Barrett's Blog

Market Talk

2008-11-23T22:36:00.003-05:00

I think we're close to the bottom.

If you look at the DJIA over the long run, in the last twenty-odd years there are a essentially two periods. The first lasted from 1985 to 1995 and exhibited relatively predictable, non-volatile growth. It coincides with the quickening of globalization, deregulation, and financial innovation. The second period is the "Bubble(s) Period," starting in the mid-1990s and covering the dotcom boom and bust and then the leverage/credit boom and bust.

If you work on the assumption that the growth of the first period was more rational and sustainable over the long run, and the growth of the second period was mere froth, then you'd expect the market to collapse until it was roughly back in line with the long-term growth average consistent with the first period.

I separated the data from the first period (it's in red), added a trend line, and projected that line forward until today. If the market had grown at the more rational, 1985-1995 pace (ie if the false bubble wealth had never been created), we'd be somewhere in the 7500-8000 range today.

The market closed in that range several days last week. Does that mean we've hit the bottom? I think the answer is yes, more or less. It could probably fall even lower temporarily, maybe even closing below 7,000 (especially if Citigroup fails). And it's certainly not going to climb anytime soon. But it doesn't have too much farther to fall.

The Ultimate E-mail Faux Pas

2008-11-03T15:21:00.004-05:00

In this profile of Bravo chief Laura Zalaznick (which is very good but could have been half the length), we learn that a producer once accidentally sent her an e-mail meant for someone else, in which he rants about her being controlling and overcritical, and calls her a dirty word that rhymes with "runt." This was how she reacted:

She neither laughed it off nor fired anyone. Instead, a few weeks later, she wrote an essay about the experience and published it on a literary Web site called Open Letters. The essay is a thoughtful, brutally honest meditation on the expectations of a woman in power. “I’m probably regarded as being tough, fairly hardhearted, outspoken,” she wrote. “I am occasionally criticized for digging in and being less accommodating to other people’s ideas and criticisms than I ‘should be.’ But this is a weird sort of (double) standard to be held to, especially in a ‘creative’ job where passions are usually what get ideas heard.”

I like that. She could have flown off the handle or played the aggrieved victim, but instead she turned an ugly incident into the opportunity for thoughtful reflection. It probably provided some catharsis for her and gave her a forum to work through her feelings rationally. At the same time, she shamed the letter-writer without destroying their relationship. (In fact, the two are now friends.) No wonder she's had such an incredible career.

P.S. Here is the full letter, including the original email. She kept the offenders' names private, which is an extra nice touch, since certainly those close enough to the situation to matter will know who they are anyway.

On emo, aging, Dashboard Confessional, and bad metaphors

2008-10-30T23:02:00.004-04:00

My iPod makes me feel old. Or at least it did last week. I was at work late one night and put it on shuffle, just for fun, willing to play Russian Roulette with 5,000-plus songs, unsure which would be secretly, mortally humiliating.

The gods of math and chance and imperfect randomness threw Dashboard Confessional at me. And you know what? I fucking loved it. I wanted to scream infidelities. Ender save me and everyone else. The Swiss army romance romanced me right into the bedroom.

But after the music stopped and I fell from those dizzying heights and sat there, panting and craving a cigarette, holding the sheets loose around my chest, I wondered: How true is my love? How honest? Chris Carrabba had my sentimental 16-year-old heart, to be sure. But at 25? Is the love still true? Or, good god, am I old enough to be nostalgic already? Are dim memories of lunch tables and SATs and three-minute warning bells the only reason this emo-weenie holds me captive?

American Football says no. I discovered them just a couple weeks ago (thanks, Alisa), and they're every bit as maudlin and tormented as Katie Holmes' ex-lover (sample lyric: "Well I'm not dead yet / But the regrets are killing me"). And even though I discovered them at the ripened -- nay, bright-yellow-and-beginning-to-show-brown -- old age of one-quarter of a century, I still eat it up. I don't love bad emo because of ancient memories. I'm just a sucker for that shit.

P.S. You're welcome, Torres.

