How is it that a simple idea can be so elusive? Then, suddenly, WHAM!-- there it is, the obvious solution! Energy from the sun-- NOT solar--from totally transparent glass. It is the patented creation held by one company--here in the United States--by a visionary inventor who is now partnered with a brilliant and incredibly nice guy.
What is truly mind-boggling is that the technology actually exists now in its nascent stage, and will surely revolutionize energy in years to come in the same way Apple reinvented technology. Not to mention job-creation here in the United States. So, in high rise office buildings now (and someday surely available at Home Depot for your home) you can have architecturally stunning buildings that can enjoy equally stunning views--minus ugly solar panels. By the way, did anyone ever answer the question as to what happens to solar panels years from now when they no longer work? Not allowed in landfills. Another problem for your children and grandchildren to deal with twenty years from now. Energy glass? Not a problem.
And now the best part. The collection of energy can keep working 24 hours a day, if you so chose to leave the lights on in your office (LED lighting, of course), because interior lighting also creates a "double shot" of energy production. So, the cleaning lady is actually helping you with the grid, while doing the vacuuming.
Most amazing of all is that the glass is laminated with energy producing nano particles that allow all this to happen. I will not get too technical here. Suffice it to say that I saw the process at the plant in Florida and stood in amazement as I watched the light coming in from the parking lot being transmitted to a battery, proving to the simplest mind (mine) that this actually works!
Since hotels and real estate are my worlds, this seemed like a natural extension of interest. With unbounded zeal, I am spreading the word to all hotels and real estate companies to take up the cry. And, by the way, the glass also meets certifications for hurricane, typhoon, tornado, forced-entry, bullet resistance, fire protection and terrorism-proof. I will keep you updated on these wonder-windows.
One last thing, for the moment. The owner of the company, Art, has a test case use for the glass to charge his cell phone. It is the only one of its kind right now, but I think, had he had time, Steve Jobs's next project would have been an I-Energy Apple.
Oct 17, 2011
Mar 30, 2011
Feeding Frenzy in New York Hotel Real Estate
Chinese, Indian and Russian buyers scouring the New York City hotel real estate market are as ubiquitous as bedbugs these days. And both have a tenacious presence that leaves me wondering how this phenomenon overtook us.
Of course, we are delighted that these foreigners have realized what a great investment is the New York City real estate market. We remember when Japan discovered Rockefeller Center and its environs, as well as many less familiar office buildings. Money is now being poured into our infrastructure with abandon again from Asia. Imbalance of the dollar is one thing. Ego-driven buyers are another.
Let's face it. Wouldn't you rather own a famous hotel in midtown rather than an office building in the garment district? Bragging rights at cocktail parties garner so much more awe-inspired looks and high-rise envy. Ask Donald Trump.
What is amazing to me as a real estate person is that there are still the "naysayers" who believe these hotel sales of lesser known and sometimes weirdly located properties are a "bad investment." Today I was told that the most recent statistics prove that there is overbulding in New York City. Occupancies in January and February 2011, I am told, were below 70% and hotels lost money. Imagine that!!!
My response to these numbers guys is, "Are you kidding me?" This was the most dreadful winter in my life, ever, since I began recording temperatures on my own Weather Channel. I, for one, did not venture outside my front door except to purchase provisions at Whole Foods. So, I do not expect tourists were planning to visit New York City to swan about in Central Park.
I have lived in New York City since 1975. Had I had foresight and money at that time, I would have bought a one bedroom apartment that was offered to me around the corner from Central Park on West 70th Street. It was a charming brownstone, with one bedroom, high ceilings, a built-in bookcase, a back garden access and a loft. Fireplace, of course. I did not have money for the deposit since these were lean days. My friend bought it for $72,000. Today, that same apartment would probably add a couple of more zeros and be done with it. Regrets, I have a few, in the words of Frank Sinatra. That is definitely one of them.
So, to all my colleagues who are predicting the overbuilding of the New York hotel real estate market and who feel it is "way overpriced" I say, "Look to the future." My colleague told me today that the J.P. Morgan Chase numbers guys are looking at those January/February occupancy rates as an ominous indicator of the future profitability of hotels. So, do the foreign investors not care? Are their numbers guys not analyzing the deals correctly? Of course they are. They just have lots of money to spend, which they need to get it out of their respective countries.
