jacked I get reading about finance and investing) which I found especially poignant considering the book was published in 2006. This passage was uttered by "Vince", who is referred to in the book as the Bearded Prophet of the Apocalypse:

"Stocks will fall a lot further. They are still too expensive. The U.S. economy will be slow for years; too much debt, too little savings, inadequate retirement provisions. Residential real estate is the next big disaster. People are borrowing short to invest long, refinancing mostly with floating-rate mortgages. When short rates go up, debt service payments will soar and house prices will decline. Then the consumer collapses from the double whammy of the wealth effect and shrinking disposable income. It's called civilization exhaustion, and the beginning of the decline and fall of the American empire.

"Furthermore, another bubble is about to burst. Existing home prices have been rising 7% to 8% a year, financed by Fannie and Freddie. Luxury real estate values from Park Avenue to Beverly Hills and from Southampton to Aspen will collapse. In the aftermath of every burst financial bubble in history, paper wealth of all types evaporates. It was created out of thin air, and it will be blown away like mist in the wind. The price of the average luxury condo in Tokyo fell from US$1.2 million in 1990 to US$250,000 last year. In the 1930s, the price of art fell 80%. Oriental rug prices collapsed. Delayed backlash effects are always the same. Why should it be different this time? Secondary consequences take time - years - to happen, particularly when central banks cut interest rates drastically and flood the system with liquidity. But they can only be postponed, not averted. In three years, the American economy will be in a depression, the S&P 500 will be at 500, and there will be a revolution in America. It could be a fascist revolution like Germany in the 1930s."

The S&P closed at 735.09 Friday, and at last check people still seemed to have some faith in the government and in newly-elected President Ba-Rah-Rah Obama, but it looks like this Vince had an idea of what he was talking about. The author did point out, however, that the mysterious Vince had "predicted nine of the last three recessions", so maybe we won't end up speaking German after all this is said and done. But now onto more troubling matters.

DATING UPDATE:

This being 2009, the Year of Benetton, I went on a date the other night. It was a first date, and as is the norm these days, it was of the online variety. Our plan was to go to dinner, but we decided to meet for a drink first. I wanted to do this (1) to avoid having the bland "getting to know you" conversation while wedged into a table between two other couples who could easily overhear everything - we may as well just post a big red flag at our table that reads "First Date" - and (2) because this was a way to get an additional drink into her, as I subscribe to the Make Them Drink Till I'm Cute Theory of Dating. She agreed to meet for a drink first to help her figure out if she'd be able to stand my company for a longer period; if she hated me, she could pull the plug without having to suffer through the Sisqo CD and a whole meal of food.

Luckily I had all my pitches working that night, and I found this reasonably young lady to be clever and engaging. So we proceeded to dinner:

INTERIOR, RESTAURANT, SAN FRANCISCO:

A man and a woman sit at a table in the corner of a restaurant. They appear to be yuppies; their black overcoats are draped over the adjacent chairs and their high-tech telephones lay on the table. The man, OSCAR DE LA JOLLA, is nearly 37 years old, though he appears to be in his late 20s or early 30s due to his unwrinkled face and highly athletic build. He is wearing a fashionable button-down shirt with jeans, and has assumed an easy yet confident posture. He is clearly controlling the conversation. The woman, MELANIE, attractive with dark hair and dark eyes and dressed in all black, listens intently; she is obviously enjoying herself, and is beginning to look flushed due to a combination of wine and... other stimulation.

The flirtatious conversation is interrupted by a sudden burst of sound. The sound breaks the couple out of their rhythm and they momentarily appear confused, as if restaurant management has suddenly increased the volume of the restaurant's stereo to its maximum to play a popular song, perhaps one by Pink or Kelly Clarkson. MELANIE realizes that the sound is coming from her phone - it is her ringtone. She picks up the phone and peers at its LED screen.

MELANIE: Hmmm... I don't recognize that number...

MELANIE pushes a button on the front of the phone and lifts it to her ear.

MELANIE: Hello?

OSCAR glares at MELANIE, his face a combination of annoyance and disbelief.

OSCAR (to camera): Did this bitch really just answer her phone at dinner?

MELANIE begins an inane conversation with the person who has called her. After realizing MELANIE has no intention of ending her call quickly, OSCAR pulls out his cell phone and begins sending text messages - the first is to a buddy, telling him that the date will end early because MELANIE is currently on the phone and asking if the buddy would like to meet up later. The second is a "booty text" to an undisclosed female. OSCAR then proceeds to check his Facebook page, reviews NBA boxscores, buys a pair of jeans on Amazon, and runs a few searches for potential matches on the online dating website, using the search keyword COURTEOUS. Several minutes later, MELANIE finishes her call and addresses OSCAR.

