"Fuggedaboudit"

Hurricane Irene. Fuggedaboudit. Subways shut down. Fuggedaboudit. No power. Fuggedaboudit. Millions displaced. Fuggedaboudit. For it's time to celebrate tennis in the "City that Never Sleeps", "The Big Apple", New York City. As Donnie Brasco would say, "fuggedaboudit", also Brooklyn code for let's move on. It's tennis time in The City. And earthquakes, hurricanes and what's next biblical locust swarms, won't postpone or cancel the annual tennis championship known as "The Open."

Well, the 130th edition of "The Open", one of the oldest tournaments in the world in any sport, opens tomorrow at the United States Tennis Association Billie Jean King National Tennis Center in Flushing Meadows, Queens, New York...whew, that's a mouth full or two. I don't expect it to be boring...au contraire, nightime on the noisy hard courts in Queens is anything but boring in late hot and muggy August and early September. Fuggedaboudit.

Remember 20 years ago in 1991 at The Open? Jimmy Connors, the ageless (39) petulant one ranked #174 at the time, fist pumping his way to the third round 5 set win against Aaron Krickstein, yelling audibly at the overmatched chair umpire, after blowing a sideline call, "you're an abortion." Nice language on prime time, Jimmy. Jimmy was always a king jerk but great theatre. Then proceeding on to semi-finals and stoking the fires of the "happy" fans with more histrionics while losing finally in four sets to finalist, Jim Courier. Only in New York, always hungry for entertainment, where Jimmy Connors, a complete jackass, would be embraced by the crowd who revers showmanship. John Barleycorn certainly conspired with the New York fans that particular fortnight. How else can you explain their affection for such a louse?

In two weeks time, over 700,000 tennis fans will flock to BJKTC to see the best tennis players in the world try to survive the toughest and hardest road to a tennis championship. Fuggedaboud the players for a moment, just think of feeding all those New York fans for two weeks. Some days, tennis fanatics are there for 10 plus hours. Six hours of watching and four hours of eating. That's alot of Barilla pasta sauce. For a New Yorker, that's about four meals. Any Tums on-site? Fuggedaboudit.

The draws are in and the favorites are the favorites. But the favorites don't always win New York. In the Women's draw, being a contrarian, my picks assisted greatly by my tennis contributor and cognoscente, Kelly, are fairly radical: a healthy Serena Williams, seeded #28, regains her form and beats a syllable-challenged slugger, Agnieska Radwanska, Poland, seeded #12, for her 14th major, sixth most of all time. In the Men's draw, Kelly and I have a more predictable final: muscle bound and intense Rafael Nadal of Spain, seeded #2, will exorcise his demons against his new nemesis and defeat in 5 sets, the comedic and skilled Novak Djokovic of Serbia, seeded #1 in the tournament. If these two heavyweights meet in the Men's Final, Broadway should close up shop for the matinee, for the curtain will rise on Arthur Ashe Stadium in front of 22,000 delirious red-bull and vodka-wasted fans at courtside and millions more at home watching on their flat screens. New Yorkers love entertainment and they will get it in 5 dramatic acts if these two meet in the finals on September 11.

And, for that prized most anticipated moment in sports on the grandest stage in the game in the greatest city in the world, New York City, in front of the greatest sports fans in the world, you just can't fuggedaboudit.

Enjoy the show.

Passing of the Conservative Torch

It took a special invitation from Former First Lady, Nancy Reagan, age 90, to wrest the freshman junior Senator Marco Rubio (R. Florida) from his home state during the August recess, to speak at her husband's, Ronald Wilson Reagan, 40th President of the United States, magnificent library atop a shining hill in Southern California on Tuesday evening past.

Mrs. Reagan doesn't hand out too many special invitations to Senators to speak at her husband's citadel of conservatism on the West Coast in Simi Valley, California. This was special. Senator Rubio knew as much. This was an anointing. This was a passing of the conservative torch from the old guard to the new guard. And we were there with 1,000 other kindred souls to witness this historical moment for conservatism. It was epic!

