Beyond Angry

First Republic Bank Executives Sold $12 Million in Stock in Months Before Crash

This was the Wall Street Journal headline that greeted me this morning at 6 am. Although I wasn’t in the least bit surprised, this sort of thing still has the ability to send me into a spittle spewing rage. We see a photograph of some kid from the projects looting a case of beer during a riot and we clutch our pearls while decrying the death of culture, while the grand theft of these bankers gets relegated to a judgement free article in a business newspaper…while I sit here seething.

Nearly every executive at First Republic Bank sold off large blocks of their own bank’s stock in the first three months of this year, just weeks before that stock got destroyed by events of the past week. Unless you believe that this group of incompetents are just lucky investors, you must come to the undeniable conclusion that they acted on information in their possession that was unknown to the general public. This is known as insider trading, and it is illegal and if convicted of it, you go to jail. Just ask Martha Stewart. Don’t hold your breath waiting for the likes of James Herbert II, Robert Thornton, or David Lichtman to do any hard time. They all have expensive lawyers.

I have been a beneficiary of living in a capitalistic country all my life. Although no economic system is perfect, and capitalism certainly has flaws and weaknesses, it has been responsible for more human flourishing and wealth creation than any economic system ever devised by mankind. But, capitalism is only as good as the ethics of those who participate in it. I am in a business which requires me to act as a fiduciary, in other words, I must always act in my client’s best interest and never my own. If it is discovered by regulators that I have been lining my pockets at my client’s expense, I lose everything. I am exposed to various audits more than once a year to insure my compliance. So are banks. And yet, this sort of thing keeps happening. Either the bankers are smarter than their regulators, or the regulators are incompetent or on the take. I say this  not out of animus, but rather the fact that some of the banks that are in the most trouble at the moment had just recently received clean bills of health by these alleged regulators. This marks the third banking crisis this country has endured in the past 40 years. The lessons of the past keep getting forgotten, and each time, the government has to swoop in bail them out. Moral hazard, anyone?

My Dad used to say that “character is destiny”. At the end of the day, no matter what economic system you operate in, success and flourishing only happen when human beings operate as fiduciaries. As simple as it might sound, “Do unto others as you would have them do onto you” is called the Golden Rule for a reason. It is the basis of every successful financial interaction. When we forget this and act out of self-interest like these despicable executives at the First Republic Bank, everything goes to hell in a hurry.

The Dad Joke Creation Committee

A couple of days ago I called a meeting of the Dad Joke Creation Committee at my house. After three years of churning them out, the cupboard is a bit bare. So we gathered around the table and started throwing out ideas. Here’s how it went…

Me: How about this? What do you call a herd of sheep falling down a hill?

Member A: ….a Baaaavalanche?

Member B: …no. A Lambslide.

Member C:…I’m gonna have to insist on knowing the number of sheep who fell. I’m counting on it.

Me: None of ewe are making any sense.

Member C: Its a bad joke…but I guess its better than mutton.

Member A: For one thing, the joke isn’t very believable. Sounds like somebody spinning a good yarn.

Member B: This is shear madness.

Member C: You mean shear maaaadness.

Me: Wool you guys fleece put a sock in it now?

Member A: Getting back to this hill…was it a sheep decline?

Member B: I just hope they all had their last Wool and Testament made out before anything baaaaad happened.

Member C: I heard that over twenty of them died. It was a terrible scene at the bottom of that hill. The clean up crew took them away in a special vehicle.

Me: What special vehicle?

Members A, B, and C: A Ewe Haul

Me: This joke will have ram-ifications.

Member A: Yes, making jokes at those poor sheep’s expense is a slippery slope.

Member C: No kidding. Especially since the rumor is that at the bottom of that hill there was a shear cliff.

Yeah, I’d say it was a very productive meeting!

Inertia and Body Odor

I have a difficult relationship with CVS Pharmacy. I have been filling my prescriptions there since before I can remember. At first it was because it was so convenient to my office. But over the last couple of years the place has gone downhill in practically every way. Its gotten junky, they’ve started bombarding me with texts, and the decidedly unhelpful crew that man the pharmacy have taken on the vibe of the bar scene in Star Wars. And yet, I still shop there, for the same reason that I still bank at Wells Fargo…inertia.

There might be no other force in the universe with greater influence over our day to day lives than inertia. Poorly run enterprises count on its power to keep them in business. Am I tired of the manifest incompetence of Wells Fargo, not to mention their admitted malfeasance? Of course I am. But the very thought of shutting down all three of our checking accounts there, re-establishing a whole host of auto-deposits and debits gives me migraines. Am I unhappy with the service and cleanliness of CVS? Of course I am. But, going to the giant hassle of calling the doctor’s offices and changing pharmacies feels like a gigantic chore…and they are right across the street. So in both cases I put up with a lot of unpleasantness in exchange for convenience.