MELANIE: So where were we?

OSCAR looks up from his phone, somewhat startled.

OSCAR: Huh? Oh, sorry. I didn't realize you were done with your call.

MELANIE: Oh, yeah, well, that was my friend.

OSCAR stares blankly at MELANIE for several seconds.

MELANIE: Oh! That wasn't rude of me, was it?

OSCAR: I'd say it was somewhere between very rude and extremely rude. I'm a pretty easygoing guy, and it's one thing to say "Oh, I'm sorry but I have to take this. I'll just be a second" and to wrap up the call quickly. But it's another thing to answer your phone on a first date, without even knowing who it is who's calling, and then to proceed to chat with this mystery person for five minutes. So yeah, I'd say that was very rude of you.

MELANIE: Did I just make a faux pas?

OSCAR: You could say that. In fact, you should say that.

And... SCENE!

(Wood Dog, let me know where to send the royalty check for stealing that SCENE! line. By the way, nice work on making two posts in a row. The sky is falling! The sky is falling!)

I have lashed out in the past about cell phone rudeness, particularly on public transit. However, cell phone use is so prevalent on public transit these days that its pretty much the norm. But have our societal manners eroded so far that it is OK to take a call at dinner on a first date? I haven't been on many dates since my return to SF, and this is a high-tech city, so is that what we're doing now? One of my prior first dates updated her Facebook status while on the date, but at least she had the common courtesy to wait until she went to the bathroom ("Jane is on the crapper and is also having a crappy time on her date"). My first question to myself was whether I liked "Melanie" enough to go out with her again despite the phone call, or whether that was a deal-breaker. Now I'm wondering if I'm the one who was being unreasonable by being annoyed in the first place.

Bird vs. Crow

So I was invited out tonight to see a band in the hip Seattle music scene. Now let's be clear, I don't get out much. The last time I went out to see (hear?) live music in Seattle, it was back in the heyday grunge era of Seattle music. Watching Peal Jam up close at the 'Croc while wearing my fatigues and flannel shirt was the best damn time of my life.

[Editor's note: The Wood Dog had never even heard of Peal Jam, or any other grunge band, until they hit #1 on the national charts, and he wore Polo back in the 90's.]

The point is, I am out of my element. I had to do some research on this Band I am seeing tonight, so I could be prepared. The Band it turns out, is a guy. And the guy's name is Bird. Andrew Bird. After doing as much research as I could muster (8 seconds on google) I immediately identified this "genius" as a hack.

He is a total copy cat of Russel Crow (from Master and Commander), and if he doesn’t credit him tonight (or at LEAST credit Captain Jack Aubrey) as his inspiration, I call TOTAL BS.

But you be the judge.

Bird: (see the first 20 seconds of this clip when he was on Letterman)




Crow: (watch from 0:15 to 0:30 of this clip when he was at sea)



I mean, look at their styles… IDENTICAL. And Captain Jack was what, 150 years ago?

Your pencil is big and yellow.

Is there an English teacher in the audience? Or even a foreign teacher that teaches English? You don't even have to be hot (see picture left) for this. I have an honest to goodness real deal English grammar question for you.

OK, here it is:

Why do we say "these are my pants"; and not "this is my pants"?

I mean, the word "pants" is a singular noun. Yet for some reason we use the plural abstract verb "are" instead of the singular abstract verb "is" in the case of pants. We should also say "where is the scissors?"- but we don't - we say "where are the scissors?"

You might suggest that it's because these words are singular nouns that happen to end in the letter "s" so we treat them like plurals. Well, you'd be wrong.

If that was the rule, then why do we say "Who IS that walrus?" and "There IS piss in your beer stein." ?? Both the Walrus and the piss are singular nouns ending in "s", but we use the proper verb "is" for both the walrus and the piss; not "are". Same thing with molasses, platypus, and ass. IS, IS, and IS.

Is it because pants and scissors have 2 components to them? Two legs, two handles, so we think of them as plurals? If that is the case, then we really are stupid. You can not have one pant and one scissor. But I think that has to be it, because this "are" phenomena also applies to similar versions of these two nouns: trousers, shears, and tongs. ARE, ARE, and ARE. This is truly baffling.

Even Anthony Edwards in the hit movie Gotcha! (1985) could get his abstract verb tenses right:

Jonathan (Edwards): "Mon crayon est grand et mon crayon est jaune."
Waiter: "Your pencil is big and yellow?"

Jonathan: "Oui!"

