Travelogue: The Suburbs

Hi All! Welcome to our travel-weblog!

It took us a little while to get this started because WiFi is really tricky to find out here - it's almost always password protected and there are very few Starbucks.  We finally found a "library" though which has all kinds of computers you can borrow and WiFi available and these really cool "reading" rooms.

But so anyways we arrived here on the weekend and it's been a whirlwind so far! I don't even know where to begin...

Originally we were supposed to go with a bunch of friends to Italy for the summer but then Daddy said something about the trip not being appropriate because of the "Bear Market".  Which is weird because I thought they had those in Russia, not Italy.  And either way I'd kind of love to see one.  I love bears!  Especially baby ones.

At first we were really bummed, but then he said that he'd made arrangements for us to go to The Suburbs to stay with his cousin and "au pair" for their two kids.  I know: I didn't know what an au pair was either. But he told me it's like being a camp counselor except instead of being stuck in the wilderness you get to experience a completely different culture!  The pay isn't great (zero), but they have cable and we mostly have our nights to ourselves.

PLUS: there is so much to see and do out here!  Soccer fields are everywhere (chew on that Italy!), there are loads of swimming pools, and you can see any movie anytime you like.  I saw some kids listening to hip hop in the park yesterday too.  They might have had a few pops too (wink, wink).

This is going to be the best summer ever.

We promise to keep the updates coming, tomorrow we're supposed to go to "Super Market" which I'm sure will be, well super!  Maybe we'll even do one post in the local language (Urdu) once we get the hang of it!

Kisses!

Oh!  I almost forgot.  They've totally solved poverty here. There are absolutely NO homeless people!  It's amazing!

Book Review: Diary of a Very Bad Year

Confession of a semi-anonymous stock trader: I don't read much in the way of non-fiction and especially not finance non-fiction.

But this small book came to my attention from the good, smart people at n+1, a literary magazine that I've been subscribing to for some years (and sometimes even reading!).

They published a few interviews with an anonymous hedge fund manager (HFM) in the magazine and on their website as the financial crisis was just unfolding and it was pretty interesting, if as much for the context as the content.  The HFM was charming, accessible, and really quite inciteful.  Also, it was kind of fun to watch Keith Gessen try and figure out what HFM was talking about.

Well I guess the response must have been good because Gessen kept going back and eventually gather enough interview content to compile them into a fairly sturdy book.

It was fun to read partly because, on purpose, I haven't read much about the crisis, and it turns out I'd forgotten a lot of the more ridiculous things that happened.  More importantly, I'd forgotten how scared we all were.

But beyond the actual story, which is familiar enough to anyone who reads the papers over the last 3 years, what was interesting about the book was just how articulate, and how clear-thinking HFM was in spoken-word interviews.  His ability to explain reasonably complex issues in really simple, interesting terms was amazing.

I can't quite recommend the book to everyone because ultimately it's still pretty esoteric in topic - a bond manager talking about the bond & private loan market during the most dangerous time to be a bond manager in the last century. But to anyone who has an interest in the mind of a man who is extremely well paid to think faster and further than his competitors, this is probably a good way to spend 10 subway rides.

Book Review: Chronic City - Jonathan Lethem

I've been a pretty big fan of Lethem's since Fortress of Solitude, which is still considered his best if not his most popular. He is able to balance the smirky ironic cynicism of this age's writing with a much finer, old-world emotional gravity that makes his current, topical story feel much more timeless.

Essentially buddy story, Chronic City is at it's core about hipsters.  What do the arbiters of culture and taste, both low and high, do in their downtime?  It tells the story of a willfully bland ex-child actor and general layabout (the amazingly named Chase Insteadman) and how he falls in-friend with a hermetic, pot-smoking, burger chomping suit wearing counter-cultural journalist named Perkus Tooth.  They spend many pages wiling away time in Perkus's cramped apartment cooking up paranoid theories over percolated coffee and brand-named joints.

Which, somewhat plot-less as a pot-book might be, and believe me there are some people who really didn't care for the aimless drug-talk, it's a great ride if you're willing to take it with them.

I was.  

