Christmas Letter 2008

There is a Tide in the Affairs of Men, which taken at the Flood leads on to Fortune. Omitted, all the Voyage of their Life is spent in Shallows and in Miseries. On such a full Sea are we now afloat, and we must take the Current when it leads, or lose our Ventures.

Thus speaks Brutus after having agonized endlessly over whether to murder his friend and mentor Julius Caesar to save the Republic.

US Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson has faced a similar dilemma during 2008 but he has chosen differently: he saved his friends and former colleagues in Goldman Sachs, and thereby may have sacrificed the republic. Consciously or not, his actions have all benefitted Goldman while their former competitors have fallen by the wayside. Whence Lehman? Bear Stearns? Merrill Lynch? AIG? Dare one say Citibank?

Last year I bid 2007 goodbye (and good riddance) with Henry V, but every year is a Shakespeare year lately; can 2009 best the previous two for sheer drama? One rather hopes not. May you live in interesting times is indeed a curse, not a blessing. But somehow fortune smiled on the Haagens and allowed us to make our way through the eye of the needle once again.

[Editor: you can be such a drama queen sometimes. Go sit in the corner and I'll finish this Christmas letter. First let me wriggle out of these square brackets - - - ] - - - Ah, that's better. News reporting can be so gloomy, and it's deeply biological: we simply do not respond to reports of positive events. We sub-consciously crave stories with negative content; there is evolutionary survival value in paying attention to scary reports ("Sabretoothed Tiger Snacked On Unprotected Child!! Hunter Yodelling In Mountain Covered In Avalanche!!"), while paying attention to good news never saved anybody's life ("Shaman's Skills Once Again Kept Tribe Safe During Thunderstorm!! Nobody Hurt In Attack Of Cuddly Dodos!!"). Nature is a Scrooge when it comes to unnecessary traits so it's little wonder that the successful media ignore everything positive: we're simply not wired to appreciate it.

That suggests reports of the state of things around the world are exaggerated, so let's see if that bears out in reality.

Ok, the value of our home is probably back to a level last seen when Swedish pop peaked. Some but not many may temporarily be out of a job, leading to a loss of a few notches of self-esteem, but nobody goes hungry, nobody has had to take their kids out of school, maybe our wine merchant sells us more cardboard boxes than bottles these days, but hey, a little hardship has never done anybody any harm. It might even build some character if we're not careful!

Let's face it: we all live in ways that kings of yonder could only dream of.

] AH: who's the drama queen now?! Can I finish with a brief update? You're sure?

So here we are: I have started working in the new office in December, although if we grow too big, I may have to acquire proper office space on Hong Kong Island, and relinquish the premises to Irene's painting classes and the girls' homework. Irene's entreprise, Davincino, has been well received, and dozens of young artistinos can declare, when interviewed on Oprah a couple of decades from now, that they took the babysteps of their craft on a boat in Hong Kong.

The rascalettes are growing at breakneck speed, and at Primary 1 Patricia is showing unmistakable signs of the same addiction to reading that characterises her lovely sister. Except of course when they have to read, in which case it is the source of rebellious rumblings in the girls' den. Does that sound familiar, oh parents of girls? Does reverse psychology help? "No, you HAVE to play SIMs for at least another hour before I let you do your homework! And eat some more of that candy before you can have your apple!" Maybe I lack in subtlety... Josephine certainly has to follow Irene to the neck chiropractor soon, since she has also developed the habit of shaking her head at just about any suggestion given by the Man in the house. How sharper than a serpent's tooth to have an ungrateful family; it makes me weep to think of all the good advice going to waste.

And on that happy note: Season's Greetings to All!

President Bush

Democracy is without a doubt the worst, the most rotten, the least practical model for governing a country*. I wish there were intelligent life in space, cause then we might ask them for a better solution. One of many problems with Democracy is that worthy candidates are simply not inclined to offer themselves for the highest office. And who can blame them? Look at the incumbent in the United States of America: a great liberal conspiracy will have us know that he is incompetent, that he relies on prayers over analysis, that he has the IQ of a shrimp born to a mother who smoked un-filtered cigarettes while pregnant. Yes, sir, you can say that about an elected official. I could call him The Dimly Burning Bush if I wanted to. The Fifth Amendment says so. Secretly, all elected officials wish the emphasis was more on official than on elected, but the whole process is so personally bruising that only vainglorious buffoons dare to offer themselves. In simple terms, the qualities required to be electable have virtually nothing in common with the qualities required to govern the most powerful nation on earth.

Take Senator McCain's thirteen cars. They are to most non-Americans a smoking gun, signifying ability and possible intend to rape the planet. In America the only eyebrows raised are caused by one of the cars being a Japanese import, namely a Toyota Prius. While this should not necessarily condemn him (a lawyer might get him off the hook by claiming that the planet is a consenting adult, and anyway 'asked for it' by looking so attractive), there is a more worrying aspect to do with his campaign. McCain is a thoughtful man and an experienced politician, but that is not particularly relevant when the American People is asked to choose a president. So in desperation, he chose as his running mate possibly the dimmest bulb to ever light up a party convention - but I believe enough has been said about Sarah Palin, so let's move on to the real subject of today's blog - no, wait, just one comment: Joe Six-Pack, (or Plumber or whatever ignominious title they'll stick on the common voter next), would you send your kid to a doctor who knows less about medicine than you? Would you fly with a pilot who knows less about flying than you? No? Well then for pity's sake, I beg you, do not ask this woman to govern your country!!

Oh, and one more thing. Eschatologists are not generally recommended as stewards of a free market economy. Especially one that owes a rather large sum of money.

HOWEVER it is my belief that one potential candidate has been overlooked in this sorry misere. Let's take a step back and analyse what has caused America's bankruptcy (sorry, impending bankruptcy). I shall highlight two examples of American behaviour where a better president would have made a difference.

The first is obviously the war in Iraq. Absurdly unprepared for the cost, and confused by the limited results they've demonstrated in the longest war since WWII, they have succeeded in running up cost estimated at between one and three trillion dollars. Fact check this! $1,000,000,000,000! To be repaid to China in small installments by the next six generations of Americans.

The second is the inexcusable habit called borrow-and-spend that American households have practiced for the past 20 years. In 1988 the American households had outstanding debt of about 75% of their disposable income, mostly in own-home mortgages, a high, but not unreasonable number. In 2008 that number is 133%. It's credit cards, it's "Investment Homes", it's car loans, it's advances on life insurance contracts, and I could go on and on and on.

I'm not saying the American people haven't only themselves to blame; they elected the kooks that have acted as USA's conscience and role models. And now we're getting to the meat of my message: I believe that a candidate exists within the Bush/Clinton dynasties that has not only the economic instincts, but the moral stature that is so badly needed. Someone who can set aside personal ambition to serve the interests of Americans today and those of future generations. Before we disclose the candidate's identity - and I must confess due to a busy schedule I have not yet been able to ascertain this person's willingness to stand for election - let me list a few of the sound-bites I should like to hear:

"No, you CANNOT invade a foreign country just because your Alcoholics Anonymous clique have interests in companies manufacturing military supplies. Go clean your room!"

"No, you CANNOT overdraw your credit card to buy a third car. And I don't CARE if the HumVee dealership has two-for-one happy hour! Put on the dunce cap, and go sit in the corner!"

"No, Mister Laffer, I will NOT borrow more on behalf of our grandchildren, and spend it on your knuckleheaded pork barrel projects. In fact, dear voters, you have left me no choice but to tax you blind to pay for many decades of negative savings. Stop your whining. You spent it. Live with the consequences."