Waiter: "Nice for you"

[and... SCENE]

See? Anthony Edwards (even in full 80's loaf) seems to be able to master his verb tenses, in both French and English. Then again, he was just trying to score and he did end up being the target... So maybe there really is no answer to this question after all.

Screw it. Until someone can explain this to me, I am just going to say it right, no matter how I sound and how you judge me.

THIS IS MY TROUSERS

THIS IS MY TONGS

THIS IS FOR WEARING

THIS IS FOR... um, gripping and lifting hot things.

"Content" Provider

So I picked up my guitar and I wrote down a tune that had been mulling and creeping and crawling around in my head. It went something like this...

-- Nick Rivers, Top Secret

It has come to my attention that my content hasn't been up to snuff of late. One might say (and two have said) that I've become a little lazy with my entries. That I've gotten content with my content. HA! Get it? It's a pun! Or a simile/metaphor. Perhaps a homonym? Onomatopoeia? I may have failed grammar, but it seems I've also failed these readers once again - this entry sure isn't going to change any opinions of the quality of my work. The entry has nothing to do with Nick Rivers, Val Kilmer, or the movie Top Secret; that quote was just to get your hopes up while disguising the fact that I'm doing a "ramblings" column (hence the mulling and creeping and crawling). But I'd like to state for the record that I attribute much of my sloppy and uninteresting writing to the fact that I've been reading a fair amount of Bill Simmons lately.

I really should get a standard opening for these posts. I like Scott Ostler's "Deep thoughts, cheap shots and bon mots" but I think he beat me to the punch on that one. How about "Boring rants, can't dance and no pants"? Not bad, but it reminds me a little too much of a typical Saturday night. We'll think on it.

THOU DOTH PROTEST TOO MUCH! As befits a single dude, I didn't do anything special for Sucker's, er, Valentine's Day. I had a few people over for a nonromantic evening of food and booze, and went out to see some band play with a few of the stragglers. I sure didn't "show her how much I love her" by buying her a diamond tennis bracelet, because I don't really know who the "her" would be at this point, and these days I've been showing my love with a dollar bill tucked into a G-string. Other people celebrated a little differently, however. Down at the Fruitvale BART Station, there was a "Love-in" to honor the memory of the dude who was shot by the BART cop on New Year's. Here's the part I loved most about this event, excerpted from the article:

For those who are not fitted in riot gear, the Choose Love BART Sit-in on Valentine's Day is a good place to start. You are invited to gather at the Fruitvale BART station and hold a moment of silence. Organizers ask that you identify yourself by wearing headphones [or] any ribbon or identifier and adding your number to this two-minute "flash-vigil."

Really? Identify yourself as a participant in the event by wearing headphones or a ribbon or identifier? IT'S PUBLIC TRANSIT! EVERYONE WEARS HEADPHONES ON BART! Since there's no cell reception, headphones are the best way to avoid speaking with or making eye contact with the muttering, urine-smelling gentleman in the seat next to you! So it must have appeared that there was this huge showing of support for the cause, and it is quite possible that the majority of those people didn't even know they were participating! I'm not saying it wasn't a worthy cause, I'm just saying that the organizers probably deemed the event a huge success but that perceived success would have been based on what was at least partially a fake number. How's this for a protest: If you object to the fact that I'm not dating Elisha Cuthbert (yeah, sloppy seconds I know), show your support tomorrow by either wearing a ribbon or talking on a cell phone while on a Muni bus. See? Half the city (and the entire 30X) is in my corner!

ATTENTION, WOMEN OF SAN FRANCISCO! Suggested by a former reader, this may become a semi-recurring blog item. Actually, one of these will be posted every time, but since we have only a semi-recurring blog, this item will by definition be semi-recurring. Anyhow, it goes like this: ATTENTION, WOMEN OF SAN FRANCISCO! YOUR SUNGLASSES ARE BIG ENOUGH! Stop the madness. For realsies.

THE UNTUCKED SHIRT: A PLAY IN THREE ACTS. Typical Marina Dude is out on the town, wearing an untucked button-down dress shirt.

Typical Marina Dude:
Sweet! Untucked shirts are still trendy. Now chicks can't tell that my metabolism has slowed down now that I'm in my thirties (well, I'm in my forties but I'll tell them I'm in my thirties), and I have the build of a guy who sits in an office chair eight hours a day while snacking on Doritos. Plus, these hair plugs are totally blending with the haircut I just got at MR. so I'm feeling pretty good about myself and my leased Mercedes. I think I'll order a Mandarin and tonic for that little hottie over there...

