Excused Lame

… if I ever catch up with the person who invented the screw-type-vending-machine-delivery-system-that-always-stops-one-erg-short-of-releasing-my-purchased-item I’m going to beat them to a blood-soaked pulp.

The great and good Derek Lowe is properly scathing about the attempts to make “alternative medicine” mainstream. Just think, 80 years ago it would have been considered a gross insult to call someone a “root-and-herb” doctor. Now it the next new thing!

As well, hasn’t anyone considered that if pharmaceutical companies really knew that herbs and “life forces” were as efficatious as drugs they would no doubt fire their entire R&D staff within the hour?

A. C. Douglas, in praising the recording of Bernstein’s Symphonic Dances from West Side Story, conducted by the composer, makes a point I’ve frequently agreed with:

We’ve never been much drawn to Leonard Bernstein’s “serious” compositions as despite their admirable moments, and with the possible exception of his Chichester Psalms, they’ve all (or, rather, all of our experience) seemed to us constrained by a pervasive self-consciousness from which the music can never entirely break free. Not so Bernstein’s works for the American musical theater, a genre for which he possessed a nonpareil genius (and we use the term advisedly). Even though we’ve little taste for the genre, we can’t help but be carried away by Bernstein’s expressive, pitch-perfect scores for that genre, all of which (again, all of our experience) are perfectly free of the self-consciousness that hobbles the scores of his “serious” works.

Here’s my very arguable hypothesis: Bernstein’s biggest mistake was becoming Music Director of the New York Philharmonic. Correlation, of course, is not causation, but contrast the list of successful compositions before 1958, when he took up the New York post (Jeremiah Symphony, Candide, Trouble in Tahiti, Serenade on Plato’s Symposium, Fancy Free, On The Town, West Side Story) with how few he producted afterwards (Chichester Psalms probably the only indisputable one).

As an educator and man of the theater, Bernstein had few if any peers. As a conductor, he had many despite his immense talents. Superb in Mahler and American composers like Copland, Ives and Schuman, he could be either eccentric, erratic or even pedestrian in other parts of the repertoire. And did age add wisdom? At least to me, his later DG recordings are more labored and self-conscious than their Sony predecessors, which may not have had perfect ensemble but had more brio.

He aspired to write a masterpiece worthy of his exalted place in the musical world, turning his back on the theater where he had been so successful. His failure to write it was a source of constant frustration to him. “I don’t want to be remembered as the composer of West Side Story,” he once complained at a party. “Better than being remembered as the composer of A Quiet Place,” someone muttered.

It may seem ungrateful to ask more of one who had so much to offer, but had Bernstein continued as an educator and man of the theater, guest conducting programs where his insight was most acute, he would have gone down as a much greater musician than we remember him. Anyone can give us another ordinary cycle of Brahms symphonies. Only Bernstein could have given us another West Side Story.

It looks like New York Governor David Patterson is going to give in and make America’s Princess the next Senator of the state. Mrs. Schlossberg, whose résumé makes that of the present occupant of the Office of the President-Elect look statesmanlike, glides to what she must feel are her just desserts on the power of what she can deliver to the Governor: smoosh for 2010.

Nepotism has an amazingly long tradition in American politics. In the Senate, James D. Cameron succeeded his father, Simon Cameron as Senator from Pennsylvania; Harry F. Byrd, Jr. succeeded his father, Harry Flood Byrd as Senator from Virginia; Robert M. La Follette, Jr. succeeded his father, Robert M. La Follette as Senator from Wisconsin; Davis Elkins succeeded his father, Stephen B. Elkins as Senator from West Virginia; Ernest W. Gibson, Jr. succeeded his father Ernest W. Gibson as Senator from Vermont; Lincoln D. Chaffee succeeded his father, John H. Chaffee as Senator from Rhode Island. And of course, Robert Taft, Jr., Al Gore, Jr. and Russell Long followed their fathers into the Senate, though not immediately nor the same seat. Most remarkably, in 1941, the 87-year-old Andrew Jackson Houston was appointed to the Senate after the death of Morris Sheppard, 82 years after his father, Sam Houston, occupied the same Texas seat.

However, these were political families. The Kennedys, of course, are a famously (and ruthlessly) political family. The difference is that Mrs. Schlossberg was five years old when her worthy father was assassinated; afterwards her inexplicably iconic mother kept her and her brother far away from politics.

If Governor Patterson needed a Kennedy for the “carpetbagger” Senate seat (previous occupants: Robert F. Kennedy, Daniel Patrick Moynihan, Hillary Clinton), he could have gotten one with actual experience: Mrs. Schlossberg’s drug-addled bipolar maniac cousin from Rhode Island. Is there a Kennedy courtier who can explain all this? Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. is dead; is Ted Sorensen available?