In fact, unless the Indian Power Plant melts down in the next few months, I believe we can safely bet on the insanity of these hotel sales continuing to rise at an ever more fevered pitch. There is virtually no hotel inventory left in New York City. We are now looking at converting office buildings to hotels, even in the garment district!
I think the bedbugs have it right, and they are going to remain entrenched in the expensive high rise apartments and newly bought hotels. They are equal opportunity critters, after all. I intend to follow their example and pledge my allegiance to this City, this Borough, this Island. For the sake of our budget deficit requiring new taxes and transfer fees to pull us New Yorkers out of a very deep financial hole, let us hope the Asians and Russians continue to have the same tenacity.
Of course, we are delighted that these foreigners have realized what a great investment is the New York City real estate market. We remember when Japan discovered Rockefeller Center and its environs, as well as many less familiar office buildings. Money is now being poured into our infrastructure with abandon again from Asia. Imbalance of the dollar is one thing. Ego-driven buyers are another.
Let's face it. Wouldn't you rather own a famous hotel in midtown rather than an office building in the garment district? Bragging rights at cocktail parties garner so much more awe-inspired looks and high-rise envy. Ask Donald Trump.
What is amazing to me as a real estate person is that there are still the "naysayers" who believe these hotel sales of lesser known and sometimes weirdly located properties are a "bad investment." Today I was told that the most recent statistics prove that there is overbulding in New York City. Occupancies in January and February 2011, I am told, were below 70% and hotels lost money. Imagine that!!!
My response to these numbers guys is, "Are you kidding me?" This was the most dreadful winter in my life, ever, since I began recording temperatures on my own Weather Channel. I, for one, did not venture outside my front door except to purchase provisions at Whole Foods. So, I do not expect tourists were planning to visit New York City to swan about in Central Park.
I have lived in New York City since 1975. Had I had foresight and money at that time, I would have bought a one bedroom apartment that was offered to me around the corner from Central Park on West 70th Street. It was a charming brownstone, with one bedroom, high ceilings, a built-in bookcase, a back garden access and a loft. Fireplace, of course. I did not have money for the deposit since these were lean days. My friend bought it for $72,000. Today, that same apartment would probably add a couple of more zeros and be done with it. Regrets, I have a few, in the words of Frank Sinatra. That is definitely one of them.
So, to all my colleagues who are predicting the overbuilding of the New York hotel real estate market and who feel it is "way overpriced" I say, "Look to the future." My colleague told me today that the J.P. Morgan Chase numbers guys are looking at those January/February occupancy rates as an ominous indicator of the future profitability of hotels. So, do the foreign investors not care? Are their numbers guys not analyzing the deals correctly? Of course they are. They just have lots of money to spend, which they need to get it out of their respective countries.
In fact, unless the Indian Power Plant melts down in the next few months, I believe we can safely bet on the insanity of these hotel sales continuing to rise at an ever more fevered pitch. There is virtually no hotel inventory left in New York City. We are now looking at converting office buildings to hotels, even in the garment district!
I think the bedbugs have it right, and they are going to remain entrenched in the expensive high rise apartments and newly bought hotels. They are equal opportunity critters, after all. I intend to follow their example and pledge my allegiance to this City, this Borough, this Island. For the sake of our budget deficit requiring new taxes and transfer fees to pull us New Yorkers out of a very deep financial hole, let us hope the Asians and Russians continue to have the same tenacity.
Jul 28, 2010
Bloomberg in Bermuda
I was assured by the Bermudian taxi driver that "my Mayor" slips unobtrusively into Bermuda at unexpected times throughout the year to stay in his exquisite and very private waterfront home in Tucker's Town. How he knows that is uncertain.
Of course, golf and the lack of the sirens that we fellow New Yorkers experience are the real reasons for taking a short, one and a half hour flight to the island of Bermuda from New York City. No one bothers Mike there, and no one cares that he is a billionaire in a land of immensely wealthy residents.
