You know how most kids dream about doing something really great and notable and becoming famous and loved for it, not to mention filthy rich? They lean back and daydream about the lights of Hollywood or being the center of attention on the runway or everyone flocking to the TV to see them. The great baseball player. The noted author. The big time movie star. Somebody who saved somebody and is everybody's hero. I think just about every kid passes through that phase once in a while.

Along the way we lose our illusions (and delusions) as we settle into our lives. Hopefully we find a good road and stick to it, happy enough. Satisfied. And we can smile at all those childhood fantasies most kids have.

Well... like I said... most kids. Not me I guess.

There's one incident that sticks out in my mind from back in high school that never left me, even to this day. We finished a show and I went downstairs to take off the makeup and get back in my street clothes. There was my friend Hal and a girl named Deirdre and another girl I can't recall... anyway Hal's girlfriend. And we were getting our stuff together and had every intention of shooting out the side door to beat the crowd and have a cigarette or something.

And just as we were about to go some underclassman, I think she was a cheerleader or something in her other outfit, absolutely lit into me about not going back upstairs to see all the people who were coming backstage after the show and jumping around and squealing and stuff.

"There's parents and the other cast members and people up there and they want to see you and they're taking pictures and having fun. WHAT do you think you're doing sneaking off!? What's the matter with you!?"

And I don't actually remember our answer except to say we were going out for a cigarette and it was great what was happening upstairs and she should go back there and have a blast, or something, because after all high school only lasts four years etc. etc. And we left. It wasn't we were anti-social but I think by then, our senior year, we'd been through all these things a dozen times already and we'll see everybody at the party and we just wanted to get a smoke and then chill the hell out.

I really didn't think we were doing anything out of the ordinary, or wrong.

And yet years later, at reunions and such, I'd get this look from some people that I can only describe as being like "I didn't know he was still alive." It's not that I was surprised. I had a few close friends who I tried very hard to keep close all the way into adulthood. I knew who a lot of people were and a lot of people knew who I was but there was a cap on the amount of people you would say were "close." I always liked people who were quirky, or who were superbly artistic in one way or another. People who thought differently. Came to their own conclusions. People who could drop acid in the morning, drink beer all day long and talk everybody under the table by midnight.

Well I have to say that when meeting up with the rank and file of the old school days as we got older has always been a trip. And I really think a lot of folks felt I was a snob or felt like I was better than them or something. Oh I got some strange reactions. People would cut themselves short, guard their language, act like they felt like they had to say something profound or something. I don't know.

And it only really bothers me insofar as people think I'm a snob. That kind of hurts because I always liked to think I treated with everyone on the square. I don't know though. Sometimes silly practical jokes took on some kind of weird, important, political meaning back in those days. Pretty bad I guess.

But, see, it wasn't that at all.

It was just that the people I admired were completely untroubled by anonymity. They were out in the public eye but took celebrity as an absurdity. They stayed away from the crowds. They didn't take it so seriously. They had gotten over themselves. The fact that they shook off the star-maker machinery was just so impressive to me. Something inside me believed that these guys got it right. Salinger protecting his privacy. Traven living simply in Mexico. Cagney contented and peaceful on the farm. Browning disappearing into the world of his family. See? It wasn't that I felt I was better or above or like that at all. I was just emulating my heroes. People I just figured had the right idea.

I think that kind of makes a mystery to most people because the regular thing is to want fame and lights and money and stardom and to be recognized and be a somebody known and renowned.

Think about it. Most people look at celebrities and find the faults and see the shallowness. But then when we see them guarding their lives and their privacy and maybe even just walking away from what got them their fame so they can have a normal life, so they can live and act like everyday people... we don't seem to like that either. They're reclusive. A mystery. Strange. Unapproachable. Snobs.

But I think they got it right, after all is said and done.

So there!

Now leave me the hell alone.

Labels: heroes, modern society, my life

There's an old Bugs Bunny cartoon where Elmer and Bugs are having another go-around, and something happens that shows them in the future, I can't remember how it happens. But to show the passage of time they use the good old standby of a superimposed year number coming at you, getting bigger and bigger, while a semi-spooky voice says... "1970... 80... 90... and then to the year 2000!" and I remember one time seeing that cartoon and thinking... "no way, they can't have years that don't start with 1-9!" I think I was 6.

And so, at 6, that would have been 1959. And believe me, in 1959 the year 2000 seemed both ridiculous and impossible. So here comes 2007... and right there's enough reason to have a drink.

I know most people, especially the rather cynical crew that makes up the blogging tribe, usually has an enhanced and well-developed disdain for "New Year's Resolutions". And, like everybody else, I'm mostly ambivalent about them myself. But I got to thinking; Resolutions have actually been a benefit to me when all is said and done.