Sticks and stones

2008-06-25T23:03:00.004-04:00

What an age we live in, huh? Not only can trained medical professionals send a calculated dose of electromagnetic radiation through my body, revealing the bones beneath my flesh, but I can possess a small, omnipresent camera with which to photograph said revealed bones.

The blue squiggly line highlights my left navicular scaphoid, apparently the most important of the small wrist bones. Note that it is in two pieces. This is not how it should be. I had surgery yesterday to put it back into one piece. Doctors inserted a small titanium screw into the bone, and grafted a piece of my radius into the split.

This morning, when nurses removed the bandages to take out a small drain that had been in place since surgery, was the first time I saw the surgical wound. It was also the first time I have ever been nauseous.

It's not too terrible, all things considered, but when it's your own wrist, emotions are elevated.

Scroll down for the picture, but only if you have a strong stomach.

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I Break My Silence...and My Wrist

2008-06-11T21:43:00.001-04:00

It's been a long time since I've written, so I'm breaking my silence to report that I've broken my wrist. Playing softball of all things. God this is embarrassing.

Email Bankruptcy

2008-03-12T14:08:00.003-04:00

I'm thinking of declaring email bankruptcy. Lawrence Lessig did this a few years back when his unread message pile grew beyond a certain point. He simply hit the "Mark all as read" button and called it a day. I'm up to 376 unread messages. It might be time for drastic action.

Dinnertime!

2008-03-07T20:03:00.003-05:00

Pretty much the last perk available at Newsweek is free dinner on Thursday nights. It's a hit-or-miss affair. The topic of conversation one week was HPV infection rates among sexagenarians. Last night, though, was...divine. The kind of conversation that you recap for all your friends, and make them feel bad for missing it. It was mostly an insider's account of who's gay in Hollywood (Will Smith, Jada Pinkett, Kevin Spacey, John Travolta are all for sure). But I also learned about the Richard Gere gerbil story for the first time (and, in the process, discovered the "right" way to insert rodents into bodily orifices) and learned what a Hot Carl is and who does it.

John Cusack came up, and someone told us that he's a total sleazeball, and a womanizer. I said, "Yeah, and he'll just Say Anything."

Workplace Morale

2008-03-07T19:12:00.002-05:00

Today we had a conversation about the best place in the office to hide in the event of a workplace shooting by a disgruntled employee.

Read into it what you will.

A Conversation at the End of the Day

2008-01-30T00:21:00.000-05:00

Person 1: Whoa, where are you off to in such a hurry?

Person 2: I have to be home by 6:30 to put Eleanor to bed.

Person 1: Eleanor goes to bed at 6:30?

Person 2: She does when she's not doing well.

Person 1: What do you mean she's not doing well?

Person 2: She pooped in the tub.

The New Iconography

2008-01-09T16:39:00.000-05:00

2008 Resolutions

2008-01-06T23:47:00.000-05:00

1. Sleep more regular hours. Ideally midnight to eight. The idea is to wake up earlier.

2. Drink less. Nothing radical, but I'm cutting back on the mid-week beer.

3. Don't be an energy suck. Add energy to a room. Be excited to be wherever you are.

4. No more sidewalk rage. In California, I was an enraged driver. Walking has replaced driving here. Slow-walkers, weavers, stallers - I hate them all. No more.

5. Say "sorry" more.

6. Don't be lazy. Write, create, plan, organize, enjoy - those are fine verbs. TV, internet procrastination - less of that.

7. Become an Elite Yelper. I love the website and think it's a good way to proactively explore what the city has to offer.

I think 7 will go unfulfilled. 1-4 and 6 are the kinds of resolutions I will progress on for a while, but will forget by April. 5 I think I can do - I'm a pretty polite guy as it is.

A Champainful Morning

2008-01-01T14:10:00.000-05:00

Actually it wasn't that bad. I woke up at 9, took a couple Motrins, and went back to sleep for a while.

I haven't written in a while. But I'm still not as absent a blog minder as Joshua P. Smith. (Latest post: Aug. 23.)

The biggest news is that I co-wrote a cover story for Newsweek International. Read it here.

Also, one of my New Year's Resolutions is to become an Elite Yelper. Help me out by rating my reviews highly and showering me with compliments. You can find my most recent scribbles here.

