Fact-checking Alan Greenspan

The best quote in the former Fed Chairman's recent book, The Age of Turbulence, comes by way of his ideological opposite, the late Senator Patrick Moynihan of New York, who is reported to have said, "You're entitled to your own opinion, but you're not entitled to your own facts."

There's much about Greenspan the person I can identify with. His parents were immigrants; he grew up in a lower middle class neighborhood. He was a geeky kid so good at math that adults liked to have him show off how quickly he could do complex calculations in his head.

One of his secrets? He loved baseball, including statistics, so he'd been memorizing the ratios of hits to at bats that yield batting averages in that sport. He wryly notes that this supposed numerical talent of his was largely restricted to the range of .200 to .400, which of course is where almost all batting averages fall.

He also loved music. (Here, unlike me, he performed as an adult. My last piano recital was when I was still a child.)

He eventually discovered Ayn Rand's novel, Atlas Shrugged, and was deeply influenced by her fire-breathing brand of libertarianism.

I might go on about the parallels between our lives, except that at this point, they've ended. It's as if we were separated at the onset of adulthood. Alan abandoned his musical career for the lovely, dismal, murky world of calculation-based economics.

I tried out economics as a major at the University of Michigan, but stumbled over the very thing that Alan loved -- the eternal caveat behind every economic theory was "all other things being equal." But, I protested (to no avail), all other things are never equal in the real world.

To Alan, this represented a beautiful opportunity. Since you could never run a controlled experiment on a living economy, an economic forecaster was in fact able to be considered successful by getting things right a third of the time. Any hitter able to sustain a .333 batting average will have a Hall of Fame career.

Economic gurus occupy the same success-to-opportunity ratio as hitters, .200-.400.

Therein lies the secret to Alan's success. he matched his boyhood proclivities perfectly with his chosen career. He buried his head in data so obscure that big-idea thinkers like Rand would have either suffered nervous breakdowns if forced to study this stuff or abandoned their libertarian notions altogether.

One does not learn from Greenspan's story whether he actually, honestly believes in his libertarian theories after a half century of testing them on real, live people -- experiments that inflicted untold misery on the people of Russia and Eastern Europe, for example, as they endured the torturous transition from centrally planned economies to free-market capitalism.

When you are rich and securely protected from the market gyrations that create and take away smaller fortunes; when you never have to feel the pang of hunger or worry whether you'll have a safe place to stay, large-scale social experiments such as these must be intellectually fascinating.

All other things being equal.

When it comes to the real world, the "things" in this equation are people -- you and me. Greenspan presided over the greatest transfer of wealth upward, from the poor and the middle classes to the super-rich, in the history of the world. He helped return us to a medieval age, where wealthy barons more or less live inside walled castles, from which they eye the rest of us warily, as we scurry around out in the open, trying to make a living and support our families.

An age of turbulence? Not so, really, for the Greenspanians, who've enjoyed a gilded existence, but all too true for all the rest of us.


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Echos from a life not lived

Fall arrived today in New York.



It rained, the winds blew, a cold front swept in.



The City changed before our eyes. Joggers in shorts were replaced by folks bundled up in warm coats and rain boots, carrying umbrellas.

The truth of this city is it is the mecca for ideas in America. That is what I love about it.

(Remaining Photos by Junko)



Today, at breakfast with one of my few true heroes and mentors, Victor Navasky, I regained what I always find here, an appreciation for thinking. As much as I love California, so much of our time there is spent in pursuit of physical pleasures (mind you, I am not complaining) that we often forget how to just think.



That's not an option in Manhattan. Here, you are either thinking or you have died.



It will always pain me that over a long life, well-lived, I have only visited this place, never lived here. I have been offered jobs, but for family reasons, I never accepted. Maybe it goes beyond that. Maybe I never felt good enough, when I was younger, (as a writer) to make it here. Self-confidence has never been my long suit.

I no longer feel those feelings of inadequacy when it comes to writing, however. I know I could succeed as a writer (or editor) in this town, quite easily. But my family is out west, and my family comes first. So I'll have to return to that distant coast and resume my quest to achieve a writing voice that resonates beyond my small circle of friends and family from there.

I may never succeed; probably I won't. Then again, maybe that really doesn't matter anyway.

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The "We" Generation

New York, N.Y.



All of my life, I've felt somewhat out of sorts with the times. Except for one brief period -- the "Sixties," a time that mostly occurred in the early '70's.

As the mainstream U.S. news media struggled to cope with the massive political, social, and cultural upheavals of that age, the word-loafers at Time/Newsweek et. al., decided that the Baby Boomers were the "me" generation, i.e., only about ourselves, and our individual gain.



