OTAS, you found it

A Tree Grows

2008-11-06T21:49:00.001-08:00

I still cannot get over Obama, president elect. It was like a liberation. Americans ideals are like the Tree of Heaven, the metaphor in the book A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, which ends:

“A new tree had grown from the stump and its trunk had grown along the ground until it reached a place where there were no wash lines above it. Then it had started to grow towards the sky again. Annie, the fir tree, that the Nolans had cherished with waterings and manurings, had long since sickened and died. But this tree in the yard - this tree that men chopped down...this tree that they built a bonfire around, trying to burn up its stump - this tree had lived!

A Tree Grows

2008-11-06T21:48:00.001-08:00

Next president

2008-11-02T18:52:00.003-08:00

I would have voted McCain, but can't. Don't let me say it, let The Economist, my source for critical thinking (and former supporter of Bush/Reagan).

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America should take a chance and make Barack Obama the next leader of the free world

IT IS impossible to forecast how important any presidency will be. Back in 2000 America stood tall as the undisputed superpower, at peace with a generally admiring world. The main argument was over what to do with the federal government’s huge budget surplus. Nobody foresaw the seismic events of the next eight years. When Americans go to the polls next week the mood will be very different. The United States is unhappy, divided and foundering both at home and abroad. Its self-belief and values are under attack.

For all the shortcomings of the campaign, both John McCain and Barack Obama offer hope of national redemption. Now America has to choose between them. The Economist does not have a vote, but if it did, it would cast it for Mr Obama. We do so wholeheartedly: the Democratic candidate has clearly shown that he offers the better chance of restoring America’s self-confidence. But we acknowledge it is a gamble. Given Mr Obama’s inexperience, the lack of clarity about some of his beliefs and the prospect of a stridently Democratic Congress, voting for him is a risk. Yet it is one America should take, given the steep road ahead.

Thinking about 2009 and 2017

The immediate focus, which has dominated the campaign, looks daunting enough: repairing America’s economy and its international reputation. The financial crisis is far from finished. The United States is at the start of a painful recession. Some form of further fiscal stimulus is needed (see article), though estimates of the budget deficit next year already spiral above $1 trillion. Some 50m Americans have negligible health-care cover. Abroad, even though troops are dying in two countries, the cack-handed way in which George Bush has prosecuted his war on terror has left America less feared by its enemies and less admired by its friends than it once was.

Yet there are also longer-term challenges, worth stressing if only because they have been so ignored on the campaign. Jump forward to 2017, when the next president will hope to relinquish office. A combination of demography and the rising costs of America’s huge entitlement programmes—Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid—will be starting to bankrupt the country (see article). Abroad a greater task is already evident: welding the new emerging powers to the West. That is not just a matter of handling the rise of India and China, drawing them into global efforts, such as curbs on climate change; it means reselling economic and political freedom to a world that too quickly associates American capitalism with Lehman Brothers and American justice with Guantánamo Bay. This will take patience, fortitude, salesmanship and strategy.

At the beginning of this election year, there were strong arguments against putting another Republican in the White House. A spell in opposition seemed apt punishment for the incompetence, cronyism and extremism of the Bush presidency. Conservative America also needs to recover its vim. Somehow Ronald Reagan’s party of western individualism and limited government has ended up not just increasing the size of the state but turning it into a tool of southern-fried moralism.

The selection of Mr McCain as the Republicans’ candidate was a powerful reason to reconsider. Mr McCain has his faults: he is an instinctive politician, quick to judge and with a sharp temper. And his age has long been a concern (how many global companies in distress would bring in a new 72-year-old boss?). Yet he has bravely taken unpopular positions—for free trade, immigration reform, the surge in Iraq, tackling climate change and campaign-finance reform. A western Republican in the Reagan mould, he has a long record of working with both Democrats and America’s allies.

If only the real John McCain had been running

That, however, was Senator McCain; the Candidate McCain of the past six months has too often seemed the victim of political sorcery, his good features magically inverted, his bad ones exaggerated. The fiscal conservative who once tackled Mr Bush over his unaffordable tax cuts now proposes not just to keep the cuts, but to deepen them. The man who denounced the religious right as “agents of intolerance” now embraces theocratic culture warriors. The campaigner against ethanol subsidies (who had a better record on global warming than most Democrats) came out in favour of a petrol-tax holiday. It has not all disappeared: his support for free trade has never wavered. Yet rather than heading towards the centre after he won the nomination, Mr McCain moved to the right.

Meanwhile his temperament, always perhaps his weak spot, has been found wanting. Sometimes the seat-of-the-pants method still works: his gut reaction over Georgia—to warn Russia off immediately—was the right one. Yet on the great issue of the campaign, the financial crisis, he has seemed all at sea, emitting panic and indecision. Mr McCain has never been particularly interested in economics, but, unlike Mr Obama, he has made little effort to catch up or to bring in good advisers (Doug Holtz-Eakin being the impressive exception).

The choice of Sarah Palin epitomised the sloppiness. It is not just that she is an unconvincing stand-in, nor even that she seems to have been chosen partly for her views on divisive social issues, notably abortion. Mr McCain made his most important appointment having met her just twice.

Ironically, given that he first won over so many independents by speaking his mind, the case for Mr McCain comes down to a piece of artifice: vote for him on the assumption that he does not believe a word of what he has been saying. Once he reaches the White House, runs this argument, he will put Mrs Palin back in her box, throw away his unrealistic tax plan and begin negotiations with the Democratic Congress. That is plausible; but it is a long way from the convincing case that Mr McCain could have made. Had he become president in 2000 instead of Mr Bush, the world might have had fewer problems. But this time it is beset by problems, and Mr McCain has not proved that he knows how to deal with them.

Is Mr Obama any better? Most of the hoopla about him has been about what he is, rather than what he would do. His identity is not as irrelevant as it sounds. Merely by becoming president, he would dispel many of the myths built up about America: it would be far harder for the spreaders of hate in the Islamic world to denounce the Great Satan if it were led by a black man whose middle name is Hussein; and far harder for autocrats around the world to claim that American democracy is a sham. America’s allies would rally to him: the global electoral college on our website shows a landslide in his favour. At home he would salve, if not close, the ugly racial wound left by America’s history and lessen the tendency of American blacks to blame all their problems on racism.

So Mr Obama’s star quality will be useful to him as president. But that alone is not enough to earn him the job. Charisma will not fix Medicare nor deal with Iran. Can he govern well? Two doubts present themselves: his lack of executive experience; and the suspicion that he is too far to the left.

There is no getting around the fact that Mr Obama’s résumé is thin for the world’s biggest job. But the exceptionally assured way in which he has run his campaign is a considerable comfort. It is not just that he has more than held his own against Mr McCain in the debates. A man who started with no money and few supporters has out-thought, out-organised and out-fought the two mightiest machines in American politics—the Clintons and the conservative right.

Political fire, far from rattling Mr Obama, seems to bring out the best in him: the furore about his (admittedly ghastly) preacher prompted one of the most thoughtful speeches of the campaign. On the financial crisis his performance has been as assured as Mr McCain’s has been febrile. He seems a quick learner and has built up an impressive team of advisers, drawing in seasoned hands like Paul Volcker, Robert Rubin and Larry Summers. Of course, Mr Obama will make mistakes; but this is a man who listens, learns and manages well.

It is hard too nowadays to depict him as soft when it comes to dealing with America’s enemies. Part of Mr Obama’s original appeal to the Democratic left was his keenness to get American troops out of Iraq; but since the primaries he has moved to the centre, pragmatically saying the troops will leave only when the conditions are right. His determination to focus American power on Afghanistan, Pakistan and proliferation was prescient. He is keener to talk to Iran than Mr McCain is— but that makes sense, providing certain conditions are met.

Our main doubts about Mr Obama have to do with the damage a muddle-headed Democratic Congress might try to do to the economy. Despite the protectionist rhetoric that still sometimes seeps into his speeches, Mr Obama would not sponsor a China-bashing bill. But what happens if one appears out of Congress? Worryingly, he has a poor record of defying his party’s baronies, especially the unions. His advisers insist that Mr Obama is too clever to usher in a new age of over-regulation, that he will stop such nonsense getting out of Congress, that he is a political chameleon who would move to the centre in Washington. But the risk remains that on economic matters the centre that Mr Obama moves to would be that of his party, not that of the country as a whole.

He has earned it

So Mr Obama in that respect is a gamble. But the same goes for Mr McCain on at least as many counts, not least the possibility of President Palin. And this cannot be another election where the choice is based merely on fear. In terms of painting a brighter future for America and the world, Mr Obama has produced the more compelling and detailed portrait. He has campaigned with more style, intelligence and discipline than his opponent. Whether he can fulfil his immense potential remains to be seen. But Mr Obama deserves the presidency.

The New York opera season starts with a bang

2008-10-30T20:24:00.001-07:00

For some reason this summer, while on my job search, I had the foresight to realize that I may have a new job that required a lot of travel and changed my season ticket from a Tuesday to a Friday night.

The season got started last month with Mary and me going to opening night. It seemed like we were planning it for ages. (I was hyping up the event for quite some time, to be honest.)

Despite some work drama, I made it over to the Metropolitan Opera to meet Mary. She was looking divine in her black dress and we had a glass of wine and walked over to the Met. The evening was a Renee Fleming gorge. She sang an act of Manon, La Traviata and the final scene from Capriccio. She was, as usually, fantastic, and decked out in dresses the Met commissioned for her.

The opera season continued with the soprano, Kraita Mattila reprising her performance of Salome. If opening night was glamorous and fun, Salome was electrifying, intense and an artistic triumph. Walking into the auditorium, we were taken by the painting on the curtain of angels sitting on blood-tinged clouds looked down from the heaven in horror. We knew we were in for something intense.

Matilla turned to score into a mix of twisted emotions which came to a sordid climax during the final scene, after being delivered the head of John the Baptist. She sang a hurricane of music, emotion, twisted sexuality, and even pathos. Kissing the head, she sings “you may have loved me.” So deranged was this scene that her stepfather turns to the executioner and says “kill that woman” after which point a hysterical Salome inched toward the orchestra pit while the executioner draws his machete. Then the curtain closed. It was one of the most enthusiastic ovations I’d ever heard at the Met.

In the spring, Michael and I met Deborah Voigt, the world’s leading dramatic soprano, at Carnegie Hall after she sang the final scene there and I asked when she would bring it to the Met. Apparently they said “no.” After this performance I can see why.

Then it was off to Mozart’s “Don Giovanni” which was marvelous. At the end of the day, there is Mozart and everyone else. The Met had a great cast. Next on the hit parade was the vocal perfection of "Luci di Lammernor" with Damaru as Lucia, another crazed woman, singing the role to no end.

After that it’s time for the Met’s georgous production of Madama Butterfly. As the reader(s?) of this blog know, seeing this is production was one of my great moments at the Met. I can’t wait to see it again.

So the opera season in New York has started with a BANG. I would doubt there is better theater in the Western Hemisphere than what’s going on at the Met these days. If you’re not in New York, you should see these performances in theaters. Watch the Met’s HD broadcasts live.

Salome

2008-10-23T21:44:00.001-07:00

If you haven't already seen it, you HAVE to see Salome with Matilla at the Metropolitan Opera. One of the most intense evenings of opera I've seen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=875izVSHLKo

Also check out part 2.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VG00tbrMZW8&feature=related

It's so twisted. This production is a TRIUMPH.

Salome

2008-10-23T21:40:00.000-07:00

Can't you feel the shame?

2008-10-09T20:03:00.001-07:00

In spite of its obvious inadequacies, one of the reasons for living out in Bay Ridge is that the area is so beautiful. I love to go for long jogs listening to music and mulling over things in my life and the world. So today when I got home, though at dusk, I went for a lovely sunset jog on the 11-mile promenade along New York harbor.

Listening to Rigoletto, I found myself thinking about my parents' visit (I know, I know, enough about the family already) and what a whirlwind weekend it was. I was thinking about their arrival on Friday, the meal I prepared, and how a couple of drinks turned conversation into debate, a few more drinks turned debate into rancor, and how a few more turned rancor into tears.

As the sun set, I was thinking about the debate phase, particularly with my father. I reflected on my youth and how anything he said was taken in as though a burning bush were beside him and his stone tablets. Gloating, I though about how I was able to turn his arguments against him and got him to admit he was an anarchist (which is was not, which made it even sweeter). “My, how the mighty have fallen” I thought.

An hour passed and the iPod turned to Sour Angelica as I thought about my mother. How different we were and how we could have such different views on things. They seemed so, well, numb to the social niceties I’ve become accustomed to in New York (does she even know of the iPod that I’m listening to?). And as I neared the end of my jog, I vaulted up the many steps that bring me from the promenade back to Shore Road. After what I thought was the last step, I lunged into my next stride when suddenly it felt as though someone grabbed on to my feet then threw my body to the ground.

As I skidded across the sidewalk I knew I’d been injured. I picked myself up and examined my wounds. My hand hurt and even in the dark I could see the blood dripping from my fingers. The haughty music and iPod were about 7 feet in front of me, destroyed. My thoughts, again, turned to my parents. “What if I need stitches? What if my hand is broken?” I thought “If these injuries are bad enough I know my mother would fly back and take care of me. I KNOW she would.” There isn’t a doubt in my mind my parents would do anything for me.

I walked back home, opened the door, and dressed my own wounds wondering if I should go to a hospital, then thinking "My mother would love this recording of Sour Angelica with De Los Angeles."

Can't your feel the shame?

2008-10-09T19:30:00.000-07:00

In spite of its obvious inadequacies, one of the reasons for living out in Bay Ridge is that the area is so beautiful. I love to go for long jogs listening to music and mulling over things in my life and the world. So today when I got home, though at dusk, I went for a lovely sunset jog on the 11-mile promenade along New York harbor.

Listening to Rigoletto, I found myself thinking about my parents' visit (I know, I know, enough about the family already) and what a whirlwind weekend it was. I was thinking about their arrival on Friday, the meal I prepared, and how a couple of drinks turned conversation into debate, a few more drinks turned debate into rancor, and how a few more turned rancor into tears.

As the sun set, I was thinking about the debate phase, particularly with my father. I reflected on my youth and how anything he said was taken in as though a burning bush were beside him and his stone tablets. Gloating, I though about how I was able to turn his arguments against him and got him to admit he was an anarchist (which is was not, which made it even sweeter). “My, how the mighty have fallen” I thought.

An hour passed and the iPod turned to Sour Angelica as I thought about my mother. How different we were and how we could have such different views on things. They seemed so, well, numb to the social niceties I’ve become accustomed to in New York (does she even know of the iPod that I’m listening to?). And as I neared the end of my jog, I vaulted up the many steps that bring me from the promenade back to Shore Road. After what I thought was the last step, I lunged into my next stride when suddenly it felt as though someone grabbed on to my feet then threw my body to the ground.

As I skidded across the sidewalk I knew I’d been injured. I picked myself up and examined my wounds. My hand hurt and even in the dark I could see the blood dripping from my fingers. The haughty music and iPod were about 7 feet in front of me, destroyed. My thoughts, again, turned to my parents. “What if I need stitches? What if my hand is broken?” I thought “If these injuries are bad enough I know my mother would fly back and take care of me. I KNOW she would.” There isn’t a doubt in my mind my parents would do anything for me.

I walked back home, opened the door, and dressed my own wounds wondering if I should go to a hospital, then thinking "My mother would love this recording of Sour Angelica with De Los Angeles."

The Trains run on time

2008-10-01T20:35:00.001-07:00

As you all know I’ve started a new job at a consulting firm. It’s not a trivial place. It was formerly Anderson Consulting before its partners broke away from Arthur Anderson in a disagreement over sharing revenue. It seemed like a foolish thing to do as “Anderson” was associated with tremendous “name equity” in the business world. (Arthur Anderson was an elite finance, accounting, and consulting firm.) But when the Enron scandal broke that brought down Arthur Anderson, it couldn’t have been more fortuitous.

Then comes me. I basically began my career in derivatives at the Chicago Board of Trade, went to grad school for a masters, before starting my real career at Mercer, another consulting firm. I was working on primarily labor-related work as an analyst/senior analyst for quite some time. I left Mercer for a PhD program that I dropped out of. I found myself recruited by marketing folks and head hunters to apply those skills to the marketing arena.

Since then I’ve held more senior-level positions in rank-and-file corporate America: MMA, iQor and Saks Fifth Avenue. For me, these places were boring. The thrill-of-the-hunt of getting clients, pressure to have successful projects, and doing great work with high-caliber people work were simply not there. I longed to get back to the consulting area.

About a year ago along comes Accenture wanting me to join them as a manager (two steps away from partner). I’m finally hired and start there three weeks ago. Thought I was told that the “trains run on time at Accenture” I naively took the job.

I was immediately staffed on my first project with an Accenture team that geographically spanned San Francisco, New York, Atlanta, India, and Athens (yes, Greece) and with a top client. A little coy, I tended towards my analyst roots by looking at data, etc. One week into it (opening night at the Met) the situation was made painfully clear to me that I needed to step it up. The entire project was now my responsibility: Coordinating people, directing consultants and Senior Managers internationally was my problem. “I think I need to pump the primer here!” the partner on the project said to me “Your job is to make this happen – it’s been a week.” OK. . . I didn’t realize that was all on me.

So the last couple of weeks I’ve found myself in a very different place from where I was during my Mercer days. 70% of my 11 hour day is spent getting my arms around the big picture by shoehorning myself into clients’ minds, directing colleagues and in the details of data collection and empirical analysis with Greece, the US and India. My analytical and economic skills are of little service to me now. It is my job to coordinate everyone and ensure things are delivered on-time and on-budget.

I think I’ve got a hold on it now, but for the first two weeks I’ve been beside myself figuring out how all this will work will get done. I’m feeling a bit better but can’t help but be concerned about what the partner on this project is thinking of me. Certainly, it hasn’t been graceful, but I’ve managed to keep things on-schedule while getting up to speed on everything else.

“The trains run on time at Accenture” and that, for me, means little sympathy for being a rookie.

The trains run on time

2008-10-01T20:16:00.000-07:00

Depression?

2008-09-30T21:31:00.000-07:00

I have to say the events unfolding today are absolutely incredible. In every way, recent reactions to the situation in the housing market show how deeply this country was affected by the Depression.

Similar to today, the Depression began with a crisis among financial institutions. But unlike today, the financial institutions impacted are not dealing with runs on their banks by depositors. Since the Depression we created the FDIC, which eliminates that risk: Depositors will get their savings back regardless. So the problem is essentially created by the falling asset value banks have on their books; mortgages.

The Federal Reserve is a very special institution because they have the power to create money. Currently, the Fed pegs an overnight interest rate (called the Federal Funds rate) that banks charge each other to borrow money. The Fed determines what that interest rate will be – witness all the headlines of when they decide to change it – and will essentially print up any money it takes to maintain that interest rate. It does this by purchasing things.

To create money the Fed purchases Treasury securities. To acquire these assets the Fed must create a liability to purchase them with. For you or me it would be debt, drawing down cash, or some other way of financing it. But when the Fed purchases something it creates the liability called money, greenbacks, dollars; those paper things we all have in our wallet.

When this system was on the gold standard, it was a claim against its gold reserves, so the Fed had to have gold to print it up. Since the abolition of the gold standard (which had its own issues) during the Nixon administration, purchases by the Fed are backed by nothing. The liabilities the Fed creates are uncollateralized US Dollars deposited in the banks it buys stuff from. Technically, the liabilities it is capable of creating are without bound without a gold standard (or a silver, eggs, etc., standard).

With this bailout, the Fed – which is a part of the Treasury – has decided to replace this process with purchasing other kinds of assets. Not the kind that have to be paid back by the taxpayers like Treasury debt but, basically, the bum private sector assets that bog down Wall Street. Why is this a problem? It’s because these assets, by design, have no value and make the Federal Government, for the first time in history, an invsetor in private assets; not just any type, but the most toxic.

Economically, the actions by the Federal Reserve are tantamount to printing up the money to subsidize banks’ overly risky behavior by propping up the asset values of worthless debt. Someone has to pay for this. And that is a tax that economist call the “inflation tax,” levied through a rise in the price level. So those Americans holding cash – usually the poor –have less and less purchasing power, and are the ones shouldering it. As wages and prices struggle to adjust in the next 9 months or so to deal with this the increased money supply, we will find this tax levied on the American people without a debate in the House or Senate, or ANY part of our checks and balances

And this is why, to be honest, our lawmakers are struggling with this. It pits our fundamental values as a democracy against a short-term credit fix. I applaud that the House struggles with this. They have a bit for foresight than that of the Federal Reserve or presidential candidates.