I quit smoking cigarettes on a New Year's Resolution. Got into a routine to take care of some hereditary medical bogeymen that sneak around in my family (diabetes, cholesterol, heart, cancer... I don't know... probably leprosy too - we got it all!) by getting regular check-ups and getting preventative meds because the early signs were already there, on a Resolution. And I eat better foods - not perfect but better - based on a New Year's Resolution. A few years back I determined to take my finances more seriously and since then my savings and set-asides have really muscled up. Last year I told myself I needed to actually finish books I start to read, and I really have done that - to my own benefit. So all in all, though you can usually find me taunting the idea of Resolutions along with the rest of the crowd, the sum total of the activity has actually been a help for me.

Not that that's going to stop me from making fun of Resolutions...

But I was just thinking; if I could really improve some things by utilizing that stupid practice again what would I do now?

I always say "more/better quality family time" and that lasts long enough until I want to strangle them all - so that's a perennial flop. and that's something I have to keep working on.

But seriously there are some things about myself that irritate myself and I should work on changing them just so I stop beating myself up over them. For instance being more patient. 99.9% of other people on Earth are assholes and nothing I am going to do can help them. The only thing to do is to be a bit more latitudinal when it comes to stupid people. That's something I can work on.

At work, every time there's some kind of row or disagreement between people I always get sucked in and, when it's over, I always reflect on it and am jealous of whoever it was at the time who stayed out of it and is thus looked upon as somehow above the fray. They walk away the better person because they didn't bother with the petty and kept their cool. This is harder for me because the person I report to is a total idiot whose only qualification for management was that she ran a laundromat once, difficult to work with - but it really is something to consider. The only thing to do is to be a bit more autarkic. If I could manage that I'd be a lot happier.

I'd say that would be two things I could accomplish that would help my general condition. Be more latitudinal and autarkic. Oh and more prehensible too. Latitudinality, autarkism and prehensiblity.

Jeez if I can accomplish that maybe people will like me better!

Labels: resolutions, self-improvement

...with something a little different.



Ano Novo Feliz!

Well the Roundtable doesn't care about your New Year's Resolutions, thank God. But we are curious about the best year of your life. So talk to us!

Something very strange happened today.

I mentioned (in the post below this one) the shares of Jones Soda I sold this morning and put out the contrary notion that, despite what the "experts" are saying, this is the time to sell the stock, not buy it. Early on I noticed people coming over from the Google Financial site, and even put an update welcoming them in. A nice bonus, I figured. The internet is a wonderful thing indeed! But then - just about an hour or so ago - I noticed a tiny avalanche of visitors coming from the Yahoo! boards. All of a sudden I have dozens and dozens of people coming over. Apparently someone or other is posting my article here and there. I have no idea who. Presumably this will continue when the stockpicking wonks of the world start up again tomorrow morning? Who knows? I am not sure how this works, to be honest with you.

But when I investigated the visits further the overwhelming majority of them were one stop shots. They got here, spent a few minutes, and went their merry way. Nobody, it seems, tried to investigate exactly who it was that was giving them an opinion. They checked no deeper. They didn't look at qualifications. They didn't do anything at all. Then POOF, they were gone. And (here's the strange thing that happened) it dawned on me that this was a metaphor for the whole stock market world for me. One envisions hundreds if not thousands of people scurrying around picking up hints and tips and bits of information and ideas and whatnot from a thousand different sources, and then trying to process them so they can formulate a plan to make decisions about stocks.

Speculation, not investment. The kinds of people who buy a stock and don't even know what the company they're buying into makes, or does, or has, or attempts. And the sad part is I truly believe that "when an 'expert' touts a stock, the run is over." I mean... I can't be the only person on Earth who notices that.

Well turns out I'm not the only one who feels that way. Benjamin Graham, Christopher Browne, Warren Buffett, and my personal stock picking hero of all time Walter Schloss, in one way or another, have advocated ignoring the professional media analysts altogether.

The reason people don't make money in the stock market is they run to and fro buying the "hot stock" of the week regardless of the balance sheet. They don't take into account that there are two values to every stock; what a share is worth in reality, and what people are willing to pay for it. There are all kinds of sources of information (Yahoo has a stock screener that will do it all the work for you. You just enter your criteria and hit the GO button) that will help you find out what a stock is worth in reality. And that is a sobering thing to uncover.

I ask again - why pay $12 for a stock that isn't worth $2?

I'll tell you why. It's called a herd mentality. A few shrill voices say HOT! HOT! HOT! and everybody goes on a rampage. But you know, every time you buy something there's somebody on the other side selling it. Think about that for a while.

So anyway the point is - no - I'm neither a professional stock picker or a guru or even an analyst. I'm just a simple little value investor trying to make his way in the world.

You folks really should investigate deeper. Maybe you should start with stocks.

Labels: investing, modern society

Back in 2003 I found the stock of a neat little company that made specialty sodas. The hard financials weren't great but there was enough there to warrant a look and reasonable expectations that, if they maintained their business model, they'd make a modest success.