These commentators, all of whom were older than us, properly identified a nihilistic narcissism that was apparent in the leading-edge (fame-seeking) Boomers they encountered all around them, which means here in New York. But, like most of the "journalists" in this town, then and now, they didn't get out and about enough. They didn't visit the rest of this vast continent very often, and when they did, they complained about the lack of amenities, instead of probing the essence of what our generation was seeking away from the centers of wealth and power.



I'm not a New Yorker, never have been, and never will be. Most of the people who formed the core movements of the "Sixties" did not grow up in New York. The signature document of the era -- the Port Huron Statement -- was created in Michigan, the state where I grew up.

I am a prototypical Midwesterner in many ways. Despite years of acculturating myself to the coastal elites (East and West) that dominate our society, I share the values of those who grew up in the Midwest and also to a great extent, in the South. The fiction I read and loved included Hemingway's Upper Peninsula stories and Faulkner's tortured Georgia-based novels.

***

Enough about me. If I go on like this, all it would accomplish is to confirm what the hacks and wags of thirty years ago believed to be true about me and my kind.

The truth is more complex. Whether we grew up in New York, San Francisco, Miami, Detroit, Chicago, Memphis, Tulsa, Phoenix, or Seattle -- or anywhere else across the U.S. -- we sensed then and know in our hearts now that we no longer have the luxury of holding on to regional biases. (If only New Yorkers would catch up to the rest of us!)

This goes beyond our country. If we are living in Buenos Aires, or Santiago, or Mexico City, or Ottawa, Beijing, Tokyo, Kuala Lumpur, Dacca, Delhi, Kabul, Tehran, Moscow, Hamburg, Stockholm, Nice, London, or Papaete, none of us can any longer afford the luxury of thinking only about ourselves, our country, our tribe.

Of course, we all should think first of our families -- that is each and every person's primary duty, to take care of our own. But, I am afraid we are entering a period where the good of any one family must be carefully considered in the context of what is best for all families, not just on the next street or in the next town or state but all over this world.

Global climate change and other environmental issues will force us to learn finally how to think as a species. Not as Japanese or Chinese, French, Pakistani, Iranian or German. There is no time for that.

Not as gay, straight, lesbian, transsexual. There is no time for that. Not as married or single, cheating or faithful. There is no time for that.

Not as rich or poor, employed or unemployed. There is no time for that.

Not as pretty or ugly, healthy or disabled, tall or short, fat or thin, or any of the other ways we find to distinguish us one from the other. There is no time for that.

Not Jewish or Christian or Buddhist or Moslem or Hindu, there's no time for that.

There's no time to figure out the Catholic-Protestant issue, not to mention the Mormans. There is no time for the Shias or Sunnis to wage war over their ancient differences.

Quite honestly, there is no time left for any of this nonsense.

But the good news is there is still time left for love, sex, and a belief in our common future as a species. We either will survive or we will not. But of this much I am sure. We will never get to the future by exploiting our differences.

We will only be part of the future on this planet by sharing our strengths.

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Fred Does New York, Part Two

We shot this on the couch here where they are putting us up at Central Park West. It's hot in this city! This was our attempt to make a short but completely boring movie for those who can't get to sleep at work.

What, you don't nap at work? For shame. Humping Dogs always rest between jobs.

I can't wait until Hotweir, my owner, gets back his writing voice and removes me from this stupid role! What's the matter with him? These days, he seems overtaken by a strange spirit, leaving him remote and passive. Frankly, I'm a bit concerned about him, but you know us dogs, we always worry.

After all, if your owner suddenly keels over and dies, or goes crazy and gets carted away, or drowns in a hurricane, who's gonna feed you, huh? Think about all those dogs in New Orleans and Mississippi after Katrina. They got separated from their owners; their owners died or fled, and they had no choice but to become feral.

Am I using that word correctly? Can dogs become feral or is it only cats? I'm thinking that maybe when we dogs revert to a pre-domesticated state they just call us wild dogs.

How smart or stupid are domesticated horses, anyway? There were so many smelly horses in southern Central Park today, I was frankly disgusted. With our superior sense of smell, dogs do not appreciate horses and I gather the feelings are mutual.

What a nasty tradition, these wagons being pulled by horses and stinking up the city. Why do they do it? We would never do this in Japan, where I was bought. Or, for that matter, in China, where I was most probably created.

Note: This just in. Hotweir is rumored to be returning to this space imminantly.

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Fred Does New York

New York City



Warm, humid, cloudy and breezy here on the Upper West Side, I finally got out for some air. Central Park is half a block away. I found a quiet bench from which to observe the runners, bikers, the homies and hikers.