My recent trip there was filled with the usual amenities. Perfectly endless sunny days since early Spring. They are experiencing a drought that has not at all affected the exquisite oleander or hibiscus, which are exploding with vibrancy in sharp contrast to the pastel-colored buildings of the picturesque surroundings. The blue hue of the ocean is ridiculous. A painter would never attempt to copy that color to canvas for fear of being called a bad artist. It couldn't be--but it really is--that blue.
The greens of the best golf courses, Mid Ocean and Tucker's Point, are a tad beige in spots. Only slightly off, as thousands of gallons are pumped daily onto the courses. This is a challenge in itself, since the tray rooftops are structured to collect the rainwater from every house for purposes other than drinking. This is a charming necessity, as there are not simply not enough sources of water on the island.
So it is not surprising that my dream last night included both Bermuda and Mike Bloomberg in an exquisitely visual, multi-pixilated frame with Dolby sound. There I was, sitting at the pool deck of the exquisite Tucker's Point Hotel, sipping a tall Dark & Stormy, or as I would call this non-alcoholic version, a Dark & Rainy. There, coming from Mid Ocean from a rollickingly good day of golf was Michael Bloomberg. He approached. We exchanged smiles. He spoke.
"Good day," he said as he smiled. I wasn't sure if that was a formal salutation or a statement about his golf game. "Yes, yes. Of course." I struggled with small talk. But we warmed up to some genuine dialog when I threw in a New York reference or two to Derek Jeter and the Yankees. I shamelessly sought his approval. After all, I voted for Mike Bloomberg three times, term limits be damned. I would carry him to the White House, if I could.
In my dream, and over several cool beverages, we became great and intimate friends in the purest sense of the word. Mike and I were just not attracted to each other in that way. But on a deeper level, we were soul mates who shared the solution to all of New York, if not Life's problems.
As dreams go, this progressed nicely. So much so that he shared with me that he was supposed to meet with his lawyer that very day to write his will and decided NOT to leave his money to his family. No, he thought he would leave it to me instead! And then, he said, "In fact, I'm not even going to wait until I die. I'm going to give you money now."
Fast forward to my return home. I am at my ATM machine and discover my balance is $26 billion dollars! What a guy!!! So I withdrew $100, because somewhere in my subconscious I knew that Mike would KNOW what I was spending. But it really didn't matter how or why. There was plenty of room in my checkbook to donate to his inevitable run for the White House.
Of course, golf and the lack of the sirens that we fellow New Yorkers experience are the real reasons for taking a short, one and a half hour flight to the island of Bermuda from New York City. No one bothers Mike there, and no one cares that he is a billionaire in a land of immensely wealthy residents.
My recent trip there was filled with the usual amenities. Perfectly endless sunny days since early Spring. They are experiencing a drought that has not at all affected the exquisite oleander or hibiscus, which are exploding with vibrancy in sharp contrast to the pastel-colored buildings of the picturesque surroundings. The blue hue of the ocean is ridiculous. A painter would never attempt to copy that color to canvas for fear of being called a bad artist. It couldn't be--but it really is--that blue.
The greens of the best golf courses, Mid Ocean and Tucker's Point, are a tad beige in spots. Only slightly off, as thousands of gallons are pumped daily onto the courses. This is a challenge in itself, since the tray rooftops are structured to collect the rainwater from every house for purposes other than drinking. This is a charming necessity, as there are not simply not enough sources of water on the island.
So it is not surprising that my dream last night included both Bermuda and Mike Bloomberg in an exquisitely visual, multi-pixilated frame with Dolby sound. There I was, sitting at the pool deck of the exquisite Tucker's Point Hotel, sipping a tall Dark & Stormy, or as I would call this non-alcoholic version, a Dark & Rainy. There, coming from Mid Ocean from a rollickingly good day of golf was Michael Bloomberg. He approached. We exchanged smiles. He spoke.
"Good day," he said as he smiled. I wasn't sure if that was a formal salutation or a statement about his golf game. "Yes, yes. Of course." I struggled with small talk. But we warmed up to some genuine dialog when I threw in a New York reference or two to Derek Jeter and the Yankees. I shamelessly sought his approval. After all, I voted for Mike Bloomberg three times, term limits be damned. I would carry him to the White House, if I could.