And they've done quite well both in making money and giving it. These are the guys who made that "Turkey Gravy Soda" and "Brussel Sprout Soda" flavors for the holidays... the sales of which went directly to charities. And I was proud to be associated with them.

I bought those shares for about $5.60 a share and kept them for my required 1 year before I decided what happens next. A year came and went and I was well pleased with them and just held on.

But this month I began to notice that the price of the shares was really popping. From the $9 range into the $10 range. Then $11. Then $12!

I went to my screens to see what was going on (sort of like Papa from his bed springing to see what-was-the-matter.... sorry, that's right, Christmas is over). And, frankly, I couldn't see it.

In fact the more I looked the more I became convinced that this stock price was rising on pure gas. As in hot air. There is basically no appreciable reason for Jones Soda to flirt with $13 a share except the intrinsic goofiness of the market and an over-inflated sense of being the "stock of the hour." In fact when you look at the stock's book value (basically think of it like all the assets of the company, minus what it owes, in a big pile - then divide the pile by the number of shares people have) you find it at under $2! So.... why are you paying $12+ for a stock worth $2? What this means is that it has been on a comfortable high wire for quite some time, but - after $11 - it was working without a net.

So this morning I sold my shares for $12.95. And as I write this it is at $12.54 and sliding.

This is not the time to buy. This is the time to sell. I still love Jones Soda - but as a soda - not a stock.

UPDATE Welcome to all coming from Google Finance. Pull up a chair.

Labels: economics, investing

I have a virtual handprint on my back from Poppy who has obviously been eating jelly donuts. The imprint there says

1. Players start by listing three things he/she got for Christmas.
2. Then they list three things he/she definitely did not want to get for Christmas.
3. Then he/she tags five friends and lists their names.
4. The ones who get tagged write on their blogs about their Christmas wishes, and state the rules clearly.
5. Then tag five more victims. The tagger needs to leave the taggees a comment that says you have been Christmas tagged! and tell them to read the tagger's blog.

But I'm only tagging the first five who read this. In the meantime I'm trying to figure out how Poppy gets, like, words and shit when she smears jelly on your shirt with her hand. That's pretty radical.

My wife's impeccable taste in clothes often surpasses mine, but boys like toys for Christmas and here's a picture of three I got (If you click the picture you can almost get a whiff).

On the left the immortal Spanish liquor which I have extolled the virtues of before. In the middle, a very expensive boutique bourbon whiskey (but still good for slammin' down). And on the right (sob), my favorite (sniff), thing in the whole (sigh) world. 15 Year old Madeira, shipped straight from Portugal. No doubt about it - there are some people around here who LOVE me!

MMMMmmmmm! Toys!

But wait... the next part is listing three gifts I'm really glad I didn't get. And I was amazed at how quick this all came to me.

Pleh! OBVIOUSLY... the first thing that came to mind was a lump of coal in my stocking. Keh... everybody knows I was too good for that. Pffft.

But I am kinda really glad I didn't get a stupid cap with flaps and shit. That's like, OK if you're maybe like 8. But few things look dumber than a 53 year old man in a three piece suit and a cap that's got FLAPS on it. I think I dodged a bullet on this one and boy am I happy about that!

And finally, I'm glad I didn't get a princess phone.






Um...... yeah.

So that's my part of the meme. But like I said it goes out to the first five who see this. Let me know who you are and I'll... figure something out.

And Poppy... next time bring crackers and cold milk, k? Thanxbye; as they say.

Labels: drinking, flaps and shit, memes

Tomorrow, Dec. 27, is Oscar Levant's 100th birthday. And, in remembering him, we also bemoan the loss of the raconteur in current-day society. We see less and less of them these days. Maybe you've never seen one? The person at-table who is the storyteller. The conversationalist who can ask you probing questions about an interest you take very seriously and who is quick to take care of the "dead air" that uncomfortable pauses may create. Oscar did all that with probably more of an edge than was fully required, but that was "just Oscar" being himself while filling a very important need in a functioning human society. And, I have to say, a seemingly lost function in an era where conversation is more dismissive target practice than personal interaction. At some point or another it became much easier to say "I hate..." than "Why do you like...". Takes more work to be interested in what someone else has to say instead of just waiting for your turn to talk. When you build a self-indulgent society you get that kind of thing, I suppose.

In one way or another we've paid homage to Oscar a couple of times on this venue. He was an occasional member of the Algonquin Round Table. He is, outrightly, the spirit animal or totem for this blog. He was also the model behind another section of the ongoing "27 Things You Need To Be Bistro Ready" relative to "Minding The Conversation." And all of this is not to say that he was a saint or the easiest person to live with. Levant wasn't immune from the occasional episode of foot-in-mouth disease, or even getting a little too feisty.