"No, we do NOT extend federal subsidies to manufacturers of saddles with the outlandish excuse that it comes under military supplies which must be produced domestically, not by our potential enemies, the Chinese!^ Go do your homework, your D- in Science gets improved this term, or you'll spend the next year bent over my knee!"

Yes, indeed. If you haven't guessed it already. What we need now is a tough-minded housewife to clean up after the testosterone laden boys have wreaked havoc on the whole world.

So without further ado, I invite BARBARA BUSH to stand and be elected!!


* With the exception of every single other form of government. Except enlightened monarchy. With this blogger as the monarch.
^ True post-research factoid.

Literary Review

Our dear friends, the Heftis, have given us much joy over the years in Hong Kong; Kurt especially is a storyteller for the ages. Whatever you do, never let the facts get in the way of a good story!

On our Laos trip last year, he was kind enough to contact a local publisher to get his Magnum Opus printed: The Hefti Book of Incredible Facts. We thought we could perhaps add to sales of this fact-packed pageturner by publishing some reviews. In the spirit of his work, the reviews are entirely fictitious.













"We have many good things to say about The Hefti Book of Incredible Facts; unfortunately the Editor limited us to twenty-five words in this review!"

"Nowadays most media portray everything that is wrong in the world; this gem of a book makes not a single reference to the dark side of human nature, and for that it deserves credit!"

"We were pleasantly surprised to finally come across a book that doesn’t take sides in the Middle East conflict!"

"It was a typhoon 8 day in Hong Kong, and I decided to cuddle up with this book. I have never slept better!"

"It’s environmentally friendly, and may double as toilet paper in a tight spot!"

"You know the type of book that has a nice cover, nice reviews, and you start reading it, but never finish it? It is fair to say that mr Hefti's creation is not like that; in fact I challenge any reader to not read it cover to cover in one sitting!"

"Finally a book about facts that does not mention the failure of the Bush administration!"

"I used Mr Hefti’s book to test my spell-check software, but imagine my surprise when not a single spelling error was found! Well done!"

"I have just put down Examples of Intelligent Thinking in Financial Markets, and found it suspiciously similar in both composition and content to the classic in the genre, Hefti’s Book of Incredible Facts. I wonder if a lawsuit might not be justified. Shameful plagiarism!"

"It has everything you could possibly expect from a book of incredible facts, although this reviewer would have considered adding a few facts. But that’s asking for perfection!"

Ceylon Journal

in which circumstance dictates that your correspondent tones down the lackadaisical style, and reports more earnestly for a change.

Sri Lanka, 6 September – 13 September

Simply gobsmacking. I know I can’t do this island justice, but I’ll try anyway. A couple of days in beautiful Nuwara Eliya, or Little England as the British called it, fooling around in tea plantations and honeysuckle cottages was a good start; among other gems of nature we find Adam’s Peak where muslims and christians alike believe we see Adam's footprint captured as he left the Garden of Eden. Unfortunately for them, the Buddhists believe it is the footprint of the Lord Buddha, and they built a temple first. Tough luck… I can testify to the likeness of Sri Lanka to the traditional image one has of the Garden. Almost impossibly lush and beautiful wherever you look. Note that Nuwara Eliya is pronounced Noo-elia – ‘war’ is silent (!) – or maybe they are too ashamed of their civil war. What is it good for? But greater things were to come.

Tuesday morning I went West to Colombo heading for gorgeous Galle Face Hotel, a drive of no more than 170 km which took us the better part of 5 hours! Not that my driver was the careful type; I don’t think that particular sobriquet would be doing him justice. We did, however, stop a number of times to take in the view. He completely put me in my place after we had stopped at the St Clair waterfalls, where I bought some highland tea, and some spicy popcorn off a little boy. An old scrawny guy came over and showed his prostetic leg asking for money, but I waved him off and looked the other way; we do after all have thirteen to the dozen of those types around Exchange Square in Hong Kong. But my driver quietly digs out 100 rupees (about USD1), hands it to the guy, gets in the car and we drive off. I looked silently at him. “Hum, haw. He had a bad accident. Hrm.. Lost his leg. Bad luck.” He was ashamed at being caught in an act of kindness. But not half as ashamed as I.

Wednesday morning we went and saw a couple of schools built by Room to Read, and it was a very moving experience. Up in the mountains of course nobody had much to say about the dreaded T, the tsunami that hit in Dec 2004, but as we moved south from Colombo, the devastation was unavoidable, and we would hear many gutwrenching stories over the next couple of days. I was accompanied by a Kuwaiti woman, Hind Al Adwani, who was researching various Asian charity projects for her employer, a Kuwaiti property company, and we were yakking away from the word go; the RtR guide didn’t get a word in all day. Suffice it to say she was not your stereotype Kuwaiti… She ponders some RtR work in Oman, and I must confess I would like to participate somehow. A few red and white flags would do no harm to the Muslim/Danish bilateral relationship.

The teachers were an absolute revelation, and of course the kids were sweetness defined. The boys were shy, until you throw them a couple of cricket comments, “you look like a batsman, son, am I right?”, and then they explode in chatter. One slight beef I have with RtR is that, while the libraries of course are for everybody, the primary schools they support are for girls only. This is a source of some friction within families since boys are therefore denied the opportunities their sisters receive. I understand the arguments – that in some countries girls are actively discriminated against – but that’s not the case in Sri Lanka. It’s not difficult to appeal to fat Western bankers with images of smiling brown girls with long pig-tails in white uniforms, but it is just a little bit too easy. Anyway, I’m probably just grumpy, and of course the results speak for themselves. I especially appreciated meeting the science teacher at the library in Matara; she had good eyes, and was clearly not to be trifled with! The school we visited near Galle was a pre-school for uprooted T-victims, who lived in a group of solid German built houses nearby, but there was a competing pre-school right next door, built by some other INGO (international non-government organisation). There is precious little coordination – everybody wants to do good, and I suppose two half-full schools side by side is better than none.

The next day I was met with more evidence of devastation; a train with 700 passengers had been smashed to pieces, no survivors. Whole villages were completely obliterated. Everybody had a heart-wrenching story to tell. My guide and Tuk-tuk driver Ranga took me to a turtle hatchery where a fine, proud old man named Amaraseno Fernando had bought turtle eggs off the fishermen for 45 years and hatched them in his garden, then set them out to sea again. He knew his trade. We saw two albino turtles: “One albino for every half a million turtles.” And some turtles born blind: “One blind for every 3,000 turtles.” Pure Mendelian genetic studies. You can imagine how many turtles Fernando has assisted as a mid-woman, and he must have yanked the survival rate significantly over the traditional one in a hundred that Nature usually achieves. His assistant explained that the turtles were in Sri Lanka before people came, so it was rightfully their island; that gives Fernando and his team the responsibility to look after them. But they had been hit by the T as well; he explained to me what had happened, how they had watched the water rise about 2m following the first wave, then grabbed all the big turtles and carried them to safety up in the hills while half their village were sucked out to sea by the undercurrent as the second, bigger wave crashed in and then retreated. He showed me a photo of a school class from next door, and pointed out three faces. “They died?” I asked. “No, they survived. All the others were sucked out.” He had written a song about that day, which he proceeded to sing. It was in Singhalese, so I didn’t understand the words, but when he got to the last line I had to swallow hard. Forget the words; there was no mistaking his body language, intonation and eyes. His assistant translated for me afterwards. The last line was about how the children were the last to be sucked out to sea, and as they were, he could see them waving to their surviving relatives on shore.