But beyond the upper-east-side hijinks,  the fantastic details, and some seriously great set-pieces, it's Lethem's writing that got me excited.

His ability to glide so smoothly from the realistic to the fantastic, from the trite to the emotionally charged is just amazing - all the more so because it seems so effortless. 

In one particular scene near the end of the novel, Chase is concerned with mounting an intervention for Perkus and it occurs to him that he needs to enlist the help of one character sooner rather than later since the character is "about to descend into the joyful solipsism of young parenthood", which, as those who know me can imagine, rang so true to me I had to put my glass down.  

Indeed, I'm the last person most of my friends would call to help them stage an intervention.  But then, maybe I always was.

Are You Up For A While?

“Hi there Mr. Cyril, it’s Reza Dibadj, nice to see you again!”

Reza had learned some years ago that these people appreciated a quick little reminder when saying hello for the first time in a while. It was, after all, a cottage community so there was often a long time between seeings. Also, everyone seemed to be pretty old. And drunk.

“Of course, Raisin! Nice to see you too! And how is Francis?”

“Francis is doing great, still attending classes overseas of course. I’m married to Isabel. We’re expecting.”

“Yes! Good!”

Cyril had whacked his shin against the side of his boat while disembarking that morning, and though blood still seeped from the cut the sappy trickle had not yet reached his sock.

“Up for a little while?” he asked hopefully, his smile stretching around some odd coloured dental work.

“No,” Reza sighed, “just the weekend.”

Cyril’s shook his head and tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “Teh, teh”

“We’ll be up for a little stretch at the end of the month though,” Reza added hopefully.

“Ah. Well. Good!”

Everything was, of course, always good there. It really was. Days were a steady succession of discussions about just how good it was, the only exception being that it was not as good when you had to leave.

Reza had learned that despite the community’s reputation for being inaccessible, it was actually fairly easy to make friends if you simply heeded this simple protocol ­—

Affirmation: This is just such a special and wonderful place.

Confirmation: Yes, it’s totally unique and amazing. We are very fortunate.

The bit about being fortunate was a little flourish he had added. He was humble by nature, but also, even notwithstanding his name, the absurdly hairy legs he had stuffed into tennis shorts made it clear that he had married into the community.

“Yes, we’re really looking forward to it. Two weeks! It’s just so much better when you can really settle in for a while here. More relaxing!”

“Yes, yes it is. Wonderful!” Cyril had started shuffling off toward the iced tea-stand, which also sold homemade brownies that Reza frequently sought out.

Watching the young girl get up from her chair to greet her teetering customer, he wondered if his child would one day work at that stand for a summer job.

Centered

A few tables away the flash of a camera caught his eye.

I wonder if they were taking my picture, he thought with the slightest raising of an eyebrow. Probably. I bet they think I’m some movie star.

It would be really embarrassing if they come over to ask me to pose or sign an autograph. I’ll do it, though. 

They deserve it, a brush with fame. That’s the kind of thing that makes someone’s night.

Probably they think I’m Ashton Kutcher, except my arms are bigger than his. Which, let’s be fair, you couldn't know that he has skinny arms from his films, but I have it on pretty good authority that mine are bigger and possibly better defined.

The girl in the gym seemed to really know her stuff, when it came to celebrities. But she said I look more like Jason Bateman. Which is weird because I totally don’t. Though I think we probably have the same speech cadence. It makes people laugh almost no matter what we say. Just the way I say it.

When I listen to myself on tape, like on voicemail and such, I’m always surprised at how little it sounds like me; because I actually have a much deeper voice than it picks up.

Maybe I should send some drinks over to the picture-snapping table. That would be sporting of me. Then they’d have a story to tell their friends! “Bradley Cooper bought us a round of drinks!” I bet they would be talking about it for weeks.

Imagine I’d worn my glasses? That would have really freaked them out. I wonder who they’d think I was then. Some kind of bookish celebrity, that’s what. The Harry Potter guy or something. Except taller in person.

And not gay.