I doubt Mrs. Palin has a clue what I am talking about.

Enough is enough

2008-09-04T07:57:00.000-07:00

Things are winding down at work. If you hadn’t guessed from the Cuntasarous Rex blog, I’ve been seeking other places of employment. I’m glad to say things have worked out that I’ve found something.

The process of finding this job was more difficult that ever – not sure if it’s the economy or me. For this job alone I went through a grueling 20 interviews over an 8-month period with numerous partners, Senior Managers, and dealing with questions like “Say you have a rock, some sand, and a lighter and needed to build a nuclear bomb, where would you start?”. Then there were questions like “Tell me what you would do if you had a model that gave you nonsensical values and there was nothing you could do.” My response “Huh, well, you answered your own question. I guess you’re not really looking to hire right now” they retort “That’s not true, if you can’t answer that one then prove there are not dinosaurs on Pulto.”

Um, could you please give me my resume back? I need extra copies for real people.

But it all paid off and I’m excited to get back into the consulting world. The rank-and-file corporate structure is really not for me.

The resignation process was not pretty. I had to call my boss on the beach and ruin her vacation (if it were any other person, I would have felt bad) then deal with her boss trying to convince me to stay.

SVP Marketing: So tell me about where you’re going and why you are leaving.
Me: Um, got a consulting job working where I’m going to be working on some pretty cool projects with smart team members.
SVP: Well, you know we are working on rolling out some really cool things. We are not there yet but I can see us being as sophisticated as your clients would be.
Me: Really? I didn’t know that. What are we planning? What’s the vision?
SVP: The vision is the vision. The plan is in place.
Me: Um, OK. What is the point of this meeting?
SVP: It’s funny, I was just talking to the CEO to increase your stock in the company.
Me: Why? He doesn’t even know who I am.
SVP: You’re valuable. Why are you really leaving? Is it your boss?
Me: I can’t stand her.
SVP: Well, you have to manage up all the time. I manage up. She’s difficult, I know, but you just have to deal with her and manage up.
Me: If you want someone to deal with her I can tell you without reservation it will not be me. She’s a monster. Everyone is quitting. I can’t keep a team in place because she keeps beating them up.
SVP: So what would a good counter-offer look like to you?
Me: A 401K rollover form.

2008-08-15T20:58:00.001-07:00

Growing well into my 30 has, well, been an experience. This year I am 33. Truth be told, my birthday is not for a couple of weeks yet but I’m in Provincetown for it. So friends have celebrated it on the off-days, which is fine with me. To this end, Michael has been good enough to invite me to dinner tonight to celebrate (New Yorkers have things to do and birthdays are celebrated when time permits) my birthday.

He met me at Saks Fifth Avenue, where I work, after which we went to the Waldorf Astoria for a drink before making our way downtown to Butter, the hottest restaurant in SoHo. Michael knew the chef so we were treated to the tasting menu with a wine pairing. Over the duration of this 4-hour, 6-course meal we had culinary triumphs ranging from asparagus soup to foie gras. It was an inspiration. During the meal we joked, chatted, and talked about life as the wait staff catered to our every need while we got drunk. He then gave me a Callas photograph book, the book “The Libson Traviata,” from which Verdi’s “La Traviata" was derived along with a wonderful arrangement of flowers. I have to say it was wonderful.

Tonight was one of the most generous and thoughtful birthday celebrations.

My cup runnith over.

2008-07-29T16:55:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. Unlike other times where my excuses have been living in the fast lane in New York City, going to fine cultural institutions and restaurants, or fleeting romances that have left me devastated and unable to write, this time I’m going to tell you the truth. A little background. . .

In my boss I have found a new species of life, the Cuntasorous Rex. Though warm-blooded, she hasn’t an iota of the kindness or compassion that is common among mammals. It is even rumored her children were hatched from eggs. She is highly territorial and firmly believes in submission to leaders, hierarchy, and bullies people for no other reason that that she is able to. What was once thought to be a laugh – a high-pitched, nervous, hheheheheheehehe – I have discovered to be a desperate mating call to her species, for she is sex-deprived. Though having the cerebral cortex, her body has severed its links to it and is now a limp, useless organ like a spleen or appendix; her entire consciousness is controlled by the id, the most primitive part of the brain.

Many of my friends who have had the misfortune of seeing the angry side of me – it comes out every once in a while after gracefully tolerating, well, bull shit (among other such things) for long periods of time. Recently, a galactic, solar flare-up has occurred and I am trying to get out of this dreadful situation. So dreadful that every morning when I wake up and get on the bus to work, I hope it does not drop me off.

Recession Weekend

2008-06-13T18:23:00.000-07:00

You know the economy is not all that great when a company like mine, that sells handbags upwards of $2,000 and face creams that average $400, sees its business slow at a rate of something like 20%. When these people start to cut back and put that money in the bank, you know there are fundamental issues with the economy.

It’s appropriate, then, that I declared this weekend “Recession Weekend.” What this, more precisely, means is that I’m not going out this weekend. I’ve got a stock of food in the freezer and a cupboard full of booze -- a party can be had in my apartment at absolutely no cost. So friends were invited to partake in Recession Weekend. A cynic would ask me what role the charges for next season’s opera tickets going through had, or buying a $200 bottle of champagne for Michael, Rachel and I had. (Yea, those are on the charge bill as well.)

Recession Weekend officially started tonight with blogging, sipping a vodka and tonic, doing laundry, and listening to “ring my bell.” Even with this appealing music, alas, no friends have taken me up on this. Bobby has had some sort of large piece of meat marinating all week and I’ll bring some of the Recession booze over there where we will be joined by others (we hope).

So what cultural activities have contained me in my place during a beautiful weekend in New York? (This is actually the motivation for this blog, to talk about the opera, bear with me.)

There’s the routine like Cav/Pag, Boheme, Adriana Lecouvreur, Don Giovanni, Eugene Onegin; then there’s vocal showpieces like La Sonnambula, and Lucia. But then there is the extraordinary. The reigning diva, Fleming is going to be singing Rusalka, her signature role, along with Thaïs. The final showing of the current Ring Cycle (which I am seeing) and, my god, some pretty damn cool special events. Mary and I are going to opening night to see Renee Fleming sing an act of Traviata, Manon, and Capriccio. Then the Met celebrates its 125th season with a gala. I can’t wait. But what I am, believe it or not, looking most forward to is the revival of Karita Matilla singing Salome. Who can pass up full frontal nudity, necrophilia, the murder of a saint, and vocal drama at the opera? Not me. Secondly, is seeing Madama Butterfly again. Our new butterfly, Racette, is marvelous. Add to this one the best production of the opera I’ve ever seen, and you have the perfect evening at the opera.

Fuck handbags, the economy is going to shit when I stop seeing these marvelous performances.

2008-06-04T19:15:00.000-07:00

I honestly can’t believe that the primaries are finally over. Bup. We’ve witnessed Florida and Michigan being banned from the primary process, outspoken preachers and priests (and defections from the church), Hillary getting choked up in a Café, Bill fuming that the very media that was on his side for a decade was suddenly against them, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I’m really going to miss that drama. Truth be told, there is certainly more to come.

The reality is that the Clinton machine, through powerful, just doesn’t quite get there – witness Gore and now Hillary. Deep down inside I think many Americans know - myself included - that the prosperity of the Bill Clinton years was more fortuitous than anything he did. He got a little too much credit for what he inherited from the Bush (H.W.) and the Reagan years.

I voted for Obama. Was it because of a vast political history or experience? No. It was in spite of those qualities. I really don’t want the old rank-and-file Bush-Clinton legacy crap that we’ve dealt with for almost 20 years. I want something new. I really don’t care for Obama's view on Iraq because we made that mess and have the responsibility to clean it up. I don’t care for his view on outsourcing and the economy. I would have rather had Hillary’s health care policy that covers everyone, than his. Honestly, until the last Bush came into power I wasn’t even a registered Democrat (I was an independent). Alas, I have fallen victim to the demagoguery brought about by the George W. Bush years.

That being said, it’s going to be an interesting general election. Parts of me even want to vote for McCain. But we’ll see where I, as a fickle American, land as I get to know the candidates. But, for better or worse (usually), politics is a winner-take-all game.

Let the games begin.

2008-05-26T17:30:00.000-07:00

I was back once again to Chicago. A friend that was out of town had an apartment there where Rob and I bartered a stay with dogsitting.

When we got there we discovered was a 110 lb, unneutered bull mastiff named Max. Instantly what we first thought was a boon (hotel rooms that weekend were extremely expensive) turned unto a fair trade. We were told he would be in his cage and would have to calm him down with some treats before touching him. When we walked in he’d broken out of his cage and was on the couch looking suspiciously at us. Great.

Max was all id. He cared about nothing more than eating, going for walks to mark territory, sex, and kicking other dogs’ asses. During the day, reining Max in required discipline, domination, doggie treats, and a choker collar with metal spikes and keeping him off your leg – all of which were detailed in the instructions.

But once the rapport was established, he was a joy. His mammalian traits came though and he was playful and affectionate. I found a rope to play tug-of-war with him. He threw me across the room. And in the evening he just wanted company while he slept. Max snored, farted, belched, sighed, and tossed in his sleep after he climbed into bed with me – it was like I had a boyfriend again. Despite this I fell in love with this dog. Again, it was like having a boyfriend.

The trick is never to take this for granted. I was walking down the street when two other dogs passed by and growled at him. He lunged toward them with his giant mouth, yanking me off balance while he attempted to kill them. I pulled on the choker with all my strength to bring him under control. “Sorry, he doesn’t like other dogs, I guess.” Thank god for the spiked, choker collar.

Other excitement included having lunch with my grandparents and aunt, taking them to buy flowers for their planters, and hanging out with Rob, opera friends, Jean, and college friends in the evenings. I was also able to see my brother and his partner.

As much as I love my family, it irritated me that they hadn’t taken my grandparents to do neglected things like put air in the car’s tires, wash the car, fix a leaky pipe, or stick around and talk to them. So I tended to all those matters. This all came to a head when we went out for a giant Chinese meal and my bother and his partner took ALL the left-overs (there were a ton). Grandma and Grandpa could have lived off that for a couple weeks and they didn’t even think about it when they casually took it. As I tried to casually say “grandma why don’t you take some of those?” I knew she would NEVER have said yes, but I was giving them the opportunity to insist on giving them to her. He never did.

Despite this, it was a nice weekend and seeing Val, taking care of the dog, hanging out with rob, drinking with old friends, connecting with people and teary, boozy nights talking about past loves, and family.

Sometimes you need that.

Max, built for strength and agression, trained for companionship, and exhausted after a walk / nearly eating three dogs. Apparently not quite built for cardio.

take a ride on the peace train

2008-05-20T17:05:00.000-07:00

If censuses were taken daily they would have found that on Sunday the gay population of a certain conservative neighborhood in Brooklyn - roughly speaking - quintupled (albeit to a staggering 20). No, it wasn’t because of a gay rally or Madonna concert; It wasn’t because there was some nude male art opening in the fashionable DUMBO or Brooklyn Heights neighborhoods. No. It was, in fact, way the hell out in machismo land by the Verrazano Bridge; it was in Bay Ridge; it was in my apartment. Oh yea! It was because yours truly through a killer party.

After weeks of agonizing over deciding the food to order, food to make, the types of booze to provide, the music (a la Bobby) and, most importantly, who to invite, there was a buzz about this party for some unknown reason. I was astounded. In some ways worlds collided. Straight friends, gay friends, work people, and even the family of guests came in from Jersey to Chelsea, to the Upper East Side and all the way from Westchester to attend. It could have been a disaster. But, thank GOD, everyone had a ball.

Those there for the group shot were, counterclockwise from the left, Matt (not me), Sonya, Bobby, Mary, Frank, Jerry, Rob, John, Nicole, Anthony, Frank (another), Chris, Michael, Chris (another), Joe, Linda, and Robert. Taking the photo is me. Sinfully late were Robert (yes, another ROBERT), and Max, the estranged ex.

It was my largest party. But perhaps my parties are like goldfish. . . the larger the bowl, the bigger they become. And with rents in Bay Ridge my fish bowl got a lot bigger.

2008-04-28T11:26:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure if it started with my bonus, Bobby’s arrival, or the good weather, but whatever it was I have partying like a rock star these days. Night after night, there was always someone I was willing to oblige in going out and, night after night, I was probably drinking a little too much (OK a lot) and staying out a little too late and going to work looking rough around the edges.

Amid all this, there were some highlights. Last weekend was a weekend with Michael. It started off with opera night at his place and continued on when he got us tickets to see Un Ballo in Maschera at the Met. I saw it earlier this season with my mother and wasn’t that crazy about it. Perhaps it was the improvement in company, seats (we were in the front grand tier), or weather because I had a wonderful time this time around.

The following Monday and Friday I feel like I was out every night and vaguely remember a thing from it, though I do recall going with Rob on another fateful trip to Therapy, a bar in Hell’s Kitchen, hanging out with an old colleague or two, then finally getting to the weekend exhausted. Nonetheless, Friday night I went out with Rob before throwing myself over the edge and heading to meet Michael and his friends in Chelsea. Uuuuugh.

Saturday I toned it down a bit. In fact, I had a great day. Shaking off a hangover and sleep deprivation, Mary and I met in the city for brunch then saw the HD performance of La Fille du Régiment. After, we found a great wine bar before going to a German restaurant for dinner. Sunday was got even more low-key with going to Bobby’s for homemade soup and cookies while playing some Scrabble.

So during all this it was a miracle that I was able to keep to my commitment to quit smoking. Many of you probably only think of me as a smoker when I drink; Problem is that seems to be ALL THE TIME and the lungs are not doing so great. It’s been just over a week now and I feel so much better.

Time to kick the smoking habit once and for all, and get the going out thing under control.

2008-04-07T07:41:00.001-07:00

Being an “opera purist” I have always advocated seeing an opera in an opera house to truly experience the art form’s power. How else can you really understand how a singer uses volume, how the voice blends with the orchestra by any other means than being in the balcony and “feeling” that voice project up to you. And, to be honest, they have never truly replicated the sound of the human voice and all its nuances. I remember hearing my first pianissimo (a “soft” tone, yet projected and powered) it sent chills up my spine.

So when the Metropolitan opera introduced live HD telecasts into movie theaters last season I wondered what the point was. We can all purchase recordings and DVDs for a similar price and to experience it live, why not go to the opera itself? But as friends and family who have gone to these telecasts raved, on Saturday Mary and I decided to what all the hype was about. Saturday was La Boheme, an opera I happen to know every note of by heart, and the production was one of Zeferelli’s most famous.

The opera opens with Renee Fleming, today’s reigning diva, sitting on the side of the sets, introducing the opera. She then walks to the flies of the stage by the prompter who cues the maestro. The next shot is in the green room and the cameras follow him out into the pit. The curtain goes up and the opera begins.

It was marvelous, the camera work was world-class and the production held up despite the close ups (usually). The backstage interviews with the singers, stagehands, chorus, explaining what this opera means, and how they pull it off, brought this esoteric art form down to earth.

The sound, of course, was nothing like it was live; a bit unbalanced. Well, you can’t have everything. This is, in some ways, a new art form that works incredibly well. Seeing as now this is being broadcast almost everywhere in the US and around the world, I think we can say that the world agrees.

2008-04-04T14:46:00.000-07:00

In a city as big and densely populated as New York, it’s amazing how many people one can interact with and not get to know. After going to the same deli and ordering the same thing day-after-day, there are times when I would venture to say it is the good employees at Liberty Deli that know me best.

Alas, those are only on those days when I’m being melodramatic. On one front, I have the good friends that I don’t see (in Chicago) those in Chicago that I do see (Rob, Mary, a couple of others) and I’m glad to report some new additions. Most of which have come to me, some way or another, through my enjoyment of opera.

No, it’s not going to the opera house that I meet anyone new – it’s like meeting someone in a movie theater. You see, knowing me is hearing me rant about the opera, going to the opera, and listening to it when you come over (and even over a teary martini). So when my friends meet new people that are fans they generally try to connect me to them by saying “oh you should meet Matt, he’s a fan, too.” And so it goes that I’m eventually introduced. In some ways it’s like being a smoker; there aren’t many of you but you share something so esoteric that you immediately let your guard down with that person and have stuff to talk about.

Ok, ok, so where am I going with all this? I met a cool new friend, Michael, through his friend that lives in Wisconsin, Brock, who dated – at one point – a guy who just broke up with my friend in Chicago. Exhale. Inhale. And while I’ve generally met a lot of other opera fans, this is one of the first that is not a) a snob, b) totally anti-social, c) boring, d) 90+ years old, etc. Layer on that a good soul who's lots of fun and there you have it, a recipe for good, new people in my life.

2008-03-24T17:48:00.001-07:00

Non-Christmas holidays in New York, for me, have typically been shared with other people’s families. Recently, I’ve spent the holidays with friends families – more specifically, Rob’s family. So for those of us not used to meals with hard-core Italian folks, it can be quite an eye-opening experience.

Just about every domesticated animal, and perhaps a few chipmunks that wandered too close to our dining room table, die for these meals that, yesterday, lasted from 1:30 to 8pm. It all started out with about 6 appetizers (there were 9 of us), then led to the first course of lasagna, meatballs and sausage. That was followed by a petite serving of a half a chicken for each of us along with stuffing, vegetables, and red wine. We were then served with the main course, ham. As if that weren’t enough, we had an ice cream cake, coconut pie, cookies, and brownies served with tea and caramel candies.

The whole experience, I have to say, was delightful. Unlike my family meals that are totally functional – everyone eating one course only to go about their ways. The nine of us sat at the table the entire time and talked about family and what’s going on in each other’s lives with sincere participation. The myriad of courses that seem over-the-top are in fact only to buy the time everyone needed to catch up and bond. In fact, during the 7.5 hour meal, nobody got up from the table except to do dishes or go to the restroom.

After a couple of these meals I have to say that Rob's family probably has the art of the family meal right.

2008-03-21T10:40:00.001-07:00

Oddly, I don’t remember going out so much in Manhattan when I lived here. Lately, I seem to have so much to do here. . . maybe I just didn’t realize it. Who knows.

It seemed like it’s been a never-ending wave of social things. Monday night a friend’s birthday brought me way up to Westchester for dinner. If you don’t know New York geography, my home in Bay Ridge and Westchester are so far that the respective indigenous people have different languages. It was a long journey back home, and a late night.

I got though the day on Tuesday then went up to Columbia University where my good friend, former colleague, and life coach (it seems) was having myself, Mary and Rachel over for dinner. It’s usually a civilized evening but with his wife and kids in the Cape for Spring break, things spiraled out of control. Before we knew it we were breaking into 100 point wines and dancing in the living room. The rage ended with us pouring out our emotions at 3am. Yes, 3 AM!!! I don’t even do that on the weekends, let along a school night.

Wednesday was rough. Working on three hours of sleep I managed to give a presentation and do a lot of crazy work before boarding the express bus home and immediately falling asleep in my chair. Last night I met up for drinks with Rob. It seemed like the last thing I needed but I was obliged since Rob had a place in the Village to crash at.

The only point to tediously detailing my whereabouts for the last week is that I think it’s all catching up to me. A cold or something worse is coming upon me and tonight I have to go out to dinner in SoHo with friends that are in from London. I really don’t want to go. But how often will I be able to see them?

Uuuuugh.

2008-02-28T19:56:00.000-08:00

After a long fight to upgrade the standards of things, my tyrannical boss had her first major triumph in winning us a million dollars in funding for a major database project (and recognition by top management as a force to reckoned with). Getting money in a company struggling during these uncertain economic times is no trivial matter.

I’m impressed. In the next year of so this will mean less bull-shitting around by my team writing queries that produce some fairly basic reports (a fairly sophisticated querying tool will enable users to do this themselves) and allow us to focus on more strategic and complex analyses. This is really secondary to the fact that my boss is now in a great mood, and will focus her attention on fixing these technical things. In effect, I’m finally being left alone as she wallows in her success and in working on this big project.