Marco Rubio spoke with affirmation much like his mentor in kind, "The Great Communicator", Ronald Reagan, about how great this country is. This second generation American of Cuban descent, talked about the magic of America. Only in America where "the worker can become the boss" if he works hard enough. He talked about an America where the role of government is twofold: to encourage and promote prosperity for all its citizens; and, a compassionate America where the less fortunate is provided equal access to the free enterprise system. To his credit, he did not diminish the moment by talking directly about the other side. His message of empowerment of the American people was powerfully delivered with clarity and absent of emotion. His address to all of us in that room and those who watched his speech on YouTube was reminiscent of President Reagan.

Simply, this charismatic young man from Florida is every conservative's dream. Question was asked, will he be a VP candidate in 2012? He said, "No interest. His work is in the Senate." However, everybody in that room thought the same thing: sorry Florida, the country needs your man now. And most thought of the top spot not the VP role. I suspect he too has been feeling that same call to action that we so desperately want. We'll see if he answers the call within the next few months.

All the while, Nancy Reagan sat and smiled knowing that Marco Rubio is the real deal and that there was no better place to have his national coming out party than the Reagan Library.

Double-dip Recession? Not here.

This past week in Monterey, California, the Concours d'elegance car show rolled into town and staged its annual week long orgasm for antique car buyers. Collectors from around the world descend by the thousands each year in summer foggy Monterey Peninsula to buy, sell or luxuriate in the world of beautiful automobiles of the past.

As part of the week long car circus, auctions take place seemingly everywhere in town. Just down the street from me at the Hyatt Regency in Monterey, one of the auctioneers, Mecum Auctions who proclaim, "Nobody Sells More Than Mecum. Nobody.", set up their big tents on the fairways of Old Del Monte golf course which was closed all week for the show. Using a rotation of five adrenaline-addicted sugar-overloaded auctioneers sounding like old 78rpm records all day long, Mecum auctioned off more than 600 cars of the most beautiful variety over three hectic days. The two above are just a sampling of what was offered for sale. The top picture is of a 1949 Chrysler Town and Country Convertible which sold for $104,000. The bottom picture is of a 1953 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible which sold for $254,000. Business was brisk for car buying all over the Peninsula. Aren't times tough? Apparently not with this crowd.

Isn't there a disconnect here? Collectors buying cars for hundreds of thousands of dollars while the markets around the world and their personal fortunes are tanking. In context, here's a brief snapshot of the global economy: SP500 is down almost 11% this year, Asian markets are down on average 15%, Europe markets are down 20-25% and Brazil down 24%. In the USA, our Federal debt clock ticks off mind numbing numbers by the millisecond. The last time I checked it was at $14,639,132 and rest of the numbers were changing too fast to write down but it's in the trillions. That equates to $46,000 owed per person in the country. Inflation is rising to just under 4%. Wages are stagnant. Unemployment is still over 9% with over 15,000,000 people out of work and millions more who have given up the fight. There is little or no money in the federal and state coffers. And the topper is the gauge that measures fear volatility in the marketplace, the VIX factor, rising to 43. In 2008 the VIX was close to 90. In 2010 the VIX was in the 20's. Against this backdrop of sullen financial news, why, and more importantly, how are people buying these ridiculously expensive cars?

Investment. These buyers are cold-blooded investors. They like to deal in the tangibles of life. A car is tangible. It's something they can see, touch and ride. To them, something tactile has more value than a moth ball-laden stock certificate of BOA in a vault somewhere. And with BOA selling at $6 share and falling, a $250,000 vintage car is simply more appealing to the investor. A vintage car has sex appeal too! BOA has no appeal that pays a puny dividend and is hamstrung with endless court battles. A sexy old car appeals to one's vanity. A bank stock appeals to one's insanity.

In five years time, that $250k car may fetch $350k at the 2016 Mecom auction. $100K, not a bad gain in five years. On the other hand, BOA stock may still be mired below teens. And that's why the cash flowed at the car auctions and not to their stockbrokers window.

Reckless Endangerment

Another fascinating yet disturbing and at times tedious summer read was Reckless Endangerment by Grethchen Morgenson and Joshua Rosner. Morgenson is a reporter and writer for the Business section of the New York Times. Rosner an advisor and analyst on all things housing and mortgage-finance issues. This book was fascinating and simultaneously disturbing because it showed how greed and ambition by so many almost pushed the global financial system over the cliff. It was tedious because, really, how long can one read about credit default swaps, derivatives and subprime lending? Enough already.