Though sometimes when people aren’t sure they think it’s a bit hot too. Is he or isn’t he? They don’t know! Mystery booksmart. I can see when people are puzzled by it, when they can’t quite figure out if my jeans are tight because I bought them that way or if it’s because my legs are totally ripped. Puzzling enigma.

“Hold on Ray, are you even listening?” she asked.

“What? Sure I am.”

“Well what did I just say?”

He glanced over to the table where the camera had been but he couldn’t see them anymore. Probably they’ve gone back to the nowhere from which they came, he thought.

He looked at her vaguely, sniffed, and said, “You don’t understand me at all.”

Tombée

Wrangling a bear cub can't be easy, but it must be easier than this.

It has never been lost on me that my daughter's name is a near-homonym of violence; Violet commits violence to the air-sickness bag that was tucked (probably for years) in the seat-back pouch in front of us.

After the routine rundown of safety procedures, the lead steward also informs us that our plane, and its carrier, are saddened but proud to have one of our fallen soldiers on board. He explains, in our two official languages, that the Colonel aboard had "given her life" for our Country and, presumably, the principals she seeks to uphold in Afghanistan.

Violet eats a bruised banana and I remember my grandfather. "Soldiers don't give their lives, they have them taken from them," he told me many times.

"Elle est tombée en service," is what the steward says during the French half of the address. That's it, I think, a tomber: you know that you might fall, but you sure don't want to.

As the plane taxis away from the gate, I have to press the baby to my chest in preparation for take-off, essentially assuming our crash position, just in case.

Out the window I see that the grounds crews have halted their peculiar vehicles, standing at attention beside them as the plane passes them. A baggage-lift driver is holding a flag over his head, snapping stupidly in the jet wash and barely visible.

"Agua," says Violet, looking at the lake as we ascend. In the hour-long flight, she doesn't lose any fingers and I sweat through my shirt.

When we land, the sober steward announces that in honour of our fallen soldier, it is requested that we passengers remain seated until the coffin is unloaded. Though he doesn't specifically mention that we should be silent, we do. Even Violet.

We all hear the hydraulics of the cargo bay and a great deal of clunking that probably isn't the coffin but sure makes us think about it. What it must be like, a military coffin? Hard and likely aluminium. Probably sturdy. Surely not actually draped in a flag in transit? I wonder if her parents are at the airport.

Strangely, I hope that she's OK down there. Which, how could she be.

Violet has cheese in her hair and I kiss her between her eyes.

Dead On Arrival

1. Nothing good. Again. There hadn’t been anything good posted on Mike’s wall in some considerable time. No one had even tagged or commented on his photos. He didn’t even bother checking his email.

2. So this is what the bottom of a tequila bottle looks like in the daylight, thought Rex. It was gluey and smelled of confusion.

3. Unlike other ocean creatures, Winston had strong feelings when it comes to matters of the heart, especially when family is concerned.

4. Ryan’s beard was poorly groomed because it turned out that even though it would seem at the outset to be easier, taking care of it was more work than he had anticipated and more complicated, involving equipment that he didn’t even own. But even so, he tried his best. In any event, as soon as the phone rang, he knew he had been wrong, a wrong he felt right to the very roots of that unkempt beard.

5. It would be foolhardy to mistake Janet’s encyclopaedic knowledge of vegetable gardening with any kind competence or otherwise common sense. She knew three different organic and safe ways to ward off garden slugs (crushed eggshells, for one) but for the life of her couldn’t figure out how to get gasoline into her station wagon.

6. Raymond wandered about his ballroom in faintly choreographed steps, as if his socks knew how to dance but his shoes wouldn’t let them.

7. There was no good way to tell Our Glorious Leader about the cheese situation. He was going to be furious and everyone knew it.

8. For the one, striking moment Ray felt alive. But after he had driven the nail through his hand, he was immediately overtaken with the deflating realization that he would have to deal with the messy consequences of his existential experiment.

Soft Water

I hold my breath and the world turns silent. Most people shut their eyes when they dive but I like to see the water accelerate toward me. A body breaking lake water sounds shrill with treble readers on the dock, but it is deep gurgling bass for the ears of the diver.