I guess I'm just remembering the concept of the raconteur, and also expressing a little bit of frustration in finding that - because we seem to be required to talk so fast and clip each other's sentences to be heard at all - it is just as impossible to try to be one anymore. Careful wit is rarefied in a culture of the drive-through throat slice.

So happy birthday Oscar Levant. You old hat.

Labels: modern society, my usual whining, Oscar Levant

There are two old black-and-white versions of Dickens' Christmas Carol floating around out there. One is a British production with Alastair Sim and the other... isn't.

In speaking of the Brit's go at it, made in 1951, we are given deep grays and blacks when we are looking at London in the Industrial Age. Scrooge's poor miserable clerk, Bob Cratchit, raises his overpopulated family in lodgings that are spare and dim. The place is dark and little adorns the walls. The little tike that plays Tiny Tim is cursed with British teeth, and therefore drips with authenticity. Sim is totally consumed by his character in that film. He tones down the over-acting that seems to be required of that role, but still plays the helpless target when old Scrooge gets his come-uppance. We like that. We sit there cheering ghosts walking and floating through a movie that seems touched by just enough of the techniques of Film Noir to make it interesting.

The last framed picture made in the film is one of the revamped Scrooge with a nice suit of clothes, walking about and happily testing Tim's newly cured leg in the snow. And we are told that no man kept Christmas better. And we sigh. And spike the egg nog.

And then there's the American version starting Reginald Owen made in 1938. Film Noir hadn't been done yet. We are stuck in Hollywood's Wonder Years, where everything has a coating of sugar and the Wizard of Oz is going to pop out of the walls any minute and do a tap dance.

Beyond the fact that Owen never bothered to even attempt to reign in the penchant for over-acting the role of Scrooge seems to require, we are exposed to a series of embarrassments emerging from our own cultural tunnel-vision, that are blatant and obvious if you watch these tries side by side.

The American version of Cratchit's poverty-line family sees flowers on the window ledge and fluffy curtains, and paintings on the wall. The children are dressed plain - but fully. American poverty, I suppose; they only had two floors of rooms while Scrooge had three or four. And the modest meal they sit down to would make the Cratchit's in the other movie slit their throats and run off to the alley with the goods.

So watch the Sim version and walk away from the Owen.

But - since you know me by now - that's not all, my friends...

Here is a snapshot of a film made in 1910 of the famous Christmas story. Who are these people? Well that's part of the mystery. From what I can tell the names of the actors as well as the director's seem lost to us. One of my favorite haunts, a site called The Silent Era, lists the workforce of the film as Unknown.

Yeah! I GOT to get that one! You can count on it!

In the meantime, are you opposed to all this celebration? Do you feel it is having religion pushed down your throat? Are you more inclined to scoff at the season and complain about the whole deal from start to finish? The stupid decorations, the false sense of happiness, the awful music over and over and over? Well fear not! There is, after all, an entire argument for your position that has already been laid out. And, I have to admit, a pretty good one too.

If you are so inclined, you may want to check out IN DEFENSE OF SCROOGE over at the Von Mises Institute.

Merry... humChristbug to ya!

Labels: Christmas, economics, old movies

Check where the story has been left off by the last contributor. Tie into what has been opened. Advance the story anywhere you want to go. You do not have to be a member of the Roundtable to participate.

You MUST pick up from wherever the last entry left off. You may NOT ignore the last entry, but must run with whatever it is.

If two posters "publish" at the same time, we then have two stories. Follow what part you want, or tie them back together. Makes no difference.
_______________________________________________________


He would count the birds that landed on the seed dish out on the balcony that were red. But the blue ones he killed. Not the blue ones with the black lines in their tail feathers; the blue ones with the white speckles at the tip of their wings. He hated those, and killed them instantly.

This is how his life went for many years, until Rosetta appeared; diaphanous, as if in a haze, despite the dead and soon-to-be dead birds, mindless of the lingering scent of powder from the rifle. She changed everything after a while.

And they contained themselves, oblivious in their close walled neurotic little universe, willfully obtuse to the rest of everything at large. They perfected faked artistry, and affected a kind of overbearing intellectualism together that never got tested beyond their fortress. He stopped his quest to rid the world of blue birds with white speckles at the tip of their wings, and followed her lead into a quiet and gentle ease.

At least until the new couple moved in to the apartment across the hall, and he saw them set up the killing plate...

I think tobacco abuse is a very great evil. Cigarettes, which I did for many years, are insidious little devils.

I prefer cigars but I only smoke 8, maybe 10, a year. Less than other times - if any at all - in the winter, because I never smoke them inside.

I look at cigars much the same way the Indians looked at tobacco; something to mark a special moment, and not to be abused over and over every day. There are a lot of things like that in the natural world. Too much of anything is no good.

Because I take my tobacco sparingly I believe I still obtain the calming elements of the drug without the manic results of overuse. Which means that, when I smoke, the mind is allowed free range over ideas or conversation. Instead of a constant impediment to conversation - like a cigarette - a cigar can sit unpuffed for a good many paragraphs of speech and still be lit when you are done with your dissertation.