I had read other tell-all books on the catastrophic buildup to September 2008 and beyond. But Reckless Endangerment seemed to me to be different. For the pedestrian, this book posits a friendlier explanation of what happened in the fall of 2008. That's exactly what I needed and so I leapt into yet another book on the financial Armageddon of 2008 to help fill in the blanks. I was not disappointed in what I discovered in this book.

Morgenson and Rosner got right to the nexus within the first few pages. Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, two government sponsored enterprises (GSEs), were largely responsible for fueling this financial meltdown. Fannie and Freddie were two "private companies who used special government backing to dominate the mortgage market and become the nation's second largest debt issuer and guarantor, after the US Treasury." By 2008, Fannie and Freddie had close to $2 Trillion of mortgages that were purchased and/or guaranteed by Fannie and Freddie. It was later proven after years of malfeasance by Fannie and Freddie top management that most of those mortgages were "toxic mortgages". In other words, they had on their books poisonous mortgages held by mortgagees who were not qualified to buy a home.

Over the years, Fannie and Freddie bolstered by the unwavering support of the liberal Congress's bully pulpit, promoted and pushed ostensibly that home ownership should be the unquestioned right of all Americans not just the qualified, as so stated by then President William Jefferson Clinton in November of 1994, "More Americans should own their own homes, for reasons that are economic and tangible, and reasons that are emotional and intangible, but go to the heart of what it means to harbor, to nourish, to expand the American Dream." What idealistic rubbish! Liberal speak for: banks will loan the money to whomever can "fog a mirror" without scrutiny, the government will secure the loan, everybody along the food chain will get rich and the poor man will get his American dream, a house. Everybody wins! But what if home prices stall or lose value? What if adjustable interest rates go up? Then what? In the immortal words of Congressman and Fannie's #1 "Shill on the Hill", Barney Frank (D. Mass) pictured above, when he was asked in March 2005, "Are you afraid that Fannie's easy lending programs could wind up luring many of your constituents into homes they could not ultimately afford?" Frank barked, "We'll deal with that problem if it happens. Next question." Three years later the sky fell.

Well, we all know what happened. Billions of taxpayer dollars went down the drain to pay for all these bad loans perpetrated by carpetbagging looters dressed up as mortgage brokers backed by our government. Sadly, as is often the case, those who created this financial voodoo house of cards got off and got wealthier. The short sellers. Goldman Sachs. Warren Buffett. The deposed CEO's who were complicit in the feeding profit frenzy. They all had a soft landing. In fact, the megalomaniacal head of Fannie for years, James A. Johnson, in his personal hellbent pursuit of power, influence and financial gain ultimately destroyed billions of dollars of assets while earning millions of dollars for himself, now sits comfortably on the Board of Goldman. After what these guys did to our country, were these sleazy scumbags prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law and sent to jail to clean toilets? Au contraire, mon ami. One such sleaze-ball of 2008, Dick Fuld, disgraced head of Lehman Brothers, who was responsible for the largest bankruptcy of a company in the history of the United States at $600BILLION in lost assets, per my spies never misses his tee time at The Valley Club in Sun Valley, Idaho. He should be wearing an orange jumpsuit while dodging Bubba in the yard instead of wearing a Peter Millar golf shirt, Ecco golf shoes while complaining about how slow the greens are.

The real pain was felt at the bottom of the food chain. The retiree. The working man and woman. The small time investor. Mom and Pop shareholders. And last but least, the poor chump with no credit and no employment history (because the Countrywides of the world didn't require validation then) who lost his American dream when the debt owed on his home was greater than the value of the home. Dream dashed, nightmare started. Defaults by the millions.

So what have we learned if anything from the grossest display of human behaviour in recent memory that almost caused a total economic collapse of our system? What's the message here? Coming up on three years of spasmodic recoil, I'm not so sure we learned anything. The same cast of characters who put us in this position are still in positions of power in government and in business. For chrissakes, Barney Frank, yeah that guy again, was entrusted by President Obama along with Senator Chris Dodd of the exclusive club "Friends of Angelo Mozillo of Countrywide infamy" (D.Conn) to craft the 1,500 page incomprehensible tome Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act of 2010. Frank, the same guy who championed Fannie and Freddie as solid and legitimate entities for years, is now in charge of reforming Wall Street? You kidding me? Talk about the fox guarding the hen house. With Barney at the controls, there is not one reference to Fannie and Freddie, the main villains in the financial collapse of 2008, in the Dodd-Frank bill. They remain bruised but intact while losing billions of taxpayer dollars yearly. CBO projection into next year has their losses at $200Billion and growing. I can't make this stuff up!