For once, she comes into my office with a smile on her face. She leaves me alone as I aid the merchandising and marketing folks in their analytical needs - she’s focused on her million-dollar project. She is far less petty and involved with my day-to-day activities that have contributed to my irritation with the job.

Things are looking good (for the time being). During our bleak business outlook, I think I can be of great assistance. Patients that are healthy require very little. Now that the patient is sick, I now have an opportunity to be an asset to the company navigating through it.

Sticking this thing out would mean being a part of a team that is truly changing things. It’s time for the ER to really pull through in saving the patient. I now have a consultant working for me who is worth his weight in gold, and am getting so much more done than with the team I inherited who are now gone. I now search for more folks to build out my team and am going to be extremely particular in choosing them. I don’t want to work with mediocrity any more.

For the first time since I've joined, I’m encouraged.

2008-02-25T18:20:00.000-08:00

It was a weekend of new things for me. You see, I’ve known my good friend Rob for about 6 years now, and it’s just this year that I’m starting to get to know his family, quintessential New York Italians.

Sunday I was invited over to his family's for dinner. Dinner with them, I found, is not a just meal but an epic journey where many generations gather for a larger occation wherein all involved debate the good and bad of what they are up to.

I arrived at 1pm expecting lasagna. When I walked in there were two turkeys on the counter. “What are those for?” I thought. “Are we having turkey?” I said. “Um, lasagna is just part of the journey.” Rob told me.

Dish after dish was served between cigars, neighbors coming in, biting criticism, children, grandchildren, aunts and uncles, wine, alcohol, coffee, nuts, and more conversation and drama than one could shake a stick at. There, clearly, is a lot of history among these people here. I finally understood where Rob got his confrontational style that, despite its harshness, ultimately forgot and forgave. I felt like part of the family. (All at a palatial home along the Hudson in Westchester, just north of the Bronx. )

Mother (80 years old): “What are we thinkin’ electing these morons in Yonkers?! I couldn't get anywhere during the snow on Friday!”

Rob: Well, the people cleaning the snow were stuck in the same storm you were getting to work.”
Mother: What?! You can’t turn on the damn weather channel and figure out that a storm was comin'? You cheap son’s a bitches just didn’t want to pay overtime and have em come in early!”

Rob: They were stuck? What can I do? (He works for the city.)

Mother: Enough with your smart mouth! Matt. Be a dear and pass the beans. You don’t look like you work for the city. What do you do?

Me: Um. I work for. . . .

Mother (to Rob): Are you sayin’ I complain? Are you sain’ I don’t know what I’m talkin about? What you are is naïve.

Rob (put in his place by mom): I’m not saying nothin. Let’s just eat.

Mother: (Says nothing but has a look on her face that could kill.)

All men then go down to the smoking room and drink and smoke more.

It’s like the family I always wanted. Cut to the chase and don’t hold back, but don't go too far, either. All during a 10 course meal that would put Little Italy out of business.

Aunt (turning to me): Are you Italian?

Me: No

Aunt: Do you appreciate Italian food?

Me: Absolutely

Aunt: Well, you're never going to have it again till you come back. Mark my words. . . Now pass that damn sambuca. Ha! Gimme your damn glass. Why are you so quiet.

Me: Um, well. ..

Aunt (pouring into my glass and hers): Oh, just shut up and drink this with me.

I'm in heavan.

2008-02-20T20:10:00.000-08:00

I’ve been pretty busy with New York life lately. It came with my mother’s arrival where we saw three operas “Il Barbiere di Siviglia,” “Die Walkure” and “Otello.”

Barbiere, the Bel Canto masterpiece was executed with dignity - despite the muffled sound coming from the staging - was taken in with great pleasure.

“Die Walkure,” with its famed third act overture presenting the steadfast female warriors made (in)famous by everything from Bugs Bunny (Kill da rabbit) to “I love the smell of napalm in the morning” (Apocalypse Now), was presented in raw form. Sheer vocal power and brilliant conducting made sure the great orchestra and sopranos (hurling out those high c’s) brought a drama that reminded us why this piece pervades popular culture. And nobody can assemble the singers, conducting, and orchestra the great Metropolitan Opera can. It was a thrilling evening.

Then there is Otello, Verdi’s operatic adaptation of Shakespeare’s Othello—the pinnacle of Italian opera. Where the Met needed to pull things off vocally, the all-star cast delivered. I can rarely think of an opera where the audience was stunned into silence at the end of the great arias. Botha and Fleming did it – not a single applause at any point. In the dark prayer “Ave Maria,” one of my personal favorites, Desdemona awaits her murder with such stunning drama and sang like her own life ended. We sat silently and let the music come over us in silence.

My mother was there for a little over a week. And I have to say I was exhausted with her company. I love her to death, but we are clearly coming from different walks of life. I’ll elaborate later, but for the time being lets just say the week was nice, but ended up like a bad date: Exhausted, unaffiliated, and ultimately relieved when we were apart.

Maazel at the Met, Brünnhilde in a Bind.

2008-02-17T21:05:00.000-08:00

My aunt, in her 70s now living in rural Indiana knows I love the opera and sent me the following poem about La Callas. Can you imagine how big Callas was? 35 years after her death the Kouts Times publishes something -- let along poetry -- about her.

Here is Arizona poet Steve Orlen's lovely tribute to the great opera singer, Maria Callas. Most of us never saw her perform, or even knew what she looked like, but many of us listened to her on the radio or on our parents' record players, perhaps in a parlor like the one in this poem.

In the House of the Voice of Maria Callas

In the house of the voice of Maria Callas
We hear the baby's cries, and the after-supper
Rattle of silverware, and three clocks ticking
To different tunes, and ripe plums
Sleeping in their chipped bowl, and traffic sounds
Dissecting the avenues outside. We hear, like water
Pouring over time itself, the pure distillate arias
Of the numerous pampered queens who have reigned,
And the working girls who have suffered
The envious knives, and the breathless brides
With their horned helmets who have fallen in love
And gone crazy or fallen in love and died
On the grand stage at their appointed moments--
Who will sing of them now? Maria Callas is dead,
Although the full lips and the slanting eyes
And flared nostrils of her voice resurrect
Dramas we are able to imagine in this parlor
On evenings like this one, adding some color,
Adding some order. Of whom it was said:
She could imagine almost anything and give voice to it.

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

On the kindness of strangers

2008-02-04T18:46:00.000-08:00

New York City is pretty much on everyone’s short list of one of the biggest concentrations of, at best, indifference, pettiness, and an every-man-for-himself mindset; at worst it’s a place most likely place to be exposed to scams (outside of Washington DC), selfishness, and petty crime. New York can be a heartless place.

So when my laptop, checkbook, and other belongings were left in a cab, I didn’t even consider the possibility of someone returning them. In fact, I didn’t even want to bother to report it figuring it was sold on e-bay by the next morning. But Rob told me to do so and I did.

With my tail in between my legs, I went into work this morning and had to deal with the fallout from the loss. I cancelled all the checks I had known to be unaccounted for, including rent and personal debts written in the last week that I didn’t know the check numbers of. I then sent an e-mail to IT explaining the situation. I spent the morning on the phone with those with my outstanding checks begging them not to deposit them. I then spent an hour at the bank writing official checks and overnighting them.

Throughout all this, there was a message on my voice with what I assumed to be IT’s interrogation of what proprietary information was on it and weather or not we needed to contact police for a potential data leak. So I let the light blink on my desk for the entire morning before I had the courage to listen to it.

I prepare for my beating and dial into voice mail. Someone with a French accent saying:

“This is Adrian. I found your laptop in a cab on Saturday. I’m going to be in the city this afternoon and can return it to you. Please give me a call at . . . ”

You could have knocked me over with a feather.

I called back and he answered telling me to meet him at a location in Chelsea to pick it up. When I got there I found myself in a private art gallery and with someone at the door telling me that there was no male named Adrian she knew. Shit, this seemed too good to be true. I called “Adrian” back thinking I’d gotten the wrong address, or suspecting a scam: “I’m here, on 14th street. Not sure where you are but give me a buzz back.” I loiter in the front of the building loosing hope. He calls back: “I’m here. I’ll be right down.”

And there he was with my briefcase as the door woman saying “Oh my! Yes! I’m such a fool, he works as a waiter! You must be so relieved.” She had no idea.

I turn to him with what I hope came across as sincere gratitude. “Thank you so much. You have no idea what relief this is and how unbelieveable it is that someone turned this up. Can I give you something as a token of my appreciation?” He seemed reluctant. And I just pulled some cash out of my walled and gave it to him. I wanted to hug him, but it didn’t seem appropriate. “This is a good man.” I announced to everyone around. “He’s returned my belongings that I left in a taxi over the weekend.” “Good Karma for him” they said.

I don’t think I had any business cards in the brief case, so he must have seen the property sticker of “Saks Incorporated” and my name on the checkbook and called the company to get my work number, which would explain why he had to wait until Monday morning to contact me.

And this is what that great, cruel New York City (and the French) has against it: prejudice, even in our own eyes.

2008-02-04T10:50:00.000-08:00

With travel to FL, visitors in from out of town, working on weekend, etc., having a weekend without commitments is something of a rarity, these days: Last weekend was such a weekend.

Friday night I went with my friend Michael to see the Met’s production of Puccini’s “Manon Lescaut.” After a relatively long week at work fighting with the boss, I would have been content (even preferred) an evening at a bar with a martini in hand. But we’d planned this for a while and there was no turning back. Man, am I glad I did. The opera, which isn’t often performed, was moving, and the cast was fantastic.

We drifted over to the Mandarin Oriental for a swank cocktail after. Bopping around town, first to Lincoln Center, then to Columbus Circle with my gym bag and laptop (which I rarely take with me) friends were joking that I’d become some sort of mule. Nonetheless I endured. There is a point to this, I promise.

I took a taxi home that night, which is something I don’t do too often. It was about 2am when I was dropped off. I walk up the stairs and realized: I only had one bag on me. Yep, after schlepping that thing around all night, I left it in the cab.

There was nothing I could do except call Taxi and Limo Commission and police to report it lost. Of course, my checkbook was in it too, so I had to place a stop payment on all my checks.

Looking on the bright side, I wouldn’t be able to work, then. So I woke up the next day and took care of dozens of errands, cleaned the bathroom, and went for a jog. It was a wonderful day. I then went to a dinner party where I met up with my old colleague and some of her HBS friends. We had a ball. One guest was a reporter for Fox news that night (we talked about beauty products) the rest were typical of what Mercer analysts go on to do. . . go to graduate school to make gobs of money in Finance, or live the life of an academic. There were a couple of obnoxious egos there, but it was otherwise fine.

The next day was Super Bowl Sunday and I found myself in Queens at a party with potato chips, chili, and baked brie with Shrimp (don’t ask). Not really knowing what I was doing there, I found myself engrossed in the game. By the end I found myself cheering for the Giants and having a ball.

So there you have it. Perhaps the most eclectic weekend imaginable: From opera and the Mandarin to a dinner party with Harvard’s heavy hitters, to cleaning my toilets, to a super bowl party in Queens.

2008-01-29T17:59:00.001-08:00

In my adult years I’ve not been that close to relatives on my Mother’s side of the family. The family is big: My mother was one of nine children and I have dozens of cousins. That side of the family also mostly lives relatively far away in remote areas of Indiana. So these are my excuses for not knowing them.

I had extremely close relationships with two of the cousins in my youth (Christine and Fred, who is now in Iraq). Growing up however, we had little in common and drifted apart. So it was a pleasant surprise to me that in my adult years I’ve become relatively close to my cousin Bobby.

It happens that he moved out to Florida a year or so back. It should require relatively little convincing to leave the frigid winter of New York for a trip to where it is in the high 70s, I finally made it down there to visit him.

And it was like old times. We hung out and talked incessively about the family, told jokes, and debated the bounties of New York life, where he once lived with me for a little while (helping me to get past the long-term relationship that brought me there).

I had a ball. We toured Naples, went to the beach, checked out the nightlife, and dined in their restaurants. Though the weather and people are wonderful, I see where he would compare Florida with New York and be somewhat disappointed. The people have a comparative advantage in kindness, but not so much so in style/sophistication. Seeing, eating, and breathing that style and sophistication with little underneath, the trip was actually a breath of fresh air (to someone working in high-end retail).

I’m back, though, with a vengeance. The weekend did me good – seeing family, friendly people, and living the lifestyle with my cousin was a welcome diversion from my hard-core NYC days. And I think it was good for him, too. Moving away is no trivial matter and having familiar people around helps, as does having a couple vodka martinis.

Make history

2008-01-28T22:07:00.000-08:00

If one could classify the great classical world, there are the current divas, great conductors/composers, and then there are the operatic legends. Last week, though a friend of mine, I was able to go to opera’s only award ceremonies, the Opera Awards, where they are honored, not with a cheesy “nominees” vs. the “winners”, but with simply a ceremony that takes a long view of the art and hands out five awards to those presently singing, and those having sung. It was black tie, at the majestic Pierre hotel on the Upper East Side.

This years’ awards honored the current great singers: Olga Borodina, the mezzo that sung to great dramatic acclaim, then to the great comedies of Rossini; Stephanie Blithe, who sang the great roles of Verdi, to Puccini’s triptych, Il Trittico (one of my personal greatest moments at the Met); Then there was Thomas Hampson, the ham of the baritone repertory. More seriously, there was the vocal conductor Julias Rudel, who conducted more singers and world premiers than I can count. But, honestly, the reason we were all there was to see Leontyne Price, the ledgenary soprano, be honored.

On an operatic level, she was the one of the greatest sopranos in recorded history. She’d sung the great Verdian and Puccini operas to perfection. On a personal level, she was an American inspiration. Wikipedia recalls: Once, when discussing whether she would sing in Atlanta, the Met's general manager Rudolf Bing warned her she wouldn't be able to stay in the same segregated hotel with the company. She looked at him and said, "Don't worry, Mr. Bing, I'm sure you can find a place for me and the horse."

You see, see she made her fame during the early 60s, a time of racial turmoil. No doubt, Marian Anderson opened the door for black artists when she was denied her performance in Washington with the Daughters of the Revolution, then invited to sing by Ms Roosevelt to sing at the Lincoln Memorial. Then there was Leontyne Price, with her flawless technique, smoky voice, and technical perfection, that completely ripped that door off its fucking hinges.

In her Met debut she was afraid to take her curtain call for fear of the audience’s reaction to a “colored” Leonora. She was shoved onto the stage by friends. The ovation set the Met’s record for its longest – 41 minutes – and still stands today. (You can find her sounds in the Met's archives with her perfect trills and rich sound - 1961.) She would later become the standard in the soprano-crushing operas. Just last month, PBS had a voted “the greatest moments at the Met” where Price won over Pavarotti, Callas, Domingo, Sutherland, Felmming, etc.

Second only to Callas, in my mind, was this great Verdian soprano. You can imagine when I was standing at the door at the ceremony, and saw her at 72, thin, (fragile) and elegant. I’m not sure how, but I escorted her to the reception. “You are an inspiration.” I told her. In her own dignified way, she said in her Southern accent: “Thank you.” “It is the honor of my life to meet you.” I said. “Thank you.” And that was the beginning and end of my interactions with Price.

When she came out to receive her award, after a tear-jerking recording of “O Patria Mia.” she said a few brief words. Then she simply sang a few lines with those glorious Price tones (at 72!). I heard Price sing!

I was honored to hear her. We all were.

Those that came to honor her were none other than the GM of the Met, current great singers (that I met such) Voigt, DiDonato, Grahm; Broadway ledgends like Barbara Cook; conductors (Rudel); generals of the Army (I forget their names); great singers of the Met’s past such as Roberta Peters and Robert Merrill; and New York’s social elite.

Her portrait hangs in the Met with but a few dozens of others (among them, Caruso, Callas, Toscaninni, Verdi, Strauss, etc.) like King’s bust in the Capital. OK, i'm being a little dramatic here.

2008-01-23T18:49:00.000-08:00

There are certain types of people that, when they visit, you know it’s going to be a wild weekend. They come in with expectations of what New York can deliver, and you plan the events accordingly, namely that there will be great food, Broadway, and fun little places to hang out.

My childhood friend decided to pay me a visit. With him living in the area where I grew up (and me not) his visits, even here in New York, are something of a homecoming. Separately, one of the problems of having recently dropped out of a PhD program is that I have made friends with people still in grad school, with all their graduate school mentality. So when Josh decided to come up with his girlfriend (my former macro TA) I knew I was in for a wild time. AND they would both be here at the same time.

It is, honestly, a miracle that I survived this time together. When I picked diggerblue up at the airport we went back to my digs in Brooklyn where Josh and Olena were waiting for us. We went out for Asian fusion in the neighborhood for a great meal and drinks. Though Josh and Olena went home after, diggerblue and I had a chance to really hang out (until four in the morning).

The following day meant more fun in the city and we got tickets to see “The Homecoming,” a bizarre play by Pinter, followed by a themed afternoon of drinking in Times Square, Rockafeller Center, Grand Central and South Street Seaport (give me a break, we wanted to go to The Strand). That night we ended up at a piano bar in the village and sang and drank into the night. Sunday was rough. And with football on everyone’s mind we watched it with the good folks of Brooklyn before heading out to Sushi Samba for more drinks and dinner.

It was a fun weekend. I get used to hanging out at home and sometimes it takes guests to come in and remind me that there something better than THAT routine. But, dear God, I cannot afford such extravaganzas all the time.

It was fun while it lasted.

2008-01-02T20:08:00.000-08:00

The holidays are finally totally behind me. Thank God. Family has come and gone, coordinating obligations among friends and family is complete (for better or worse) and I rang in the new year with virtually complete strangers. It all ended up without too much drama.

So 2008 brings me many things under my control, and hope to change:

1) Doing more with my closest friends and family. Recall my shunning Naomi for Thanksgiving, not visiting everyone for Christmas when I was in town, not going to Cali except for Christmas, and being, well, a little too aloof.
2) Learning a new language. This is perhaps less noble. I want to learn Italian. So I’m going to be taking some courses. (This is motivated by the opera, of course.)
3) Saving more money. Moving out to Brooklyn has its financial advantages, which I wish I could realize more of.
4) Embracing Brooklyn socially. Manhattan has continued to be a social hub. I need to start growing some new roots here.

None are trivial; I’m certain to fail at most. But if I can down one, I’m happy. Keep the hopes high and expectations low (that’s the ticket).

Above all, most friends I have know parts of me. I love going to the opera, I love academics (economics) as well as having a good time. I’ve made opera and classical music friends, grad school friends and going out/child hood friends. The worlds seldom collide. I want to change that (I would throw in my romantic interests, but I may as well have set world peace as my resolution). Honestly, my non-classical/operatic friends are my closest, and I will never jeopardize them. Most of this is going to mean a sort-of house-cleaning: Separating the wheat from the chafe among the people in my life.

In 2008 I’m gonna get greedy.

thank God, the big holidays are over

2007-12-27T18:29:00.000-08:00

Christmas, for someone whose family from California to Chicago to New York means a lot of travel and work. I seemed to bear the brunt of it. I quickly visited Chicago before making my way to California to visit the parents. The holidays, to a New Yorker, also mean holiday parties. Over the last few weeks I seemed to spend all evenings mingling with work people, friends, and family. This has led me to believe that there are two types of people in the world: Those that do some serious drinking and those that do not. If you don’t know where you fall, answer the following. During the holidays, do you find yourself:

A) Passed out under a Christmas tree.
B) Doing shots of tequila at a family cocktail party only to wake up not knowing where you were and how you got to bed.
C) Passed out in a subway car on your way back from a party, only to be awakened by the conductor.
D) Knowing the bar tender at the company Christmas party better than your colleagues.
If you answer “yes” to any of these, you are a serious drinker.

I answered “yes” to all.

Mom, having had a great time last year, came back to New York with her friend Paula. We had quite an experience. We were booked into three operas, one of which was one of the hottest tickets in New York: An internationally televised performance of Gounod’s opera “Romeo et Juliet” starring some of the most sought-after singers. Being gay also meant friends were performing in the “Radio City Christmas Spectacular,” which we got a backstage pass to meet the Rockettes, dancers, singers, stagehands, and animals in the performance. We also dined at the finest places New York has to offer and saw the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s stunning angel Christmas tree.