Actually, what’s really sad is that with great and immediate challenges facing the nation, the Senate in the 111th Congress may include a lightweight from New York (America’s Princess), a old party hack from Illinois (Roland “Tombstone” Burris) and a comedian from Minnesota (Al “The Unspeakable” Franken). Clown time, but the joke’s on us.

A 40-year-old woman couldn’t buy beer because she looked too young:

Despite her best efforts, youthful Karen Hamilton could not convince supermarket workers she was older than 18, the legal age for purchasing alcohol.

Maintaining she was a teenager, staff asked for identification before they would let the shocked mother-of-two take a 24-can pack of lager home.

But, having never before been asked to prove her age, Mrs Hamilton could not produce any identification with a photograph and date of birth.

Exasperated Mrs Hamilton had to return home to pick up her passport before she was allowed to buy the beer from the Tesco store in Chineham, near Basingstoke.

When I was in graduate school, one of my fellow group members was regularly carded in bars because he looked like he was 12 years old. So he grew a beard. And he was still carded because he looked like a 12-year-old with a beard.

… my former company seems to be in more than a little spot of trouble and, as one possible outcome, may declare Chapter 11 bankruptcy. In 2007, Lyondell Chemical Company, a publically-traded U.S.-based company, was purchased by Basell Industries, part of Len Blavatnik’s privately-held Access Industries, for $12.7 billion in debt.

Basell’s bid of $48 per share of Lyondell stock came at the top of the chemical cycle and represented about a 20% premium over the stock price at the time. Lyondell already had a considerable debt load of over $12 billion, so LBI had to finance privately and carry some $26 billion in combined debt.

They might have pulled it off, even in the down part of the cycle, but LBI was also smacked by the rapid rise in oil prices over the Summer, which squeezed margins, the effects of Hurricane Ike, which badly affected production in the Gulf Coast facilities, the credit squeeze, which affected the ability to issue and refinance debt, and the recent economic situation, which has led to a collapse in sales.

What happens next for LBI isn’t going to be pretty. The line animals have already taken two smacks, one with the “synergies” after the merger (to which I was a contributor) and a 15% cutback in the workforce announced in November. This time, at least, the big boys seem to affected as well; betcha their severance isn’t two weeks pay for every year of service.

Anyone who may have strolled by this poor little blog sometime ago may have remembered that in April I was informed that my position with my former company (about which more later) was to be eliminated. Despite my efforts to find another position in the company, I joined the ranks of the unemployed on August 30th.

Between the time I got the bad news and the day I handed in my badge, I worked hard to try to land a suitable situation with another company. Unfortunately, openings in my field were non-existent. Nor were my efforts to find a job outside my field immediately successful. I had two phone interviews with one company, but they decided that despite my distinguished accomplishments, they didn’t want to take a chance on someone without experience in that field.

Late in August, I got a call from another company for a position I applied for online. On September 10th I traveled to Houston for the interview, arrived at the site the next morning and found the lobby dark and everyone leaving: Ike was due to make landfall in a couple of days.

Three weeks later, another trip to the Bayou City. The interview went well, I thought, but being of a naturally pessimistic outlook, I thought that, again, they’d want someone who exactly fit the bill. By the time I got back to the airport, I got a call that they were offering me the job. Needless to say, I accepted. I started on December 8th, having spent the intervening time working to start getting our 140-year-old house on the market.

Sadly, right now I’m by myself. My lovely bride is still up in beautiful Morrow, Ohio (the garbage dump of Warren County) until she can find a position in the Houston area, which could take some months. This will be hard for both of us, but we’re mature enough to be able to handle it.

While still with my former company, some of the others whose jobs were to be eliminated were asked to stay on until the end of the year. This was more than a little annoying, since I myself would have liked to do the same. Yet it was a blessing in disguise that I left when I did. Of all those at my site to be cut, I’m the only one to land another job. And that was because I: 1) took a job well outside my primary experience and industry; 2) took a pay cut to do so, and; 3) was willing to relocate. With our delightful economy, God only knows what would have happened had I not been able to focus my energies on job-hunting!

The Dallas Cowboys (“Satan’s Team”) are utterly annihilated by the Philadelphia Iggles, 44-6 to get knocked out of a playoff spot.