My scalp contracts instantly as the water envelops me and I feel more alone than I have all winter. Phosphorescence burst into tiny blue-white stars.

“Where have you been?” ask the mermaids, their voices a lolling chorus. Except the youngest one, she mostly just giggles.

“I’ve been busy. I had a baby.”

“You already had babies.”

“I know. But it’s been… busier this time. I love them so much. I barely even read anymore.”

“You have to make time.”

“You’re right,” my lungs burning at the edges, wondering how far I am from the surface, from the light. I’ve never been great at holding my breath for long.

“You’re right,” I repeat, “I will.”

Bells Unrung, Cherries Un-Picked.

There are some moments in life when you stop and think to yourself, "well, after this there's no turning back."

.

These are the moments just before you gain motion on a path upon which taking the first step implies wholesale commitment to its destination.

.

Some words cannot be unsaid; most pain cannot be uninflicted; no potatoes can be unmashed.

.

Everyone's had them, these moments.

From minor adventure: the second that you are in the air between dock and lake, wondering to yourself, "Shit. It's gonna be cold. And are those rocks?"

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And major adventure: wondering, "No one is forcing me to jump out of this plane."

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To the romantic: the brief breath you take before walking into your girlfriends apartment and admitting, "I slept with your sister"

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To the perverse: that same breath before admitting, "I slept with my sister"

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Many of these are in business: putting on your jacket before stepping into your bosses office to say "I quit."

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Well, I've sat for surgery twice in the last 6 months, and I discovered that these moments live in the operating theater as well. Twice now I've laid back, lucidly on an operating table folks in scrubs bustled around the room and thought to myself, "I don't have to be here. I chose to come and I can choose to leave."

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It is the flight-impulse that rises up in your bile, I think. Your mind knows that you are there for your own good, but your animal being also knows that these people are going to knock you out and cut you. Badly.

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Mastering the animal, you think to yourself what a good idea this is. The run through of the logical train is quick and easy, because frankly no one in Canada fights their way through the system without good reason.

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But the moment is still very much there. "I can get up and walk out of here now; in a minute, I won't"

.

And after that minute, and the minutes or hours that follow in a darkened heartbeat, it's true: you can't go back.

Brewsters Billions

"I've been dealing with skeevy lawyers since the Eighties," he thought to himself, "What are congressmen really other than a bunch of lawyers made out really good?"

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Brewster looked up at the suits fidgeting behind their nameplates, and noted that most of them had worked up a good sweat under the lights of the camera coverage. He waited patiently until the old guy with two first names called the inquiry to order.

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There was a good deal of "State your name" stuff which he handled without problem. So far, this seemed like it was going to be pretty easy. Brewster figured he might be on the street with his money in hand in plenty of time to catch the second half of he Yankees game.

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"How did you get into the insurance business, Mr. Brewster?"

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"Well, sir, I came into a good deal of money after my uncle passed and using what could only be described as very, um, unique strategies, I parlayed that into an even bigger stack."

.

"Could you be more specific?"

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"I was told that if I could lose $30 million in a month, I would win $300 million. Which I did. And also I won the heart of an attractive accountant."

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"This doesn't sound very American."

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"On the contrary, Mr. Congressman, it's the most American story there is. It even includes baseball, the stock market, and an election!"

.

"Hmm. So this was in 1987?"

.

"Yes. So after I took down the 300 large and fought off a few minor law suits, I said to myself, 'Monty? You know what's better than $300 million? $300 Billion!"

.

"Indeed. "

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"So I figured if i applied the lessons I learned from my Uncle's experiment, I would be a billionaire in no time."

.

"Well that does sound pretty American"

.

"Sure it is! I bought a little insurance company called AIG and we started writing some really funky policies. We invented a whole new language even."

.

"So far so good, Mr. Brewster."

.

"Not really, Congressman. At first the money was rolling in. People couldn't buy enough of these policies even though nothing ever went wrong. It was a total disaster! There were some nights when I thought to myself, 'I'm never going to get rid of all this cake!' "

.

"But you took it too far, Mr. Brewster, didn't you!"