The other night I enjoyed an H. Upmann Cameroon. And once or twice during the easing hour as I sat back in the cool early winter air on the deck, some very precise thoughts formed like smoke rings in the night before my eyes.

One of the things I wondered about was; how come it is the very people who pound you with the idea that you need to get into the spirit of the holidays at the sound of the first jingle bell, usually become the people who are a complete and total mess by the time The Day actually arrives? I hate when that happens.

The other thing I wondered about was; do people who complain about slow drivers mean the driver ahead of them is going below the limit and it is making them crazy, right at the limit in violation of the "automatic 5 MPH bonus rule," or ten or more miles over the limit and the complaining person is just the kind of jackass who simply doesn't want anybody in front of him?

I ask that because I usually find myself doing 70 in 55's and I invariably am never going fast enough for somebody.

The third thing I wondered about was; if you have to make an entry in your blog talking about Christmas cheer and other people's driving habits, hasn't the time finally come when you've run out of ideas and need to take a bloggy break?

And then I wondered if there was such a thing as a bloggy bag.

Then I wondered what the hell I was smoking.

Yeah. It was pretty good!

Labels: cigars, drivers, running out of ideas

Pretty sure the buying frenzy is over, but what remains is the great festival. 23 people, I think, crammed into our cozy little house turning it all to shreds. This afternoon I returned from meeting to find the wife, our eldest daughter and star grand-daughter busy making cookies and the house smelled wonderful (even if the 15 pounds the doctor said I have to lose makes it relatively impossible to sample them).

In the coming week Mrs RW will no doubt crack a brain cell or two fretting over the dinner to come, and my back will get itself out of whack from moving tables and chairs. Outside of the food, which is planned for, there will be one more hit to the wallet for the beer and wine (luckily the harder liquid spirits are permanent residents of my liquor cabinet, so we won't have to replenish the boiler part of the makers). But then we coast. I hope.

Christmas is always that time of year to make ruinous demands on the pocketbook, but when all is said and done I really wouldn't change anything about it. It is a busy, light-filled, happy-voiced time of year. It stopped being about "getting" decades ago. The truth is, if I let my guard down, I have to admit that I love to give presents. And having a grand-daughter Emma (who is now old enough to sing Jingle Bells all by herself - at 3) will make it all the more special.

But a couple times during this season I've caught myself thinking about the faces and voices that aren't here anymore. I try to imagine them doing the same things I'm doing now, only with me being the one singing Jingle Bells for the first time all by myself. I picture them going to the stores, making the food, moving the furniture.

All their energy and all their thoughts are gone. Their voices are quiet. They won't walk through the door next week and give a hearty cheer as a beer is put in their hands.

In our family households open presents in the morning, but when the larger family arrives we wait until after dinner and do a little more. The way we've always done it is to start with the youngest and worm our way to the oldest. This Christmas I am two from the end, all of a sudden. In a place in line once held by uncles or grandparents. And the thing of it is, it isn't scary or depressing or worrisome at all.

It feels all too natural. And I'm too anxious to see Emma's face when she gets sight of the doll house to worry about it.

One Christmas, in the year my Mom died, I stood up before we all started dinner and said "Here's a toast for those of us who are, those of us who were, and those of us yet to come." I knew I was talking about somebody I didn't know yet.

So it comes to pass. I have seen and known people from my family who were born in the 19th century. I know people in the family now who will spend the majority of their lives in the 21st. That's the benefit to being born in the middle of the 20th, I suppose.

And you know... it's a wonderful life.

Labels: Christmas, family, old sentimental goof

Princess Diana's death has just been ruled an accident.

In related stories, Ernest Hemingway actually did write For Whom The Bell Tolls, Donald Trump has big hair, and the Holocaust wasn't faked by people trying to discredit the wonderfulness of Hitler's golden age.

Just thought I'd mention it.

Carry on...

It's weird... people born after 1960 are creeped out by this stuff, and people born before 1960 love the stuff.

Sort of like Rap, but the other way around...

John Sadowski hosts the Roundtable today and is interested in your early morning habits.

Who is the first person you open up? Hmmmm?

Take a moment and imagine a scene in which the son of a Catholic immigrant brings an inexpensive gift of wine to a Jewish neighbor in the building of flats next door. He saw the label had a Star of David on it and so he figured it would be OK. The Jewish neighbor opens the door and the Catholic says "Happy Hanukkah!" And the man inside happily asks the man at the door to come have a glass with him. All smiles. All around.

A day or two later the Jewish man knocks on the door of the apartment of the Catholic man, holding a bottle of Polish vodka. And when the door is opened the Jewish man says "Merry Christmas!" And he is invited inside where he is asked to share a drink and agrees, happily winking "Don't tell my wife!" And all smiles. All around.