In my dream, and over several cool beverages, we became great and intimate friends in the purest sense of the word. Mike and I were just not attracted to each other in that way. But on a deeper level, we were soul mates who shared the solution to all of New York, if not Life's problems.
As dreams go, this progressed nicely. So much so that he shared with me that he was supposed to meet with his lawyer that very day to write his will and decided NOT to leave his money to his family. No, he thought he would leave it to me instead! And then, he said, "In fact, I'm not even going to wait until I die. I'm going to give you money now."
Fast forward to my return home. I am at my ATM machine and discover my balance is $26 billion dollars! What a guy!!! So I withdrew $100, because somewhere in my subconscious I knew that Mike would KNOW what I was spending. But it really didn't matter how or why. There was plenty of room in my checkbook to donate to his inevitable run for the White House.
Apr 8, 2010
Gold Cup Races in Style, Like the Rest of Barbados
There is something irresistible about the pounding track, warm sun, cool drink and the viewing of the white-clad Queens Guard in full dress uniform mounted on horseback that sets the heart racing as well. For, after all, this is Barbados. The British influence is ubiquitous.
It is, however, quite different from say, Ascot, especially when swaying Caribbean music accompanies the Barbadian Police Band and Red Plastic Bag (yes, that is the famous Bajan Regae Rap singer's name) is on the parade grounds singing Ragga Ragga. Full throttle. Ecstatic fans singing with passionate enthusiasm along with him. Colorful dancers swaying sensuously beside him. All waiting for the most prestigious event of its kind in Barbados...the Gold Cup Races.
Name one other island in the Caribbean where you can find such a racetrack. Nope. None. This is an impressive course that is in the heart of an historic area of downtown Bridgetown, the capital of Barbados. People-watching is part of the fun. All the locals are ensconced in the private boxes on this occasion wearing Sunday church attire, especially with Eliza Doolittle hats.
I attempted to put $20 on the sixth horse in the sixth race, my husband's superstitious good luck thing. But, unlike Belmont, there was one ticket collector near the part of the special stands we were so graciously directed to as VIPs. The gentleman was overwhelmed by the queue, the enthusiasm of the bettors, and the heat. I never placed my bet. Got closed out just as "Border Secret," the sixth horse in the sixth race blew past all the others for the win.
My colleagues were an astute group of Canadian incentive buyers, who looked like professsional gamblers all. They were elegantly dresssed and speaking the parlance of worldly bettors, tossing around such words as "Trifecta" and "paramutuel" leaving me quite out of the loop. I decided to pool my money with theirs to increase the chances of a big win. We had about 60 different combinations for Win, Place and Show. I was, indeed, familiar with these terms, but had never personally known the joy of experiencing any part of the winning process.
Terry, a tall, gray-bearded fellow was the leader to whom we all entrusted our money. Smoothly and with meticulous care, he became the guru of the group. He advised us by not picking silly or cute names (we females seem to think "Preach to Me" or "Pure Temptation" had enough gravitas to surge ahead of all others). No, Terry carefully put together all the right combinations based on his reading of their past history. What a concept! With a wad of our cash, he placed the bet for the Gold Cup ultimate race for us all.
Keeping council with himself, Terry imagined what he would do with his win...possibly in the tens of thousands. Erika wanted new shoes with her winnings. Terry wanted to buy the swim up bar at the Colony Club and move to Barbados permanently. I was somewhere in between. A small, low-maintenance beach shack where I could write my blogs, perhaps.
The Gold Cup race was the culmination of hope, joy, apprehension and greed. I was in up to my picture hat. And lo and behold, the exhilaration was complete when we won...$97.00 out of all the possible configurations. We gave the money to a local charity for children with wheelchairs.
I know there was one moment when Terry looked crestfallen, but another surfaced when we realized that the fantasy had a life of its own for the fifteen minutes it lived. We had a blast. Probably would have gotten out of control if we had won big time. When I asked Terry if he would tell his wife about all this back home, he said, "What happens in Barbados stays in Barbados." That's about right, at least this year.