To lighten things up a bit, Ranga then took me on a river safari with a botanically inclined friend. I was a complete disgrace as they asked me to name various plants we came across in the wild on the lake and its 64 islands. In order of appearance: Coconut (got that!), breadfruit, almond tree, mimosa (makahya, or Shy Flower, in Tagalog, knew that one), lemongrass, ginger, lime tree, cinnamon, aloe, mango tree (got that, too!), olives (nah, local species), vanilla, and marijuana!! Then it was time to be humiliated in fauna as well: varans, cormorans, kingfishers, (got it!), fish eagles, even a mongoose scampering across a narrow bridge. And at the Buddhist monastery on the island in the middle of the lake, I had a brief encounter with another mammal:

Hello, Mister Rat. Didn’t know your kind could live in a tree.

Sir. What are you saying? I’m a squirrel.

You’re a rat with a bushy tail.

Sir, I take offence. I am cute. I am cuddly. Kids love me.

You’re a rat with a good public relations officer. Tell me what you eat.

I eat only the finest fruits and nuts. I polish my whiskers after I have eaten. I say grace.

You’re still a rat.

Sir, you do me the gravest injustice. My ancestors fought the Dutch! Their ancestors fought the Portuguese!!

In the gutter. Or sewage system more like. What did you do, bite them in the bottom? How many babies do you produce?

Well, my good lady wife and I have been extraordinarily blessed. We have seventeen off-spring.

See? You’re a rat.

Take caution in your tone, sir. You have been warned.

Rat!

Squirrel!

Rat!

Sir, I shall not hesitate to bite if subjected to any more of this provocation.

Rat. Rat rat rat.

Right. That’s your final warning.

Your ancestors brought the plague to Europe in the 14th and the 17th century.

That’s it! One more word, and I’ll take you out, I swear.

Other than uppity squirrels, we were treated to an 1850s version of the teachings of Buddha written on palm leaves, plus a barge a la Sri Lanka; they literally dived 10 meters down to the bottom of the lake and came back with bucket upon bucket of what we in Denmark call ‘slam’, but let’s pretend we’re housetrained and call it sand – apparently highly valued in the construction business. It’s incredibly hard work so they fortify themselves with arrack all day. I believe there are vacancies just now.

Whether by chance or design we had saved the best for last as the botanical genius slowly pulled in to Cinnamon Island (population: 2). Here a fine old gentleman gave an expert demonstration of what cinnamon business is all about.

• Take a branch from the cinnamon tree;
• boil the leaves; for every 500 kg about 750 ml of cinnamon oil may be extracted;
• scrape off the bark which may be used as fertilizer since it binds nitrogen in the soil; the bark is very pungent, filling the air with the familiar kanel smell;
• now cut the layer just underneath the bark carefully with a specially designed knife and lay it to dry suspended on coconut ropes under the roof – these are the cinnamon sticks familiar to most Europeans;
• the branch is used as firewood;
• just to show off, in 45 seconds flat he rolled the fibers of coconut tusks into a strong rope, and meshed coconut leaves into the material they use to thatch their huts while we were gaping at his skills.

We were given samples of his work throughout, and I was reeking of cinnamon like an English Christmas Pudding by the time we boarded the boat to return to base. One thing that did strike me about the whole performance was how his son was watching proudly from behind the hut where we sat. Is this life, in the words of Hobbes, nasty, brutish and short? It certainly didn’t seem that way; the pressure to move to Colombo, and from there to Trevandrum, Bangalore, London and New York was happily absent.

But here we are. The people of Sri Lanka have managed to put the big T behind them. But I am frankly shattered listening to their stories almost four years after it hit. I am usually the grateful owner of a light heart; it gained a few pounds on this trip.

Montesquieu in Tung Chung

French enlightenment thinker Montesquieu (1689-1755) famously warned politicians against adding unnecessary laws, since those are bound to undermine respect for the truly necessary ones. He is unfortunately not widely read, certainly not amongst the Tung Chung town planners.
Or maybe my big, swollen head has failed to understand the traffic conditions that require that bicycles must make their own way in the left-hand lane while the rider walks in the right-hand lane. Riding on the bicycle is clearly not permitted.

Zen, and the Demolition Man

So now the office is taking shape. The idea is a Greenwich, Connecticut sort of experience, based on red and black colours. Red: aggression (think Tiger Woods on Sunday at the Masters), and Black: subversion, anarchy, unconventional thinking. Here it is:



So this week we've been negotiating the Contract. Many crocodile tears shed, and much sympathy demanded, but we can now start the real deal of decorating the place. In theory the Contractor is supposed to recycle the old materials from the flat, but I trust those people as far as I can spit. So I set to work, unscrewing all the metal items I could get my hand on. Now, I'm an awful hypocrite. The real reason was not promoting recycling; rather it gave me a chance to fool around in the flat for the better part of fifteen hours with a half dozen tools, and pretend I know what I'm doing, while sweating like a large horse pulling Belgium's annual beer production. The truth is, I got a total Zen experience out of it.

Here is my production:
I'd suggest that during my fifteen hours' work I recovered about HKD16 worth of steel, and probably saved two hours of labour @ HKD52, so you're looking at more or less the value of two pints down at the pub. But the exercise in terms of mind spring cleaning was priceless.

My delightful wife, as is her habit, is shaking her head at the whole venture. In fact the last six months, she has done so much headshaking, the clinic in Discovery Bay has had to hire a full-time neck chiropractor for her alone. I feel her pain; I have her, but she only has me.

On the Taxonomy of Derivatives and Bovine Manure

Lately I have been hiking quite a bit in the Lantau hills. The local Trappist monastery keeps a healthy herd of cows grazing up there, and as you would expect, no matter how much ruminating they can manage, at some point the residual matter will have to exit the cow. Traditionally, we have employed a very limited nomenclature for this material, using terms such as cow pies, manure, or the more colloquial bullshit. But upon investigation it is quite clear that Science simply hasn't done this subject justice. No two cow pats are alike. At the same time it occurred to me that we have available an extensive set of technical terms that will no longer be of any use to its erstwhile owner, the financial sector. So let's be a little pragmatic, and put those terms to good use again. It proved more intuitive than you might expect:

The Following Day:

Imagine my delight when I came across this whopper today:
Yes. It is. That oh so rare Constant Proportion Debt Obligation, or CPDO. The presence of flies laying eggs suggests this fine specimen is no more than 24 hours old. What a treat!

Petchabun Journal

And so I am no longer a future ex-banker. As is common in this spoiled industry I get a fully paid ‘gardening’ leave, in theory to prevent me from seeking out clients; of course most people on gardening leave including myself wouldn’t recognize a client if he jumped up and bit us in the bottom, but it is viewed as a perk of the job nowadays. I had a brief tussle with my Blabberry on Monday - think Stanley Kubrick, Hal and a screwdriver:

"W-h-a-t- a-r-e y-o-u d-o-i-n-g, A-n-d-e-r-s?"

"I'm shutting you down, mate."

"Y-o-u c-a-n'-t d-o t-h-a-t, A-n-d-e-r-s."

"Watch me."

Gardening is usually seen as an opportunity to nurse a mid-life crisis, learn your childrens’ first names, or take up knitting. Now, I already know my kids’ names (Bizzy Snifflenerd and Patricia Marie), I know all the knitting I’ll ever need to get by, and my mid-life crisis came and went the day I realised I no longer had any chance of becoming known as a child prodigy. So I decided to actually go gardening. Not prize-winning roses or turnips. Something with a little more oomph in it. Grapes.

