The sad story of American Home Mortgage

Last week, I lost $14,000 in the stock market. I didn’t do anything wrong—it was just a bad few days. Still, $14,000…. I pick up pennies from the sidewalk. If someone gave me $14,000 to actually spend, I would be stumped.

I gain and lose money all the time in the stock market (I surely lost several thousand more today), but I don’t normally track my investments. I simply look at my monthly statements, groan or smile, and file them away.

My investment style is a combination of whatever looks good at a particular time (I buy but seldom sell), and my desire to protect Peggy from volatility. When we got into the market, she worried about how I would react to losing money, but I soon realized that she was more grieved by it than I. She interpreted every up as a fluke and every down as the start of Great Depression II. I accepted both as normal, and held to the belief that, over time, the market would go up more than it went down. The worst down we saw was 40%, and that was okay. It wasn’t something to sneeze at, but it wasn’t tragic either.

My first thought upon investing in stocks was to buy low and sell high. Everyone thinks that, only it’s harder than it looks—a bit liking throwing rocks at darting night birds. That’s why I mostly stopped selling, that and the tax liability.

Over the years, I felt like I should study investing more, but the subject didn’t interest me so I kept putting it off in favor of work that I could stand back and look at. Things like remodeling projects. In the last month, I’ve been making up for lost time. The main thing I’ve learned is that even knowledgeable investors have trouble making a significant amount of money in the market (although losing a significant amount is easy enough). Finding a way to beat the market is like finding a cure for the common cold. If scientists can cure a rare cancer, surely they can cure a common cold, or so it would seem, but after decades of work and millions of dollars, colds remain defiant. This gives my market studies a dismal air because, there being no one to tell me what will work, I might do really well, or….

The impetus to today’s sell-off was the fall of American Home Mortgage Corporation. This evening, I saw a graph of its demise that was updated every five minutes throughout the day. A year ago, AHM was selling for $36 a share. Today, it opened at $10.47. At 2:00, it was still at $10.47. By 3:00, it was $1.14. Picture that graph. First, a long horizontal line. Then a sharply descending vertical line. Then a slightly wobbly horizontal line. Then nothing. Like a heart monitor on a dying man.

Imagine that you woke up this morning in Houston or Milwaukee, and went to your job at AHM expecting an ordinary day, and then top management announced to Wall Street that bankruptcy was looming. Bang! By mid-afternoon you’re out of your job and possibly your savings. That’s drama. I once heard about an economist who was so moved by graphs that he sometimes cried. I can see that now, and it makes studying the market a lot more interesting.

The whys of organizing

I’ve spent the week organizing, or rather reorganizing, our finances and file cabinets. One of the traits Peggy and I share is that we are born organizers. The difference is that I organize everything—socks, tools, pantry shelves, even the kitchen junk drawer, whereas she is a selective organizer. She’s content to let things overflow in her purse, desk, and closet; but her checkbook is an accountant’s envy, and her button collection is displayed so symmetrically that a flea couldn’t crawl through the margin of error. I stop short of such perfection, though I still qualify as neurotic by most standards, my garage being tidier than other people’s living rooms.

Well, anyway, I organized this week. It was such fun that I had to force myself to go to bed at night. Organizing is, of course, an attempt to control reality—to make it safer, tidier, more predictable. The problem is that reality is inherently dangerous, messy, and unknowable. The harder I try to tame it, the more aware I become of its dangers, and the greater my need to eliminate those dangers.

The most frightened man I ever knew carried a .45 everywhere, even into the shower (he put it in a baggie). I visited him once. He had a yard alarm, and every time a squirrel walked by, that alarm would go off, and my friend would run to the window with his .45. So it is that prudent watchfulness can grow into full-blown paranoia. On the other hand, the world really is a dangerous place, and it makes sense to try to avoid the most likely dangers.

The trick here, as in all things I suppose, is balance. But where is the fulcrum? I don’t see it. Do you see it?

The whys of organizing

I’ve spent the week organizing, or rather reorganizing, our finances and file cabinets. One of the traits Peggy and I share is that we are born organizers. The difference is that I organize everything—socks, tools, pantry shelves, even the kitchen junk drawer, whereas she is a selective organizer. She’s content to let things overflow in her purse, desk, and closet; but her checkbook is an accountant’s envy, and her button collection is displayed so symmetrically that a flea couldn’t crawl through the margin of error. I stop short of such perfection, though I still qualify as neurotic by most standards, my garage being tidier than other people’s living rooms.