As the book shockingly points out, "it proves once again that in Washington, failing at a job only serves one to prepare for an even bigger post in the years to come." When asked about why Fannie and Freddie were omitted in his bill, frumpy Frank said, "I think blaming Fannie and Freddie as the primary cause of the crisis is a mistake. Fannie and Freddie helped it get going, but there would have been people doing it without them." Yeah, and your fat greasy digits would have been all over that deal too.

Stan the Man

Have you read the new book, Stan Musial, An American Life, by George Vecsey? While roughing it in the mountains, I read the book by candlelight at the cabin. Sounds Lincoln-esque doesn't it? Sorry for the hyperbole. Candles no...weak lighting yes. If you're a baseball fan, particularly from the Midwest, this is a must read. It's not Hemingway but the subject of Musial is pure truth not fiction.

It was a great light summer read about a man who was exceptional in his craft of baseball and a man who was as unglamorous and low drama as a pair of khakis. Stan "The Man" Musial from the mines of Donora, PA. and a 22 year star for the St. Louis Cardinals, was one of the greatest baseball players of all time and one of the most under-rated players of all time outside of baseball heaven, St. Louis, Missouri. In an era of Joe DiMaggio and Ted Williams, Stan Musial was better than both of them. What he didn't have was a big city backdrop. He worked in a media backwater, St. Louis, while the other two worked in the media frenzy machines of New York City and Boston respectively. What happened in St. Louis was back page stuff. What happened on the Eastern Seaboard was headlines across the nation.

All of this geography imbalance aside, Stan #6 stat's speak for themselves: 22 years, .331 batting average, 3,630 hits (fourth all time),475 home runs, 725 doubles, 177 triples, 1,951 rbis, three time MVP, seven batting championships, struck out only 696 times, and played in 4 World Series. The Yankee Clipper DiMaggio #5's stats: 13 years, .325 batting average, 2,214 hits, 361 home runs, 1,537 rbis, 10 World Series. Teddie Ballgame Williams #9's stats: 19 years, .344 batting average, 2,654 hits, 521 home runs (in a bandbox Fenway Park), 1,839 rbis, two time MVP, six batting championships, one World Series.

Stan played the game without fanfare or self-importance. He was a church-going, devoted family man of four and married to Lil, his wife of 70 plus years, who could turn on a ball as fast as Cool Papa Bell could turn off a bedroom light. He was humble. Gifted. Cheerful. Musical. Ready smile. Impaired with speech issues (bet you didn't know that). Approachable. Yet, all his natural gifts aside, he remains to this day a simple unassuming man who just loves living with Lil, talking baseball and playing his harmonica.

In September of 1963, Stan played his last game. A ceremony for Stan was staged before the first pitch by Gussie Busch, the blustery beer-baron owner of the Cardinals. While the ceremonial fanfare continued on and on, Stan looked sheepishly onward with the look of when will this fuss be over. For he was a ball player not a celebrity. At the conclusion of the pregame festivities, The Commissioner of Baseball, Ford C. Frick, was handed the microphone and proclaimed these immortal words to Stan and to all in attendance: "Here stands baseball's perfect warrior. Here stands baseball's perfect knight." In reverence for Stan, silence befell a packed to the rafters Sportsman's Park off Grand Avenue that Sunday. Only the start of the game brought the teary fans back to earth. (Interestingly, Stan's last at bat as a Cardinal that day was a sharp single to right field beyond the reach of rookie second baseman, Pete Rose. As one perfect warrior was leaving the public stage of baseball, one imperfect warrior was just getting started.)

For many years later after Stan was inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame in 1969, I would see Stan at various St. Louis functions and locations. I was always in awe of the man. He's "The Man" for chrissakes! The best that ever was. However, he always seemed so alone to me. I often wondered why he appeared so vulnerable...so unprotected? I thought, he's a god in this town. Shouldn't he have bodyguards around him to protect him from pests like me? But, he was always comfortable with himself amidst all of us, his fans. I suspect that's why he was and is so loved in St. Louis. He is one of us. He is just a man with rare gifts. But that's how they raise them in western PA. No matter how successful one becomes, at their core, they remain humble. Arnold Palmer, professional golf icon, from Latrobe, PA., is the same way.