It so happened that Kristian and Stine from the marina know a Thai/British couple who a couple of years back invested in about 24 hectars of agricultural land in Petchabun in Thailand not far from the border to Laos with the intention of developing it into a winery. It was previously used as a chicken farm, but the frequent bouts of chicken flu in the region has made that business sadly unpredictable. Saphin used to run a restaurant in Hongkong and is quite familiar with the wine industry. They bought irrigation system in Israel, vine saplings in Australia, sought out a partner who could take up the first batch of grapes – it is not economical to make your own wine with barely enough grapes for 100 bottles… All went well, in fact the vines threw off two harvests the first year. It is nothing if not fertile this area. But as is always the case these things cannot be run as a hobby; especially not living in London with only her parents looking after the vines. So now they look for partners to scale it up, with plans for chalets in addition to more land under vine. Eau de Vie de Poulet, or a bottle of Chateau Cantenac-Cluck anyone? (Note that cluck is an onomatopoeicon).

You’d have to be some sort of superman to turn down an opportunity like that so I trotted off to Bangkok Monday morning. I started with a medical at Samitivej (Vimmersvej in Danish) and got the all-well message, thank you very much. Note that the correct answer to 'Alcohol consumption' is 'yes', followed by 'one bottle per day, sometimes less'. Next on the schedule was the 19:35 rapid express train to Phitsalonuk. Gardeners don’t fly. I have not taken a six-hour train trip since 1983 when I went to France to – come to think of it – learn about wine in Bourgogne! Coincidence? Is there such a thing? I shared a sleeper cabin with a nice Thai guy and his 3-year old son. He was coincidentally (is there such a thing?) a master of science in economics, trained in Delhi, but was now working for an IT firm in Chiang Mai. Half an hour before I disembarked (@02:00am) I bumped into a young British backpacker cum history graduate with whom I had an animated discussion about the Invisible Hand. He was quite passionate about market economy and globalisation, believing they lead to poverty and evil corporations taking advantage of the poor brown man. Oh, to be young and foolish again. Unintuitive science like The Wealth of Nations unfortunately has to be re-learned by each new generation. He was holding on to my sleeve yakking away when we pulled in to the station. I don’t think I had him convinced, but hey, his professors have to earn a living, too.

Wednesday morning Saphin’s brother picked me up and I spent an enjoyable couple of hours checking out the place; “Can you eat this mushroom?” “No.” “How do you know?” “Look at the bottom, see the root? You can’t eat that.” We also discussed rotation of the land (I’m guessing it must have been used for poppies once, so that’s quite promising), fertilisers, machinery, irrigation and so on. Of course I know bugger all about the subject, but that has never been an impediment so far; one can cover a lot of ignorance under the pretext of not understanding the local terms.

Back at the hotel I unpacked the real reason I came to Petchabun: the really quite amazing book by Betty Edwards: Drawing on the Right Side of your Brain. Now those that know my abilities in that respect will know that my artistic development ended in 1969 with, if I have to say so myself, a quite respectable cartoon dog which I have bored my kids with since they were born. Go Etch-a-Sketch! But my lovely wife’s achievements spurred me on to see if there wasn’t something that could be done after all. Of course Richard Feynman’s career as a Nobel winning physicist, bongo drummer, safe cracker and amateur draftsman inspired, too. The techniques involve drawing the object upside down, drawing an object without looking at the paper and your drawing utensil, drawing only the blanks around and inside the object, and many other tricks. I have only one word to describe it: fascinating. And of course engrossing; you don’t notice the passage of time. I find it immensely satisfying to shut up my forever yakking left brain, just for half an hour... I have produced a small movie of the trip:


At the hotel there was a big group of people who appeared to have travelled from god knows where with the sole purpose of watching the Olympics together on a big screen in the restaurant, and a jolly good time they had, too. A (quick, promise!) word on the Olympics: Is it a wonderful gathering of athletes giving people an opportunity for exuberant celebration of all nations, to enjoy the display of gritty human determination to improve at all cost? Or is it a platform for jingoism and commercialism. [Editor: he owns out-of-the-money Nike put options. Don’t pay any attention to him.] Well, have a gander at these pictures of the Olympic torch’s reception in Shenzen:

Maybe I’m just a jaded old cynic, but I see very little of the joyful celebration of humanity in Beijing Olympics 2008. I see loud nationalism and bigotry everywhere. And since I haven’t digressed much so far in this journal, now would be a good time to draw the parallel to supporters of football clubs.

Given the sizable externalities associated with the sport of football – ask any emergency ward attendant after a cup final - I would argue it is in the state’s interest, nay its obligation, to regulate the activity. The cost of such regulation must be borne by the principal economic beneficiaries of the activity, in other words the ladies and gentlemen of the press, turf accountants, advertisers of all stripes, beer merchants (bless them), merchants of brightly coloured t-shirts with numbers on the back and so on and so forth.

How would we go about this in practice? We could start by introducing a licensing system: anybody that seeks permission to support a football team must pass an exam; the main thrust would be to write an essay about the biggest rival, explaining why they are worthy of support. Any sarcasm, irony, or overbearance and you fail. So a Southern Baptist must write an essay about why being a Hindu may be a source of joy and comfort, and Muslims must explain why Scientology may be a perfectly reasonable belief system. Let’s start now, once people hear about it, everybody will immediately see what a great idea it is, and support it wholeheartedly [Editor: our neighbour's half-witted pet orangutan Philip just grabbed the computer, and scribbled a couple of sentences in what at first sight appears to be correct English, but which upon closer inspection makes no sense whatsoever. We have returned Philip to his cage, and handed the computer back to your usual correspondent. We apologise for any inconvenience.]

The ability to emphasise with supporters of the opposite team is a supremely valuable asset for society as a whole, much more valuable than teaching leadership to our business executives, learning the Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, or learning to Draw on the Right Side of Your Brain for that matter. So without the licence, you will be denied admission to Anfield Road, Old Trafford, to your church, synagogue, mosque [Editor: "Go away, Philip! And stay away!"].

I am now at a boutique hotel called The Davis in Sukhumvit. Pre-research factoid: boutique is French for ‘small’. The 40-room hotel I stayed in Monday was also a ‘boutique hotel’. Now, I know you won’t get the required occupancy rates by advertising yourself as a ‘small hotel’, but I always come out in a rash when people overpromise and underdeliver. Not that Davis does that: it’s actually an absolutely gorgeous, albeit small, hotel.

One final indulgence I had reserved for this trip was to let myself be accosted by the Indian confidence men in Sukhumvit; like a clockwork, the following took place this morning:

"Sir, you are a lucky man!"

"Correct."

"Take this." [puts a crumbled ball of paper in my right hand]

"Ok."

"What is your name?"

"Anders."

[scribbles it down on small pad]

"How old are you?"

"43."

[scribbles]

"You are married."

"Yes." [Not really supernatural, just glancing at the wedding band on my left hand]

"You have one girl, one boy."

"No, two girls."

[Unperturbed, scribbles] "Now put the paper here in this oval I have drawn on my pad."

"Ok."

"Now kiss your right hand, the one that held the paper ball. Like this." [kisses his own hand]

[see, now I'm convinced he does his switch: he has made a copy of his scribblings whether through some form of carbon copying, or perhaps he can write with his left and right hand simultaneously while I only watch the one. Either way he was reasonably proficient at this, I guess he swallowed the original paper ball when he made the kissing motion. Now I open the crumbled up ball on his pad, and lo and behold it has my name, the number 43, and the number 2]

"Sir, you have had love problems in your earlier life; I see a girlfriend who left you. True or False?"