Well, anyway, I organized this week. It was such fun that I had to force myself to go to bed at night. Organizing is, of course, an attempt to control reality—to make it safer, tidier, more predictable. The problem is that reality is inherently dangerous, messy, and unknowable. The harder I try to tame it, the more aware I become of its dangers, and the greater my need to eliminate those dangers.

The most frightened man I ever knew carried a .45 everywhere, even into the shower (he put it in a baggie). I visited him once. He had a yard alarm, and every time a squirrel walked by, that alarm would go off, and my friend would run to the window with his .45. So it is that prudent watchfulness can grow into full-blown paranoia. On the other hand, the world really is a dangerous place, and it makes sense to try to avoid the most likely dangers.

The trick here, as in all things I suppose, is balance. But where is the fulcrum? I don’t see it. Do you see it?

Alan Wheelis and the absence of meaning

On June 16th, I checked out a library book by the psychoanalyst Allen Wheelis. I had never heard of him, but I always peruse the new book section, and The Way We Are intrigued me. I finished my second reading this morning, and looked the author up on the net. He died the day I got his book.

“There are two essential categories: that unchanging backdrop, the raw nature of existence, unadorned, unmediated, overwhelming us with dread, the way things are; and that changing succession of stage sets we put in front of that backdrop, blocking it from view, the schemes of things, the systems of meanings within which we live. The backdrop is a constant, too awful and too fearful to be endured; the sets change over the course of history, though they may seem fixed over the course of a lifetime.”

But what of those who can no longer believe in the sets?

“Do you know? Do you feel it, this losing of grip? The received interpretations no longer work, don’t fit, don’t take hold…

“Some people don’t hear the screaming; the old fictions still work. Some hear it keenly: The chalk has worn down, the fingernail drags across an endless blackboard, the sky is empty.”

What is there for the latter?

“When the ruling scheme of things comes to seem untrue or unimportant, one’s efforts within it become meaningless. One’s whole life becomes meaningless…. One seeks distraction…”

He sought distraction through women.

“…I remind myself that my papier-mâché angel will turn into a witch or a drab. Yet this passion for a falsified other may be the only thing in life really worthwhile.”

But why not improvise a meaning?

“Free to choose how to live, the way we choose is meaningless; living in the certainty of meaning, we live a life that is imposed.”

An improvised purpose is just that—improvised, shot on the fly, made with limited—and possibly inaccurate—knowledge. The shooter can neither see his target nor know the nature of his target. I very much doubt that we are even able to think outside of the scheme of things, because we are the products of that scheme; we are contained within it. Even when we reject it, we reject it from within, using its terminology, its images.

When people explain to me their core beliefs, the thoughts that keep them going, that make their lives worthwhile, I can scarcely take them seriously. Still others have nothing to explain because they don’t feel compelled to look for an explanation. I am likewise challenged to take them seriously. I can flatter myself about why I am different (“I am more intellectually courageous,” or “I possess greater depth”), yet I would trade places if I could. I neither take comfort in religion, nor acknowledge human authority. The most I can ever know is but a guess. I am limited by my senses, my intelligence, and my culture.

I think of my species as I think of my dogs. Bonnie is smart, Baxter not so smart; yet even Bonnie couldn’t master long division. The most brilliant dog that ever lived—the Einstein of dogs—could not have mastered long division. My race is likewise limited. Some of us know things that astound the rest, but all of us together know very little in proportion to the totality of knowledge, and we probably lack the capacity to understand many things. Like dogs, our intellectual ceiling is not only low, we are too unintelligent to know how low it is. Or so I suspect.

Murderous nurse

I hate to admit I watched them, but I did. Two true crime shows at the same time (I switched during commercials), one about a college student who chopped up his parents with an axe; the other about a woman who shot her husband. Alas, the announcer on the second show said, “A trained nurse, she dismembered the body and packed it into three suitcases…”

“A trained nurse!” I thought. “I’m married to a trained nurse—and she owns three suitcases!”

“Peggy,” I asked when Peggy got home, “when you were in nursing school did any of your courses include body dismemberment?” She looked at me strangely, and, having just seen what a pissed-off nurse could do, I let the matter drop. I consoled myself with the thought that the nurse on TV had used a reciprocating saw, and I knew that, nurse or not, Peggy would never use a reciprocating saw. In fact, the one time she used a circular saw, she cut the cord in two.