I then spent two days entirely with my grandparents helping them winterize their apartment, putting up their Christmas tree, and taking them out to dinner. (My apologies to friends who I didn’t have time to hang out with – fear not, I will be back in Feb to have fun.) After that I was off to California for the holiday itself.

Being my first retail holiday, things have also been busy at work, working into the night planning for the next two years, and figuring out last-minute Christmas campaigns and helping out the stores.

After a long day of traveling and looking out at the Statue of Liberty on the flight in, I have to say I was glad Christmas was over. What a whirlwind: Three weeks of non-stop travel, socializing and work was finally over. Now all that’s left was getting through New Year’s Eve.

That’s a synch: All I have to do is go to one party, here.

Finally, Christmas Day with my parents.

2007-12-12T20:29:00.000-08:00

I probably mentioned a while back that a few successes in our cosmetics department has helped my career. The cosmetics we distribute are along the lines of the rest of our merchandise: Luxury. Those purchasing on the first floor of our stores fall into two basic categories, eyeliner tourist customers and serious customers obsessed with aging. The later spend nearly $3k a year on creams, lotions, eye products, and makeup. (Picture her, fourty-something beauty that has a rich husband and is potentially competing with the 20-somethings for her spouse.)

With a few major analyses under my belt with one of our top vendors, La Prairie, I was invited to their office a few blocks down on Fifth Avenue to view their marketing strategy for 2008. So we leave our building for the meeting, navigating the droves of tourists in awe of the snowflakes, our “snow people” campaign, a hundred snowflakes that dance to music on our building across from the Rockafeller Center tree, to the offices of this Swiss company that extracts elixirs of youth from caviar, seaweed, and God knows what else. Many of their signature creams can be purchased for ~$900.

Walking into the office we were greeted with a civility that would make Emily Post proud. “Let me take your jacket.” OK, here it is. “Thank you for coming. Please, it is this way to the meeting room.” And we are taken to a divine space adorned with orchids and with a plate of fruit and pastries along with sparking water and just about anything your heart could desire. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” And it is there that products promising to be customers’ fountain of youth are presented along with marketing materials for our best customers. Beauty events ranging from presentations from Jacques Cousteau’s wife to elephants coming down one of our entrances on Fifth Avenue are suggested and planned for. Our cosmetics buyers pour over details before presenting to us who they want to invite to these events.

A reality set in that these people know nothing of their customer besides what we tell them. And it was there I discovered my power. They wanted analyses done. Not bull shit, but real analysis done on why customers come into Saks and what else they are buying in the store, how frequently they visit, and suggestions on what marketing strategies they should employ to engage them.

Being mostly on the agency side, it was nice to be on the other side for a change. They gave us samples, totally had their shit together, and made every attempt to forge a partnership with us to understand and execute solutions to their problems. By the end of the meeting, they were eating out of our hands and gave us samples of their products as “gifts” for coming. I am now cleansing my face with something caviar, Christ! I could get used to this.

And it was then that in departing a meeting that their VP of sales grabbed my hands and kissed my left, then right cheek. “We are really looking forward to working with you on what we think will help drive our business, and yours.” I was stunned.

That was the first time I’ve ever been kissed after a meeting, and my crash-course introduction, awkwardly, into the world of fashion, beauty, and merchandising.

I WAS KISSED, FOR GOD'S SAKE!!!

For a jaded New Yorker, a tortured path to triumph

2007-12-02T19:43:00.000-08:00

Time has been flying by these days. With coffee with the opera club on Monday night, working late on Tuesday, the opera on Wednesday night (that ended up also being a meeting of a friend’s friend), drinks with Rob Friday night, doing volunteer work at the store on Saturday all day, and then finally meeting Sonya and Matt on Saturday night, it's been a busy week. By the time we’d had Korean BBQ and a beer, it was 9pm and I was completely wiped out. I went home, poured myself into pajamas, and went to bed. Feeling a sickness come on, I stayed in today, siped tea and watched the season's first snow fall.

While I generally like to keep this blog to be all about me, me, me, I must also acknowledge other things in the world. Saturday night’s dinner with Sonya and Matt brought the news that they were engaged. Wow!

I’ve known Sonya for about 8 years now. When we worked together we would either work into the night and ate dinner at the firm together, or would leave work ~8pm, go out to a movie to eat a dinner of popcorn & soda. Neither of us wanted to do anything but sleep at home. We’d roll into work around 10am the next day and start the cycle all over again. We worked hard and were the top analysts with the practice, primarilly because we were didn't want to go home. This went on for years.

At the time, this friendship bordered on therapy because it blossomed during the darkest parts of our lives. We always had our tortured love lives to relate to. She’d had the worst of luck, even when she went to Harvard Business School - prime mating grounds for the elite - she found nothing but pain from lovers and family. I was trying to figure my way out of the twilight of a long-term relationship.

She’s been seeing Matt for two years now. He’s wonderful, intelligent, sociable, polite, curious, a classical music/opera enthusiast, and absolutely adorable. Now they are to be married. Her situation gives me hope that even when the odds are against you, love finds its way in.

2007-11-29T20:12:00.000-08:00

Last night I went to see “Le Nozze di Figaro” (The Marriage of Figaro), an opera by Mozart. More than the Puccini and Verdi operas that demand a diva, the music and theater are center stage. The work is a comedy.

Unlike other composers’ comedies such as Rossini that come across more like a Mel Brooks movie, Mozart’s comedies are more like, shall we say, Woody Allen movies. The characters and story are complex, and despite the humor you can find yourself teary. There is no single part that shines, yet it can be an emotional roller coaster.

Mozart’s comedies are not diva roles. But the Met has found such an extraordinary cast that even this ensample opera was turned into a singers' showcase, and, most importantly, what Mozart intended: an insight into humanity that laughs and cries at itself. The singing of these roles had people standing in their seats.

One of the stand-outs was Figaro, performed by Terfel: though conceiving the ridiculous plot, he was, at times, bitten in the ass by it. Those moments tore your heart out. The countess (performed by the fantastic Harteros) who’s husband was after another woman, sang a “Dove Sono” (What happened?) that aroused sniffles of pity up where I sat. This was, no doubt, what Mozart wrote this music to do and why, 250 years after his death, it sold out all the performances.

Brilliant.

Speak softly, but carry a big stick

2007-11-26T17:18:00.000-08:00

A fortune cookie I got, “First they ignore you, then they attack you, then you win” couldn’t be more relevant to my current work situation.

I suppose I got the job because I’ve made my career understanding and enumerating “intangibles” though empirical approaches, a skill they are paying a lot for. Once in the door I now realize the skill needed to do this job is, apparently, political.

It came as a surprise to me that my efforts largely fell on deaf ears, at least initially. This is mostly because my boss, an argumentative bully, has it in her mind that the only good ideas are hers; every day she seemes to remind me how much experience she has while casually insulting my ideas (never mind the fact that my education and consulting experience has trained me far better than she will ever acknowledge, and for more complex things.)

I think my boss relies on me because she has no other choice; my peers have all quit, she was the one who hired me, and there’s so much work that even this control-freak, micro-managing individual has had to take her eye off me. A number of triumphs in the Cosmetics department have solidified my place as a respected and intelligent resource – it also helps that I’m far more pleasant than her to work with. I guess I’ve become a force for her to reckon with. This is not the most pleasant place to be.

She is openly hostile to almost everything I do. Projects involving her are a sort-of sick intellectual tango that we are both are trying to lead. It goes without saying that she and I have completely different ways of approaching problems and I find myself having to compromise a lot of my training in order to work with her. It’s ugly.

It’s come to the point where my favorite part of the work day is reading on the commute in. (It’s so relaxing.) At work, I have to be a shark: acutely aware of my surroundings, circling round and round, never resting, and waiting for the weak point. Apparently this is life in corporate America, especially in Manhattan.

I’m hoping to come to the part where “I win.” For the time being, I’ve found myself being attacked. But I’d rather be attacked than be the unnoticed, irrelevant plant-life nobody wants to go after. I have to be careful, though, play the game, and wait for the truce.

I've thought about quitting, but with the last job being similar in circumstance, I will tough it out and show that I can deal with this - this is the next step in my career. (Higher up in the corporate world is nothing like the cushy jr. R&D jobs I've had, but they pay for it.)

I'm learning.

2007-11-22T18:43:00.000-08:00

Over the course of the last ten years my family has geographically dissipated; my parents moved to California to be among the beauty of the Sierras, I moved to the East Coast to further my education and career (and love life, to no avail), my brother has submerged himself in a relationship (he may as well have moved). For the last few years, I’ve spent Thanksgiving with my ex, my parents have spent it with neighbors, and only my brother has hung out with the family remaining in Chicago.

Christmas, too, has become difficult to spend together. Though we used to get together in California, my brother has recently taken to remaining local. Though I go to Chicago in December for a pre-Christmas with my grandparents, I do not spend the holiday itself there. Getting together with the family during the holidays is like herding cats.

In short, the holidays, once a bastion of local family and friends, has fallen victim to a change of who our family is.

This Thanksgiving Max, his mother, and I (my brother was SUPPOSED to come, and canceled last min.) went to the all-American restaurant La Mangeoire for the meal. With Max’s father now dead and his sister and bother-in-law vacationing in the Bahamas, it was just the three of us talking about books, movies we saw, and work. We then went back to his mother’s posh digs at Sutton Place for Champaign, fruit, and small talk.

2007-11-20T19:59:00.000-08:00

The holiday season is upon us. I know that now more than ever.

In luxury retail, we cater to the high-brow spenders. Those include shoppers who spend with us not 4, 5, or 6 digits, but well into the million of dollars on clothing, jewelry, and cosmetics, annually. Like most companies managing their relationship with the public, we attempt to create some semblance of charity this time of the year. And who better than an organization with access to the very rich to carry out these good deeds? You can imagine my shock that our main charity, St. Jude, receives a paltry $300k from our efforts. By no means am I saying our customers are not charitable. Demographic studies show them as among the most charitable of Americans. But they do not do it with us.

This population is solicited by professional fund raisers while we simply ask them for a donation - after they’ve spent $1,000 on a Chanel purse - to make a small donation. They are clearly donating elsewhere. But with the marketing and media around what we do for St. Jude, you would think we brought millions in. The reality is that the good customers of luxury retail do not raise enough to cover the average medical costs of a single patient.

It's all propaganda.

2007-11-15T19:31:00.000-08:00

A while back I finished reading “The Grapes of Wrath,” Steinbeck’s genius novel of a family struggling with a potent combination of the Depression and technological progress in farming. As a book it is excellent, as economics, it’s certainly an argument for the Marxism which was the intellectual counter-current to the free-market ways that prevailed at the time. And it is as an economist that I will comment on this novel, its literary value notwithstanding.

The Joads were thrown into unemployment because agriculture in the United States became a capital-intensive industry. And this was during a time when, believe it or not, both capital and labor were idol, an inefficiency that baffled economists. This led to the type of thinking that the book promotes: socialism and unionization.

Economists shortly after figured out what was going on: deflation. This was something of a revolution in economic theory. Money, we assumed, was a veil, with no real importance. What was important to economists were endowments of labor and capital, the "factors of production."

Money does matter, we discovered. And what happened during the depression was a shrinking of the money supply due to runs on banks, caused by the Federal Reserve. With less money chasing the same goods, prices fell relative to wages, and companies sought ways to cut costs –in the instance of farming, they turned to capital (combines and the like). Wages are slower to adjust than the goods labor produces, consequently, “real” wages rose – those employed can buy more. Companies laid off employees as they shifted from labor to capital. So we have idol labor.

The folks laid off turned to debt to sustain themselves. With more people competing for fewer jobs, wages eventually began to fall to clear the labor market. In a futile attempt to keep wages high, unionization rose (the book notes how easy it was to break a union). Those that borrowed saw the “real” value of their debt swell: they now have to pay it off in a period of lower wages and prices. (Deflation effectively increased the interest rate.) Recall from the book those scenes at the company store .

With prices falling in the goods market first, then the labor markets, society began to fall apart. Unemployment fell further still; with less people demanding goods, goods’ prices fell further, leading to more unemployment. The vicious cycle continued. The monetary effects had devastating consequences. Recall in the book where goods were thrown into the ocean to keep prices high, all while the unemployed starved. Steinbeck writes:

"There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our successess. . . And coroners must fill in the certificates - dies of malnutrtion - because the food must rot, must be forced to rot... In the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage."

During the depression 1/5 of all banks closed, which contracted the money supply by 1/3, lowering prices by 1/2. Unemployment rose to 25%. These overall effects were not evenly distributed: blue collar household were hardest hit. This led to a worldwide recession the likes of which hadn't been seen in nearly a century,

There is little doubt that, in hindsight, the circumstances surrounding the Joads could have been averted with a monetary policy that kept the supply of money constant, a policy that the free market would have taken. And there is also little doubt that the extreme reaction to the Depression of putting the economy more in the hands of government -- wages, pensions, regulation, and the like -- to handle a problem it created was myopic. Money was important, but not in the long-term. We’ve spent the last thirty years dismantling it, and reversing stagflation it caused.

But nobody in Steinbeck’s time understood this. So we can forgive his point-of-view. Nonetheless, it gave rise to his great writing, which will endure in spite of his economics.

2007-11-12T18:45:00.000-08:00

Having nearly a full hour commute to work would seem to many a nightmare: What I’d initially thought was bad luck (delays) getting into and out of Manhattan using the subway is, in fact, routine. But I’ve come to accept this fate graciously knowing my rent has been cut in half and apartment size has doubled since moving out here. Alas, I have more important problems to occupy my mind: I am not a multi-billionaire, am not married to Hugh Jackman, and cannot figure out how to get my Showtime on-demand working. Furthermore, viewing this time as valuable to doing other things, I recon, would be better: I’ve turned to reading more, and reading different things.

Unlike recently where I exclusively read non-fiction, newspapers and magazines, I’m endulging in fiction – literature, mostly. Not NY Times best-sellers but real literary classics; It’s remarkable. Having been to undergrad and grad school for almost 7 years, the reality is that since high school I’ve only taken two English classes. The rest have been studying mathematics and disciplines using mathematics. The use of language for something other than function – communicating a point of theorem or in a power point presentation – has been relatively foreign to me. As a mathematical person, the arts I’ve exposed myself most to have been, as you well know, classical music, the opera in particular.

But with two hours a day I find I can get though about 300 pages a week, with some non-commute time thrown in (from time to time I’ll stare at the buildings and bridges on my way in). I’ve gotten through “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”, “The Grapes of Wrath”, “The Sun Also Rises,” “Reservation Road,” and, just today, “To Kill a Mockingbird.” It’s been marvelous. I actually look forward to my bus ride into the city because I'm not just reading the New York Times, The Economist, or Newsweek bitching about politics or the war on terror, but literature.

Any suggestions?

Why don't I blog about these books as I do the opera? Good question. Bobby's turned me on to "Good Reads" and my network is there.

Verdi still sets the standard

2007-11-08T22:45:00.000-08:00

If the Met had a fall from grace last week with its casting of Verdi’s “Aida” and “Macbeth”, it certainly made up for it with a cast change in “Aida” and with Renee Fleming singing “La Traviata.”

The reigning Diva at the Met, Renee Fleming, brought her Violetta back (with, what looks like new gowns and stunning jewelry that the Met had made for her). Though I’ve seen this opera many times and listened to the greats such as Sills, Callas, and Sutherland sing it, I was thrilled and moved by Ms. Fleming: Her passage work in the first act was top-notch Bel Canto, and her lyricism and drama in the remaining acts had even the jaded opera-goers in the front row of the balcony, where I sit, in tears. “I’m sorry, it got to me” my neighboring season ticket holder, Meredith, said as she wiped her eyes. By commandeering Verdi’s Violetta, a soprano-crusher, Fleming has solidified her place in Diva-dom and operatic history.

If that wasn’t enough to put the Met back into my good graces, Mary and I splurged on Orchestra seats to hear Angela Brown sing Verdi’s “Aida.” The last time I saw it, the opera sucked. This time, energized by an Aida with the pipes to fit the role –a nearly extinct breed – the cast and conducting were brought to a vibrant life and took this powerful music to where it was intended to be. Soaring into the high notes with a restrained power and grace, then down to the low notes with passion, belting out above a 200+ chorus and orchestra, Brown demonstrated she is, perhaps, the only singer that should be singing this role. All those difficult Verdian lines sounded easy to do. They are NOT. The house came down for her. Even Mary, who I was concerned that these 4-hours of singing would be too much for (this is only her second opera) was totally moved by the performance. She sat with an intense concentration throughout the opera and finally said that “It went so quickly”. It was midnight. She certainly “gets” it, and is able to enjoy a formidable evening.

So though the twilight of the tenors is upon us, the divas, now, have taken up the slack and reign supreme. They are taking on some of the most difficult music written and winning over, even, Verdi fans. Perhaps turning in his grave last week, Verdi can get a little P&Q.

Angela Brown (Aida) and a fantastic Mark Delavan (Amonasro) in Verdi's Grand Opera, "Aida", the best work the met has done this season.

Alma Mater

2007-11-04T20:18:00.000-08:00

Instigated by e-mails from my old advisor at Hopkins, I decided to make a trek down to Washington this weekend. It’s been years since I’d been there and it was due time.

I haven’t mentioned it before, but in Provincetown I had a week-long romance with someone living there. It was a true East Coast experience – entirely sexual, uncommitted, casual (though spending every night together). In most ways he was perfect for me: he loved the opera, worked for the Cato Institute, and sexually we were an extremely good match. But it always had a certain tacit that this was something of the moment, and nothing else -- the geographic differences, my determination to live in NY and his to devote himself to his causes in DC, made it such. We haven’t talked much since Provincetown and, though I was tempted to call, never did. Instead I decided not to complicate the weekend and focused my attention on friends.

I saw Ken and Dan, new friends I’d made though Eric, Olivia, and Professor Weiss. I had a weekend of great lunches, dinners (some work-related with Saks folk), drinks, and coffee with the people that had been part of my academic and social life in the DC and Baltimore area.

Prior to leaving today, I’d invited Weiss to brunch and he made the trip in from Baltimore, the catalyst for the trip. We dined at the Tabard Inn where chatted about economics, family, politics, his assent to associate program chair, my current work and former grad school melodramas at Georgetown. On a level, I’d always regarded my dropping out of a PhD program as a failure, but, in his own way, he made me feel good about it.

rough crowd at the Met

2007-11-01T20:22:00.000-07:00

Coming off the heels of two great performances at the opera last month, I was extremely excited to see Verdi’s epic opera, “Aida,” and his lesser-known opera (and new production) “Macbeth” this week.

I’ll start with Aida. The scale of this production is fit only for houses capable of pulling off Grand Opera – hundreds of extras (even animals), a large choral ensample, and ballet. The Met is such a house. The music is among the most difficult to sing; Verdi demands large voices to carry those famed Verdian lines of sounds steadily throughout the highest and lowest of ranges, effortlessly, to fill a large house with sound. When there are able singers, “Aida” is one of the most memorable nights of all theater. But when the singers are not fit it seems more like watching a twelve-year-old, who cannot drive stick, being given the keys to a Ferrari. I, with regret, must say this cast of “Aida” seemed more like the later.

The ill-advised Micaela Carosi made her debut in the title role. Perhaps it was the stress, perhaps that her Radames cancelled all his performances, perhaps it was that last season a performer was booed off stage at La Scala. Who knows? Whatever it was, her top notes were not supported, the acting seemed antiseptic, and her diction in the final duet with Radames had all those things, plus bad diction. The performance by our Radames, Franco Farina, was similarly plagued. So what we were left with was mediocrity dressed to the nines. The only thing that made this performance worthwhile were the performances in the supporting roles: Olga Borodina as Amneris, and, in particular, the outstanding performance of Aida’s father, Dimitri Kavrakos. Regardless, the overall experience was dreadful.

I’ve given the Met another chance, though. I got tickets to hear Angela Brown, whose substitution for the role was met with wide audience and critical acclaim last year, in the title role.

The next night of opera was Verdi’s “Macbeth,” a lesser-performed opera and only the second production at the Met. This tasteful new production updated the action to the 20th century without seeming like Eurotrash. Our Macbeth, Zeljko Lucic, was great. But our Lady Macbeth, played by Maria Guleghina, was not so great. Yes, she had all the notes, but they – as she always does – were powered with a scream that probably stopped traffic on Broadway. Granted, the role of Lady Macbeth is a difficult balance of dramatic soprano and good technique, but Guleghina clearly sided with her Puccini roots and delivered them with a Mack truck.