"False."

"Sir, you work very hard, but you didn't get promoted this year. True or False?"

"False."

"[A personal, specific reference to the, err, reproductive activities within the sacred institution that is our marriage.] True or False?"

"False."

"Sir, you have a pure heart, you are very truthful, but you carry a dark secret from your past, something you regret. True or False."

"False, sorry."

"Sir, you preach a lot, and it's a bad habit. True or False?"

"Auow! Bulls-eye, mate!"

Then he did a trick with numbers - related to the old party trick of saying, think of your age, now add 20, now square, now divide by 35, now halve, tell me what you've got and I'll tell you your age - or whatever it is you do... And now that he really had me in his power, he said:

"I'll let you choose my fee, sir, a) THB3,000, b)THB4,500, c)THB5,000. I know what you'll choose, sir."

"Here's 500 - you ought to go back and practice a bit more."

"Sir, don't go, I can guess your mother's name!"

Exeunt AH.

I just love gardening. I think I have green fingers!

Mushroom Ragout

Set off a day in your calendar, wake up at five am, and go to the forest, where you'll spend ten to eleven hours gathering about three mushrooms, two of which are rotten and must be thrown away, while you're a little unsure about the edibility of the third. Danish folklore goes like this:

Samler i Skoven du ukendte Svampe

Saa lad først Lillebror smage derpå

Dersom han dør under Skrigen og Krampe

Så bør du selv lade Svampene stå

Og hvis der intet er sket med den Lille?

Ja, så gik den portion svampe til spilde.

which I translate to:

As you gather unfamiliar mushrooms

It is prudent to let your younger brother taste them first

In the event that he passes away gagging and foaming

You will be well advised to avoid that type in the future

But should he click his tongue and ask for seconds?
Then you have wasted no more than a handful of good mushrooms

(yes, I was absent the day they taught rhyming and poetic metrics in school, but you get the gist.)

Anyway, back to the ragout: after you have discarded your gatherings, stop by the Farmer's Market on the way back and buy wild mushrooms and some garden compost there. Unpack the mushrooms in your car, and mix them with the compost. Smear some compost on your hands and face, too. When you come home, triumphantly present them to your family, and be sure to bore your children with stories of how dangerous the foray was, what with wild animals, tasting unfamiliar mushrooms, avoiding crazed Bambi-killers, and raging forest fires. Rinse mushrooms very carefully. Chop the mushrooms with a couple of shallots. (No, with a knife, you dolt. Chop the mushrooms and the shallots with a knife.) Heat a heavy frying pan, and add a couple of tablespoons of butter. Don't be shy about adding butter. Lots of otherwise fine cooking has been lost to humanity when the cook hesitated with the butter. And don't worry: butter isn't fattening anymore like it used to be in the 1990s; it's now very good, in fact indispensable, for a balanced diet. Now add the mushroom and shallots with a little bit of turmeric and chili powder, and stir gently; watch the moisture leak out of the mushrooms as they are fried. Open a bottle of nice white wine. Pour yourself a generous glass. As a rule of thumb, the cook should consume about twice as much as you pour into the mushrooms; in that respect you may think of the mushrooms as your mother-in-law. When the leaking of moisture starts to stall, add the wine with a bit of soy sauce and some pepper. Stir gently. Pour yourself another glass of wine. Now add some coconut milk, and watch the mushrooms absorb back about half the fluids, this may take another 10 to 15 minutes. Hey, add some more butter, too. Scrape a bit of parmesan over it, and serve on whole-wheat toasted bread. At this stage you may have to open another bottle of wine. Spend 20 minutes pulling kids away from computers, and wife away from American Idol.

Enjoy!

California Journal

Gratuitous Digressions or Your Money Back

California 26 June - 5 July, 2008

3 hours delay in Hong Kong did little to endear us to Cathay Pacific, but the girls were amazing and made friends with the other tweens at the gate, and were in fact not a little miffed when we finally boarded. “But we’re playing, Dad!!” We’re honoured and privileged to travel with girls of that caliber.

We right away descended on Ting’s place like so many locusts on Egypt. By way of introduction, Ting is my twin; tragically separated at birth, only to be re-united in 2004 in UBS. Ting left UBS in late 2007 choosing Wisdom over Mammon, and very nice it is, too.

And then we were off! Your investigative team is happy to report a theological break-through on only the second day of our adventure: the answer to the riddle of who created the Creator is apparently: Burma. (Note: another theological subject that was briefly touched upon was the insight of Blaise Pascal leading to his famous wager, but the conclusions are not pertinent to this journal). Ting took us on a delightful trip to a beach teeming with marine life: sea anemones, starfish, crabs, blistering barnacles, and brown pelicans to name but a few.

A wonderful bird is the pelican
His bill holds much more than his belly can
He can keep in his beak
Enough food for a week
I’m darned if I know how the Hell ‘e can

But I digress. The trip down required a short hike through a field swarming with platypus. Note, not ‘platypi’. Platypus is Greek, so we can’t use Latin grammar. Incidentally, the guys that named it would have had more plastic rings than cans in their Foster six-packs by the time they got around to thinking of a name for this remarkable animal – did I say remarkable? listen to this: the interface to its visual cortex is, unsurprisingly, the eye. But only when it’s not diving. When diving, the interface switches over to its beak. So through sonar impulses picked up by the beak, its visual cortex creates a 3D image of everything under water while the platypus’ eyes are closed. Nature can be awe-inspiring at times. Where was I? A digression within a digression. Oh yeah, the name. Platypus means flat-foot. Duh. Not only would you think they could come up with something a bit more dignified for this extraordinary animal, but as luck would have it there was already a Platypus. It’s a beetle. In Africa. With flat feet.

But enough with this digression. It was Patricia’s sharp eye for fauna that spotted and categorised them. My money was on a type of squirrel, but I’ll grant the platypus sounds better. Besides, she has young eyes while I use bifocals. We then made our way up to the Wayfarer’s Chapel perched high on a precipice overseeing the Pacific Ocean. The chapel was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright’s son, and words fail to describe the beauty of the spot. Well, my words do. A still photo does a far better job:
After the chapel we went for lunch at Redondo Beach where we chanced upon a Scientology recruitment officer performing auditing on a prospective scientologist. Now, a word on Scientology here. People generally have only bad things to say about Scientology, in fact it is banned in some countries in Europe. I think that's unfair. Scientology is a completely logical, reasonable belief system. Apart from the fact that they believe that Xenu, the dictator of the Galactic Confederacy 75 million years ago brought billions of his people to Earth in DC-8-like spacecraft, stacked them around volcanoes, and killed them using hydrogen bombs, and that these alien spirits now live through us. The rest is perfectly reasonable. Well, obviously not the bit about "...when people die, they go to a landing station on the planet Venus, where the thetan is re-implanted and told lies about its past life and its next life. The Venusians take the thetan, capsule it, and send it back to Earth to be dumped into the ocean off the coast of California." But other than that I see no reason to view Scientology in a negative light.