Other New Year's Resolutions: to keep better sleep hours (i.e. wake up earlier). Also to drink less.

Mafia, Inc.

2007-12-10T10:37:00.001-05:00

I have some new responsibilities at Newsweek, and part of them entail developing web-only content to help build the site. My biggest foray to date just went online. It's a photo gallery about how organized crime both benefits from and is challenged by globalization - just like traditional businesses. It's tied to a story by Christian Caryl in this week's magazine, on the yakuza's "corporate restructuring."

Santacon 2007

2007-12-09T20:58:00.000-05:00

No one heeded my advice to come to Santacon this year, and even before the event was over, I was receiving regretful emails: "Just passed a horde of Santas...Looks like so much fun! So sad I didn't come." Well in this case I do not hate to say "I told you so," in fact I relish the opportunity. Although the altruist in me does hope your Saturday afternoon at The Container Store was an equally unique event.

Anyway, once again it was just Alisa and me, but we had a blast anyway. We met up with the group at Spring and Greenwich. At the bodega, a line of Santas snaked through the store, all waiting to buy beer or breakfast bagels. Later, a Santa confided to me that he had stolen a six-pack at that store. I chided him, "That's not in the Christmas spirit." He replied, "But it is in the spirit of Santarchy." And so it was.

We made our way east across Spring street to the E train.

We passed a Christmas tree lot, and Alisa and I gave candy canes to the little ones, who were very confused and possibly frightened by the sheer number of Santas, most of which already had a good buzz on. Their parents were good sports.

The train was, of course, crowded with Santas.

We got off at Times Square. Last year, Times Square was my favorite part. Five hundred Santas walking through the Tourist Mecca of the Western World is an awe-inducing spectacle. We stopped traffic, gave away candy, impressed Midwesterners with our sheer joie de vivre.

This time around, Alisa and I had gotten ahead of the main group, so it didn't have the same impact. But there were still choice moments like this one:

We paused at a bar called Connolly's. I believe it was chosen by the event's organizers merely because it was four stories and could host hundreds of drunken rabble-rousers. And a rabble we did rouse. Here's a shot of the street from my third-floor vantage point:

This is as good a point as anyway to show off some of the day's curiosities. Here's Alisa with a couple Alfs/Elves.

The guy pictured below was a Spanking Santa, who was giving random people wallops on the bottom.

But definitely the costume (contraption?) that received the most gawking was this bizarre cross between Santa's sleigh and an S&M film set gone horribly wrong:

Anyway, after Connolly's we walked across Midtown to Grand Central Terminal, which was by far the best stop of the trip. When Alisa and I first arrived, there was already a horde waiting for us:

But by the time we left, the place was simply Santa-ridden.

The many tourists that flock to Grand Central loved it. After all, we are a Seussian childhood fantasy come to life. Alisa and I had our pictures taken with a couple lovely women from South Carolina. They were very nice, even when I mistakenly placed Charlotte in their state and Alisa mistook them for Australians.

Afterwards, back on the subway...

...where we ran into Meredith, Josh's friend from Washington, DC. Which is doubly weird, because a) I hardly run into friends from New York on the street and b) I was wearing a Santa costume. But Meredith, too, loved our joie de vivre, and even tolerated the random Santa who was unabashedly hitting on her. (In the subway! In a Santa costume!)

We got off at Astor Place and made a ruckus. This taxi driver took note.

After getting some dumplings at The Dumpling Man on St. Mark's Place, which is my new favorite cheap food spot, we congregated in Tompkins Square Park. We noticed a parked Red Bull promo car nearby. Alisa and I were some of the first on the scene.

But then other Santas noticed the car and started piling in...

...until it was something of a free-for-all. Thinking this was great publicity, and very much in the nature of the Red Bull image, I said to one of the Red Bull girls, "You ought to get a promotion for this." "Or fired," she replied.

Last picture: Alisa with an unidentified Jewish character.

Afterwards, I played some drunken Buck Hunt at a nearby bar (I did horribly, except for the bonus round), and then got irrationally mad at Alisa for wanting to go home at four. Sorry about that.

New Ms. Pac-Man High Score

2007-12-05T22:26:00.000-05:00

I beat Brad. Finally. But handily.