A Merry Christmas from all the Hounds of Soyara

Lacey (MBIS, MBISS Ch. Soyara’s Chantilly Lace JC)
Silver (Ch. Soyara’s Silver Angel JC)
Titan (Ch. Soyara’s Titan of Blackmoor JC)
Fred (Ch. Bokhara Soyara Fjor)
Diva (BISS Ch. Soyara’s Beautiful Dreamer)
Joy (Ch. Soyara’s A Joy to Behold)
Alan (Ch. Soyara’s Singer of Songs Esar)
Belle (Ch. Soyara’s Southern Belle Esar)
Honey (Ch. Soyara’s Magnolia Honey Esar)
Faith (Ch. Faith Tis Herself Esar)
Tess (Ch. Soyara’s Cunning Little Vixen)
Sarge (Ch. Soyara’s Ace of Spades)
Ali (Ch. Soyara’s The Force of Destiny)
Smudge (Soyara’s Smoke and Mirrors)
Stanley (Soyara’s Gandalf of Dana Dan)
Chance (Soyara’s Against All Odds)
Dutch (Soyara’s The Flying Dutchman)
Ilya (Soyara’s Ilya Murometz)
Carmen (Soyara’s Carmen Fantasy)
Aida (Soyara’s Celeste Aida)

Plus Talker the Whippet and Fluffy (God, what a name!)

… but this is ridiculous. Note that the traders on the bottom of the screen never put down their phones.

Kurt von Hammerstein-Equord, Commander-in-Chief of the Reichswehr, used the following classification system:

I divide my officers into four classes; the clever, the lazy, the industrious, and the stupid. Each officer possesses at least two of these qualities. Those who are clever and industrious are fitted for the highest staff appointments. Use can be made of those who are stupid and lazy. The man who is clever and lazy however is for the very highest command; he has the temperament and nerves to deal with all situations. But whoever is stupid and industrious is a menace and must be removed immediately!

Some years ago, Aaron Haspel had a post about “Chet,” the “prototypical Wall Street guy” and says of him:

Chet the i-banker regularly spends his weekends drafting prospectuses; Chet the bond salesman often arrives at his office at 3 or 4 AM to trade the foreign markets. What time do you start work? Chet can probably do bond math and explain Black-Scholes. Can you? You have opinions on Wittgenstein, which Chet lacks; are you quite sure the opinions are worth having? Chet is not brilliant, to be sure; neither are you. Brilliant people produce brilliant work. Where’s yours?

And then concludes, “Chet makes a lot more money than you because Chet is worth a lot more money than you.”

As you can see from events of the last few weeks, Chet has not been creating much value recently. In fact, in a short time Chet has possibly destroyed more value worldwide than most events this side of nuclear warfare. Chet may be intelligent and hardworking, but Chet either didn’t see where the financial instruments that have led to this catastrophe would lead or didn’t care. Chet, in short, is stupid and industrious.

Well, with all the bailout packages, injections of liquidity and equity stakes taken out by the government, Chet – bless his heart! – now works for me. Here’s my first and last message to Chet: you’re fired. Immediately and permanently.

If stupidity was criminal, Chet would be on Death Row. Much as I would like to take away all Chet’s ill-gotten gains, that would be time-consuming and expensive. So this is the sentence the American taxpayer should be handing down to all the Chets out there: we’re going to take away your livelihood. You’re out, never again permitted to handle any money other than your own. That includes working retail, by the way.

Did you create or sell mortgage-backed securities? Out. Did you underwrite such? Out. Have anything to do with relaxation of lending standards? Out. Leverage your balance sheet to the max? Out. Hold any position with Fannie and/or Freddie other than maintenance or secretarial? Out. Sell houses based on subprime loans? Out. Devise or promote NINJA loans? Out. And so on.

There’s no hole deep enough to drop Chet down, but at least we can make sure that he doesn’t do any more damage to the taxpayer. My only concern about Chet is that he’ll go into consulting, telling companies how to fire swaths of employees due to the poor economic conditions caused by his own malfeasance.

To our enormous delight and relief, Miss Tess (Ch. Soyara’s Cunning Little Vixen) picked up her second major last month at the McKinley KC shows to finish her championship.

Tess was a handful to show. After some early come-to-Jesus meetings with my lovely bride, Tess would slink down in the ring, making her look long and low. We turned her over to the capable hands of Nina Fetter, who did a wonderful job of showing her. Still, the road was longer and harder than we wanted, but Tessie is finished now and can return to pestering her brother Sarge.

Today marks the 92nd anniversary of the first day of the Battle of the Somme. Some 20,000 British soldiers were killed that day and nearly 40,000 more wounded.

The 1st Newfoundland Regiment went into action at Beaumont Hamel. Of the 800 soldiers who went over the top, only 69 answered the roll call the next day. Every officer was either killed or wounded. The memorial caribou, facing the German positions, marks where they fell.

Non calor sed umor est qui nobis incommodat.
It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.

Di! Ecce hora! Uxor mea me necabit!
God, look at the time! My wife will kill me!

Lex clavatoris designati rescindenda est.
The designated hitter rule has got to go.

Sentio aliquos togatos contra me conspirare.
I think some people in togas are plotting against me.

Caesar si viveret, ad remum dareris.
If Caesar were alive, you’d be chained to an oar.