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"On the contrary, Congressman! It just took a little longer than I expected, but finally I guess we'd written enough policies such that I became much bigger than the market. Then Bear collapsed and shortly after the other investment banks I was geared to followed right down. It was really just a matter of days and we ran dry. "

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"You are a charlatan."

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"It kind of takes your breath away, doesn't it?"

.

"And now what, Mr. Brewster?"

.

"Well, the money's gone, every cent, and I have nothing to show for it but the Manchester United shirt on my back."

.

"And?"

.

"And I'd like my $300 billion now."

Fashion File: A Guide To The Semiotics of Power Ties

Growing up in the 1980's, watching Alex Keaton bring a briefcase to work on television, and Bud Fox learn to play squash on the fly, a young man grew to aspire to wearing a "power tie". Perhaps he would wear it to a "power breakfast", he might think to himself. What goes into such a meal, he had no idea, but certainly even this 10 year old knew that a power tie meant a bold coloured, solid or print tie; a tie that made sure everyone in the room knew he meant business.

According to a one of the surprisingly many fashion sites devoted to men's apparel, "In the 1980s, US President Ronald Reagan was known for his red power tie, as much a virility symbol in American corporate culture as a red convertible has been in the culture at large."

If you dig a little deeper, you'll find that though opinions vary about which ties contain the most power, there is very little disagreement that people will do as you say if you wear one.

So with that, it seems important that we clear up just which power the various styles convey.

1. Red, solid: I'm the president, or I've met him. I just finished breakfast with some powerful people. I am just stopping in here to let you all know that I have somewhere very important to be, but have taken a few minutes to speak with you so you'd better listen and listen good.

2. Yellow, solid: I'm incredibly important, but not the kind of jerk who would wear a bright red tie to meet with you. You should trust me. I'm a powerful man who is hungry for a power meal of some kind but I like you enough to stop in here and have a quick word. I don't eat spaghetti because stains show really easily on my tie.

3. Azure blue, with navy flecks: I'm incredibly powerful but speak softly. Listen closely so you can hear all the details because I certainly don't have time to repeat myself. I lost my drivers licence some time ago, but it's ok because I have a driver. Also, I like pasta. Some of these flecks are sauce.

4. Lime Green, solid: I got dressed in the dark. But it's because I live on West Coast time and as powerful as I am, I haven't convinced the sun to rise earlier to meet my needs. You should listen to what I say and comply with great speed because God knows when I do finally foreclose on the Sun, those who opposed me will be burned. But for real.

5. Blue and Red, stripes: I am a Republican. I do everything except hunt in this tie. I find it goes great with khakis and a blue blazer. It makes me feel powerful, but less so, say at a convention or something where everyone else is wearing the same tie. That and boarding schools.

6. Lavender, with light thorn pattern: I just a guy who likes spring.

7. Polka Dots of Any Kind: I am powerful but insouciant. I collect art but would rather not speak of it as it's a personal passion. I can tell a good joke but damnit you had better laugh like you mean it or there is going to be real trouble. I'm approachable, but please be sure to offer to pay for drinks before I tell you that I would never permit such a thing.

8. Bright Orange: I had better be the leader of the Ukraine or coach of the Dutch national soccer team. Possible I'm just a heavy hitter shopping for helicopters in the Caymans. I wear shaded glasses even indoors.

9. Salmon pink, Solid: I am Donald Trump.

The Second Season

When I was in college and trying to find my worldview, I spent a good deal of time thinking about beauty. Between half-baked study of Plato & Nicomachean ethics, I began to form a sense that Beauty was akin to godliness.

I posted photos of perfect women neatly cut from pricey fashion magazines on my wall. Careful to note, of course, that despite what one of my friend's girlfriends described as a "a lot of nipples" this was no pin-up wall. These were pre-lad-magazine days so the line between wank-magazine and otherwise was still broad and easy to draw.

The smoky logic that followed from my enjoying these women who checkered my wall was that the closer I could be to their beauty, if only via observation, contemplation, and eventual familiarity, the closer I would be to God.

God made things beautiful because he could. And his most perfect work were angels; these angels were paid thousands of dollars an hour to be photographed in New York and elsewhere in order that they might look down on me and I might know them.