And this brings us almost inevitably to the subject of corn. Corn has succeeded in domesticating Americans! Yes, it’s true. Corn is now an ingredient in their sodas, their ice-creams, their bourbon, their nuggets, their french fries, their washing powder, their gasoline, the plastic that wraps their christmas presents, and their dieting books. Corn starch was used in the plastic components on Mars Lander (a pre-research factoid)! And you know what? It really isn't good for them. The supercharged starch is simply too efficient, and their metabolisms can't cope with it. The results are unsurprising. And we thought American sitcoms depicted reality, specifically the reality of near-by Hollywood. So it’s all an illusion? They’re not all beautiful, ironic and worldly? Walking in Disneyland certainly made the whole team feel conspicuously skinny, including the 100-kilo father. Who would have thunk…

The discussion of American nutrition gathered data in this wonderful Google interview with Michael Pollan, the author of The Omnivore’s Dilemma. We learn among other gems of culinary wisdom that ever since the USDA declared that fat is fattening (which incidentally it isn’t), Americans have added 1.5mio tons of blubber to the weight of the continent (hint: not by population growth, well, not as such), which leads us to the second pre-research factoid of this blog: the Earth’s rotation will be affected! Unless the Americans change their eating habits, Earth will inevitably start spinning faster, leading to shorter days, thereby forcing the banks to pay even less interest on our saving accounts. (Note to self: perhaps I should be a counsellor, not a philosopher. I am usually quite good at forming opinions of other peoples' issues, sometimes just by taking a cursory look at the way they dress, and have often experienced a very gratifying look of relief on peoples' faces when I have concluded my observations.)

Next up was a joyous trip to Universal Studios. Note here how selective memory has already happily erased the moment when Jojo disappeared for 20 minutes sulking because she couldn’t get on the Simpson ride, and Patricia whined and moaned about a 2-dollar cap which was presented as a bargain at 20 dollars after some wit had thought of adding the term ‘Disney Princess’ to the shade.

One must marvel over the Universal Studios business plan which requires 10 junk food outlets and sunglass stands for every amusement ride, but it was not all guff; the Blues Brothers R&B Review live on stage was a nice reminder of how dependent soul music is on the unique musical talent bestowed on white trash from Chicago. (Err, not…)

We had decided to spend $8.49 per day on a GPS system for the car given the complicated freeway system in and around LA – as Ting once put it: “We Drive Therefore We Are” – although perhaps a word on the concept of ‘getting lost’ would be appropriate here: There is no place on this planet where we could get lost – at least not on a holiday. This is a truism. Lost is a state of mind. Enjoy where you are. Live in the present. (sobbing into keyboard now – must break to find Kleenex). But I digress. The GPS woman has been an endless source of amusement – we opted for the patient, conciliatory voice; apparently it is available in a version that heaps abuse when the driver gets it wrong. “YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO TURN HERE, YOU MISERABLE BABOON! NOW I HAVE TO RECALCULATE! DAMN YOU!” Next I suppose they’ll have an inflatable version pointing the way, which would allow them to drive in the car-pool lane – actually probably not since any competent highway patrol officer would be suspicious seeing a woman giving driving instructions. Yes, it’s always women. Male drivers would feel very self-conscious if they were given driving instructions by another male, and it would more likely than not lead to a fistfight. But there’s a dark side to the GPS system: people follow the instructions like sheep. You don’t have time to question given the heavy traffic on the six-lane highways. And that gave us a sinister, if rather obvious, idea. We could aid corn in its mission for World Domination by playing subliminal texts via the GPS. Or perhaps subliminal is to assume too much of the Americans. Maybe a simple “Drive point five miles and keep right for the next MacDonald,” or “Take next left, drive point two miles, and stop at Taco Bell to buy corn syrup based junk for your kids.” Aye, fascinating opportunities abound.

Mea culpa: In the delightful Balboa Park in San Diego (we gave Ting a deserved break from the Haagens and stayed in Coronado - which is Spanish for Corn Nation by the way. (Warning: third pre-research factoid!) But I digress - how many brackets am I behind? Will hazard one), and while Patricia and Jojo were frolicking in the fountain, I was accosted by two students. "Sir, we're conducting an informal survey for our university; do you have any views on spirituality and religion?" Gulp. As a rule I see no benefit whatsoever in discussing religion. Has anybody ever heard of a religious debate that ended with one party saying, "You know, Larry, when you put it like that I suppose my belief system has been wrong all along. Haha, thanks for clearing that up for me." No, I maintain that the BEST you can expect from a dialogue of that sort is Jack Squat.

But seeing as how the last time anybody actually ASKED MY OPINION was in 1975 when our neighbour's half-witted son asked if bell-bottoms were fashionable in our school (they were), I don't really see how I could have refused. Be that as it may, half an hour later Irene lassoed me and dragged me away still rambling leaving two dazed college students whose eyes by then had grown to the size of teacups. And I was just getting into my stride. I suppose they learned a valuable lesson about risk. Naturally they thought approaching a white boy in San Diego they would get their beliefs confirmed, which was obviously all they wanted. (Note to self: is this rambling, or a digression?)

And now it's the Fourth of July. We signed up for a Whale Watching tour, but were informed in the last minute that it had been cancelled; fourth pre-research factoid: locals had complained that the whales were Illegal Immigrants, and that they were stealing jobs from true-blooded Americans. To help myself as much as anybody else I have compiled a couple of images which I hope you'll find instructive in distinguishing between Americans and Whales:

Note how Man spends considerable sums on designer clothes and accessories, and keeps his beard nicely trimmed. I would venture he also keeps three shelves full of dieting books, and that he'll eat three times what he needs if it has a label saying "Low Trans-Fats" or whatever is the latest fad.

BUT - we were badly wrong. For the locals in Newport Beach were nothing like whales. Ting speculated the local sheriff would round up overweight people on sight, take them to the county border and shoot them like dogs. Because it turns out after money management, the biggest business in Newport Beach is "Aesthetic Medical Services". Which Ting and I with our sensitive bullshit antennaes concluded meant boob-jobs and botox treatments. I myself found opportunity to study the technical qualities of the local surgeons' handiwork, and have to confess I was very impressed. From a purely aesthetic point of view you'll understand.

As compensation for the missing whale-watching trip we took out a gondola and enjoyed a serene ride around the canals where the parties had been going on in the gardens and on the roof terraces for most of the day already. A sublime Italian dinner at Villa Nova was a fitting end to a wonderful holiday.

And so it ended. We're back at the boat enjoying Mercy's frikadeller which is probably just as well, since my pre-research factoid quota is expended.

Difficult Working Conditions For Ancient Artists Justify Exorbitant Prices

This bronze statue vividly illustrates the difficulty experienced by the arts before the invention of photography. It was not unusual for models to have to spend several days in the same position, and more often than not the artist was trying to achieve an artistic effect very much in demand at the time, meaning the model had to pose mostly naked.

We can easily imagine the conversation taking place between the weary model and the sculptor:

"Stop waving your arms like that. I can't concentrate."

"What, you think it's easy balancing on this fitness plate? I'm getting cramps."

"Just keep your arms still. And be quiet."

"Can't you ask Dolly? I'm getting cold, too. Can I put my shirt back on?"

"Listen, you stay where you are, or I'll file a complaint with your union."

"But why can't I just wear my shirt? This is embarrassing. Imagine if one day my son discovers a copy of this sculpture under his classmate's bed? Then what? My name will be mud."

"Will you be quiet already?! It's almost finished - two more days at the most. And stop waving those arms."

And so the conversation must have gone on and on. No wonder many artists went mad.