The issue, clearly, was, first off, that recordings of these operas by the greatest Verdian sopranos – Callas, Price, Milanov – set the standard extremely high. Secondly, Verdi wrote his music during the twilight of the Bel Canto technique but demanded his singers had had that training AND with big voices. Now, good Bel Canto technique is more difficult to come by especially among nthose with dramatic voices (who have pigeonholed themselves into Wagner, Puccini, etc.). No matter what roles you sing, Bel Canto should be mastered. I recall the great dramatic soprano, Nilsson, saying: “I know I have not been very good to Mozart, but Mozart has been very good to me.” Singing these difficult passages, runs, and rolanades, is not easy, and singers have gotten into the habit of simply powering the notes with deafening volume for effect. But knowing how to lighten the voice, make it limber, and versatile, is something every type of singer should master, if, for nothing more than that the money roles, and audiences of Verdi, demand it.

Homecoming

2007-10-29T13:13:00.000-07:00

A while back my aunt from Seattle decided she would come in and visit my grandparents last weekend. My parents quickly followed suit as did I, a sort of impromptu family reunion. (I can’t remember the last time when all of my father’s side of the family were in the same place.)

Friday, the date of my departure, things were not looking well – a dizzy spell on the Subway, bad weather, and feeling like I was going to pass out all spelled disaster. Nonetheless, I went to the airport for my much-delayed flight and asked them to just book the ticket for tomorrow. They refused. So I endured the La Guardia delays and got into Chicago late that night.

It was well worth the travel turmoil. (On my way there I managed to finish “The Sun Also Rises” and have to say that switching from Steinbeck to Hemmingway was like sitting in a sauna for three hours, then jumping into a snow drift.)

Unlike other trips to Chicago when I usually stay with Anthony, I spent a night with my brother and did some catching up until about 4am. Tiring, but well worth it. Saturday was a real whirlwind. We did some shopping that morning then went out for a family lunch then to my grandparents’ house for sweets and coffee.

I have to say hanging out with my aunt was really fun. She’d always been a “cool” person, having married a famous jazz musician ... whenever her relatives/friends/musicians were in New York she put them in touch with me to hang out and we had a ball. But I’ve never really known her, per se. She’d been alienated by my grandparents – she rarely visited and vice-versa – along with her son, cousin Mike, and his child, their only great grandchild. . . The Japanese are hard-core. She also has stepchildren who I’ve never met.

This arrangement seemed to have worked. But in more recent years she seems to wants us to know her life. So she took me through pictures of her granddaughter, home, stepchildren, their wives and her new boyfriend.

So it was a really nice visit. Not too much tension – at least new tension. We all got through the datwell.

Then it was time for another reunion of sorts. College friends, old friends, a new friends and my parents got together for a night out. We decided to meet at the bar of one of my favorite Mexican restaurants. At first, we hugged and chatted, but as the hour grew later, and as we had margaritas, every new guest (they are notoriously late) was greeted with a tremendous cheer as they walked through the door. It was hilarious. Being the best of friends -- we all stood up in eachother's weddings -- we talked for hours catching up and telling old war stories. Before we knew it we’d drank pitchers of margaritas and the restaurant was closing.

Despite one having a flight out to Saudi Arabia, another with a newborn child, another with a husband waiting, and myself having to have breakfast with my old next-door neighbor, we carried on elsewhere. First to see Val at Cocktail, then to Side Tracks, then, eventually, to Roscoe’s where it was just Anthony and me. We then met up with others before finishing off the night at Hydrate. UGH I think I got to be around 6 am -- I haven’t done THAT for a while. The rest of the day was rough. Though I’d originally had a late-night flight home, I took the 1pm flight back to New York, crawled into bed, and slept for 12 hours.

What a visit.

Pictures to come.

2007-10-16T13:17:00.000-07:00

I went to see a revival of Mingella’s production of “Madama Butterfly” at the Met last night. It was thrilling: The potent combination of personal relevance, glorious singing, staging and visual effects created the elements for the perfect storm. It hit me like a ton of bricks.

For those that don’t know the story, Butterfly is selected by an American officer as his wife. She is 15. She falls deeply in love with him and renounces her religion and people to become an American wife. He then leaves Japan and promises to return (though never intends to).

I know it sounds cliche, but as the NY Times puts it: "On paper “Madama Butterfly” is an easy target: bathetic and filled with unashamed attempts at audience manipulation. In the flesh it is devastating. Puccini aims straight at your heart and defies your attempts to get out of the way."

The second act was where I completely lost my cool. As she waits for him to return, she tries to shrug off doubts from her friends, servants, and, of course, herself. This all comes to a chilling climax in the aria “Un Bel Di,” where Butterfly explains/demands to Suzuki that he will return. The music breaks into a fantasy-like melody while she imagines what they will say and how they will be reunited. Though the words of the aria are hopeful, the music eventually grows dark “He will come. He will come.” Then, full throat, she soars to the top of the soprano’s range, as though begging the heavens themselves by singing: “I, with secure faith, wait for him!” With that we know she's being torn apart.

His ship was spotted and they sit out and wait for him to come to the house. And it is there that they wait, and wait. Then the famed humming chorus begins and the three of them wait. The music and image were so powerful, and end the act. I’m sure we were all thinking why those fucking house lights had to come on so suddenly - to bring ourselves out of that hypnotic state. I needed more time, more time to collect myself.

We were so drawn in by Butterfly singing out her hopes, anger, frustration, and fear that when she saw the ship come in, the audience actually broke out into applause. It was weird. We all know the story, we all know why Pinkerton has returned and Butterfly’s fate, but the performance was so believable that we, still, no matter how many times we’d seen the opera, wanted it to turn out differently. We still care about Butterfly.

And this is why, after a century, it still sells out: We see a little bit of ourselves in her.

Bravas!!!!

The devastating death of Butterfly (innocence), performed by Patricia Racette in this marvelous production.

2007-10-15T18:33:00.000-07:00

Moving to Brooklyn was no trivial decision. Until now, Brooklyn represented endings, some good, some painful: No more of the exciting Manhattan life, no more quick commutes to work, no more paying ridiculous amounts of money for rent, and an ending to a relationship on the rocks.

Thank God there is a sort-of make-shift family that has adopted me here. Perhaps sensing I may be feeling somewhat isolated (we never speak of such things), Rob insisted I throw a housewarming party. And being the matriarch of this family, his endorsement of the event guaranteed its success. Weeks ago he started to round the troops, as did I, to attend. The guest list grew to a point where I actually decided to have the event catered. Rob and friends spent the weekend here to help prepare, and to help me explore Brooklyn nightlife. That’s when the family starts to work.

A great time was had by all, and those that showed up were the cream rising to the top: People brought with them plants, wine, cards, and – most importantly, cheer and encouragement. People from all walks of my life had a tremendous time together.

If “diamonds are forever” than I have to say there was 20 carats of it in that place.

Now it's time for beginnings.

A sampling of my finest attendees (left to right, top to bottom): Lisa, John, Joe, Rob, Anthony, Garret, and Mary

2007-10-03T19:19:00.000-07:00

So I’ve finally gotten a taste of what it’s like to live out here in Brooklyn. In my Manhattan days the components of my life were like one seamless, living, breathing thing. Out here in Brooklyn, they have shattered into pieces. Where I used to roll out of bed, hop in the shower, then shoehorn myself onto a rackety subway for a few minutes before getting to work, I now get up a 6, and read a good 30 pages of “The Grapes of Wrath” on a luxurious express bus before getting to my desk. Though I used to sweat out a workout on a tread mill right by home, I now go for a jog along the harbor and have a spectacular view of the Verrazano Bridge and the ships coming in from their long Atlantic Journeys. And though I used to hang out with colleagues/friends and not worry about how much I drank or how I was getting home, I now decline things like this because of the trip back and my state of mind (drunk) while on that journey. In short, there’s work and there’s home, and the two are very different places that not longer collide – each is thought of and planned separately.

Am I happy? Absolutely. Though the inconveniences of living out here abound, every little interaction is more pleasant, not so rushed and done with a Brooklyn pride. T-shirts do not say “I Love New York,” but read, simply, “Brooklyn,” with the love and pride implied.

This place is the real New York. It is not filled with transplants of over-ambitious, pretentious folks from Odaho, but with real New Yorkers. They know that this was the borough with the first museums, opera houses, and culture when Manhattan was, well, nothing. Though I am also reminded every day as I commute into “the city,” as they call it here, that this mighty Manhattan— with its sky scrapers, business and culture— still reigns supreme. But I can’t help but think that though the outer boroughs of this city are not New York's heart, per se, but are, rather, its soul.

Images from the shore, steps from my new digs.

2007-10-01T10:05:00.000-07:00

Breaking up is hard to do, or so the saying goes. But in a city like New York there are professionals in even that. As you may have guessed, I’ve recently stopping seeing someone over the weekend. I would spend some time lamenting the loss, but the more interesting thing – at least for you – is the art of the break up conversation. The delivery of the news of his decision was done with such deft diplomacy that it, at least at first, made wonder if we were broken up at all. The whole conversation went something like this.

Part I: Small talk
Him –I’m going to see a show tonight with friends. I had a great day. (etc. etc.)
Me – Yea, I’m on my way into the city now (etc., etc., etc.)

Part II: You’re wonderful
Him – I feel really bad about yesterday (we got into an argument) and have to say it was just an awful day. You see, the rest of the time we spend together had been so perfect and I’ve been on cloud nine-- but yesterday was a shocker.
Me (naively) – Yea yesterday did suck, I guess we shouldn’t talk politics – obviously hit a raw nerve.
Him – We’ve had such great times and yesterday was pretty bad. I just want to thank you for those three weeks we did have that were great. [Very smooth, right? What a transition!]

Part IV: “Rationale.”
Me (not so naively) – What are you saying?
Him – I just don’t think this is going to work in the long-run. We’re just bad together. Yesterday was pretty bad. I was awful. We were just boring together. Etc., etc., etc.
Me [devistated]– Uh. Er. Yea, we are bad together. OK. [At this point I’ve been talked out of the relationship and find myself agreeing.]

Part V: “You deserve better”
Him – you need someone who’s going to treat you better. You are a wonderful person and a great, great, guy.
[At this point I just want to get off the phone, but then there is the final nail in the coffin.]

Part VI: Let’s be friends
Him – I really want to know you. I hope we can still keep in touch, hang out and, well, know each other.

So there you have it. The perfectly executed break-up. Sure, I bought it hook, line, and sinker. It’s been a while since I’ve been officially dumped, and I have to say he gets points for actually having the conversation. . . I think, at least in NY, if it’s been under one month you can just stop returning calls to signal disinterest. (But I’ll have to check with Emily Post on that one.)

Am I upset? Sure. But more at myself than anyone else. For some reason my relationships are like recent Space Shuttle landings -- trapped by gravity, heat shields fail, and then burn up in the atmosphere before landing -- and I have to stop that.

2007-09-26T19:48:00.000-07:00

Fall has been an exciting time in New York, at least for me. As the lazy days of summer fade away I have looked forward to the start of the opera season. And with that opening comes opening night at the Metropolitan Opera, something that’s become quite a spectacle, these days. Though, gracefully, the company opened not with music, but a moment of silence, for Beverly Sills and Lucian Pavoratti -- a sobering reminder of what the opera community has lost over the summer. You could hear a pin drop, if there was one.

On a lighter note, the opening performance was a new production of the Bel Canto opera “Lucia di lammermore”. It’s not my favorite opera, per se, because it's all about – as its name implies – beautiful singing, which means the music is, perhaps, more in the service of the singer than sweeping you into a story. This doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the opera: it is famed for its soprano-crushing mad scene and difficult passages. At worst, it can be simply a singer’s showpiece, which is always fun.

For what it’s worth, the Met really had something to open the season with. The production was nothing special, but the singers were excellent. And with the light coloratura soprano, Natalie Dessay, kicking some serious ass, I’d heard one of the longest ovations at the Met in while. High notes will always bring a house down and Dessay tossed them into the rafters without a problem, and without being swallowed by the Met’s 4k seat auditorium. At the end of the performance she got her time in the sun – a reminder that the Met is, above all, a singer’s house, and its audience expects it. Read about it in the New York Times (A Grand Opening at the Opera and Falling Leaves, Stars on the Red Carpet: It’s Opera Season ).

2007-09-18T15:12:00.000-07:00

I’m gearing up for the new opera season, which for me is kicked off with the Met’s opening night on Monday. A new production of "Lucia di Lammermoor" is the chosen event and stars the coloratura soprano, Natalie Dessay.

I’m hoping Dessay tears it up. . . . Last year’s Madama Butterfly, while wonderful, lacked the awe that, say, Renee Fleming had a few years back when she did her first Traviata. There was no diva element. Nonetheless, I will certainly LOVE to hear the opera’s mad scene, where Dessay must convince the audience she is crazy enough to kill her bridegroom and stumble around in the town square with a bloody dress (waving a knife) while singing a duet with a flute.

But the rest of the season is chalk full of diva-dom. What am I going to see??? Glad you asked. Renee Flemming brings her “Traviata” back to us (thank GOD!!!); Angela Brown, virtually unknown to the opera world until she filled in as Aida, makes her company debut as, you guessed it, “Aida” and also sings “Un Ballo in Maschera;” Mozart’s “Le Nozze di Figaro” and “Die Entführung aus dem Serail” (which I’ve never seen) are on my subscription; Mom and her friend Paula coming in before the holidays to see “War & Peace”, “Romeo et Juliet” and “Ballo” with me. Mom returns in February to see a set of operas I’m EXTERMELY excited about: “Otello” and “Die Walkure” – both have dream team casts, and are operas that --in my opinion-- contain some of the best music ever written. We are also seeing Barbiere, which will be difficult to top last year’s, but we had an evening to kill. Other notable things is a new production of “Hansel un Gretel” that looks pretty cool and “Ernani,” which is not performed too often these days.

Of course, these operas are only about 1/3 of what the Met stages, and you know I can always be counted on seeing La Boheme, and some of the other staples. There’s also three other new productions I’d like to check out there.

Bring it on!!

2007-09-17T13:14:00.000-07:00

BROOKLYN, NY

For all the years I’ve heard the term “Bridge and Tunnel” used in this city it’s never been in a nice way. You see, paying an astronomical amount of rent comes with certain rights: I live in the city and so and so is bridge and tunnel. In short, this means, I can afford roughly twice the amount of rent, don’t talk funny, am cultured, have cooler friends and pay more for designer clothing that comes shredded and worn out. Thank God I never used that term in that context because, starting Saturday, that would be what literary types call poetic justice.

As readers (reader??) of this blog know, recent rent increase have sickened me to the extent that I’ve decided to move out to Brooklyn. And no, not “cool” Brooklyn, with its views of lower Manhattan where artists and other bohemian-types live, I am talking cut-my-rent-in-half, hour-plus-subway-rides-into-Manhattan, lawn-furniture-and-ceramic-geese, way-the-fuck-out-there, near-the-Atlantic-Ocean Brooklyn.

I have to say there’s a liberating feeling after the move. For the time being, it means a real income boost that should allow me to save a hell of a lot more money, a good excuse not to do things with friends during the week, and to go in instead of staying out late. I’ve not look at the bright side only because I’d been pretty stressed out about details of the move: not having a deadbolt key, signing the lease, retaining movers, packing, etc., etc., etc.

Finally that dreaded day came over the weekend where I could have been locked out, had movers that never came, have rained cats and dogs, not have had enough boxes, movers getting lost to Bay Ridge, etc., etc., etc. To my suprise tt came, and, instead, it went off quietly, without any problems, went on-time, and ultimately under budget.

More about Brooklyn, and other things, to come. . .

2007-09-11T04:20:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged anything of substance. I could sit here and rattle off some excuses about being busy with work, about having this exciting social life, and how the move has taken up my time. But, alas, I’ll spare you my usual bull shit. I’ve been lazy.

The big thing to report is a flawless vacation on Provincetown this year. Nearly every day was a blue sky, so I’ve come back with a tan that could possibly change my ethnicity. Add to this the fact that, Rob and I met a fantastic group of people there – some British inpats living in DC that we ended up hanging out daily with. (I actually convinced them to stay over Labor Day weekend but they couldn’t extend their stay at the house they rented.)

Missing our new friends, but like troopers, we carried on that weekend. And the weekend came and along with it, primma donna absoluta, Rob’s new b/f. Suffice it to say that they had issues, and there was a considerable amount of tension in the house. So I headed out to a bar (where else) to escape the wrath of Rob. And what would seem like a blemish on the perfect weekend was actually opportunity knocking – a romance of my own rose from the ashes there. (I’m being vague on purpose.)

Aaaaah p-town, a welcome distraction from work, moving, and life: Now it’s back to business. Bu what memories.

Me and both Robs.

Luciano Pavarotti, Dies at 71

2007-09-07T22:26:00.000-07:00

Luciano Pavarotti, the Italian singer whose ringing, pristine sound set a standard for operatic tenors of the postwar era, died Thursday at his home near Modena, in northern Italy. He was 71.

He was one of the best tenors of recorded history, and did much for his art. The death of Sills and him are a one-two punch for the opera. The New York Times comments:

"Like Enrico Caruso and Jenny Lind before him, Mr. Pavarotti extended his presence far beyond the limits of Italian opera. He became a titan of pop culture. Millions saw him on television and found in his expansive personality, childlike charm and generous figure a link to an art form with which many had only a glancing familiarity."

Shoes. . . and economics??? No joke.

2007-08-20T20:12:00.000-07:00

More about the fashion industry, for those who care.

We’ve opened a new shoe department here that has its own floor on Fifth Avenue. The marketing folks (myself) here have created a pretty big to-do about it, boasting the world’s largest shoe department selling Gucci, Dior, Prada, Jacobs, etc., etc., etc., and in a space which we managed to get the USPS to designate its own ZIP code for. In all, about 10,000 shoes are there for between $600 to upwards of thousands of dollars on a floor that has a 70 foot wall of hand-blown Murano glass bubbles, private VIP sales rooms (for which we are known), and other niceties no other luxury retailer has.

We’ve been working on it since I’ve been here, and I have to say it’s fabulous. The irony of this whole thing is that the guy who has been bitching about housing costs, Wall Street bonuses, and the like, happens to be in an industry who’s production certainly can expand to the ultra-rich – this is why people dress better when they get weathier well before their address does.

The market in fashion is far more efficient than housing – at least here in NYC.

2007-08-19T17:03:00.000-07:00

For the last week or so I’ve been looking to cut my rent in half. And at a lease renewal rate of $2,400 – and I apologize for throwing the numbers out there, but it helps to drive the point home – one would not think that to be a difficult task. But nowadays it requres me to move all the way out to Brooklyn.

I’m an economist. What does my apartment situation say about inflation in general? I think about these issues often, and in sometimes abstract ways, but this time it has hit me on a personal note. Inflation rates, for the most part, are reported as averages, and policy determined on such numbers. On average the price level has gone up by X and incomes have gone up by Y. But at a behavioral level inflation is something that has massive distributional effects, absolutely nobody is on the “average”. Inflation works its way into the economy as a boon for some and a bust for others (like me). Recent rent increases in Manhattan are a textbook case.

Wall Street, a significant part of the economy here, recently paid out bonuses for individuals in the tens of million of dollars. That’s good news for them. With the Federal government pumping money into the economy and the Federal Reserve pumping money supply into banks stock prices have gone up more than they may have otherwise, a boon to Wall Street broker-dealers who make money in such transactions. And with that came a rather precipitious increase in income to those folks. The problem in New York is that we have not increased production of housing, restaurants, etc., in as large a scale. As a result, as our Wall Street tycoons try to spend more in Manhattan on housing, goods and services. Prices rise. And one would think that someone who has $10 million to spend would hardly effects the likes of me. That is naïve.

There was no increase in the supply in the housing markets of $10 million, so they bought in lower prices levels, crowding out those who would otherwise buy in those price levels, and those in those price levels crowd out those who do not own at that level, and so-on. In that period, of course, no ones income has increased at the same rate as Wall Street’s, so they are forced to a lower standard of living; same salary but lower – what economist call – real income, the $ income requred to purchase the same stuff. That’s me, for example, having to move out to Brooklyn -- rent poor. Eventually, the cost of living rises in such a way that companies find it difficult to hire and retain people in New York. So some skills will get immediate increases in income, while others – for example those making minimum wage – will take years to adjust, if ever.