Return to Innocence

2007-11-15T10:43:00.001-05:00

Hello. How are you?

It's been a while, I know, and for that I'm sorry. Torres recently posted for the first time in eons/aeons/ions and threw her voice out into the echoing abyss: "Anyone still out there?" I won't ask the same because I won't like the response. I've always hated the sound of my own voice. But when/if I work for NPR or Marketplace or This American Life, I'll have to cope.

Last night, saw Southland Tales, which towards the end had this stunning fever dream of a scene where Sarah Michelle Gellar and her porn star friends dance in slo-mo on a stage in a zeppelin while Moby's "Memory Gospel" massages ear canals and an ice cream truck floats into the sky. It was a beautiful scene, but if you're getting excited for the movie don't, cause it sucked.

Elsewhere in life. I visited my brother in Middletown, CT but had no time for cemeteries, and the foliage was lackluster. He's threatening to drop out of school and my parents don't know what to say.

In Pennsylvania, Alisa and I met a superhero dog by the name of Brogan, an Aussie shepherd/lab mix. Tell him to "walk" and he'll take you on a 1.5-mile loop through the forest. Then I hit a few golf balls with a six-iron and Brodie took off like a flash of mottled black-and-brown.

Halloween was all about the dry ice.

I'm working through the first season of "The O.C." Don't judge me.

Joel Stein is Plagiarizing Me

2007-10-01T12:08:00.000-04:00

Okay, the title's not really true, but there are some amazing similarities between Stein's recent piece in Time and my last feature in Stanford magazine. First of all, they're both about Brian Wansink and his work on the psychology of eating at Cornell University, and since mine came out about a month ago and Stein is a Stanford grad and probably gets the alumni magazine, it's reasonable to assume that my article influenced him, and may have even introduced him to Wansink and his research.

And then there are the little parallelisms in syntax and phrasing. I tell a story about Wansink deceiving theater-goers into eating stale popcorn, and then revealing the trick, and say, "And Wansink took delight in pointing this out to them." Stein tells how Wansink fooled professional bartenders trying to pour same-sized shots into different-sized glasses, and then surmises, "All of this delights Brian Wansink."

Me describing Wansink: "...with his high brow, rimless glasses and mischievous smirk, [he] looks a little like a high school chemistry teacher."

Stein describing Wansink: He "has all the nerdlike characteristics you'd expect from a mad professor."

Elsewhere, I note the charming congruence in the fact that his wife studied the culinary arts at France's Le Cordon Bleu; so does Joel.

Despite what you might think so far, I'm not mad. You've heard the old trope, imitation is the sincerest form of blah blah blah. And I know that Stein isn't a plagiarist - I've met him, he's a decent guy, and journalism is a giant echo chamber anyway - we all get our best ideas from things that other people have already written. So color me flattered. Nice piece, Joel. Now thank me by taking me to lunch.

Eat Me

2007-09-05T11:09:00.000-04:00

A new article, this time in Stanford Magazine, about Brian Wansink's research on the psychology of eating. He's a fascinating man and passionate about his subject. Read the article to find out why we eat more M+M's when they're sorted by color, or get drunker faster with short, wide glasses.

Bigger is Better

2007-08-30T13:49:00.000-04:00

It's no secret that I'm a fan of long titles in art. It's not the length in and of itself that is attractive to me, but the potential for a long title to transcend its being, its telos, and become something more. To become, in short, a story in itself.

Take this example, an upcoming movie with Benicio del Toro and Halle Berry called Things We Lost in the Fire. From what little I know about the film, I have no desire to see it; I've never liked Halle Berry much, and domestic turbulence is so played out (what can possibly transcend Little Children?). But the title is sublime. There is a story inherent in its six short words: a fire happens (metaphorically or not), things are lost, and someone survives to mourn those things. And it raises questions: What is the significance of these things? Why are we worried about things instead of people?

Also, just ordered a review copy of Denis Johnson's forthcoming novel, Tree of Smoke, which sounds incredible. Can't wait to tuck into it.