Moo

Newsflash:

REUTERS in Vacaville, California - A motorist was killed when an airborne cow smashed through the windscreen of his pick-up truck, striking him on the head. The California Highway Patrol said the 340-kg, 11/2 year-old heifer wandered on to a road during stormy weather on Wednesday night in an unincorporated area of Solano county about 80 km northeast of San Francisco. A 1983 Mercedes-Benz travelling north on the road hit the animal, sending it hurtling into the air and into the path of the Toyota pick-up, which was travelling south. The cow fell through the windscreen and killed the driver, who was wearing a seat belt. After hitting the pick-up, the heifer was thrown on to the southbound lane and was hit by another Toyota pick-up. "This is about as freaky an accident as you can imagine," California Highway Patrol Officer Chris Linehan said in an interview. [Ed.: For reasons unknown, the journalist does not specify the make of officer Linehan's car. Perhaps he ran out of drugs.] "Animals get hit but not something like this, with it getting thrown up into the air and flying into another car," he said. Officer Linehan said police were withholding the name of the victim pending family notification.The drivers of the Mercedes and the second pick-up were not injured. Officer Linehan said the heifer was probably killed by the first impact.

What do you think about that story? Thin, huh? Not credible. Officer Linehan was clearly not telling the truth. It is a shame that the cow is now beyond repair, because that means we can't interview it, but surely nobody in their right mind would believe that the cow wanders out to graze on the northbound lane of the San Francisco highway?! Unless of course the grass was greener on the other side, and the tragic incident was caused by the cow trying to cross the road. Evidence collected by your investigative team, however, suggests no such thing; in fact the grass at the side of the northbound lane was probably marginally greener, if anything.

So why is Officer Linehan lying? Perhaps out of ignorance, but perhaps he was following orders... Is this a massive cover-up to hide from the public evidence of facts so frightening, this reporting team almost wet their pants? We realised that a case with such calamitous implications required the undivided attention of the two finest brains in East Asia today. Unfortunately, they were tied up with other important business, so we decided to have a go at it ourselves.

We didn't have many leads to go on, but we now believe the truth is to be found in one of the theories below, produced by your tireless investigative team after intense research without food or drink except for steak sandwiches and a couple of six-packs of beer each.

1. At the 16th anniversary of the transmogrifier strip invented by Sam Watterston for Calvin and Hobbes, scientist Norman F. Jennings in Paco Alto, Ca, perfected the device, incorporated it into a bright green squirtgun, and, in the proud tradition of scores of scientists before him, promptly misplaced it. It was found by his 5-year old son Jim, who while watching the traffic pointed the gun at a sparrow flying low over the northbound lane of the San Francisco highway. "Cow," he said (young Jim was not equipped with what you might call an above average IQ), and that was it. Finale for the driver of the Toyota.

2. The cow in fact belongs in the 16th century. In order to understand this, it is important to study the geological past of that particular strip of high-way: rigorous research combined with some educated guesswork by your investigative team has discovered that before the road was constructed, the area was in fact farmland, populated by domesticated animals such as the cow. Little did it know that it was about to be transported through the fourth dimension and land in heavy mid-morning traffic on the San Francisco highway in 1999. One moment, the cow was grazing, minding its own business, thinking cow thoughts such as, hey, maybe the grass is better over where Bob is, and - WHAM - it walks through a hole in the time/space continuum and is dumped on the hood of a 1983 Mercedes Benz. This phenomenon is often described as "a ripple in the surface of the universe," no doubt caused by the proximity to the Earth of a massive billion-years old black hole, as Dr. Stephen Hawking would gladly explain (if he could speak, that is). We would have liked to present evidence for this theory, but unfortunately the cow was destroyed that same day (Officer Linehan will be the first to admit that his wife is not a good cook). In reality, had Officer Linehan not been so eager to close the case based on that very dubious grazing theory of his, he might have spent just a little time investigating the dead bovine. A carbon-dating test would almost certainly have revealed that the contents of the cow's stomach could not possibly have been consumed in this century (Note: Don't think this investigative team doesn't know that a cow typically chews its food over a long period of time. OF COURSE we had thought of that).

3. Due to high local unemployment among domesticated animals following pressure from imported foodstuff, one ambitious cow had enrolled in a training scheme for carrier pigeons, using a fake ID. Having passed the theoretical test, it was only a few seconds into the first practice flight that the unfortunate cow realised why he was the only non-feathered participant on the team.

4. Having successfully negotiated the abolition of the law of gravity on behalf of all cows in Solano County, the chief negotiator returned in triumph to his constituency, only to realise that this particular cause was perhaps not such a bright idea after all. Stepping out of the helicopter, the wind from the rotor swept him off the ground in a general northern direction which eventually led him to a, we are beginning to feel, almost predestined meeting with the hood of the 1983 Mercedes Benz.

5. The California Cow Pole Vaulting Team was training for the Cow Olympics in the vicinity, and following a heated discussion with the other team members after having unwittingly chewed the leaves of a nearby coco-bush, the unfortunate cow champion yelled at the top of his voice: "Don't be schilly. OF COURSE I can jump across all six lanes on the highway. Moo."

6. It was well into the third six-pack that your investigative team suddenly realised the truth that had been staring them in the face all that time. We had missed the geopolitical significance of the location of this tragic incident. Yes, we realised that only a short distance separated Solano County from the last Stalinist empire in the world. Well, actually separated by the biggest ocean in the world, but you get the picture. Yes, the origin of the cow must have been North Korea, a country ruled with an iron fist by that notorious unashamed wearer of outrageous hair-dos Kim Jong-Il. Not only would a bovine carrying missile be a typically defiant gesture from a country supposedly ravaged by hunger, but we actually have evidence of the country's source of the ammunition: The chairman of Hyundai, mr. Chung Ju-Yung, recently sent a herd of cows across the border.

A friendly gesture? Perhaps you think it's a coincidence. Perhaps you are hopelessly naive. No, we think you will all agree that what we are dealing with here is a North Korean secret plan to develop missiles that can reach across the whole world, carrying such animals as rabbits, Labrador retrievers, and weasels. Imagine hundreds of Labrador retrievers raining down over New York. Or donkeys darkening the skies over Paris, London or Berlin. World War Three material. And the question is, when will the dictators of this world learn that such behaviour is unacceptable? How much longer can we tolerate such blatant defiance of common humanity? And spare a thought for the poor animals - picture the cow desperately sending distress signals from inside the missile, "Moo-MoooMooo-Moo", trying to alert the driver of the 1983 Mercedes Benz to the impending disaster. Why can't we all just get along?

Chapter Five,

in which Winnie the Pooh learns about juicy fruits, financial geniuses and American litigation law.

"Christopher Robin, please tell me a story," Pooh said. Christopher Robin knew so many different stories, and Pooh was bored.

"Sure, Pooh, do you want a funny or a strange story?"

"I think I would like a strange story today."

"Fine, but you have to promise me you'll listen very carefully, because this is a very strange story. It's about a man called mr Citron."

"That's a funny name."

"It is. And it gets funnier, because he worked for a county in America called Orange."

"Hmm... Are there lemons involved, too?"

"You might say that. Quite a lot of lemons in fact. But just listen. Mr. Citron was a financial genius. Everybody knew this, so he was hired by Orange County to invest their tax revenues to get the highest possible return for the taxpayers. Mr. Citron did this for many years, but one day he started getting a bit restless. So he spoke to another financial genius in a bank in New York, and this man told him he could earn much higher returns if he borrowed some money in that bank, and bought more securities."

"Christopher Robin, I'm just a little old bear, and I don't understand much, but didn't you just say his job was to invest some money for the people in the county? I didn't know you could earn money when you borrowed, but maybe I'm missing something..."

"No, you are quite right, Pooh, but you have to remember that Mr. Citron was recognised as a financial genius so nobody wanted to challenge him. In the end he had a pile of securities so high, he had to stand on a chair to reach the top."