The next year this scene repeats itself, just like it happened two and three and four years ago as well.

You can't crap me. I saw this happen, when I was a boy. I know it happened.

But it doesn't happen anymore because the world got delicate. Sensitive. Edgy. Neurotic. Everyone is so busy looking around for an insult, everyone forgets to respect the other guy altogether. And I mean - God bless us - everyone.

Hell of a shame.

God how I hate the 21st Century.

Yeah ok it didn't take much to get us going, back in the day. You kids are just sorry you didn't have stuff like this.

Back from our annual jaunt into the city we were born and raised in, the Mrs and I are happy to report that everything was pretty much where we left it. Now, I could have sworn that last year I had champagne and waffles for breakfast under the tree at Marshall Field's, but I was allowed to be delusional all this time. When we sat down to order breakfast this Saturday morning I was amazed to find that there were no waffles on the menu. I was then told that the menu hadn't changed at all from last year.

So obviously I ate imaginary waffles last year. They were like the things that were revealed by the Ghost of Christmas Past; mere shadows of things that once were. We can do nothing to change these shadows, Ebenezer. So I ordered champagne and pancakes. Not exactly the same as the breakfast I - obviously - only imagined last year... but yummy just the same.

Plus the tree was the tree as it is always the tree. This year's designer was Vera Wang. You can see our table just to the left of the tree near the post. Of course the major difference is that what used to be known as Marshall Field's is now the property of Macy's. The store is the same, the staff is the same and the breakfast is the same (the memory of years past as a child under the tree in the Walnut Room is always warmer than the plate you get...).

But the line waiting for breakfast was less than a third - maybe even only 25% - of what it had always been, and rampant sales placards (usually not seen in such numbers until after the Christmas rush) gave hint to the idea that it just might be so; Chicagoans are rejecting a brand with a New York identity in reaction to its erasing one that had Chicago identity.

Time will tell.

Out in Daley Plaza where the city tree is situated, Mrs RW and I sat on the cold bench waiting for the makeshift craft huts to open, when she noticed that a hundred birds or more had decided to live in the tree (really a pile of trees going up many stories), and snapped the revealing photo to prove it. It was a scandal of mammoth proportions, the city not being able to collect a fee or a tax on their habitation. But we kept quiet about it.

Turns out the birds were not the only ones who had come to town. A brief tour around the blogosphere has revealed that there was a veritable blog-owner invasion of town, and that at some point or other we were all within a few hundred yards of each other.

Poppy was doing the traditional take-the-lovely-children -to-see-The-Nutcracker routine about the same time the Mrs and I were settling into our seats at the Goodman to watch this year's production of A Christmas Carol. And Dave2 was being frightened to death by a stupid clown at about the same time the Mrs and I were buying everything in sight at Watertower Place.

I wonder what Chicago, commerce, and the arts would do if it weren't for bloggers!

Anyway it was another wonderful weekend away, which we do every year and will do again next year. Our annual Christmas weekend "back home" ties us to our myth (like the one that said I had waffles last year) and memory. It is always good to be home.

We had a lot of fun.


Here's me watching the traditional Christmas belly dancers I think...

Many times people come up to me in the street and they say "Are you RW?" And I say "Yes" and they punch me right in the crotch!

Many times people come up to me in the street and they say "Are you RW, that expert on all things class and suav....i....ty?" (They always say that rather haltingly like that too.) And I respond "Mais, naturellement" with my eyebrows raised and my head shaking at a slightly jaunty, jerky, I'm-so-special motion. And every last single time that happens (especially during this time of year) I either get a slap in the head to make it stop, or I get questions about the proper gifts to buy for loved ones during this happy, joyous, jaunty, jerky season. "Oh, mon cher" (I reply) "Je suis heureux de vous aider!" And they always kick me when I say that.

That used to bother me until I figured out what the hell was going on. Silly me! So now - when I answer in English - they don't think I'm trying to seduce them and so then they don't kick me and they want to know more. No more worries!

"The first thing," I say this very seriously, "the first thing to do is to recognize that there is a difference between men and women. Go ahead, you take a look and when you're done we'll go on."

And when they finish I go into my thing, starting with the obvious, of course!

Gear and utensils
So-called "guy stuff" like circular saws and power drills are perfectly fine for the boys. But the female version of "tools," like waffle irons and pots and pans, are a no-no as gifts for the vast majority of women. And this is so for a very simple reason. It's because kitchen and laundry gear and stuff like that suggest service. More importantly they imply service to the man. Like the guy buying a waffle iron for the girl would seem to imply the idea that she is going to make waffles for him. And that is no good. Now power drills and circular saws given to the guy implies service too. More importantly they imply service to the woman. Like the gal is buying these things for the guy so he can put up curtain rods for her. And that is good. Simple!