The pitfalls of optimism, of pessism

Walt got a Masters degree in counseling psychology. While in school, he married a welfare mom with two kids, so he was unable to give his counseling practice time to grow. Within months, he got a job with a steady paycheck. When that business laid him off, he was content to draw unemployment for six months before looking for a job. Alas, he discovered that his benefits were only good for three months, so he had to scramble for work. No work was forthcoming until I introduced him to Bill who owns an auto repair shop. Walt went to work at Bill’s shop, but was soon fired when he argued with the foreman. Now, Walt is driving a school bus while he looks for something better.

As Walt sees it, his problems are caused by bad luck or other people. This is because Walt is a raving optimist, and raving optimists underestimate their own blame while overestimating the blame of everyone else. I am a pessimist. I would not have majored in counseling psychology if I wanted to stay in Eugene, because half of the counselors in Eugene are waiting tables. Nor would I have married an unskilled welfare mom who was irresponsible with her money and, perhaps, her uterus. Nor would I have reached my 53rd birthday with no savings.

Pessimists anticipate the worst, and seek to avoid it. Optimists don’t realistically analyze the odds; don’t take responsibility; and don’t learn from their mistakes. Pessimists are painfully aware of their own weaknesses and of everything that could conceivably go wrong. They consequently exaggerate the likelihood that something will go wrong, and they become frozen. They lose faith in the possibility of good outcomes, whereas optimists see nothing but good outcomes.

George Bush is an optimist. He never loses confidence, and people are dying by the thousands because of it. But then optimists are generally happy people, whereas pessimists often have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Which one does the most good in the world versus the most evil? I don’t know.

The saga of a rebel Mason

My lodge conferred the Master Mason degree tonight. It is high ritual, more impressive than a Mass. It puts me in the kind of altered state that athletes refer to as “the zone.” The props and lighting; the officers in their tuxedos, the master with his top hat; the long ritual performed from memory; the intricate movements of body and hands. So many ways of doing each thing wrong, but only one of doing it right.

Behold, the hours wore on, and the lodge grew hot; and I grew rebellious in my coat and tie. At length, I removed the latter, but the small patch of bare skin that was exposed made little difference; so off went the coat. Some looked at me in surprise, but what else could I do—sweat and feel like an idiot? I am ready to rebel when reason demands it.

Allow me my small rebellions, and I will serve you well; but deny me, and we will both come to doubt that I am in the right place. Noting that the thermostat was locked at 75, I blamed the Scottish Rite for my discomfiture—it being their building. Others suffered too, but only I rebelled. I am the only rebel in many settings, although I do not know why.

Christopher Reeves and Aunt Peggy's attempt at suicide

Last week, I unthinkingly pivoted on my foot (instead of lifting it), and now knee pain is making it hard for me to work or sleep. When things are like this, I try to play it safe, but I find inactivity agonizing. And there is so much that needs doing! Forget new projects; just the upkeep on the house and yard requires hours a day on my feet.

I saw the Christopher Reeves’ movie (Somewhere in Time) tonight, and wondered how a formerly active man was able to bear quadriplegia much less remain optimistic. I used to think about him lying there, unable even to breathe on his own, and I couldn’t imagine how he stayed occupied. Movies? A fish tank? Recorded books? Visits from the rich and powerful? It boggled me, and always put me in mind of Peggy’s aunt who became a quadriplegic after her second suicide attempt. If life isn’t worth living when you’re healthy, ending up like her has got to be as near hell as most of us will get, at least in this life. She’s dead now. Ate herself to death. I suppose the bright side to quadriplegia is that, even if you take care of yourself, you don’t probably won’t have to put up with it for too many years.

I wonder what would have happened had Peggy’s quadriplegic aunt took it into her head to kill herself with drink instead of food. In theory, she would have the right, but in actuality, it would require an accomplice, and who would keep giving booze to a quadriplegic? The same people who gave her food, I suppose. I know I would. After all, why not? I had rather give her booze than food because if there is one thing more unaesthetic than a quadriplegic, it’s a fat quadriplegic. Besides, the alcohol might comfort her more.

Ah, but she might puke! I never thought of that. A fat, puking quadriplegic. What a vision. Sounds like a painting by Picasso.