Lot's of big dogs in this part of New York. These two didn't move the whole time I stared at them. Couldn't see any USB ports for me to plug into, so I kept my piece in its case.

Looks like the Yankees are in for a dip in their fortunes. Boston is the new dynasty, we think. In the National League, lots of young teams are emerging, none younger and more exciting than the Rockies.

Colorado v. Boston? Nobody predicted this World Series. The weather may be great but baseball's all over in New York this year. No Mets and no Yankees. Just me and the dog-walkers in the park.

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Just Like a Virgin

Hi, this is Fred. I finally got a real name today. Who wants to be known as Humping Dog all his life? The boss took me on a trip today, from San Francisco to New York.



He booked our seats on Virgin America, the new airline based in San Francisco. The first thing I noticed is that whoever designed the interior of this company's planes must previously have worked for Apple, because the white plastic seat backs coupled with luxurious black leather seats in coach looked just like a Mac, or maybe an iPhone.



The people working for Virgin were all smiling; they actually seem to be excited by their jobs. A far cry from most other U.S. airline employees. So were the passengers -- smiling, that is.



All kinds of cool people were onboard, including VA CEO Fred Reid and Democratic Presidential candidate Dennis Kucinich. I overheard Kucinich trying to convince Reid to get in touch with Richard Branson on his behalf.

Actually, they do share some important values, those guys.



I really enjoyed the views whenever Boss took me out of his computer bag.




Once here, I relaxed on a bed far bigger than I need, really. And even though I'm now named Fred (obviously out of respect for fred@virgin.com), I still had to wonder...since I am, after all, the Humping Dog, is that airliner I rode on today really still a virgin?

p.s. I'll never tell.


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Risks in Common

Today, Blogger.com seems to have recovered its normal ability to host photos, so I can include the pictures that would have been posted yesterday.



Writers, athletes, entrepreneurs share a certain characteristic, whether innate or acquired, and that is they are not risk-averse.

If you wish to write, you have to take risks -- put yourself out there. An alternative, I suppose, is to write extremely carefully, choosing each word of each story so as to minimize shocking, offending, or scaring your reader.



It's not news to my readers that I don't practice safe-sex; oops, I meant to say safe-writing.



Watching my 13-year-old play soccer yesterday, I felt a sense of wonder, the same way I used to feel watching his big brother. They both are true athletes not only in their coordination, speed, strength, and endurance, but the way they throw themselves into the game.



Aidan is growing so fast that he almost looks blurry these days; or maybe it's time to revisit my eye doctor, where that nice young Chinese woman chose the style for my sunglasses, a style that accretes compliments to this day. (Therefore, I assume, it is not yet out of style.)



Where was I? Yes, growth. Aidan is at least 5'4" now, and weighs 105 lbs. His feet are essentially the same size as mine, yet he'll continue to grow and fill out for another decade. The last element to arrive is that line of muscles rippling across a young man's back.



As an athlete, he throws himself into the game with a passion that is infectious. Most of his teammates do the same; there are no laggards by this stage. Their coaches have drilled a competitive spirit into them that is a positive version of what military trainers apparently sometimes do.

Dylan is reading Jarhead. Junko watched the movie the other night. I tried but couldn't stand it; the drill sergeant screaming obscenities at young Marines, supposedly toughening them up through verbal (and physical) abuse.



Young Julia has been having trouble getting used to the knocks and bruises that are a routine part of playing soccer. Yesterday, she took a direct hit by the soccer ball in her stomach and left the game crying.

That's part of it, too. Earlier, I'd been hard on her when she limped off the field after the ball glanced off her knee. She didn't get any fatherly sympathy for that, and Dylan set aside Jarhead for a moment to lecture me when he overheard me telling her, "You're not hurt!"

"Dad, you can't tell another person whether they're hurt or not. It's not something you feel -- only they know how they feel."

Somewhat chagrined, I stopped berating JuJu.



Probably due to Dylan's influence, when she came off later crying, I gave her lots of love and sympathy. This time I felt her pain.



So, you see, the point is that I'm not always a good parent, far from it. The only choice is to take on responsibility, acknowledge failure, try to learn and try not to repeat these errors.



That's another one of those risky parts of life -- being a parent. We live in an age, psychologically, where many believe you can "ruin" a child by committing all kings of parenting errors. I'm not going to take a position on that one, but to stay on the safe side (see, even a risk-taker knows when he's over-matched), I tell the kids every day that I love them.

There's a lot of risk involved in love, even within your own family, as well as story-telling about your loved ones. That's risk I bet most -- though not all -- of us are willing to take.

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