The Obama Bandwagon

2007-08-29T11:00:00.000-04:00

Is George Packer supporting Barack Obama? He doesn't come right out and say it in this post, but he sure comes close. He even calls him "JFK Jr." If Packer's on the Obama train, that puts me a step closer to buying a ticket.

Related: An acquaintance from Harvard Law claims that the Obama campaign sent the campus an email asking them to stop calling Obama a "rock star," as it taints his image. If so, I want to get my hands on that email.

At the zoo

2007-08-23T11:31:00.001-04:00

Exactly a week ago, I was at the Gramercy Rose Bar, a very fancy Ian Schrager lounge in the Gramercy Hotel. On one wall, a Julian Schnabel print. On another, a Damien Hirst mosaic comprised entirely of butterfly wings. Chattering scenesters shot pool and talked about each other from across the cavernous room. They sipped $18 cosmos; Brad and I stuck with $9 beers.

We sit down with friends of friends of friends, and I get to talking with this Texan banker at CSFB. He had long, slicked hair and a gradually ascending brow line - he could have been an oilman instead of a risk management specialist. At one point he says, "When I look at my grades from Texas A&M, I can't believe I am where I am now." (Presumably, I was meant to take this as a statement of good fortune - his grades were bad, his job is good. Not the other way around.) But the money quote came a bit later, when he eventually asked me what I did for a living.

"Wow!" He exclaimed after I answered. "A real live journalist!"

A small update - finally

2007-08-11T11:34:00.000-04:00

Phew! Is it over? Are the t's crossed, the i's dotted - has the fun been had? Have we trotted gaily through the night enough? Have we reached a high enough score on Erotic Photo Hunt?

It's been quite a week. Anthony V. and Josh S. were both in town, visiting. FZ was calling regularly, asking about the decline of war since 1991. An editor demanded a draft of my proto-cover story by Friday. Workdays were long, nights were well-hydrated.

On Wednesday, a smarmy bar manager quizzed us all on palindromes. A "water craft?" That's a kayak (thanks Anthony). An alien soy product? UFO tofu, to be sure. We scored perfectly, ran the tables. Then plummeted to the bottom of the ranks in subsequent rounds. A tiny Alpine country strong in the Winter Olympics? Damn you, Liechtenstein! A long chain of islands off southwest India? Maldives, my dive trips are going elsewhere.

On Thursday Josh and I visited his sister at the new New York Times building. Visiting the architectural manifestations of major media outlets, to me, is like Jacko at a preschool.

Here you can just make out the small ceramic rods that cover the exterior of the building and make it shimmer, according to Paul G'berger.

Josh at the strangely colored entrance. Josh called his sister then approached the security guard. "Um, I'm visiting my sister," he said. "Who's that?" "Gabrielle S.," Josh told him. "Oh yeah, and what'd she say?" "She said to come on up." "So be it then." Don't judge - security has a few kinks to work out.

Notice how level the blinds are in Gab's office? That's because they're computer-controlled to ascend and descend with the sun, always blocking the harshest light.

This doesn't have anything to do with the Times or our visit there, but I thought it was a great little graffito, and also something of a mantra for Anthony.

It was sad to see both Josh and Anthony go on Friday. I had to make my goodbyes separately, since Josh had a 3:00 bus and Anthony didn't wake up until 2:30.

As for work, in three busy days I wrote a five-page memo and a 2,500-w0rd draft of my article. God bless New York.

Murdoch Wins

2007-08-01T12:29:00.000-04:00

The inevitable has happened. As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm not overly upset. He'll inject capital, and is probably smart enough not to mess (too much) with a good thing. I fear most for the Journal's China coverage, but there's no point in worrying now. Besides, I have a soft spot for the billionaire tyrant. His is such an epic personality. And he seems to be having fun.

Is Free Speech Bad For Us?

2007-07-27T15:09:00.000-04:00

Last night I was reading last week's New Yorker article on the protests in Pakistan, where the military dictator, Pervez Musharraf, recently sacked the country's Chief Justice without cause. Thousands of lawyers, students, and other pro-democracy protesters took to the streets, and the judge was eventually reinstated.