Eventually, markets clear and, on average, people are making and spending more on things. But did Wall Street’s “real income” rise at the same rate as others? Doubtfully. That’s the pernicious effects of fiscal and monetary policy, and the fallacy of only looking at averages. Distributions abound, and an example of how inflation tears at the heart of society -- on average we are kosher, but in reality inflation was really a tax on the poor people holding cash.

With the seemingly endless supply of economists and political pundits, why is there such myopia in economic policy, and why do we continue to pull these same economic levers that have such harmful effects?

It’s because we are still stuck with Depression-era policy when we are not in a Depression and fixing the other things are too hard, politically. Capital and labor are not idol. Yet the government and Federal Reserve continue to want to think that their spending and expansion of the money supply are silver bullets. It’s not.

If Washington wants to do more for the economy they should do nothing, and eliminate all their bull-shit counter-cyclical policy immidiately. It does more harm than good. Have we learned nothing from Milton Friedman?

Don't they understad that I've got to move all the way the fuck out to Brooklyn?

Epiphany

2007-08-13T17:17:00.000-07:00

A new sort of tornado has hit New York. It started a couple of weeks ago when Judy arrived along with Josh. Friday night he went from drinking beer and arguing about football with friends in Brooklyn, to sipping cocktails and singing show tunes with Judy and me in Manhattan’s fading piano bars. It took my liver and voice about two days to recover.

The following weekend my cousin was in for his birthday. We went out in Hell’s Kitchen where he was on the prowl (ah, the younglings), then to an East Side piano bar. The weather turned from torrential rain to unseasonally mild, spring-like weather, and added fuel to the motley events that followed: We dined alfresco at a French restaurant for brunch, saw the hysterical new musical “Xanadu, Seriously” then out to Caffe Taci for a night of amateur (but wonderful) opera, before hitting the Monster. God, I’m getting exhausted just remembering it all.

And it all just reminds me that the sun may be, in some ways, setting on this lifestyle. With large rent increases for me and across Manhattan, the cost of this lifestyle is out of control. I just formally declined to renew my precious Manhattan lease. (My rent would have been increased to $2,400 a month, 20% higher than it was just two years ago.) The realization has also set in that there’s nothing left to explore. I’ve worked in Consulting, marketing, at a collections agency, luxury retail; I've done grad school, a failed attempt at a PhD, and have lived in Chicago, Washington, and New York just over the last 4 years - there is little left outside the the absurd. It’s time to settle down and save some money to do what my friends have already done: purchase a place of their own and tone down their lifestyle.

Nonetheless, there are things that will not, and can not, be cut: Going to the opera and exploring all the cultural live that Manhattan has to offer. I still have my subscriptions, opening night, etc. The great thing about this New York is that I can still consume its culture, but not pay so much to live here. I have finally gotten over that island mentality that has me paying twice what most New Yorkers pay in rent.

I have to also say that I’m really not a Manhattan person. I’m more bridge-and-tunnel, as they say here. Most of the people here that I regard as my second family here are bridge-and-tunnel. It’s time to make those foreign places across the Brooklyn, Manhattan, Williamsburg, Queensborough, and Triboro bridges my home and stop being a Manhattan wacko.

Yea. . . . eeer, great. Where the fuck to I start? I’ve never been across the East River.

A tornado storm strikes NYC

2007-08-08T15:13:00.000-07:00

I went to bed early last night. It was kinda nice. . . haven’t been sleeping all that well lately. So when I woke up this morning at around 4am during a storm, it seemed like some sort of dream as I fell back asleep. I drug my ass out of bed to get to work. Unlike the rest of the week I was out of the house on time and on my way to an early start on the day.

That all ended as my journey to the subway ended in denial: the subway wasn’t running. What?! What do they mean the subway wasn’t running? While there was little left of the storm during this sunny, 90-degree morning, except the stifling humidity, it was apparently bad enough to flood the subway.

Thinking I’d outsmarted the block-long line for the bus, I decided to take another bus to the West Side – the subway must be running there. Boarding the cross-town bus and heading across Central Park in triumph, I saw the bus coming from the West to the East side –it was packed with people, too. As the passengers of the two busses caught sight of each other, our smug faces turned to horror. We have just relocated our problems.

And I found myself on the West side trolling around for a bus or something. All the busses were packed. I carried on, determined to find something to take me to work. At this point I’m sweating like Whitney Huston at customs. I finally shoe horn myself into a bus during traffic that seemed like a standstill, and it takes another hour to get 30 blocks.

Apparently, the weather was pretty damn bad. The New York Times reports that a tornado struck the city, in Brooklyn, where winds reached 135 mph.

Ah! The perils of bad weather in urban places.

A tornado strikes Brooklyn

2007-07-30T18:57:00.000-07:00

Every time I don’t think I can sink lower, I surprise myself. A while back I signed up to an internet dating service. Those who don’t know (or will at least public admit), gay internet dating scene is basically a brokerage for anonymous sexual encounters. Being a little sick of that (I can’t seem to bring myself to do it) I signed up for a site that caters to all – meaning you don’t have to specify your dick size, if you prefer to fuck or get fucked, or PNP (“party and play” – doing coke while you are having sex).

And on this journey to normality and to get a normal boyfriend, I found myself chatting with, eeer, a guy from a rural part of Russia. What started out as a casual conversation is now absurd. He tells me he’s a jealous person, then he calls me “his love”, then, uuuugh, it just get better and better. The icing on the cake is his engligh, which is atrocious. I would tell you more but I cannot do the actual dialogue justice. So below is the latest. What the fuck am I doing? LOL

Hi my dear Matt! I am glad again to speak with you! Though we and not badly have had fun, but on my soul was a melancholy! By the way, yesterday I had quite good evening with my friends. Also, we reached in one club, there we were some hours. First we had the good supper and some glasses of champagne, then played bawling,also danced. I have remained good impressions, only when I saw , as some my girlfriends danced and kissed the men - I had small envy to them. I thought of you and represented for myself, that you, Matt, beside me.

That you embrace me too and whisper to my ear gentle words. And you
Matt, when you see around the in love people, - you recollect me? How often do you with your friends reach in any bar or club? When you are in these places girls, of course, try to get acquainted with you?

Women approach to me very often and try to begin
acquaintance, but I at once help to understand them, that these things fail with me. Matt, I often think about your messages and I
understand, that you are serious concern to me. I do not think too that our dialogue an entertainment, and I write you some very personal words and things, as to the close person. And I want to tell you Matt, that I am glad, that I have such kind person - as you! I wait for your messages and I think of you. My gentle kisses to you!

Your Sergey

Christmas in July????

2007-07-25T20:38:00.000-07:00

Working in luxury retail, we have been gearing up for our new fall fashion - planned about two years ago from our merchandising departments – and selling our customers on what’s hot (and what’s not).

Publicity is what gets this done. We complete with other New York fashion houses (Barneys, Bergdorf, etc - believe it or not, Bloomingdale's is considered low-brow to us) but with an advantage: Our store sits right across from the world’s most famous Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. Leading up to Christmas our windows are filled with Chanel, Gucci, D&G, Versaci, etc. And at Christmas we launch campaigns to mail out our take on top designers’ clothes, do trunk shows with our clients, and generate interest in fashion. This is all capped off with Christmas, where we lure the common and uncommon to our store to awe at the designs.

How does marketing get this done? It’s through the creative side of the house (not my thing) which puts together our “creative”. But on a tactical side they need to understand who to mail this stuff to and who to do the shows with – the fashion “influentials” that drive our image home. That’s what I’m in charge of.

So I’ve been working with the marketing department to statistically understand who is driving those sales and styles and who will best respond to these campaigns. For the last few years we’ve been doing a lot around a number of campaigns that revolve around snowflakes. And if you don’t already know this has been made famous, with those that have never put their foot into our stores, with our public displays during the Christmas season: When it’s not Christmas they will remember this store and check-in with us on the designs we think are hot.

So, despite the humidity and heat, I’ve been working on Fall, and, in particular, Christmas marketing campaigns (I can’t wait ‘till it’s over).

Check out our snowflake campaign.

2007-07-24T20:27:00.000-07:00

Last night’s Democratic “YouTube” debate last night - supposedly ushering the Democrats, and politics, into the 21st century – was a circus. It was, in some ways, politics as usual: candidates shunning real answers with meaningless generalizations, jabs, and grandstanding.

Add to this a snowman curious about global warming policies, Californian vegans, gun freaks and lesbians wondering what the potentials will do for their single-issue minds, and what you have is politics sinking to a new low. I realized, quickly, that in a society where anyone can post something on the web for everyone to see, and determine the next pop star with a call-in vote, what we lack is elitism.

Bringing a presidential debate to this level was a mistake.

But the circus of the event could have allowed the candidates to show the American public how they could rise above it with some dignity. Perhaps the only candidates that came out of it with an iota of dignity – dare I say—were Clinton and Obama. It certainly was not Edwards, who looked like an idiot even before his ridiculious/sexist comment about Clinton's suit.

Clinton will crush them all. Consequently, we are going to have another Republican in the White House for the next decade.

God help us all.

July 18th????

2007-07-18T19:15:00.000-07:00

A friend from my past job was in town and wanted to go out for drinks. I left work during rush hour today to meet her. All of a sudden traffic halted and sirens of ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks were heard. Standstill.

The city rocked by the September 11th terrorist attacks was rattled. “There was an explosion by Grand Central” someone said in their cell phone. The first thoughts going through my mind were all the reports from the White House that terrorists were gaining in strength and that America was increasingly vulnerable to civilian attacks. I saw what looked like smoke coming from the area and around the Chrysler Building. A loud rumbling was heard as white smoke billowed into the air. “Oh God! I thought, they got Grand Central, those fuckers!”

As it turns out it was a transformer that blew, then ruptured a steam pipe. The east side subway and Grand Central were shut down - millions of New Yorkers were out on the streets trying to figure out what happened, and how to get out.

Nope, not a terrorist attack. But for a city that lost so much on 9/11, it was is initially assumed to be an attack on the homeland. It’s funny, Bush and his evil minion all remind us to “never forget.” As if we could. No, we were not hovering in Air Force One when the country was attacked. We, in fact, were running from collapsing buildings, eating rotting food while the bridges and tunnels were shut down, burying our fellow New Yorkers, and hoping that our leaders would pull through.

They didn’t.

We not only "don't forget," we understand.

And no, Washington. You don't get it.

2007-07-16T19:20:00.000-07:00

Sorry to obsess (I'm drinking). But these are some great scenes of Beverly Sills on YouTube. Check them out even if you don't know anything about opera. . . Effortless high notes, coloratura and expression.

Beverly Sills's final performance
Beverly Sills as Baby Doe
Beverly Sills sings the Mad Scene from Lucia Part 1
A scene from'Il Barbiere Di Siviglia'
Beverly Sills as Queen Elizabeth
The Muppet Show 1
The Muppet Show 2

You rose to artistic heights despite an industry that didn't like you, you raised a deaf and a retarded child, you took care of your sick husband, you raised the New York City opera to heights from financial ruin, you kept Lincoln Center (Julliard, the Metropolitan Opera, NYC Opera, NYC Ballet, NY Philharmonic, etc.) together when she was starting to come apart, you brought the new GM to the Met and let it out of its cave, you brought opera to the Muppet Show, Carol Burnett, Carson, and into Americans' rooms, and now -- I just saw you a month ago -- to the movies, you were also my first opera recording.

And now, finally, you rest in peace.

I miss ya, Bubbles.

2007-07-10T18:26:00.000-07:00

Last week was the anniversary of our nation’s birth; and with that came the inevitable afterbirth. . . Mom and dad flew in to see New York’s fireworks, the world’s largest, go off over the east river. The evening started out with rain, which let up for the fireworks. The moisture in the air kept the smoke low which meant we couldn’t see anything except a bright ball of grey. We were on Roosevelt Island in reserved seating with a bunch of families with screaming kids and old fogies without alcohol. Ugh.

I know my parents are getting old when they both announced they “loved it and would do it again next year.” I protested. There’s no fucking way I’m stuck out on some remote island with the only way of getting home being that fucking cable car used in one of the Superman movies. They are getting old.

Looking at myself in the mirror lately I’ve been finding more and more grey hair. WTF. THEY are not just getting old, I AM; and jaded, AND intolerant, AND crabby.
Well, this 4th has welcomed me to the beginning of my mid-life, eeer, whatever

2007-07-06T10:39:00.001-07:00

I have to say the outpouring of grief from Beverly Sills’s death is amazing. All the major newspapers in the city had run huge tributes to the American Diva, Lincoln Center dimmed its house lights, the city’s flags were flown at half-mast, and full-page ads from the Metropolitan Opera, New York City Opera, Julliard School, New York Philharmonic, Carnegie Hall, were published in the New York Times to mourn her. Even the Metropolitan Opera, who snubbed her for years, replaces its usual website with a tribute to her.

Yea, she was born in Brooklyn and made her career on New York’s stages, so that could be part of it – an important local dies. But my mother brought a paper from Fresno and there is a good two-page tribute to her with pictures not only from operatic productions, but her with Kermit, Tony Bennett, Randy Travis, and other popular icons. Mom then points to a full-page ad in the New York Times "Beverly Sills: 1929-2007" and says: "Now that's respect."

She was, the newspaper said, “the diva next door” and represented the can-do American spirit.

Sills was not a "diva", per se, to Americans. Sills was an inspiration.

Remembering Sills

Taking Opera to the Heights and Down to Earth (NY Times)
Lincoln Center Mourns (NY Times)
Beverly Sills, the All-American Diva, is Dead at 78 (NY Times)
Wanted: A New Cheerleader for Opera (NY Times)
Sills transcended opera stages (Fresno Bee)
Opera star Beverly Sills dies of cancer (Times Picayune)
La Sills sang and spoke to all of us (LA Times)
America's diva popularized high art (Chicago Tribune)
A Voice that Carried Weight (Washington Post)

You get the point. . . . the nation, rich, poor, urban, rural, pays homage to America's first primma donna and champion of the fine arts.

Beverly Sills, 78, is dead

2007-07-02T21:49:00.000-07:00

We've lost Beverly Sills:

Beverly Sills, America’s first Prima Donna, died a few hours ago in her Manhattan home – its all over the news here in New York. She was the first truly American Diva – at a time when singers were going to Europe for training, she received all hers in the United States.

Her singing, which I know well, was distinctly American; she was straightforward, acted the parts well, and had flawless technique. She achieved fame in the lesser New York City Opera for quite some time before finally making an international career, then her debut – well at the end of her vocal peak – at the Metropolitan Opera (with a 19 minute ovation). She was the singer that set the standard as Violetta in La Traviata well before I’d ever heard it live: Her recording is listed in the New York Times as the greatest recording of this soprano-crusher.

And her fame also reached popular status. For people who never put their foot inside an opera house or even heard an opera, she was opera. She appeared regularly and as a guest host with Johnny Carson and Carol Burnett. Ms. Burnett said, at one point after doing a duet: “You must sing an aria now.” Millions of Americans even heard their first aria that night.

Despite her fame, it was a long, hard, fight before she was recognized as a leading singer. Nonetheless she would triumph in all the major opera houses. Personally, she had overcome more than most: A deaf daughter, a mentally retarded son, left her with little more than her work as a singer. Nonetheless she rose, not only to stardom, but to head up as chairman of the New York City Opera, than the Metropolitan Opera, than all of Lincoln Center, where she would introduce American audiences to the first English surtitles that dominate the world today.

I also remember an interview with her in the Met’s Playbill where she accused today’s media for underestimating the attention span of the general public for the fine arts.

For me, she was the first time I’d heard La Traviata, Rigoletto, Manon, and Faust: She hooked me.

Who would have known this Brooklyn-born, hardscrabble Jew would be on the cover of Time and have some of the greatest recordings of the operatic staples.

Her life was tough, but music that kept her going. We should all be so productive with our misfortunes.

I, and most Americans, will miss cultural life without Mrs. Sills. For just a few months ago she was hosting the first HD theater broadcasts of Il Trittico, Barbiere, and other triumphs of the reigning singers.

More in the New York Times.

2007-07-01T18:52:00.001-07:00

OMG went to a simple BBQ out in Jersey. 12 drinks later we were all hanging from the chandallers. I have to say it was a fantastic time. Shamelessly, Rob and I perhaps went through a bottle of vodka, then I had to make sure Trish, Atrinio and myself got home, and in one piece. One would think that that would have been enough but we decided to go trolling through the West Village and later to Hell’s Kitchen. Got home at 4am. It’s been a long fucking time since I’d done that.

Now I’m ready to die.

at the BBQ. Right to left, Rob, Trish Artimion and me at Anthony's place..

2am, drunk, celebrating our return tothe city on 7th avenue in Trish's care (don't ask how we got the shot, but we focused in the rear view mirror.)

More change, damn it

2007-06-29T19:17:00.000-07:00

With all the hoopla about having settled, most of the people who know me know that’s a crock of shit. New York, for all its glory, seems to try to squeeze every dime out of me. And the latest is the rent increase from my landlord has thrown me over the edge. Perhaps another rent increase wouldn’t be so bad if I haven’t spent the last year mouse-proofing my apartment, settling in, and dealing with living all the way on the Upper East Side. Another 10% is ridiculous. So I’m in the market for something else.

People who know me are usually shocked that I live uptown. Is it that I’m “cool”, “trendy”, or any of that bull shit? I’m not, relative to my fellow New Yorkers, I’m certainly not. The reality is that I’m gay and most of us don’t live on the UES. But I’ve never cared –that much – to fit in to the “scene” and didn’t care to spend $3 grand for a broker so I settled here in the UES.

But that’s all changed now. I think I’m going to find something smaller downtown, or something similar in Brooklyn, to save money on rent. And between that and the decrease in cab fare that I’ll have to pay when coming home drunk, this is a prudent thing to do.

2007-06-23T20:09:00.000-07:00

All the bull shit about my new job aside, things seem to have settled in my life. The job is reasonable, and with these last couple of job changes I’m making the kind of money that I’m probably going to be at for a little while. So I’m left to have the time to reflect on me –what other things outside of work I can make better.

The first thing to do is to know what I want, which for me is something I think the last couple of years has given me some confidence in. The second is that I have the time and energy to do it, which I now do. Now this may sound like bull shit, and some probably is, but it’s time to share make some effort in getting out there and knowing people.

What am I doing about it?

Let’s just say it’s gay pride weekend and I’m at home on a Saturday night. So I’ve not made too much progress on that front. But as I write now, I’m trying to plot something out. I’m getting a little sick of going out to the same clubs, meeting the same people, and having the same outcome. (Someone once told me that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome.)

I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth: I’ve made dear friends doing just that. But now I have to do some things that deviate from the norm. Going out from time to time, taking some chances, and exploring new venues.

I’ll keep you posted. We’ll see how these new ventures go. I’m not 100% sure what they all will look like but for the time being it’s going to include some more non-club activities such as joining some sort of sports league, continuing to pursue special groups of people in things I’m interested, especially the opera, and making sure there’s enough variation in what I do to at least make it possible.

“There is variation in everything. Variation creates all the interesting outcomes.” Lalith, a wise professor has hold me. He’s right. But I don’t want to make this whole effort antiseptic. It will be what I’m interested in, with the types of people I want to be with, and on my terms. At my age, that’s the only way anything new is going to happen.

Fortune favors the bold. I have to be more so.

2007-06-21T18:03:00.000-07:00

While I would like to think I do nothing but rub elbows with fashion’s elite, the day-to-day activities of my job are not so glamorous. I have more management responsibilities here and the boss is not all that impressed with the people that work for me (she’s not too wide the mark on a couple of them, and she warned me of this). I’m getting pressure to increase the quality of their work.

At the end of the day I’m expected to have some fact-based insights on our customer portfolio with this team. The data warehouse is totally fucked and navigating it requires some teeth extraction. But I’m getting my sea legs, knowing the people, and have begun to get into the job.