Animadvertistine, ubicumque stes, fumum recta in faciem ferri?
Ever noticed how wherever you stand, the smoke goes right into your face?

Sona si Latine loqueris.
Honk if you speak Latin.

Si Hoc Legere Scis Nimium Eruditionis Habes
If you can read this you’re over-educated

Sentio aliquos togatos contra me conspirare.
I think some people in togas are plotting against me.

Vidi Vici Veni
I saw, I conquered, I came

Vacca foeda
Stupid cow

Mihi ignosce. Cum homine de cane debeo congredi.
Excuse me. I’ve got to see a man about a dog.

Raptus regaliter
Royally screwed

Si hoc signum legere potes, operis boni in rebus Latinus alacribus et fructuosis potiri potes!
If you can read this sign, you can get a good job in the fast-paced, high-paying world of Latin!

Gramen artificiosum odi.
I hate Astroturf.

Nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione.
I’m not interested in your dopey religious cult.

Noli me vocare, ego te vocabo.
Don’t call me, I’ll call you.

Nullo metro compositum est.
It doesn’t rhyme.

Non curo. Si metrum non habet, non est poema.
I don’t care. If it doesn’t rhyme, it isn’t a poem.

Fac ut gaudeam.
Make my day.

Braccae illae virides cum subucula rosea et tunica Caledonia-quam elenganter concinnatur!
Those green pants go so well with that pink shirt and the plaid jacket!

Visne saltare? Viam Latam Fungosam scio.
Do you want to dance? I know the Funky Broadway.

Re vera, potas bene.
Say, you sure are drinking a lot.

Utinam barbari spatium proprium tuum invadant!
May barbarians invade your personal space!

Utinam coniurati te in foro interficiant!
May conspirators assassinate you in the mall!

Utinam logica falsa tuam philosophiam totam suffodiant!
May faulty logic undermine your entire philosophy!

Radix lecti
Couch potato

Quo signo nata es?
What’s your sign?

O! Plus! Perge! Aio! Hui! Hem!
Oh! More! Go on! Yes! Ooh! Ummm!

Mellita, domi adsum.
Honey, I’m home.

Tam exanimis quam tunica Nehru fio.
I am as dead as the Nehru jacket.

Ventis secundis, tene cursum.
Go with the flow.

Totum dependeat.
Let it all hang out.

Te precor dulcissime supplex!
Pretty please with a cherry on top!

Magister Mundi sum!
I am the Master of the Universe!

Fac me cocleario vomere!
Gag me with a spoon!

Te audire no possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure.
I can’t hear you. I have a banana in my ear.

Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?
Is that a scroll in your toga, or are you just happy to see me?

Prehende uxorem meam, sis!
Take my wife, please!

Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari?
How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

Nihil est–in vita priore ego imperator Romanus fui.
That’s nothing–in a previous life I was a Roman Emperor.

Recedite, plebes! Gero rem imperialem!
Stand aside plebians! I am on imperial business.

Vescere bracis meis.
Eat my shorts.

Sic faciunt omnes.
Everyone is doing it.

Fac ut vivas.
Get a life.

Anulos qui animum ostendunt omnes gestemus!
Let’s all wear mood rings!

Catapultam habeo. Nisi pecuniam omnem mihi dabis, ad caput tuum saxum immane mittam.
I have a catapult. Give me all the money, or I will fling an enormous rock at your head.

In December, my company was purchased by a private European concern. Otherworldly as I am, I knew that mergers are rarely good news for the employees of the mergee. Still, hoping against hope, I hedged my fears: they’re technology oriented… I’m technology oriented… I’m one of the leading people in my field… I can be a big help to the new company…

Late in March, some members of our catalyst R&D group went for a joint meeting in Europe with our catalyst colleagues from the two European labs. In a meeting on their return, our new group head said that the meetings went very well… there would be all kinds of joint projects… Hlatky (who had just filed half a dozen new invention disclosures) for president…

Twenty-four hours later, our site manager said something quite different at an employee meeting: research would be concentrated in Europe and North American research activities were to be scaled back. Two weeks later, on April 17th I was told that my position was to be eliminated effective at the end of August.

I am now looking for a new job. This is not an easy prospect. With mergers and the high cost of feedstocks, the North American polyolefins industry looks like the steel industry did twenty-five years ago. In my industry, we go through troughs and cutbacks every three or four years. It’s like being a duck in a shooting gallery: this time I just got hit. Our catalyst group, which numbered 11 researchers ten years ago, is now down to three.

And yet to my surprise I don’t feel as depressed as I thought I would. Sure I wake up and say to myself, “I’m going to be out of a job soon,” but on the whole I’m not pessimistic. I have a long record of accomplishments and I think something is going to turn up in the shorter rather than the longer term.