It follows then, that if you could find your real person in the company of models, via legitimate invitation or not, then you had in fact negotiated your way to heaven pre-maturely.

A quick ten years later and miles from the studios of Tribeca, I found myself at the Toronto Four Seasons for brunch with my wife in very advanced stages of her third pregnancy. Her parents were in town and insisted on our enjoying a "date" prior to the arrival of the deciding vote.

She couldn't muster the energy for a nighttime date so we took advantage of the offer and packed her appetite into the car for what is seriously the best brunch in the city.

It is usually quite a relaxing scene there - European couples gearing up for some Yorkville shopping, families walked over from nearby Rosedale, pods of New York types recovering from a big night, the occasional grey-haired wallet with his mistress enjoying some post-tryst sustenance; it makes for compelling people watching and the coffee is great.

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After our first pass at the shellfish tower, we returned to the pancake station and we found ourselves surrounded in Models. They were everywhere. Tall, shockingly well-groomed (probably best saved for another post, but I have always found something deeply disingenuous about overly-groomed people, especially men; what are they hiding?).

You could smell the fashion.

The women were beautiful. And young. The men wore large watches and expensive boots and sported complicated facial hair. Truthfully, our conversation fell off. Their blow dried hair fell into perfect curves. They looked like money had made them.

We returned to our table with plates stacked high with breakfast items we had not intended to take.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

I had no idea.

But here's the thing. We broke into laughter. We couldn't stop. Instead of being impressed with this spread of beauty, we were appalled. I won't go into why, it would seem bitter or petty.

The point is one of perspective. Contrary to its nature, my Platonic form of beauty has shifted.

The sexpots at the omelet bar held no appeal for us relative to the cheerful little specimens waiting for us back home. Someone at brunch had missed the point of life and it wasn't us, we felt.

I had long since let the girls of my dorm wall go, my worldview having found new moorings many times over. But this was the first time these photos had found me again, and I was most surprised by how little they meant - how unbeautiful.

Violet May

We will buy very pretty things
A-walking through the faubourgs.
Violets are blue, roses are red,
Violets are blue, I love my loves

Violet May, born at 8:42pm on Friday, February 27th, weighing in at a fighting 7lbs.

Hard to believe it's only been 13½ months.

Slumming It

I love movies. I love India. Frieda Pinto is a knockout. Danny Boyle is a wicked stylish director who knows how to put great tunes and great colours together on screen.



I loved Slumdog Millionaire. I really did. It was the quintessence of "a good time at the movies".


And having not seen any other movies nominated for Best Picture this year I am probably under-qualified to vote. But it made me very sad to think that as good as this Mumbai slum film was that it was the best the world had to offer this year. Is it too much to ask that all movies be entertaining and touching and pretty to look at with good music and be pulled together with snappy editing? This is what now qualifies for special mention? This dominates the awards scene?



Now of course I understand the awards are a result of savvy campaigning and the general whimsy of an academy of artists. But still.

Nothing of particularly innovative or novel nature happened this year? Really? If not, then boo movies; if yes, then boo academy.

Maybe this weekend I'll rent Shakespeare in Love and see how that's aging.



It is just another step down in the process of my decreasing interest in films and those who produce them; there is a reason that television serials have essentially replaced movies in my house. And that's all I have to say about that.

Book Review - Bel Canto, Ann Patchett

You know that you are reading a Book Club book when there is an appendix of special features including, "How to Fall In Love With Opera" and a series of suggested topics for further discussion.

Middlebrow is the word that kept springing to mind as I read it. It's certainly not "chick-lit" (there are zero shopping sprees and very little in the way of heaving chests) but with writing like this, it is not really deserving of serious consideration either.

While certainly lyrical enough (believe me the musical allusions are not tough to find), it is rife with purple passages that include the "drinking in" of various peoples souls and so on. "Gen's head was filled with Carmen" is the kind of stuff that makes my teeth ache.