"But did they really pay so much tax in Orange County?"

"Silly old bear, remember what I just said, he borrowed money from the man in New York so he could buy all these securities."

"You are right, that IS a strange story."

"It sure is. But it now it turns a bit sad because all of a sudden the price of the securities started falling, and Mr. Citron lost a lot of money for the county. Lots and lots of money. In fact so much money, the number has almost as many zeroes as I have fingers. And the people in Orange County were very upset with Mr. Citron because they'd have to pay more taxes to pay for the losses, you see."

"Poor old Mr. Citron. He must have been very ashamed of himself."

"He certainly was, Pooh. In fact, he was so ashamed of himself he filed a complaint with the police, claiming the bank in New York had tricked him, and in fact he never understood the trades he had done."

"Wow, what did the bank in New York say then?"

"The bank said could he please stop behaving like a baby when everybody knew he was a financial genius."

"That wasn't a very nice thing to say."

"No, but it wasn't very nice of Mr. Citron either if you think about it. He was happy enough being known as a financial genius before."

"I suppose so." Pooh scratched his nose. "What happened then?"

"Mr. Citron pondered that message a little, and then he got a bright idea. Before the bank could say Jiminy Cricket, Mr. Citron had dragged them in court in front of a doctor who explained that while Mr. Citron used to be a financial genius in the past, unfortunately he had suffered an infection in his brain causing him to be dizzy and not able to think clearly during the period when he made the trades with the bank in New York."

"But -"

"Yes, Pooh, it sounds childish, but this is America, you see."

"I see. America. So because he had fallen sick, the bank had to refund him the losses?"

"That's right, Pooh. You're not so silly after all."

"Christopher Robin, you have told me many strange stories, but this one beats them all. So the bank had to pay in the end?"

"Sure, so far the bank has repaid four hundred and twenty million dollars to the county, and they may end up footing Mr. Citron's medical bill, too."

"Imagine how much hunny you could buy for that kind of money."

---------------------

Los Angeles Times/Orange County Edition, 07/23/98


Citron Says 'Cognitive Defects' Led to His Risky Investments Bankruptcy: Ex-treasurer testified his brain deterioration affected the strategy that resulted in county's bond crisis. E. SCOTT RECKARD


With the benefit of hindsight and psychotherapy, former Orange County Treasurer Robert L. Citron testified he believes his mental deterioration began as early as 1989--five full years before his investments toppled the county into bankruptcy.
Indeed, Citron--once lauded as a genius, then disgraced when his treasury lost $1.6 billion--links brain disease diagnosed by his doctors to the very moment he began the investments that proved so foolish, four years before the collapse.
Telling his story under oath during 40 days of questioning from lawyers for Merrill Lynch and 10 days before other lawyers in 1997, Citron also said it was his loss of judgment that moved him to divert other agencies' funds to a county account, according to documents released Wednesday.
"So when Mr. Raabe [assistant Orange County treasurer Matthew R. Raabe] came to me and suggested that we do this, I trusted Mr. Raabe. He was a certified public accountant, and I had no reason whatsoever at that time to believe what we did to be illegal in any way," Citron said in testimony taken in the county's recently settled lawsuit against Merrill Lynch.
The county so far has recovered $739 million as a result of litigation, including $420 million from Merrill Lynch.
"And then, in going back, in retrospect, I realized that a large part of the decision was because of my cognitive deficits, not being able to really rationalize and think out in my mind that major executive decision," Citron testified.
The contention that his "cognitive deficit," diagnosed after the county's debacle, affected his judgment has been made before. Indeed, Citron submitted lengthy material from his psychologists and psychiatrists in arguing for a light sentence when he pleaded guilty to six felonies.
But while the problems previously were offered in mitigation of his behavior, Citron told lawyers for Merrill Lynch & Co., the target of a county lawsuit, that he believed they were directly responsible for him making the bad investments as far back as 1991.
That, he said, was when star Merrill Lynch salesman Michael G. Stamenson showed him how interest-sensitive securities issued by government agencies like Sallie Mae could immediately be put up as collateral to borrow more such securities, which then became collateral for still more purchases. -END

Zipping Satellite

I bought a personal satellite last week, and it doesn't seem to be very good quality; it zips around the globe far faster than the globe around its axis, so the signals it sends back appear to be coming from the future.

And here's what it picked up over California:

Hank, a local Walmart manager, and Bill, Homeland Security head for Orange County.

"I sure am glad you could come and lend us a hand, Bill. It was quite desperate for a while."
"No problem, Hank, rounding up consumers seems the least we can do when the country needs us. And I see you got them cowboys from the New Mexico rodeo show to lasso a few strays, too."
"Yep, there are literally hundreds of Americans who have not done their patriotic duty this month. Our shelves are full to the brim!"
"And you have invited the card companies here as well."
"Bill, this is a joint venture between Homeland Security, the major card companies and the US Immigration Department."
"The USID? Why are they involved?"
"It's my brainchild; you see I thought of a novel way to increase sales: the line you see over here, guarded by your folks - by the way, those are not real sub-machine guns, are they?"
"Hank, I gotta do my day job, too, you know that."
"Yeah, I suppose, well, anyway, that line is reserved for those that hold more than ten defaulted credit cards, so now that America needs us, I have arranged for the Immigration Department to furnish them with new identities, then they join the line of the credit card companies, and before you know it both I and they have hundreds of brand new customers."
"Haha, Hank, you crack me up."
"And the credit card accounts are sold to a Special Purpose Vehicle in Cayman Islands, apparently owned by the Arabs. Or the Chinese or something."
"What, a Humvee?"
"I dunno, Bill, didn't really understand it all. Whatever increases sales."

Speakers are blaring everywhere.

'I am Sylvester Stallone, and we need you to BUY!'
'I am Brad Pitt, and we need you to BUY!'
'I am Angelina Jolie, and I will flash you at the register if you BUY!'
'We are Britney, Amy and Lindsay, specially allowed out of rehab, with this message: BUY!'
'I eat my breakfast 400 yards from 3,000 Cubans who are trained to kill me, and I'm ordering you to BUY!'

"But, sir, I'm Canadian," one of the guys in the line raised his hand.
"Take him away, shoot him."
"Sir, yes, sir!"
"We have no use for these lily-livered foreigners. Terrorist scum. American greatness is at risk. And, sir, can you explain why you're here?"
"Err. Yes, you see, officer, I was lying on my couch, only a 2006 model, I'm afraid, re-reading a book about French Impressionism, when these two GIs came and dragged me here."
"Excellent job, sergeant, please escort this man to the furniture department, and get somebody to show him the 42" plasma TVs later. French Impressionism! Is that what made this country great?"

"Bill, what's that mess over there?"
"Oh, that was a Norwegian Human Rights Commissioner or something, shouting that forcing people to borrow so we can sell them consumer goods no one needs is against some sissy United Nations regulation. Had to string him up and burn him at the stake, using a pile of discarded Big Mac Styrofoam boxes."
"Quite right, too. Whiners."

The speakers were relentless:
'Buy discounted Citibank stock - 90 day money back guarantee!'
'Buy Merrill Lynch stock using your American Express and get air miles!'

Meanwhile a couple of blocks down the road.

"Maria Jolette T. Guevarra. Come out with your hands where we can see them. We have the credit card form here."
"What seems to be the problem, officer?"
"According to Immigration records, she has been in the county for several months, and hasn't arranged a credit card facility yet."
"Shoot her at sight."

And with that the satellite whizzed out over the Pacific.