It is, however, quite different from say, Ascot, especially when swaying Caribbean music accompanies the Barbadian Police Band and Red Plastic Bag (yes, that is the famous Bajan Regae Rap singer's name) is on the parade grounds singing Ragga Ragga. Full throttle. Ecstatic fans singing with passionate enthusiasm along with him. Colorful dancers swaying sensuously beside him. All waiting for the most prestigious event of its kind in Barbados...the Gold Cup Races.
Name one other island in the Caribbean where you can find such a racetrack. Nope. None. This is an impressive course that is in the heart of an historic area of downtown Bridgetown, the capital of Barbados. People-watching is part of the fun. All the locals are ensconced in the private boxes on this occasion wearing Sunday church attire, especially with Eliza Doolittle hats.
I attempted to put $20 on the sixth horse in the sixth race, my husband's superstitious good luck thing. But, unlike Belmont, there was one ticket collector near the part of the special stands we were so graciously directed to as VIPs. The gentleman was overwhelmed by the queue, the enthusiasm of the bettors, and the heat. I never placed my bet. Got closed out just as "Border Secret," the sixth horse in the sixth race blew past all the others for the win.
My colleagues were an astute group of Canadian incentive buyers, who looked like professsional gamblers all. They were elegantly dresssed and speaking the parlance of worldly bettors, tossing around such words as "Trifecta" and "paramutuel" leaving me quite out of the loop. I decided to pool my money with theirs to increase the chances of a big win. We had about 60 different combinations for Win, Place and Show. I was, indeed, familiar with these terms, but had never personally known the joy of experiencing any part of the winning process.
Terry, a tall, gray-bearded fellow was the leader to whom we all entrusted our money. Smoothly and with meticulous care, he became the guru of the group. He advised us by not picking silly or cute names (we females seem to think "Preach to Me" or "Pure Temptation" had enough gravitas to surge ahead of all others). No, Terry carefully put together all the right combinations based on his reading of their past history. What a concept! With a wad of our cash, he placed the bet for the Gold Cup ultimate race for us all.
Keeping council with himself, Terry imagined what he would do with his win...possibly in the tens of thousands. Erika wanted new shoes with her winnings. Terry wanted to buy the swim up bar at the Colony Club and move to Barbados permanently. I was somewhere in between. A small, low-maintenance beach shack where I could write my blogs, perhaps.
The Gold Cup race was the culmination of hope, joy, apprehension and greed. I was in up to my picture hat. And lo and behold, the exhilaration was complete when we won...$97.00 out of all the possible configurations. We gave the money to a local charity for children with wheelchairs.
I know there was one moment when Terry looked crestfallen, but another surfaced when we realized that the fantasy had a life of its own for the fifteen minutes it lived. We had a blast. Probably would have gotten out of control if we had won big time. When I asked Terry if he would tell his wife about all this back home, he said, "What happens in Barbados stays in Barbados." That's about right, at least this year.
Aug 7, 2009
Summer Shortcuts
Today I am reminded of simpler times when the sun is seductively warming the streets of New York and the more informally attired workers are moving a bit slower than usual. I never grew up in New York City, but I am a native New Yorker by way of Staten Island. Not many people took us seriously in the "forgotten borough" even in those days. Or especially in those days.
I did work in New York City as a temporary secretary, moving from place to place throughout the Wall Street area. It was very exciting stuff between college semesters. I would take the venerable Staten Island Ferry every morning, and it really did seem like a cruise ship with accompanying balmy breezes on the outer deck where I invariably sat in the morning and evening.
There are a lot of tourists speaking multiple languages filling these decks now. I don't recall a single foreign accent when I joined my fellow commuters on the elegant mahogany boats painted red outside and that departed at 7:10 AM during my summer forays between semesters. I do remember the uniform of the day for men: seersucker suit, buttoned-down shirt, tie, and the Staten Island Advance or the New York Times tucked under one arm. For women, no navels were in sight. White gloves finished off my discrete dresses, but this was more my Catholic school discipline showing. I do remember my impeccable white gloves touching the pole in the stifling, un-air conditioned subway, where it was unthinkable to remove them, no matter how hot the temperature rose. Come to think of it, that was a good thing.