The passages about music are worse. Which, to be fair, writing about music is really difficult - witness how even the most knowledgeable reviewers are prone to near meaningless cliches in their critique. The media simply don't lend well to each other and Ms. Patchett at least infuses Opera with a romantic enthusiasm. It's just that it's all, well, over-zealous.

Like here where a young boy sings in public for the first time after listening raptly (with bursting pants, no less) to the soprano in captivity:

He didn't seem to hear them laughing. His gaze was unfocused.
He was singing to no one in particular. It wasn't that he was mocking her
so much as he was just trying to fill up the space where she should have
been. It would have been mocking if it had only been her gestures he
was repeating, but it wasn't. It was her voice. The legendary
voice of Roxane Coss. He held his notes long and clear. He
reached down into the depths of his lungs for power, the volume he had not
allowed himself when singing alone under his breath. He was singing
now, a par that was too high for him and yet he jumped up and grabbed
onto the edge of the note. He pulled himself up and held it.

Is it a good story? Sure. Is it romantic? Absolutely. But as much as she is a good story teller and holds readers' attention with passable, even cinematic character development, there is a sneaking suspicion one gains early on that the power of music is going to save the day.

Does it? Not really. The ending is, in fact both well-earned and surprising. Which is cool, especially since I only had to groan through 315 pages to get there.

What is a Mustache?

Alex peered at his face in the mirror and considered his mustache. There seemed to be a little gray creeping into the bristle. Maybe it was time to lose it.

Maybe that's why Saturday Night Live hadn't called. At heart, SNL is a young people's show and if there is anything young people don't like, it's probably old guys with mustaches.

Certainly he was funny enough. And it's common knowledge that every episode of Jeopardy! features a free form questioning period of the contestants where his dry wit was often on display. No doubt about his ability to improvise in front of a live audience.

It must be the mustache, he thought to himself.

Bob Barker had been asked, though apparently declined. Something about being uncomfortable maintaining his tan to specification outside of California. Regis practically lives at Rockefeller Center. Shit even Richard Dawson had even made an appearance on the show once, though it was Alex's understanding that he had been too drunk to remember any of his lines.

They have had loads of Canadians on the show, so that couldn't be it. Come to think of it, American sketch comedy is literally teeming with Canadians. His flat accent and love of the absurd should be an asset more than anything else.

Shoot, there was even a recurring Jeopardy! skit on the show! How ironic would it be if he played, say superstar comedian Will Farrell as a celebrity contestant. Man, he would turn the tables right on that big oaf! Would that be just too insouciant? Probably less so without the mustache.

As far as technique goes, it was going to take some planning to get it off. When you're in television and traffic in your image (plus: your wit! don't forget that you're clever!) it's important to make these drastic changes with considerable forethought. But as soon as he got dressed and finished his hot yoga, he would call his agent directly.

A smooth lipped man, popular with the ladies, admired by men of all sizes, and able to deliver a chalky smooth punchline. Who is the next host of Saturday Night Live? Who is Alex Trebek?

Items of Which The First Is Incredibly Good And The Second Not Nearly So And In Fact A Bit Of A Letdown On The Whole

Pizza, Slice of





Egg McMuffin, with Sausage





The Matrix, film


Waterski, session of





Pint of brown ale, Smithicks comes to mind





Service, in tennis


Shampoo, Rinse and...




Coffee, cup of


Underpants, pair of


Shave, session of


Wife

Food & WIne

"Oh, this is delicious."

"Right. And?"

"Well it's got to be at least $25"

"That's what I thought too! But in fact it's way better. $38!"

"Wow, I had no idea. I mean, when I first smelled it, I thought, 'north of $40 for sure' but then after I tasted it, it just didn't seem like a $38 at all."

"No, it totally is. I served it with ribeyes the other day and everyone was like, 'What's this wine, $55?'! It really depends on how the palette is formed."

"I guess you're right. Were the glasses expensive?"

"Yah. $25 per."

"That explains a lot. A good glass can add $5-$10 to any wine."

"Delicious."

"What was that, Italian?"

"Something like that. $38! Delicious. I'm going to remember this one."