At some point my mind wandered to issues of democracy and dictatorship more generally, and I had the startling thought that here in the U.S. - where the President has just fallen short of crowning himself, and declaring the world his fiefdom - perhaps some of deepest-held principles of our democracy have abetted the kings and king-makers.

Here's the radical thought: free speech anesthetizes our outrage. Our ability to say whatever we want, and to have a multitude of platforms in which to do it, has instilled in us a feeling of power. If only we pry deep enough, and shout loud enough, we will be heard! Our newspapers will uncover corruption, and the popular upswell against it will carry the traitors to justice. It's a romantic notion, and the cornerstone of the Bill of Rights.

Meanwhile, those that actually have power spend much effort carefully building an array of defenses. They've coddled their special interests and hidden behind a rabid, reactionary "base." They've hired sycophants and pocketed the right politicians.

So now, scream as we might, it does no good: The money still flows through the proper channels, the required votes in Congress are still there at roll call, and the President gets told he's doing a good job.

Case in point: Bush pardons Libby, a collective roar goes up, and a week later fades to nothing.

Contrast this to a place where free speech is not a given, a place like the Soviet Union or China or Pakistan (esp. pre-Musharraf Pakistan), so that when someone does vocalize his/her condemnation of power, at great personal danger, it ripples like a shockwave. An attack on authority still carries meaning. Here it's par for the course, and authority has learned to emasculate it.

Kishore Mahbubani said something similar in an essay. "The U.S. press has been second to none in exposing the follies of the U.S. government," he wrote. "But have all their exposures served as opiates, creating the illusion that something is being done when really nothing is being done?"

The alternative certainly isn't attractive - government repression is rarely fun. But it would be nice for words to mean something again.

Slouching Towards News Corp.

2007-07-17T10:30:00.000-04:00

It looks like Murdoch is going to win his bid to take over the Wall Street Journal. I work in Midtown about a 10-minute walk from News Corp. HQ, and I can hear the cackles echoing up Broadway.

I've done a one-eighty on my Murdoch-buying-the-Journal position. At first I was gung ho, and thought he'd inject some much needed liquid funds into a paper that, in the last five years, has been forced to close foreign bureaus, sell divisions at a loss, and trim the physical size of the paper to save on pulp costs.

Plus, there's something heroic in the old wizard that appeals to me. He's like the empire-builders of old, ceaselessly acquisitive, natives (aka Journal employees) be damned. More directly, he's like the press barons of the late 1800s, who essentially controlled public opinion and used it to build castles and dynasties.

As much as I find the guy exciting, he's bad for journalism. The Times, the New Yorker, and the Journal all have written pieces that investigate Murdoch's use of his media empire to further his business concerns. The most damning allegations - and the biggest risk for a Murdoch-owned Journal - is that he censors criticism of the repressive Chinese Communist Party in order to keep his lucrative broadcasting licenses there. Don't expect to win any Pulitzers writing about Hu Jintao's love of gardening.

I've talked to a few Journal reporters about the impending takeover; they're remarkably blasé about it all. I guess I would be too. The alternatives, at this point, are gloomy. The most hoped-for wish at one point was for a rival suitor to come along, like Warren Buffett. But even a jolly round guy like Buffett would put business first and foremost, slashing costs and staff like Zell will probably do at Tribune. At the very least, Murdoch will throw so much money at the paper it'll think it's an expensive stripper.

The other alternative would be for things to go back the way they were before, the Bancrofts in charge and the stock price at a little over 50 percent of what it is today. Unfortunately, the Bancrofts were never the benign owners we like to think they were; they used their supervoting shares to ensure hefty dividends to keep their pleasant, patrician little lifestyle intact. Journalistic independence came at a cost. A great piece in the Columbia Journalism Review casts light on the Bancroft's cash machine, noting that with average yearly dividends of a dollar a share and 20 million shares between them, the 35 Bancrofts make a cool $571,000 a year each for doing nothing. (Following through on the math, at Murdoch's offer of $60 a share, the average Bancroft take-home will be $34 million.)

Murdoch put it best when he said that “a year ago, they made $81 million after tax and paid $80 million in dividends. You can’t grow a company that way.”

So while I'm no longer gung ho about a Murdoch takeover, unfortunately it may be the lesser of three evils.