For the most part, we are happily beyond men wearing suits and ties in the hazy, hot and humid summer months, though Wall Streeters did seem to favor $4000 Armanis just until about a year ago. That would cause scornful looks today, as young executives refuse to wear anything approaching the Gordon Gecko look now. Either that, or they are unemployed and are wearing shorts and tee shirts on the way to the gym.
On a positive note, the Staten Island Ferry terminal has undergone a serious transformation recently. It is immaculately clean with stunning views of the downtown skyline of Manhattan, all soaring glass and sleek silver. The terminal also houses two beautiful 1000 ton aquariums with rare tropical fish. A playful touch. Nice.
It is very surprising to me that Staten Island remains financially independent enough to dismiss any need for visitors to subsidize the expense of the Ferry. If it were up to me, I would make every tourist pay at least $1.00 for the round trip fare. Whoever heard of a free boat ride anywhere in this world? It's not as if the tourists ever venture forth to see the Greenbelt hiking trails, the Tibetan Museum, or all the great restaurants. Nor do they go to my favorite, the Boardwalk. I always head there with my mom and Tess, her rescue dog, when I visit Staten Island as a Manhattanite who never quite lost her ties to this historical and cultural island.
After the Verrazano Bridge arrived and dominated the commuter scene, you couldn't play "Who Do You Know?". This involved mostly giving an Italian, Irish or Polish name to someone and finding out the six degrees of separation between you and them. I don't ever remember getting on the Staten Island Ferry without seeing someone I knew in those days. It was that kind of an island, and that kind of a nautical adventure.
So while Staten Island thrives in new and exciting developments, I am left with sweet memories of a simple childhood that smacked of sophistication just a boat ride away, but also provided a countrified aspect that has gone the way of the old red ferryboats.
I did work in New York City as a temporary secretary, moving from place to place throughout the Wall Street area. It was very exciting stuff between college semesters. I would take the venerable Staten Island Ferry every morning, and it really did seem like a cruise ship with accompanying balmy breezes on the outer deck where I invariably sat in the morning and evening.
There are a lot of tourists speaking multiple languages filling these decks now. I don't recall a single foreign accent when I joined my fellow commuters on the elegant mahogany boats painted red outside and that departed at 7:10 AM during my summer forays between semesters. I do remember the uniform of the day for men: seersucker suit, buttoned-down shirt, tie, and the Staten Island Advance or the New York Times tucked under one arm. For women, no navels were in sight. White gloves finished off my discrete dresses, but this was more my Catholic school discipline showing. I do remember my impeccable white gloves touching the pole in the stifling, un-air conditioned subway, where it was unthinkable to remove them, no matter how hot the temperature rose. Come to think of it, that was a good thing.
For the most part, we are happily beyond men wearing suits and ties in the hazy, hot and humid summer months, though Wall Streeters did seem to favor $4000 Armanis just until about a year ago. That would cause scornful looks today, as young executives refuse to wear anything approaching the Gordon Gecko look now. Either that, or they are unemployed and are wearing shorts and tee shirts on the way to the gym.
On a positive note, the Staten Island Ferry terminal has undergone a serious transformation recently. It is immaculately clean with stunning views of the downtown skyline of Manhattan, all soaring glass and sleek silver. The terminal also houses two beautiful 1000 ton aquariums with rare tropical fish. A playful touch. Nice.
It is very surprising to me that Staten Island remains financially independent enough to dismiss any need for visitors to subsidize the expense of the Ferry. If it were up to me, I would make every tourist pay at least $1.00 for the round trip fare. Whoever heard of a free boat ride anywhere in this world? It's not as if the tourists ever venture forth to see the Greenbelt hiking trails, the Tibetan Museum, or all the great restaurants. Nor do they go to my favorite, the Boardwalk. I always head there with my mom and Tess, her rescue dog, when I visit Staten Island as a Manhattanite who never quite lost her ties to this historical and cultural island.
After the Verrazano Bridge arrived and dominated the commuter scene, you couldn't play "Who Do You Know?". This involved mostly giving an Italian, Irish or Polish name to someone and finding out the six degrees of separation between you and them. I don't ever remember getting on the Staten Island Ferry without seeing someone I knew in those days. It was that kind of an island, and that kind of a nautical adventure.