So yesterday at CVS I experienced a new low. I was there around 4:30 in the afternoon to pick up two prescriptions and various toiletries. I knew full well that 4:30 in the afternoon was a horrible time to pick up prescriptions at CVS, so that’s on me. I found the toiletries without incident, then made my way to the back of the store where the Pharmacy is located expecting a serpentine line waiting on the one forlorn and irritable clerk. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to see that I was the only customer.

Over the past couple of years CVS has taken to hiring an assortment of tattooed, body-pierced, wool cap-in the middle of summer-wearing folks to man the registers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I suppose. Its just a marked change from the mostly young and energetic people I’ve become used to. The new people hardly ever make eye contact with you and when they do it is to communicate epic levels of boredom and constitutional disenchantment. But, I put up with it because…well, that inertia thing. So when I see the woman with the thick wool sack covering her entire head at the register I stroll up to tell her my last name and birthdate. I am, after all, a seasoned veteran and know the drill. But when I leaned in to pass on this information my momentum was abruptly stopped in its tracks.

People…as someone who has done his share of hard manual labor around other men, and as someone who has a lifetime of experience inside male locker rooms, I know a thing or two about body odor. But nothing I have ever encountered prepared me for the stench that greeted me at the CVS pharmacy counter. I was so stunned by the smell that I literally stepped back from the counter. A younger version of me would probably have blurted out, “Whoa!! Who died??” The mature, grown up version of me simply withdrew myself to a safe distance while wool cap girl entered my data. But, there was a problem. She couldn’t spell my name and asked for a clarification in a beautiful middle eastern accent. I cautiously leaned in to say, “D-U-N-N”. It was excruciating. When she disappeared around the corner to fetch my medicines I glanced at her co-workers across the way and one of them caught my eye and shrugged her shoulders at me as if to say, “You think you’ve got troubles? Try working with her all day.” Although this woman smelled like a cross between George Kennedy in Cool Hand Luke and the janitor at a Turkish bathhouse, she was efficient and friendly.

As I was driving home I started to wonder about her. Is she even aware that she smells? Is it a cultural thing with people from the Middle East? Maybe for them, I smell bad. My morning routine involves the generous application of a wide variety of distinct smells, from my shampoo to my body wash, deodorant and aftershave. Maybe when someone from Egypt encounters me I smell like some kind of rancid walking fruit salad. Its all what you’re accustomed to, I suppose. 

Maybe next time I’ll use the drive thru.

Doing My Job

Finding top quality Dad jokes has become much more difficult of late. Perhaps the reason is that I have published literally over a thousand of them over the years, using up the known supply. Nevertheless, I continue the search for all of you, knowing how important they are to your physical and mental health—-especially Sherri Matthews….

Old World Virtues

This has been a week. I’ve had refrigerators stop working, kids getting jobs, kids applying for jobs, having to learn new technologies at the office, a parade of appointments—most effective, some not so much—and now I face the week ahead packed with appointments set by my intrepid assistant who has now officially abandoned me for the sunny beaches of the Dominican Republic. Thank God its Friday.

In the midst of everything, two observations from my week:

My wife is fond of deriding me for my unhip musical taste. She never misses a chance to remind me of how old I am with her favorite put down, “You don’t like any music unless it was recorded at least 40 years ago!”  Although uncharitable, her comment is not entirely wrong. It is true that most of the music and musicians that I like tend to be my age or older. So, sue me. I can’t help it that I grew up listening to The Beatles. Is it my fault that the Eagles and James Taylor were huge stars when I was in High School? Am I to blame for the fact that just about the time my hormones were at the height of their destructive power I was introduced to the three Goddesses that were Emmy Lou Harris, Linda Ronstadt, and Bonnie Raitt? And what self respecting fan of great music should have to apologize for going nuts for the Count Basie Orchestra and Frank Freaking Sinatra?? So, guilty as charged. I bring this up because thanks to Spotify, I have once again fallen into a loop of some great music these past couple of weeks from the Emmy Lou Harris station. The aforementioned Goddesses are featured prominently and all week I have been treated with a memory lane of terrific songs. Among my favorites are two from Ms. Harris—Two More Bottles of Wine, and Gold.

The second observation involves the power of a kind gesture. A few nights ago, my wife hosted the first in person, face to face meeting of our neighborhood HOA since COVID—at our house. There were ten or so of them around our dining room table. I stayed clear of the proceedings, but they were busy down stairs for the better part of two hours. Of course, Pam being Pam, she had made brownies and made sure their were pens and notepads at every chair. Anyway, the next day when I came home for lunch there was something sitting on the front steps…

A beautiful orchid. My first thought was that one of the sweet pups from next door had put it there. That sounds exactly like something they would do. Later Pam found out that one of the members of the HOA board had placed this gorgeous thing on our doorstep to thank Pam for hosting the meeting and for her good work on the Board. 