Typical Marina Chick:
Omigod! I am *so* over untucked shirts on dudes. Haven't they heard that sweater vests are in? Would it kill them to go to Banana or Kenneth Cole and actually look at the mannequins? Now I can't tell if any of these dudes have the abs of an Abercrombie model that I require of my random hookups. Maybe I should have stayed home and watched Brothers & Sisters on my Tivo. I guess I'll just pick the dude with the Facconable shirt, at least he has the money to support my Gray Goose and designer shoe habit...

Typical Dude Wearing a Backpack in a Marina Bar:
Omigod! I am *so* over untucked shirts on dudes. Haven't they heard that sweater vests are in? Would it kill them to go to Banana or Kenneth Cole and actually look at the mannequins? How am I supposed to bump into one of these drunk assholes and steal his wallet with that fucking untucked shirt in the way? And even if I got my hand in there it's impossible to pull out the wallet now that guys are wearing these cursed "skinny jeans." If I get caught I might have to ask this prick out to save face. These fashion trends are killing my business. I miss Wall Street; it was hella better stealing money legally...

Tales of the City

I've become quite the shutterbug of late, if by "shutterbug" you mean borderline creepy guy who takes lots of blurry, uninteresting photos. However, I thought I'd take this opportunity to post some pictures of my various adventures in the big city. Keep in mind that I'm the same idiot who went to Italy in 2005 and used his camera phone to take his pictures of that trip, and that was a bad camera phone for 2005. Heck, I even used it to take a picture of a picture of Florence because I was too lazy to go there. Anyhow, my current camera phone also bites ass but at least it doesn't charge extra for that, unlike some people.

I forget where I was driving to when I took this picture, but clearly I was using my phone while driving and should go to jail for that:
You see, many people in San Francisco are generally what you might call liberals and they don't really have much use for things like conservativism, invading countries in the Middle East, funding anti-prostitution laws, or fielding a decent baseball team. And they really don't have any use for former President George W. Bush. Not sure why; the dude did a totally bang-up job for eight years. He won two wars and everything. There is the small matter of him having started those two wars, but I digress. Considering how the economy is in fine shape after deregulation of the banking industry, I think W is getting a bit of a raw deal. Anyway, some clever jokester stuck "Obama" stickers over all the "Bush" street signs the day after Election Day. This prank got some local press, but I just happened upon it without knowing it had been done, and that was kind of cool. Now I'm just wondering what the sticker guy did with all the McCain stickers he had printed up to cover his bases. Maybe they got shipped to some third world country along with all the Arizona Cardinals: Super Bowl Champs sweatshirts.

At first glance, this might seem like a shitty picture of someone using a walker to cross Van Ness Avenue. And your first glance would be right. But what was fascinating about this was that this was an incredibly slow old woman. So slow, in fact, that she couldn't make it all the way across the street before the light changed. But this was not her first time at that rodeo, no sirree. The walker is also a chair, and when she got halfway across the street she turned it around and just took a seat by the median. Traffic whizzed by her for awhile, then, when the light was about to change again, she started to get up and turn her walker around. Then she was off and running (figuratively) and made it to safety on the second "walk" signal. Well done, slow old lady!

I have an unnatural and irrational hatred of Indian food. However, that didn't stop my friends from taking me to Pasha on my 30th birthday, and that night I became the proud owner of both an "I Learned How to Belly Dance" certificate and an unhappy stomach. I've also got an unnatural and irrational hatred of all things cilantro, so please, please don't take me here for my birthday:
This place would be better:
It does look like parking would be kinda tough there, but luckily we'll be in a limo since it's my birthday. That's how we roll.

What do you call that dog (yes, it's a dog) standing by the street post? Doesn't matter, it won't come anyway. Actually, that dog is looking for the man who shot his paw. You see, these jokes would be even more hysterical if you could tell that the dog in the photo (yes, it's a dog) only has three legs! Still, the dog more or less kept up with the woman, though it definitely oversold its "hop" to garner extra sympathy. The woman gave none though, apparently she had seen that act before. Or maybe it was because the woman only has one leg herself! It seems she was recently divorced, and all she was awarded was the dog because she didn't have a leg to stand on in court. At least she still has her job at IHOP. These are the (recycled) jokes, people.

Get Some, Pussy

How many times have you been sitting around the house thinking to yourself, "Chairman Meow really needs to get laid. Unfortunately, my cat isn't charming at all. In fact, he's antisocial even by cat standards. Not to mention the fact that Chairman Meow is the ugliest fucking feline on the face of the planet. Looks like he's doomed to a case of kitty-kat blue balls for the rest of his life. If only there was something I could do..."

Well, come on down to Cow Hollow, because this is your lucky day!
Litter boxes rented by the hour. Very discreet. Cash only, please.