When a Tree Cries in the Forest

The woods were soft beneath his boots. The frost had given way to muck and there wasn't much left for the season. All was quiet except for the subterranean trickle of snow runoff somewhere somehow seeking lower ground.

Breathing deeply, he thought to himself how strange it is that Springtime represents rebirth and life, but smells more like rot.

Peering under the hood, he looked into the bucket: not much sap left. He pulled the spigot and a few drops dripped onto his fingers. Sweet but thin and watery. It was over.

He cleaned the spigot and emptied the bucket into the drum which he would wheel back to the shack for boiling. He looked back at the tree and noticed that a few tears of sap had squeezed from the hole drilled just a few weeks ago. In the sunlight, he could see a glistening trail was left behind as they trickled down the trunk.

"I'll be back next Spring," he said quietly.

"I know," she replied, "it's just that,"

"It's just that what?"

"I love you."

He didn't know what to say.

"Why?" he asked, meaning it.

But there was no answer. Trees, he thought, who could understand them?

Sepember 12th, 2008: LEH, MER, DFW - RIP

On one weekend this past September, between the 12th and the 15th, Lehman Brothers went bankrupt, Merrill Lynch suffered near insolvency and was folded into Bank of America, and David Foster Wallace died.

A good deal was written about these three deaths and I read most of it. Like many who sit in seats like mine, the disappearance of the major financial institutions that we dealt with, competed with, or simply looked to for leadership (Bear Stearns had already been dispatched to Davy Jones locker in the spring) lead to my spending much of that week staring in rapt horror at my Bloomberg screen and reading about the tectonic shift in my industry.

Despite the hysteria found in most of the newspapers, the disappearance of some of our continents oldest and most venerable financial institutions was met with surprising ennui among those I know who don't work in the industry. And though the breadth of the repercussions of these failings have become more obvious in the following months of economic recession, at the time a sense of schadenfreude was palpable.

Imagine living in a small town, I said to my friends who felt it was time for finance-types take a fall. Imagine that there were five or six grocery stores in that town from which you could choose to shop, though you probably had your favorite one or two. One of those shops suffered from some kind of contamination (listeria?) in its deli department and a number of customers got sick.

You decide that maybe you'll shop at the other store this week until the local paper gives the all clear. But it turns out they have tainted meat too, since they use the same supplier. The first store goes out of business and you are feeling a little iffy about your other store so you start to cross town for your deli slices when you can. Then, without any further warning, two more stores go out of business. Worse still, the two that still have the doors open refuse to sell to most customers.

In a matter of days, your small town has gone from being careful where it shops to simply not being able to buy food at all.

How long do you think this town lasts?

What would you do if you were in the food supply business locally?

These are life-changing developments for consumers and suppliers alike and require a major rethink of past choices and future plans.

And yet, even while these very personally affecting dramas were playing out in the pink pages of the Financial Times, while friends were losing their jobs, the tragedy of David Foster Wallace's suicide transfixed me.

More learned readers and better writers all weighed in on his accomplishments and what his sudden absence meant for letters, but all I can say is I felt a very distinct downtick in the intelligence of the universe. The strange thing about authors (and DFW had actually written about this) is that the nature of their medium gives the impression of a serious intimacy to the reader; the author, or his characters at least, are literally inside the readers mind. To this effect, I really felt closer to DFW than to many people that I know in real life.

And as often happens when you lose something you really don't know how important it is to you until it's gone. DFW was supposed to have been turning out essays and vaguely promising to follow up his masterpiece novel for years to come. I was willing to be patient. And then, all of a sudden, I found myself scouring YouTube for interviews with him so that I might know him better, and quickly.

To get back to thinking about me: even in a week as surprising as that one, I was most surprised that the death of DFW affected me so much more deeply than those of LEH and MER. Sure, one was a person and the other two simply entities, but frankly none of them had been to my house for dinner and two of them represented (indirectly) my livelihood. DFW never once held out any promise that he would help keep my children in jeans. But he did tell me things that I had never known: things about the tennis, things about philosophy, things about addiction, things about grammar, things about obsession, things about myself.

It has taken me longer to post about it than I had meant, but nonetheless I miss him.