So while Staten Island thrives in new and exciting developments, I am left with sweet memories of a simple childhood that smacked of sophistication just a boat ride away, but also provided a countrified aspect that has gone the way of the old red ferryboats.
May 1, 2009
Two-Thirds of "Happiness" Is a Good Thing
Jim Taylor, vice chairman of Harrison Group, a Connecticut-based research-consulting firm has just been quoted as saying, "The savings rate for some families has gone through the roof, up to 12%."
Taylor continues..."The irony is that despite the worries and the cutbacks and having to be more resourceful or spend less to make their money go further, the percentage of families reporting themselves to be very happy is up. Two-thirds of the families say they are very happy, which is up since 2007."
This is very good news, don't you think? In my household we measure happiness, not by the savings rate, but by saving time, which is a very costly commodity, if lost. The recession of 2009 is turning out to be a quiet time for my husband and me. We spend most evenings reading and listening to classical music. It is a time to ask when thinking to buy something, "Do I want this, or do I need this?"
It is definitely a time not to talk to negative fear mongers who are relaying the end of the Mayan calendar on December 21, 2012 as the end of the world. Frankly, I think they just got tired of writing with sharpened clay instruments centuries ago when they were drawing this up, or maybe it was one of those oppressive Mexican summer days with absurdly high humidity. "Juan, give it up and let's go for a dip and cool off" kind of thing.
In any case, keeping focused on my inner core means taking good news wherever I can find it, which is certainly not from the media. Thank goodness they have found another outlet with a possible pandemic infecting and killing off everyone in the entire world. Gives Wall Street a big break from front page scrutiny.
My first reaction was to feel very sorry for the swine, who have problems enough being so very unattractive to begin with, and then THIS! At least we have now changed the name from "Swine Flu" to a forgettable letter/number combo, but will always be known as "Swine Flu." At least we can go back to eating bacon with our pancakes at IHOP.
Maybe the Mayans way back when saw into the future or read about the possibility of a Swine Flu in the 21st century media coverage in The Daily Mayan Times circa 300 AD. That would explain a lot. I do think there comes a time when "Happiness" is defined as "Media-less" and a quiet evening removed from statistics and negative predictions is really 100% happiness for me.
As for the Apocalypse in 2012, the media needs to get on this right this minute! Time's a waistin' and this could spin out for at least another three years of hype, especially if this Swine Flu pandemic turns out to be a dud and all the swine and reporters survive.
Taylor continues..."The irony is that despite the worries and the cutbacks and having to be more resourceful or spend less to make their money go further, the percentage of families reporting themselves to be very happy is up. Two-thirds of the families say they are very happy, which is up since 2007."
This is very good news, don't you think? In my household we measure happiness, not by the savings rate, but by saving time, which is a very costly commodity, if lost. The recession of 2009 is turning out to be a quiet time for my husband and me. We spend most evenings reading and listening to classical music. It is a time to ask when thinking to buy something, "Do I want this, or do I need this?"
It is definitely a time not to talk to negative fear mongers who are relaying the end of the Mayan calendar on December 21, 2012 as the end of the world. Frankly, I think they just got tired of writing with sharpened clay instruments centuries ago when they were drawing this up, or maybe it was one of those oppressive Mexican summer days with absurdly high humidity. "Juan, give it up and let's go for a dip and cool off" kind of thing.
In any case, keeping focused on my inner core means taking good news wherever I can find it, which is certainly not from the media. Thank goodness they have found another outlet with a possible pandemic infecting and killing off everyone in the entire world. Gives Wall Street a big break from front page scrutiny.
My first reaction was to feel very sorry for the swine, who have problems enough being so very unattractive to begin with, and then THIS! At least we have now changed the name from "Swine Flu" to a forgettable letter/number combo, but will always be known as "Swine Flu." At least we can go back to eating bacon with our pancakes at IHOP.
Maybe the Mayans way back when saw into the future or read about the possibility of a Swine Flu in the 21st century media coverage in The Daily Mayan Times circa 300 AD. That would explain a lot. I do think there comes a time when "Happiness" is defined as "Media-less" and a quiet evening removed from statistics and negative predictions is really 100% happiness for me.