Never, ever underestimate the power of simple kindness. Many times in life its the little things that matter most. Thoughtfulness, kindness, gratitude, an encouraging word are the grace notes that interrupt our otherwise transactional world. All of us need to do a better job of seeking out opportunities to exercise these old world virtues more often.

The Longing

Whenever the calendar flips from February to March I start to feel the first rumblings. Its been months since I’ve allowed myself the privilege. I’ll just call it what it is—the longing. Four months from today we go back.

So far in 2023 I have been working hard. The winter months are spent immersing myself in the complexities of my profession. Appointments, meetings, schedules to keep. I grind against a wall of equations. I devise strategies and evaluate columns of large numbers. I’ve been doing it for 41 years. I know this terrain like the back of my hand. It is not a bad place to be. I like my job, even enjoy it at times. It has been good to me and my family. I’m grateful that I landed in it over four decades ago.

But, there’s another place. Its a place I inherited from my wife. I knew nothing of it 40 years ago. While chasing her I found the place where she was born and raised. Like her, I have been in love with it ever since.

Readers of this blog have been overwhelmed with a thousand pictures of the place. You’ve all seen the water, the sunsets, the sunrises, our smiling faces, and yet we keep posting new ones because a place like this can’t possibly be adequately illustrated by a thousand pictures. Here’s what I mean…

This is the Fraternity General Store in Searsmont, Maine. Its the closest such store to Quantabacook, about a five minute drive from the cabin. This is where we go to get essentials that we forgot to get at Hannaford’s in Belfast. Its also where we order pizza, sandwiches and whoopie pies. Its also a handy place to pick up fishing supplies and a cold beer.

Sometimes we will grab lunch here. There are a thousand general stores like this throughout Maine. This one is ours. You will notice the hobby horse beside the wood stove and the cribbage board and decks of cards on the stovetop. In the summer usually those double doors, or at least one of them, are open because the place isn't air conditioned. Hardly anyplace is in Maine.

Sometimes a stray chicken will visit, and when they do you realize how far from Short Pump you are.

This is Amanda. She is responsible for making all of the baked goods and running the kitchen. The donuts, whoopie pies and blueberry muffins that she makes fresh every morning are delicious, and if you get there at the right time, still warm! I frequent FGS probably on average twice a day.

Can you blame me?

Lucy’s Idiot-syncrasies

Our Lucy is now eight years old. She has thankfully grown out of many of the psychotic disorders that plagued her youth, most of which have been well chronicled here at The Tempest. But, there is one bizarre behavior that she clings to, unmoved by eight years of education, training and experience. It involves the stairs in our house.

Neither of us are aware of anything in her past that may have prompted this particular variety of insanity. We don’t recall Lucy having ever having fallen down the steps. She has never witnessed either of us falling down the steps. And yet, every single time she happens to be upstairs and wishes to come downstairs…she insists upon a personal escort. This morning was a perfect example.

During the week, both of us are early risers. But sometimes on Saturday Pam will sleep in—this morning until a little after 9:00am. Lucy’s custom is that she never comes downstairs in the morning until both of us are awake. But 9:00am is super late for the Dunnevant house. It had been a full 13 hours since Lucy’s famous last pee call the previous evening. No doubt she had to go like the proverbial Russian racehorse. But when Pam came down the steps, she asked if Lucy had been let out yet and I replied—“Of course not!” I walk over to the foyer and there she is, in the identical position she is in every morning of her life:

Yes, her eyes always straddle that last post. She has no doubt measured out the exact spot and makes sure to stand there and no place else. At this point, there are two options. I can send Pam up to coax her down—always a bad idea. For Pam, Lucy takes her stubborn intransigence to ridiculous levels, ending in Pam yelling at the top of her lungs while attaching the leash to her collar and pulling her down the stairs. For me, its much easier. Still, she will not budge until I walk up the stairs. When I arrive at the landing just six steps away from her, she will NOT budge…

It is at this point when I must put my right foot on the next step up from the landing, lean forward, extending my right hand close to her nose and then snap my fingers …twice. Then, the spell is broken and she merrily makes her way down the steps like any normal dog would, completely without incident every single time.

The alert reader will notice the blue skids on each step of the hardwood stairs. Those were not a fashion or decorating decision. Several years ago Lucy decided that coming down the steps at all was a non-starter. With the addition of the skids we at least got to the point we find ourselves in now. I should point out that when we take her to Maine she bolts down any and all fights of stairs with reckless abandon, showing not the least bit of hesitation. Even when we took her to the Owl’s Head lighthouse and its crazy long and dizzying steps she had zero trouble…

In case the reader is wondering, she has no hesitation going up the stairs. 

I know, I know what you are all thinking. “Who is training who here??” This is a fair point. However, Lucy is about as stubborn an animal as exists on Planet Earth. If we did not escort her down the stairs, she would just stay up there and soil the expensive carpeting. Life is too short.