Now when it comes to clothes...
These days - unless someone specifically points something out to you that they like and would just never buy for themselves - gift cards are perfectly acceptable. The only time this is a problem is if your gift receiver is also a solid candidate for What Not To Wear. In that case they will probably just perpetuate the disaster and you will be nothing more than a vile little enabler!

This can even go across gender; though in most cases it is true that women have a better sense of "look" and style than most men. It can be confusing, I'll admit. Should you get an actual piece of clothing or a card? Well luckily there are clues! One iron clad rule would be

A guy who thinks a clean sweatshirt is "dressing up", or a woman who has missing teeth who goes into Wal-Mart with her tatts visible just above the line of her pajama bottoms = get the damn shirt FOR them.

Unless this describes YOU... in which case get the waffle iron. Especially if you're already at Wal-Mart.

And Finally
The Christmas season means many things to many people; gifts, colored lights, Christmas trees, family gatherings, chainsaw massacres, and new cars in your driveway with big red bows on top of them. But, really, we would caution seriously about the new car thing. Unless you are very wealthy you should not surprise your spouse with a new car in the driveway Christmas morning. And I can tell you why. When I graduated high school my Dad showed up in the driveway with a brand new car he got for me. True story! He shook my hand, he handed me the keys, he handed me the payment book and he said "hmmm, looks like you better get a job, no?" That was not cool.

Anyhow just a few important hints to brighten your holiday. Happy Gifting, all!

For our Roundtable discussion today, Ms. Suzanne wants to wish you a Merry Fucking Christmas...

Too funny, after all, dahling... This just in from the Rockford Register Star...

"One Northern Illinois University professor was arrested and another was sent to the hospital after a verbal exchange turned into a fight Monday afternoon in an on-campus academic building.

"Dr. Radha Balamuralikrishna, an associate professor in NIU's Department of Technology and co-trustee of the Zeta Chapter of Epsilon Pi Tau., was arrested on three counts of aggravated battery.

"Two professors got into an argument, and one assaulted the other with an aluminum pipe. He hit him in the head," said Lt. Darren Mitchell, who is serving as acting NIU police chief. What the men were fighting over and where Balamuralikrishna found the pipe was not clear.

Well... not quite just "Dept of Technology." Dr. Balamuralikrishna is an instructor in web design, for anyone not from these parts.

Now, considering the web designers I know, it doesn't take too much to extrapolate what was at the heart of the matter...

Dr. Balamuralikrishna: Ve are using BankGothic in this area of the site and dat is final!

Dr. Head: Don't be ridiculous! That area is crying out for PosterBodoni BT. Even a twelve year old would see that!

Dr. Balamuralikrishna: I refuse to listen to your disputations!

Dr. Head: BankGothic is stupid!

Dr. Balamuralikrishna: It is absolutely correct! Ve can use no other. Perhaps if your stupid SIDEBAR wasn't so long we could entertain PosterBodoni BT. But you haff cluttered up the rendering and ve cannot see because the vords are getting all squished together.

Dr. Head: That is because you are still using that silly AOL default browser after all these years! I TOLD you to change to Firefox!

Dr. Balamuralikrishna: I am the head of this department, and you are a person who will make love to his very own mother!

Dr. Head: Ad hominem! Ad hominem!

Dr. Balamuralikrishna: (producing an aluminum pipe from his pants and beating Dr. Head about the ears) Retard! Retard!

Dr. Head: OW! Where did you get that pipe!!??

What I heard is that Saturday morning near the football field... Wireless Range Expanders at dawn.

...I'm really not a very nice person. And I am realizing it more and more lately, I guess.

For instance; after rejecting it outright for a few years now I have finally come to see that the science behind the claims of global warming just might probably be right. And the scientists who worked on this and are warning us should be credited for this work, without a doubt. But there's a part of me that really enjoys asking the self-righteous non-scientist politicians, who were just trying to score petty points for their party stressing how much somebody else has screwed up the planet, just where the hell all the hurricanes went this year?

Every once in a while I hear a name in the news that befuddles me. I have never heard of Abbie Cornish and the fact of the matter is that I wouldn't really care if she was a millionaire or contracted a fatal illness tomorrow. Don't care. And I'm not exactly sure why people think the personal life of somebody I don't even have an idea what she looks like is important to me. That's all I need... more useless names of faceless starlets who were in things I never saw.

Now... I know it is probably a good idea to watch out for what kids are being influenced by these days - just to make sure they maintain their childhoods or something; but banning a beer label because it has Santa on it for their protection is just a bit much. I can't possibly be the only one who thinks this way. Why would a kid be staring at a beer label?? Oh I know... people don't get people drunk, Santa gets people drunk. So get him off! Makes sense to me.

But those are little things. Unimportant things, compared to what went through my mind that led me to believe I am a rotten guy deep inside.

I saw a news headline about a soccer official turning up dead. I shook my head. Oh no - I thought - not another one of those things where the parents of kids playing a team sport went haywire again. I was all ready to be appalled when I clicked the link.