As for the Apocalypse in 2012, the media needs to get on this right this minute! Time's a waistin' and this could spin out for at least another three years of hype, especially if this Swine Flu pandemic turns out to be a dud and all the swine and reporters survive.
Mar 27, 2009
I attended an evening seminar last week that featured a well-known economist who is often featured on CNBC. It was an impressive gathering of real estate moguls, bankers, captains of industry, and entrepreneurs in general. I was honored to be invited as one of the boys, since there was a disproportionate number of women present. Not to worry. I am not intimidated by this type of event that inevitably begins with a networking cocktail high above Manhattan with outstanding views of other, equally impressive skyscrapers which used to be filled with employees.
Which brings me to the tone of the evening. A bit of unease pervaded the room. Smiles that were a little less confident than one is used to, with a touch of wariness upon introduction. Though I didn't see any resumes, I did meet some well-dressed people who are out of work.
None of us wants to hear that someone has been laid off, especially if that person comes home to dinner in your house every night. Inevitably though, we all have heard of, or experienced someone close to us who has been "made redundant." Sounds like buying more than 10 items on an express line. Oops...sorry, you have to go to that other line.
There is an excellent book about this sort of thing by one of the best mystery writers of this generation (said by the WSJ). The book is called The Ax and it is by Donald Westlake. It was written in the 1990's last recession and concerns a middle management guy who is fired and decides the only way to get the job he really wants is to kill the competition...several layers of resumes stand in his way. Not an easy task. While the subject matter is macabre, the premise is brilliant and the writing is extremely amusing.
On a bright note and one to increase optimism for the ending of our current recession is a small article that appeared in the New York Times the other day. Ariston Florists, a high-end shop on West 17th Street, boasts a 10% increase in the sale of roses in this recession.
"My customers say a rose means reassurance," said Mr. Barbagianis, owner of the florist. "They are looking for basic beauty. They want something that expresses love and happiness, that reminds them of good times in the past--and, they hope, good times to come."
This is a sweet story, and shows how sensitive we tough-minded New Yorkers really are. I didn't see any roses at the economist's seminar, but there was a strange comfort in knowing that we are all in this together. People I know are reaching out to say they need help, and those of us who are still OK are sincerely trying to help with leads or referrals, or just trying to give moral support.
I intend to buy a rose from the Korean grocer on the corner from time to time. He needs to keep his job,too, and it will be a reminder to wait for the good times to come, one sniff at a time.
Which brings me to the tone of the evening. A bit of unease pervaded the room. Smiles that were a little less confident than one is used to, with a touch of wariness upon introduction. Though I didn't see any resumes, I did meet some well-dressed people who are out of work.
None of us wants to hear that someone has been laid off, especially if that person comes home to dinner in your house every night. Inevitably though, we all have heard of, or experienced someone close to us who has been "made redundant." Sounds like buying more than 10 items on an express line. Oops...sorry, you have to go to that other line.
There is an excellent book about this sort of thing by one of the best mystery writers of this generation (said by the WSJ). The book is called The Ax and it is by Donald Westlake. It was written in the 1990's last recession and concerns a middle management guy who is fired and decides the only way to get the job he really wants is to kill the competition...several layers of resumes stand in his way. Not an easy task. While the subject matter is macabre, the premise is brilliant and the writing is extremely amusing.
On a bright note and one to increase optimism for the ending of our current recession is a small article that appeared in the New York Times the other day. Ariston Florists, a high-end shop on West 17th Street, boasts a 10% increase in the sale of roses in this recession.
"My customers say a rose means reassurance," said Mr. Barbagianis, owner of the florist. "They are looking for basic beauty. They want something that expresses love and happiness, that reminds them of good times in the past--and, they hope, good times to come."
This is a sweet story, and shows how sensitive we tough-minded New Yorkers really are. I didn't see any roses at the economist's seminar, but there was a strange comfort in knowing that we are all in this together. People I know are reaching out to say they need help, and those of us who are still OK are sincerely trying to help with leads or referrals, or just trying to give moral support.
I intend to buy a rose from the Korean grocer on the corner from time to time. He needs to keep his job,too, and it will be a reminder to wait for the good times to come, one sniff at a time.
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