To make a long story short, I’m beginning to be a bitch to the people that work for me. I’m getting sick of the lack of progress and their misinterpretations of my advice. At the end of the day, I think some are lazy. My sweet side has turned. They don’t realize that if they worked with me I would be their greatest ally: Alas, they have chosen the path of pain.

ugly side of beauty

2007-06-20T20:40:00.001-07:00

The glamorous world of fashion has turned, for the most part, to be business. Who is buying Chanel, Diane von Furstenberg, Juicy, and Versace? How can they appeal to customers? How can they increase sales? I’ve had a chance to meet many of the designers. Some, more down to earth (Diane) and some more out there (Versace), to answer this question.

At the end of the day they are all interested in how they can increase sales volume through trying to understand their customers more. What types of people buy these things? How much do they make? Do they go on-sale to improve sales? What are the long-term effects? And with me, the question is: How can they do make better decisions through analytics and economics?

That’s the ugly side of fashion. These designers have a rather expensive shop to maintain, and so do we. Having stores in on Fifth Avenue, Madison Ave., and in every glamorous place in the world costs at lot. What can they do to maintain their reputation without having selling out? High prices come with a need to be less myopic. Do you ever go on sale? Should you distribute yourselves through the luxury retailers or in more pedestrian places?

The answer is clear. Keep the prices high. Keep the distribution through luxury, and never go on sale (unless you have a shitty season).

We are selling self-esteem, here. Creating a class of people and a sense of elitism.

After a lifetime of studying labor issues, I find myself in the world of signaling and consumer analytics. What is the value of “feeling fashionable” what is the value of self-esteem through things? I’m finding it’s pretty damn high. It’s fascinating.

2007-06-17T21:25:00.000-07:00

Kira, beloved friend, got married last weekend to Dieter. I was able to stand up for it. A good time was had by all. God bless their marriage and best of luck to the happy couple.

2007-06-16T19:25:00.000-07:00

New York never ceases to amaze me: Last night I went out to Café Taci, where you can not only enjoy a fine Italian dinner, but also listen to live opera. Singing from armatures ? I expected someone squeaking out and killing the great arias. Nope. These people easily sung in deafening volume (without mics, of course) the great arias.

One dramatic soprano sung Mozart arias from “Cosi fan Tutte” and “the Marriage of Figaro” with ease. And another sang famed arias from Grounod’s “Faust”. Tenors sang Puccini nailing every note in full voice; there was even a moment where three tenors belted out the famed Italian aria “O Sole Mio” to a huge ovation

It made me realize the fine line between someone trained in the art and the famed singers at the Metropolitan Opera. Volume, of course, must be there – they must sing above a full orchestra to fill a 4,000 seat auditorium. The Met has crushed many a great sopranos with its sheer size.

But it was at towards the end of the night when someone sang the first aria on “The Magic Flute” that I realized one big difference. To those that don’t know the opera, the Queen of the Night has two fiendishly difficult arias (and her only arias). She must climb up to several high Fs. Singing with beautiful runs and rolandes we were all biting our teeth when approacking that F. She cracked it.

That is the difference between the Met and the students. At the Met that note is hit in every performance.

But who knows. With a 10 more years of training, she may be the next Callas, Sills, or something along those lines. This music, dead for some time now, lives and breaths with vibrancy today.

2007-05-30T18:45:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure what it is. Perhaps some sort of bizarre mid-life crisis, complete boredom, or the realization that the pleasure I get out of life is pretty much going to be though “stuff”, or maybe something less profound. Nonetheless, my friends note a fairly substantial updating in the things in my life.

It probably started out this year with basic cable, or probably an iPod, and then it was upgraded to having a premium channel, HBO, and now Showtime. This gradually led itself to the purchase of digital radio. And with the departure of a hard-core Manhattan job where I was on-call 24/7 with something more civilized, I realized I had no well-functioning computer in my house (they took it back): I bought a laptop. And with digital technology, a bought large (by my standards) flat screen TV over the weekend. I even bought a Razor phone some time back.

One would think I were listening to Howard Stern, watching The Sopranos, and watching Planet Earth in HD and walking down Madison Ave with earplus in and listening to The Chemical Brothers. Nope.

I’ve basically purchased satellite radio to listen to music – much over 100 years old – from the Metropolitan Opera’s new station; tuned into nothing more than Rome and The Tudors, a show about people that lived between 400 to 2000 years ago; wanted to watch performances of opera on PBS and CUNY, and listen to more skipping during my daily jog.

However late, the message to me was clear: The world has moved on and you have not! When the stogy, old world of opera moves into areas I cannot access, I am – as my friends call me – a luddite.

Let the world note that I am on the main line.

2007-05-26T18:27:00.000-07:00

So it’s been my first couple of weeks at the new job. Having come from the rather hard-core collections and call center world (that’s no joke) things are different. My third week, I walk into the elevator and hear two people talking:

“What are you wearing? Burberry. Very nice. Thank you.

And what seemed like niceties really were insults. I realized this when the person wearing the Burberry left.

“Ugh. Who wears Burberry? They are one of those designers like Chanel, where you can immediately tell. Always the same drab plaid, the same beige. ”

The person making the comment got off on the “Merchandising” floor, which is where the buyers reside. I’ve learning how the fashion industry now works.

You see, we sell self-esteem. Buyers pretty much plan out what the new colors, looks, and styles are going to be, often years in advance. Their job is to change the perception of what’s hip and what’s not. This is how fashion can change from, say, bellbottoms to stone-washed to whatever the hell you want to call the jeans we are wearing these days. Ideally this would change every season (this fall, I’ve heard, the new color is going to be silver).

The fashion magazines and high-end retailers call the shots. Fame is gotten through distribution in them, and you’ve pretty much got “The Devil Wears Prada” all over the place.

I’m adjusting to this new environment, and to a new lifestyle. I don’t work late (yet), I never bring my work home with me (yet), and, for the most part, my new boss is something of a neurotic bitch, but I can deal with her (So far).

With this spring came a lot of new things. And a marvelous spring it was. Here are some shots of Central Park, which I’ve been running in daily now and this spring seems grander then ever.

(Met in the background)

(Random place near the East Side)

exhale

2007-05-15T06:20:00.001-07:00

Starting this new felt less like a transition and more like my first civilian job, after being a POW for years. Vietnam is now over and I can rest assured that there will be no more meetings where blackberry are being thrown across tables in frustration, people will not be threatening to “serve my head up on a platter”, grossly incompetent managers, working until 3am on Thanksgiving day: In short, it’s back to divination. For god’s sake, I don’t even have a laptop or blackberry!

For as bad as they were, the conditions, personalities, problems, and poor management of my last company has given me a confidence I never had. Will I ever deal with such egos? No. Will I have meetings as bad as those? Doubtfully. Will I hate my boss as passionately as I hated my others? I can’t imagine. This place, despite being bigger by a factor of ten, seems like a puppy dog, small time, almost naïve to the big bad world out there.

And after having a week off to go through Central Park and soak in the weather, buy new clothes, and wring out the toxic residual, my first days at work have been great.

---
Gotta squeeze this in. . .

During my time off I also saw Puccini’s “Il Trittico”, which was un-freggin-believeable. Suor Angelica was so moving. How can you go wrong with Romantic music telling the story of a woman sent to a convent for having a baby out of wedlock, the baby dies, and she kills herself? Man, I thought I had problems.

My final moments at IRMC

2007-04-28T18:47:00.000-07:00

Ah, springtime in New York. I met up with some friends attending a conference in Times Square, went to Chelsea for a vegan lunch, then went out for a nice walk and attended a street fair. We soaked in the glorious spring weather and had a drink in the Marquis’s bar overlooking Times Square before I headed back to my place.

To further enjoy the day, I decided to go for a run. Not knowing if it was the perfectly cool weather or just having had a nice lunch, the run felt great and I picked up speed. Soaring around the Onassis reservoir, peering at the majestic buildings on the Upper West Side and admiring the many flowering trees I deviated slightly off the path to avoid a puddle.

I’m not sure what exactly it was that did it. But all of a sudden it seemed like my feet flew out from under me. I went flying face-first onto the ground in what seemed like slow motion. I watched my glasses fly off my face as my body soared through the air and onto the ground.

I’m not sure if the fall or the embarrassment hurt more. But there I was, bloody, dirty, and trying to collect myself in a sea of exercising New Yorkers and tourists; thank God for the indifference of my fellow man to tragedy (not a single blinked). As I brushed myself off I came to the realization that I was still pretty far from home and had to continue the run in my current state. So, looking like a homeless person that crawled out from under the Brooklyn Bridge, I continued the run.

When I finally got home I started the painful process of cleaning the dirt and pebbles out of my wounds. It was the perfect end to the perfect day.

It’s time for a glass of wine.

FUCK YOU AND FUCK OFF

2007-04-21T14:36:00.000-07:00

In a company full of melodrama, I should not have been surprised that they would come to shock me again; this will be the last time.

I was basically bribed in to staying with the promise of a $200k+ salary; and it was with guarded optimism that I accepted their money and promises of management changes. Did they really understand what they were offering me? What would the details look like? When will I get this in writing?

They waited two weeks and finally came back with some modifying details, the most dramatic of which being that they would not pay me the raise in salary, but in bonus. In fact, they would prefer to pay me in company equity (private equity, which is worthless) but were good enough to leave that choice up to me.

I was LIVID. I was assuming the salary change meant I would become and SVP, which, in addition to the salary, entitles me to equity. They also had the nerve to tell this to me two fucking weeks after their verbal counter offer, AND after I told the company that previously made me an offer that I was going to stay put. . . . they waited until I had no negotiating power. These shady, slimy mother fuckers can take their money and shove it up their ass.

Fortunately, I’d never stopped the recruiting engine. Further interviews had, coincidentally, provided me with another offer that would enable me to immediately tell this company to FUCK OFF that same day.

In a short e-mail I wrote:

---------------
"Subject: resignation

After much thought about the evolving counter-offer, I've decided to leave the company after all. At the end of the day, it’s not about the money.

Attached is my letter of resignation. My last day here will be May 1st. "
---------------

And then someone else in the department (who I helped to find something) quit the same day. With one person quitting after the first two weeks, another being fired a few weeks ago, and the two of us quitting this week, that’s pretty much the demise of the department.

Many thought it was some sort of coup, but really they fucked themselves by treating us like inmates in a prison camp. With all the nefarious management and underperformers sticking around and all the rest of us leaving, water is seeking its own level.

And that, as they say, is that. The CEO, like a small child, is not talking to me. If he needs something from me he asks other to talk to me about it.

Thank God I’m out of that shit hole.

selling out?

2007-04-15T19:29:00.000-07:00

The very prospect of making the kind of money they offered to me is pretty damn appealing. What to do? I decided went into my boss’s office and said: “Okay, I’m in.” With that, he jumped up and hugged me.

Bla, blab bla. . . we talked about this and that and in the back of my mind I was feeling like Michael Jackson selling out to do a Coke ad – if you recall, his afro was set on fire during the shoot.

So it really should have been a celebration, though I’ve yet to see anything in writing, which I’m told will come this week. And I remain jaded and -- like a shark -- continue hunting and swimming, even while asleep. I’ve also been talking to other employers. So if they fuck me over again, I have another backup that can start another bidding war.

But at this point, if what my current employer says is true, I would be a fool to walk away from this money. I have a feeling they’ll basically use me for a year and then fire me. But with that salary, I can afford to save a shitload of money and dramatically change my lifestyle. For the time-being, I’ve sold out. . . . all the way to the bank.

On the horns of a dilemma

2007-04-10T19:19:00.000-07:00

The roller coaster which is my work-life continues. Last week I got my official offer letter. With bells, I marched into work to end the hell constantly inflicted upon me. I walked into my new boss’s office. . .

“Well, I’m just going to cut to the chase. I’m resigning. I really don’t think the culture here fits my personality.”

The bomb was dropped, and for the first time in a while, I had the upper hand. They are fucked without me. While all these fucking managers hold meetings, schmooze with the CEO, I’m in the back making all their ideas happen, rolling up my sleeves and doing the dirty work. Fuck them. I can go to a company that understands the complexity of the work I do, creates a career path for me, and treats people with an iota dignity.

I’d never felt more free.

My boss then came back to me later that day with a smirk on his face. For some reason I didn’t think they would counter my offer with anything other then perhaps another piltry raise. Then the figure came out.

Oh my fucking god. He offered to nearly double my salary. I had to laugh in his face. “This place is crazy.” I said.

While part of me was shocked at the prospect of making that kind of money, part of me totally understands the psychology. I could see the CEO thinking, becoming disgusted with the idea that some other company would have more resources than he, that they could lure away the talent of this company, that there was more interesting work elsewhere, that there were more intelligent people to work with. He is fuming over it, thinking about the professor – his longtime friend – referring candidates to him that he could not keep. He would be thinking about the person who built a model quantifying the costs of attrition quitting himself. “I will make an example of this: Fuck it”, I could hear him saying, “Double his salary!”

And so it was done. I guess it’s all a complicated problem that I’m glad to have.

2007-04-02T18:46:00.000-07:00

So the week began with my Mother coming in on Tuesday night. We went out to dinner at a good French restaurant and capped it off with two bottles of wine. Not getting to bed until after 1am, I drug my ass out of bed for a 4 hour interview with one of the biggest pension funds in the world in their quantitative analysis department.

The following night my dad came in and we saw Andrea Chenier at the Metropolitan Opera. With with Violetta Urmana effortlessly singing the killer aria “La Mamma Morta” (they killed my mother) it was a fine evening at the opera, indeed.

Friday morning I called the fund and asked how things went. They responded with a verbal job offer. Oh my God! Ecstatic about it, I told them I had to think about it. . . you have to play hard-to-get in corporate America, you see. But it seems like a great opportunity.

That night I went to the season premier of Turandot, Puccini’s last and most grand opera. It was marvelous. Andrea Gruber belted out the wicked princess’s role with determination and Hei Kyng Hong sang the sweaping melodies of Liu with effortless beauty. At its bittersweet end, the confetti literally fell on the principals of what was a great day at the opera.

I think I’m going to take the job. I want something in writing before I tell my current employer, se we’ll see.

“Give me free!”

The Met's production of "Turandot"

$400,000,000,000

Four hundred billion dollars.

If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere. . .

2007-03-25T19:15:00.000-07:00

. . . So what happens when you don't?

To those of my friends who work in the public sector or in non-profits (which is almost everyone) working in the private sector is, shall we say, much more heartless. So to the extent that I am able to distance myself from it, I have. That was, of course, until last week.

My boss hired a statistician to work with me and my team. Over the last month or so he’s fumbled getting anything of substance done, despite living in the office.

I’m not speaking metaphorically here. He was hired March to work in New York and came to the office on the first day and asked me if he could live with me. I refused. Generously, we put him up in a hotel for three weeks after which he managed the Herculean task of not viewing a single place to live. He then went to India (where he is from) for a paid vacation and returned to the office with his suitcases.

The odor from the cubes was stifling, he was clearly living there – had been wearing the same clothes every day. I confronted my boss about the situation, who spoke to him. He continued living in the office. Then I found out that he asked Pete to work out of India office because his visa expired in May and he would have to live there until October, when we would then have to sponsor him to work in the US.

This is where I put my foot down and actively lobbied to get him fired. I brokered meetings with my boss and team members to get him put on probation. During the probation I spoke to my boss about how absurd it is for us, to not only sponsor him, but to basically allow him to work in another continent, and he is not even good at what he does.

The final meeting, on Thursday, was as follows:

My Boss: “Well, if he’s even mildly productive perhaps we should keep him on and have him work from India. Has he been improving?”

My Colleague: “He’s been improving somewhat as I have been getting more output from him, but this is all relative.”

My Boss: “If he’s a liability, that's different. But if he’s producing something, then we should keep him on in the short-term.”

Me: “This guy comes in every day and needs someone to tell him exactly what to do. I spend more time helping him figure out his own job then doing my own. If he gets anything done it’s because someone else has done it for him.”

My Boss: “Okay, then he’s a liability.”

Me: “Yes.”

My boss: “Are you sure he isn’t just new and needs to learn a little?”

Me: “Look. I can tell when someone is on the learning cure or not. He is not on the learning curve and with him being in India for the next 5 months, he’s not going to get there even if he were. This is ridiculous that we think he can contribute.”

My boss: “So you’re telling me he should be fired?”

Me: “Yes, in this environment, with the ambiguity we have to deal with and with the need to have someone in New York, I can say without a doubt he’s got to go.”

My boss: “Okay, then.”

Later that day and after my boss tested my resolve: “Unless you change you mind about this, it’s going to be done. You can have a change of heart, you know.” To which I responded with an obdurate “No. I’m sure. He’s gotta go.”

So the decision was made. And the next day we had to break the news to him. But before he came in he was (finally) out looking for apartments when I get an e-mail from him.. . . “I looked on Craig’s List and found a place that told me they would find me a place to live for a $150 fee. I went there and they took my money and gave me two phone numbers that were bad. I’ve never been so harassed in my life.”

So there is one born every minute. Dear God, he doesn't even know that he's going to be fired, in addition. So at the end of the day my boss and he came into my office when we broke the news. He completely broke down. . . sobbing.

“What is it that I have done? I’m so sorry I have not been productive. I’m trying. I will work anywhere! What am I going to do?! I have a wife and child in India who relies on me for money and I’ve been struggling just to do that. It’s not me I’m thinking of it’s my family, it’s my daughter! Oh, I cannot tell my wife this! She will throw me out on the street and say I’m worthless. Oh my! I don’t want to live!”

This lasted for two hours as I waited for the travel department to book his ticket back to India.

“I cannot go back to Calcutta! I cannot go back to my family! They will kick me out on the streets! Send me to Delhi, where I will try to find work there before I tell my wife. Matt, I look to you as an older brother: What do I do!”

The tickets weren’t able to be printed. It was too late in the day on a Friday. So I printed out the reservation number for the Tuesday flight, the address of a hostel, gave him $20 for cab fare and escorted him out of the building, which I have to say wan't a trivial matter because he'd been living there.

“Bless me, or I shall perish! I don’t want to live!”

And I blessed him.

That's New York for ya, chew you up and spit you out. And I'm part of the process now.

2007-03-19T19:48:00.000-07:00

Living in Manhattan, one gets used to the barter. I have guest over – it’s cheaper than paying the $250/night – and they buy me stuff like Brita water filters. Last weekend my old friend from Georgetown was up with her boyfriend. Judy is a lovely, innocent, person and like such kind and wonderful people, she is –naturally –dating a wretch.

So what is it about nice people dating horrible people? I don’t know. Or maybe Judy is just an awful person and I just don’t know it. Which is it? Does water seek its own level or do opposites attract? Well, as you can tell, this is now beginning to be a stupid blog that’s unsuccessfully trying to point out that there’s an anecdote for everything. Thank God.

But as the saying goes. . and idol mind is the devil’s playground.

Hmmmm.

Bear with me people. I’m just trying not to blog about work or opera, and there’s little else. Eeeeeer. . . My parents are visiting next week.

2007-03-15T19:01:00.000-07:00

If there’s one thing you can say about the Metropolitan Opera, it’s that they don’t fuck around with the greats. This week I subjected myself to about ten hours of opera there, with two very different operas.
First was Wagner’s Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, which started at six in the afternoon and ended at midnight. It was a brilliant. Wagnerian singers are among the most rare and the greatest of singers in opera (when Birgit Nilsson debuted in Tristan und Isolde, she made the front page of the New York Times). These singers must soar above thick orchestrations and sing for hours on-end. The Met would not stage these opera without the best in the world singing, and Tuesday night was no different. There was this stamina, the beautiful orchestrations. . . Wagner took the term “Prima Donna” seriously: literally meaning “first woman”, the first instrument of the orchestra. In Meistersinger the real stars are the men, Johan Botha and James Morris, who carried the melodies to heights all evening with seeming effortless.

Does the time go quickly over these six hours? No. Time, rather, is slowed down and we are wisked into a drama carefully conveyed through music, abstract and seamless.

The there was Wednesday night, Rossini’s Il Barbiere di Siviglia (Barber of Seville). A comic masterpiece and a vocal showpiece. It was starring none other then the great lyric tenor Juan Diego Florez, who single-handedly brought the house down with this second act aria. And the remainder of the cast, particulary, the Barber, Peter Mattei, who’s vocal technique hit every note of the compled runs, like pearls falling off a string. This performance got a standing ovation from the Met, which has only delivered two in all the operas I’ve been to.
So it was a week of contrasts: Wagner, Rossini, Bel Canto and Dramatic. But where else do you get this roller coaster in the same week then at the Metropolitan Opera. It was divine, and reminds me why I continue to drag my ass out of bed and go to work every day: There’s really something else in life that’s worth all the hassle.