Then I realized it was about a soccer official in Iraq swept up in the sectarian warfare going on there. And I suddenly didn't care any more.

That's really not OK. Is it?

I go on long plane rides. I do it a lot. They are boring. I wish I didn't have to do them, and sometimes even the job that goes with them. So unbeknownst to no one I have been diligently working through the concepts of value investing for myself. I work on it on those plane rides I hate so that at some point I don't have to make those plane flights any more. Brother - I am motivated. Because of the weather I had the opportunity to spend hours and hours and hours in airports and airplanes over the last 24 hours. Here's the latest thinking that came from the last trip...

Every day - if you're still listening when they get to the financial news - you can hear about how the home building market is hitting the skids. Built houses are standing empty with no buyers. To make matters worse people with houses to sell in order to move in to a newly built house can't find buyers. Permits for housing starts are down, no one seems to want to believe the lowering unemployment rate, and (more importantly) investors are running... at breakneck speed... away from building stocks.

With all this going on it is easy to notice that Warren Buffett started buying shares of drywall-maker USG earlier this fall, following his own tenet of buying stocks that are out of favor because they're cheaper. He is willing to wait years for the gains to pile up from this low spot. "Value Investing" at its top. Talked about it before. But short of just following Buffett's lead, isn't there something I can use from my own understanding of the building and construction industry I work in every day?

Well... yes there is.

I know for a fact that Florida, Arizona, South-Central California and smaller regions in the South are still building away. I know this because that's where my old customers keep calling from, and new customers keep appearing from. Ok - file that info.

When following the principles of value investing you can start at a few places. I like to start with comparing "book value" to "share price." Book Value is defined by Investopedia as

the net asset value of a company, calculated by total assets minus intangible assets (patents, goodwill) and liabilities.

By being compared to the company's market value, the book value can indicate whether a stock is under- or overpriced.

In other words, if the price of a stock is less than the actual value of the share the stock may be "on sale." Like buy one get one free at the store. Or 30% off.

You are looking for a situation where; if you break up everything the company owns and has in the bank and everything and sell it, then divide those dollars by the number of shares it has out there in the stock market, if that number is BIGGER than the number for the share price published in the paper right now - the stock is selling at "less than book value." And that is a candidate for a buy.

Price is not value. Another thing to file for now. OK.

So I'm doing my stock screening over at Yahoo/Finance Saturday morning and setting up so I can view possible candidates and, in my screens, the symbol TOA pops up as selling for $9.47 a share with a book value of $17.09. Oh-ho-ho, says I. That's sweet. But that's only the start. What are they? It's called Technical Olympic, which is a very odd name. I go to their web site. Heh. They build homes in Florida, the Mid-Atlantic, Texas, and the West.

Doing!

Interesting, but still not enough. That kind of divergence in pricing - we need to say - may be due for worse reasons than just disinterest by the market. Maybe they were going great guns and got sued because they ripped off a grandma. We wouldn't want that. But no... they're clean.

At $9.47 a share there is $564,000,000 out there in shares. But if you broke apart the business and re-priced the shares you would have $1,709,000,000 to spread around. Not only that, but their Gross Profit in the last fiscal year was $626,000,000 - $60,000,000 more than the cost of all their outstanding shares. WTF?

So here's about as contrarian as you can get. The market is avoiding these guys and similar stocks like the plague. They are dirt cheap. The housing market goes in cycles. They are in the only areas that has been able to somewhat withstand the housing downturn.

Bingo.

I'm willing to wait two, three, five, seven years or more to get the gold from this play. If anyone has heard other or knows other about these guys please step forward. Otherwise I'm buying next week. And if it goes down further, I'll be buying more.

I never give investment advice I myself am not putting my own money into. And the only reason someone wouldn't want to do this is because it could take a while to get the brass ring. Well... I don't like get-rich-quick stocks. They bust as easy as they bloat. I prefer reasons to buy and hold. And I love boring people at cocktail parties about the non-tech, low-tech, disfavored stocks I buy. Usually I can count on them choking on their olive at some point down the road.

I love that part.

I go away for three days and when I come back the whole place is a mess! Streets, yard, rooftops, driveways, everything.

Can't you people take care of things when I'm gone? Do I have to do everything myself??

When I woke up Friday morning it was already 73*F and when I went to make my first visit it was 80. I can't take my original flight home, I have to go from Ft. Myers to freakin' Dallas. Then, flying over Sadie around 10:15 Friday night, I finally get in after midnight and what have you done? Buried everything in snow and it's 19* out there. 19! Nice going. What? When I left it was in the 60's. Think I forgot? Did you think I wouldn't see what you did? Figure you could get away with it?? Not bloody likely!

I see I have to stay around just to keep everything together for you huh?

Chicago - I love you. You know that. But sometimes... I swear t'God...