In 2003, my youngest son, Will, and I were at a sports function at the Missouri Athletic Club in downtown St. Louis. I happen to look over and see Stan Musial sitting by himself with harmonica in hand. Will and I went over to say hello and Stan graciously gave Will a signed momento, posed for a picture (see above) and then proceeded to play his signature favorite, "Take Me out to the Ballgame", on his harmonica. It was a priceless moment.

Reading this book made Stan come alive again in the batters box. I remember that peek-a-boo stance from the left side and those small hands and broad shoulders. Seemingly, he always came through with the big hit. His successes were ours. Conversely, his failures were ours as well. He electrified all St. Louis, midwestern, mountain and southern fans. Because of this book, I'm so happy the rest of the country now knows just how special a ball player and a man, Stan Musial, was and still is.

Stan at age 90 continues to live in St. Louis as best he can. He still plays his harmonica when the spirit moves him.

On the trail again...

Hiking in the high Sierras this summer was spectacular. After months of record snowfall lasting into early June, the summer run off was "off the charts". In mid-August, when creek beds are normally dry, the creeks were swollen with chilled pure mountain water rushing by with a thunderous sound on their way to the Feather River. I saw so many waterfalls that I lost count. The vegetation, the shimmering lakes, the wildflowers and animal life were all in full nature's regalia in late summer splendor. It was an amazing hiking season! And it is still there to see if the spirit moves you.

On one particular hike, I was hell bent to summit Mount Washington in the Feather River area. Not an especially tall peak but one that ascends almost vertically for 2500feet from the trail head. The views of the valley floor from the ascending trail and the overpowering smell of the towering ancient pines, firs and sequoias interspersed with wispy aspen stalks all canopied by a brilliant blue sky, pose the question: is this heaven? No, but it's close. It's Feather River Country. A wild country I have loved since my baby blues first laid eyes on it almost 28 years ago. And Mount Washington is just one jewel on the Feather River necklace.

Along the 6 mile hike up I saw more animals than people. In fact, I saw no one and heard no one on the path. No people. Where in this world can you go and not run into another human being for 6 daylight hours, particularly, in the anthill called California? Heck, there's more human activity on Mount Everest at 28,000feet than on some of these peak trails in the Sierras.

The path lay ahead...dusty footprint after dusty footprint uphill. Eyes down. Breathing moderate. Longing for another summit. Navigating each step carefully amongst the rocks, ledges, edges, holes, mud, snowpack, streams and snake holes. I was stoked. It was me, my safety whistle and a backpack of essentials alone in the middle of the wild kingdom. And I loved every minute of it until...

About half mile from the summit, I was stopped dead in my tracks amidst all of God's glory when I saw to my crazed amazement a huge pile of newly excreted bear scat. It was so new, it smelled god-awful. How did I know it was bear poop? It was the biggest diameter waste I had ever seen in years of hiking. What's the biggest animal up here? Hmmmm, black bear. Black bears have big anuses. Right? Next question. If this is a fairly recent pile like the last 30 minutes, where is thee who crap that? Gulp. Double gulp. Lions, tigers and bears oh my!!!!

Well I didn't wait around for the answer. I hightailed it down that path so fast, I burned rubber on the path not to the mention the skidmarks in my own undergarments. I kept telling myself, if I survived, I didn't want to be on the Today Show from some Podunk clinic talking to Ann Curry about how my face was ripped off my skull from Smokey the Bear because I wanted to notch another mountain ascent. That wouldn't have gone over too well at home.

Sadly, I didn't get to the top of the mountain. Happily, I'm writing this blog instead of possibly Marian making funeral arrangements and explaining to people, "we never found, Danny, that is, his body. But we did find his RoadID in a pile of bear feces on top of the mountain."

Later that night back in the cozy and semi-safe confines of our cabin, guess who visited me? Check out the second photo above. I guess he wanted another shot at me...

Well, I'll see ya next year big fella and I'll have .357 with me. So go ahead, make my day in '12.

Isn't hiking the best?