Another evening at the opera

2007-03-09T22:03:00.000-08:00

After a failed attempt at the opera last week with Eugene Onegin, I got a ticket to see Verdi’s Simon Boccanegra at the Metropolitan Opera, and just got back from it. On the surface, it would seem like a ridiculous story. . . a woman (Maria) has a child (Amelia) out of wedlock with a man who later would become the doge of Genoa (Boccanegra), Maria is killed and Amelia is assumed to be dead. 25 years pass between acts before Boccanegra finds her in love with a rival of her father. Another rival poisons Boccangra but not before he is able to bring peace to Genoa and reconciliation with his enemies.

Who, in God’s name, could make that work? Verdi does. . . When Boccanegria and Amelia find each other, a divine duet portrays their emotions, ending with Boccanegra staring off in to the audience while projecting an even, soft line of sound, “Figlia” (daughter): That single word floated in the house like a feather delicately drifting in the wind. That note, that duet, that orchestration, that moment, lasting only minutes, invoked emotion that language, acting and visuals simply couldn’t do alone. I was then reminded what opera does for me: It picks up that thing, those emotions residing only in the corner of my eye; those feelings that words don’t quite get to, and brings them into the center of my senses with a magnifying glass. The music is where the drama lies, the composer is pulling my strings.

So it goes without saying that I had great time. The end brought tears to my eyes, sad, happy, elegant, dignified.

One of Verdi's famed father-daughter moments in the Met's Simon Boccanegra. (Verdi's two young daughters died in the same year, along with his wife -- his entire family.)

2007-03-08T19:17:00.001-08:00

Work, seemingly, has dominated my life, from my bosses’ fouling the relationship between the company and me, to my starting the search for a new job. But I’ve nonetheless found some time to enjoy life.

I’ve been to see the opera Eugene Onegin, which could quite possibly have been the worst thing I’ve seen at the Met. Yes, the guy who is if awe of the mere presence of the place has to say this was one of the most uninspired things I’ve seen in quite some time. And the fault, I have to say, was the reigning diva, Renee Fleming, who had a cold that night. How did I know? They actually came out and announced it and asked us for “our understanding” as she continued the performance. I suppose this was in light of recent booings. Quite honestly, they should have put the understudy in because her ailments had rippled out to the rest of the cast.

That notwithstanding, Gregg came in and I took a rare departure from the operatic world to Broadway, where we saw “Journey’s End”, an intimate look at a battalion on the brink during the Great War. It was a riveting piece of theater and have to say both Gregg and I immersed ourselves in it. For those who haven’t seen this play, they definitely should get tickets to see it.

And then there was, of course, simply hanging out with Gregg, horseplay, drinking, staying out all night, and having fine meals. All in all, it was fun (notwithstanding the fact that I was coming down with an awful sinus infection which I tenaciously fought with all kinds of over-the-counter medications).

Things are better now, in every sense. I’ve had some fun, I’m trying to remedy the job situation (there’s a long road ahead, I think).

And that, as they say, is that.

2007-02-19T18:40:00.000-08:00

It goes without saying that my relationship with the company I work with has soured. This place is long on talk and short action, and I’ve been a major contributor to the degradation in morale this year.

After what I view as triumphs, getting people around to what the major problems are, what they cost us, and how to fix them, I now know that they fundamentally don’t get it. . . Thugs are still implementing “people problems”, anecdotes supersede good analytics, and more value is placed on managers then those solving problems and giving real answers. They cannot distinguish a complex problem from a difficult problem -- why America fails in the sciences. In short, it’s business as usual in the despicable caverns of corporate America. And those that are solving the simple problems quickly seem to be getting all the recognition. I’m in the wrong business.

So I’ve made a decision to investigate alternate place of employment. I contacted a head hunter, have been talking to my old employers, and am in search of companies who want real answers, not bull shit that confirms their course of action. And seeing my acute chance in work ethos, my company asked me what was wrong. I spoke of their lack of recognition of my efforts with a salary increase, and the overall inequity of their policies. Today they gave me more money.

Is it enough to change my decision to move? No. (They’ll just be paying me more while I look for a better job.)

I know what, almost certainly, what led to this gesture. . .

Someone recruited to us recently, and a high caliber person, has just quit after only one month. I encouraged it. I have also actively discouraged new hires from entering the company. Knowing that the low morale and turnover will retard their goals for the year, they threw as little money as possible at me. And its all simply too little, too late. I’d done.

So we’ll see what happens. There are a number of possibilities, but am not sure what will pan out, if anything.

scarlet letter

2007-02-07T19:26:00.000-08:00

Submitting an expense report of $632.12 for a dinner for two was no small feat. You see, I’ve been moved from cost center to cost center over the last year or so of my tenure with the company, the last of which was between the time the offer for this meal was made and when the expense was realized (Monday). My new boss was not too thrilled about having the bill hit his ledger and requested it hit my old boss’s (cheap bastard). I, therefore, had to send an email to the old boss, explaining what it was for, had to change the expense system’s cost center, and finally had to go through many layers of approval. Five or so fairly senior people were well aware of its amount and my old boss’s issues with it. My extravagance was worn on my sleeve.

I definitely lost some political capital with that meal. But you see, I exploited their offer as they have exploited me: I’ve been working around the clock for the last three months and can say this is the least they can do. . . Being the beast of burden has not been that easy and, to be quite frank, they’ve been getting a deal of a lifetime having me do what – and I know from experience – would have run them roughly a million in consulting fees to achieve.

Fuck them. . . I’ve taken advantage of them the same way they have of me. And if they don’t think it was worth every cent then I’m glad to find somewhere else to work.

In the meantime, I may look for somewhere else to work because I’m burning out. But if they gave me one non-negative memory to take away from the job, this was it.

My God, I could be working in investment banking and making much more in bonus for the amount of hours I’m putting in. $632.12 is a drop in the ocean for a company that makes ~40% profit by paying our agents virtually nothing.

Few see the big picture except the CEO, who laughed out loud when he heard of this.

Daniel

2007-02-06T18:00:00.001-08:00

The term “fine dining”, I’ve recently learned, has perhaps been overused. Even spending $100 a head rarely gets you to a place that even Emily Post would be happy with. But when my old boss offered to treat myself and a “significant other” to dinner at the restaurant of my choice, I decided to see what the summit dining could be at Daniel, a top-rated French restaurant here on the Upper East Side. For some reason I invited my ex boyfriend. I guess I knew that, as a snob, he’d enjoy it most, know how to order, and be most comfortable.

I arrived at Daniel’s elegant interior and waited at the bar for my guest and the table to be ready. The bartender, as he waited for me to sit and collect myself, invited me to a drink. “Martini with Belvidere strait up”. And so began the best meal of my life.

Max arrived soon after and joined me for a drink. When the table was ready they took our drinks to our table and a different waiter arrived with our menus and wine list. Then the 9 course spectacle of a meal then began.

There were four different waiters -- perfectly choreographed -- that served the wine, food, and cleaned our table as we went from course to course. Reading our minds from one moment to the next, we asked for nothing and never served a course too early or late; all in an opulent dining room with tapestries adorning the walls, stenciling on the high ceilings, and fresh flowing abounding. The sound of the room was not filled with cheesy violins, live piano, or other ornaments. Rather, New York’s highest echelon of society engaged in conversation and yes, the hustle of the wait staff acutely aware of the slightest sign of need were the sounds of this great room.

Then there was the food. Oh my. We had black truffles, crab, lamb, pigs’ feet (which, incidentally, was wonderful), mushrooms, and other courses I can’t even remember. It was amazing.

So there it was, the meal of a lifetime. Everything executed with perfection. That’s fine dining. And all at the low cost of $630. I’m sure my boss is gawking at the expense report.

Dear God, I hope the expense report goes through!

POW MIA

2007-01-27T19:29:00.000-08:00

This godforsaken institution called work has interfered with pretty much every aspect of my life hence, the lack of blogging. All the work myself and my team have doing for the last year came to a head with a presentation to top management of what we are planning to do to stem attrition and improve employee morale and productivity.

If my boss had it his way, he probably would have achieved this by chaining the agents to their desk, personally conducting public executions and having our ops managers slowly burn the tardy at the steak.

Alas, he is constrained by Western law, and my team was put in place to figure out ways we can do this through positive incentives. After a year of painstaking statistical analysis of compensation, turnover, health benefits, and phychological profiling, we came up with a suite of solutions.

And after a month of working seven days a week and regularly until 1am, we pulled it all together for a meeting last weekend. The ends, however noble, didn’t justify the means: people crying in my office, firings, yelling. Morale is at an all-time low, myself included. Sometime in the future I will elaborate on the details of this hell but now. . . like a POW coming home from Vietnam, I am shell-shocked and exhausted

So what is to happen to me now that all this stuff is done? For the third time, I’ve been “re-organized” and find myself heading a small internal consulting team in operations research and strategy. What do I know about streamlining collections and customer service work? Nothing. But in the eyes of management all you need are analytical skills. Hence I find myself Vice President of Business Development.

This week they are giving me some time to come up for air; I took advantage of it and some time off this week to lick the wounds, pick up the pieces, and get my apartment and life back in order.

“When the public goes out, when they go to the theater, they go to see and feel something better then they usually have in life. So when the public goes out and improves and feels better and thinks ‘now there’s really some worth for. ’ That is our first and main duty. How we go about that, I don’t care. So long as we succeed in that.”

These words are from Maria Callas. And so after this month of hell I took refuge at the Metropolitan Opera to see Pagliacci and yesterday I bought satellite radio to tune into the Metropolitan Opera station. It’s wonderful. I’m listening to Verdi’s Il Trovatore, a live broadcast from the Met’s archives 50 years ago (with none of this digitally re-mastering bull shit record labels do).

Exhale. . . . There’s something worth for in life.

2007-01-15T19:36:00.000-08:00

"I have a dream. . . . "

M.L. King Jr.

2007-01-01T20:12:00.000-08:00

Another year has come and gone. So what’s to show for 2006 and what’s to look forward to in 2007? I guess starting with what’s already happened is easiest.

With respect to work, I’ve settled in to the point where I’ve got staff, daily access to the CEO, and have a chance to work with a professor at Columbia. Except for the latter, none of this is particularly good news. Managing people is more of a pain than I’d ever dreamed, the CEO of our company is a tyrant, and I now work more than ever (weekends and holidays included.

Culturally, I’ve obviously got no complaints. Access to the Met has made this a bearable world, and to balance things out I go to the Monster and hang out with Rob. “Stay close to the earth, because when you fall it doesn’t hurt as much,” I’m told, and that I’ve certainly done.

Romantically, I’ve not just stayed close to the earth, but am crawling around in it like a mud bug. There’s no where to go but up: I had a summer fling that turned psychotic, started on-line dating (which in the gay world is just a place to have random sex), and the only people interested in me are awful. Now there’s really no news, which given my track record is actually good news.

Family is family. I see a lot more of then and other friends now that I’ve got a decent sized place . . . People are coming out of the woodworks to crash at my place (esp the family) so I’m glad to report that I’m visited. Shit, I can’t believe it’s been over a year since I’ve moved back.

And as for next year, what is there to say. Biggest issue is romance, but I’m not going to resolve to do a damn thing about that. I wouldn’t mind improving my work situation and work-life balance, but who doesn’t. Everything else is pretty good, I have to say.

2006. Over and out.

2006-12-27T19:04:00.001-08:00

I had a chance to listen to the Met’s production of Don Carlo recently and have to say that it was enlightening. Having seen it once with my mother, and now this second time, I now realize its musical value and how difficult it is to pull off. I’ve listened to arias from it by Callas --but it's not a diva opera, but a compilation of diva and divo roles –5 prime characters. The Met’s production was a once in a century performance (The New York Times said it was the greatest performance since 1981, with Domingo and Freni).

The music in act 4 is wonderful. Verdi came at the dawn of Bel Canto -- a technical stype of singing -- but nonetheless expected his singers to be trained in it. So this cast, conducted by James Levine himself was something special: "Dramatico Coloratura" among all the three principals, conveying a an evil among the most benign and a benign among the most evil.

Callas taught me how to listen to opera. Opera is not just a few great tunes, but rather dramatic moments that move the story along in every moment. In “O Don Fatale” where Eboli curses her beauty for having gotten her into a love affair with the king was unnerving. (She is forced to admit this to the queen, Elisabeth, of her sins.) And the final aria, sung by Elisabeth, where she awaits her tortured love, sings “Tu che le vanità” was, as my mother put it, “worth the continental trip from California to New York alone”.

Dear God, even I didn’t appreciate it the first time. I’ve always recognize the opera as an art form that requires the most introduction. But to know opera is not enough, you must know the opera in performance.

Booooooooo!

2006-12-19T20:15:00.001-08:00

While most of the world grapples with the war in Iraq, civil rights, gay marriage, genocide and Africa, and international trading rules, another debate rages in the operatic world: booing.

In the span of one week, Placido Domingo was booed for his conducting of La Boheme at the Metropolitan Opera and – more dramatically – Alagna at La Scala in Milan for his performance as Radames in “Aida”. In the latter, Alagno was promptly booed by the upper balconies after singing his first aria, Celeste Aida. Perhaps in a bad mood, having a bad day, he defiantly waved to the audience before walking off-stage mid-performance.

Take a moment to let that sink in. On one occasion, an operatic icon was booed at the Met, and at La Scala, one of the world’s top tenors walks off stage after only about 20 minutes since curtain. Certainly, Domingo fucked up the conducting – I was there – during a high-profile performance (Netrebko and Villazon during a one-performance-only, dream-team cast, broadcast internationally). And in Milan, La Scala’s new production of Aida was certainly the stuff of Italian pomp and circumstance, yet the tenor sang a weak first aria (one of the most difficult in all opera).

In opera booing is a tradition. Even the great Maria Callas was booed during her early years at La Scala. She recalls vegetables being thrown on the stage during a curtain call: Gracefully, she simply picked up the radishes by their greens, dangled them in front of the audience, then took an elegant bow before an otherwise adoring public. The audience went crazy.

Many in the opera world regard booing as an embodiment of their high standards: It’s a tough crowd at the Met and La Scala. . . you’d better have your shit together. But this indignant display of displeasure was the practice of groundlings centuries ago, and something I’d hoped we’ve since evolved from: Better to save this stuff for the judges of American Idol then in temples of high art. Few people in the world can sing even fathom singing Celeste Aida in the shower, let alone in front of thousands of people at the birthplace of Western theatre. But yet, even Callas knew how to gracefully boo back.

2006-12-18T20:53:00.001-08:00

Last weekend I went to my hometown, Chicago. Sweet ole’ Chicago.

It was, as usual, a great trip with the only regret being that I should have stayed longer. Nonetheless, I was able to spend a day with my grandparents helping them with decorating the Christmas tree, go out on the town and see new friends, then going to lunch the following day to catch up with old friends.

I got in a little late Friday night and basically ate dinner and hung out with Anthony and his roommate Dave. Then Saturday I went to the grandparents’ place for a visit. Saturay night was another thing. Met up with people – Jean included – and nearly drank myself to death at Cocktail with my old neighbor Val (another opera fanatic) and friends. Sunday was rough. Nonetheless I was able to make it out to a lingering lunch with my old fried Gregg and the rest of the UIC gang (Kira, Melody, Neena, as well as Gregg, Dave, David, and Manny).

Before I knew it I had to go back to the Big Apple with all its allure. But I don’t forget my Chicago friends who know me more than anyone and have seen me through thick and thin. Old friends, old friends!

2006-12-11T20:04:00.000-08:00

Work has somewhat settled down: I’m getting home before midnight; have had 8 hours of sleep; am actually able to sit and chat with people from time and time and, God willing, have lunch with someone other than my computer.

As if you couldn’t tell from my last blog, the situation there has not been that great. I work with very difficult people in a thuggish industry. I worked my ass off, regardless, and the CEO even said “you pulled off nothing short of a miracle”. Thank God, some recognition for staying at work so late I actually caught the morning rush-hour traffic ON MY WAY HOME.

Why? I do it all so I have some money to do the things I want in life. I don't know.

Speaking of which, my mother came in last weekend. It was nice. We went shopping, eating, drinking and to the opera all weekend.

First night out was to see La Boheme. The Met’s marvelous production was graced with a new face: Angela Marambio as this season’s Mimi, and her Met debut. She was marvelous. She had a huge and resonating voice that spilled out drama, sadness, and love.

And Saturday we went out to see Mozart’s Idomineo. Problem is that the opera is somewhat dull. Though the singing was top notch, and I caught myself drifting in and out of sleep. I just couldn’t get into it.

Sunday we walked down to see the 5th avenue extravagance (tree, Sachs, etc.). For all the years I’ve been living here, I never actually got out and walked down 5th during the Christmas season. It was really something.

Then Monday was yet another opera, Don Carlo. OMFG it was a dream team cast -- Levine conducted – and everything about it was great. I guess you can’t go wrong with Verdi composing music about a doomed romance with the backdrop of the Spanish Inquisition.

Well, I guess I’m in a better mood, now.

Tree at Rockafeller Center

Mom from the Grand Tier at the Metropolitan Opera, Lincoln Center, to see Don Carlo.

2006-12-06T22:07:00.000-08:00

It's after 1am and I'm still at this God-forsaken office working for this God-forsaken company. I'm at a point where I completely hate my job, the people who I work with, and the people I work for. People's expectations are totally unrealistic, people's personalities are toxic, and I've become jaded.

At the end of the day, I find this place totally despicable and the people vile and horrible. The CEO is a wack job, others at the top are grossly incompetent and the rest of us pick up the slack.

And I fucking have to go to Florida for this meeting, and don't know when I'm going to have time to pack between now and when my flight leaves at fucking 4pm tomorrow afternoon.

So that, as they say, is that. Why didn't I keep my nice cushy Government job?!

Milton Friedman dies at 94

2006-11-16T19:34:00.000-08:00

One of the biggest influences of my academic and political outlooks, Milton Friedman, died today. He was the greatest economist of this century and undoubtedly will go down in history with the likes of Smith, Keynes, and Samuelsson. His influence brought us the prosperities of the 90s and the relative economic stability we experience today.

He also convinced me Libertarianism was the way to go, politically. I read everything he wrote academically, popularly, and watched the television programs he created. In his “Power of the Market” episode I remember when he held up a pencil and said:

“Look at this pencil, there is not a single human being in the world capable of making it. The lead, well it’s actually not lead, it’s graphite, probably out of some mine in Africa. The wood, comes from a tree in the Pacific Northwest. The paint, is mixed in Hong Kong but has ingredients that come from Singapore, Europe, and South America. The metal along the top comes from a mine in the USSR. The rubber that makes the eraser comes from a tree grown in Columbia. Literally thousands of people came together – who have never met each other, who don’t speak the same language, are of different political, religious and social backgrounds – to make this pencil for you to purchase at a trifling sum.

I still, to this day, buy everything he wrote, spoke, and believed (to my friends dismay), notably: “It is the social responsibility of business to make a profit. Public schools are broken, make the private. Capitalism is a necessary condition for freedom.” Etc., etc.,

Farewell, Friedman. Your thoughts will live on forever.

United? States

2006-11-09T19:54:00.000-08:00

Democrats now have power of the full Congress for the first time in 12 years. It’s inspiring.

Perhaps bowing to a primitive instinct to summit to leaders, America blindly followed the Republican Party for the last 6 years. But with disgraceful execution of a war, the trumping of civil and human rights, and the faltered response to catastrophes in this country (Katrina), Americans have woken up and changed course.

Sure, we all believe in the ends: a safer, freer world; but Americans now understand that the means do not justify these ends. I’m often reminded of the Supreme Court’s decision on Guantanamo Bay when O’Connor wrote: “We must not wield the weapons of tyrants, even if to battle tyranny.”

Allen, the VA Senator, bowed out with dignity. My hat is off to him for dealing with this tight race with a grace that Bush did not. The message is now clear: We cannot win wars, fight terror, and help Americans, through the demagoguery that has pervaded Republican-Bush politics since 9/11.

Let us now unite America.

E pluribus, unum.