Wassup Wit Da Price of Gas Dees Daze : Diddy Flying Commercial and Whatnot

                  P. Diddy is the perfect example of the unlimited potential for anyone to succeed in the United States. He is what is referred to in our country as a “Hip-Hop Mogul”. He owns a record company, has his own clothing line and runs a media empire catering to the hip-hop and rap music industry…and he did all this with absolutely no talent or intelligence. I say that because only an idiot would post the video he posted on YouTube complaining that he was flying commercial instead of on his own jet because gas is too mutha-f-ing high. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fEeQFe2thzM

                    He opens up with,” hey yo, wassup y’all this is your boy and i’m here today…this is called Diddy blog number 12…gas prices are too mutha-f-ing high. Wow, spoken like a true media mogul. He goes on to rant about how he is “actually” flying commercial in a pathetic attempt get the viewer to feel sorry for him. Keep in mind that he does own his own Jet but now keeps it grounded like the red Hummer in your neighbor’s driveway because gas is too mutha-f-ing high. He explains in the video that he flys between New York and Los Angeles to pursue his acting career. Each trip costs him two hundred to two hundred and fitty  thousand…which he probably has in his baggy pants pocket.  

                       He gives a shout out to all his, “Saudi Arabian brothers and sisters and…um, and all my brothers and sisters from countrys that have oil, if you y’all could please send me some oil for my jet I would truly appreciate it”. Barrack Obama is probably taking notes on this idea and President Bush is kicking himself with steel-toed cowboy boots for not thinking of it himself…just ask for free oil. Diddy is a mutha-f-ing genius. I’m sure he knows that a jet runs on gas, not oil. He’d have to refine the oil himself which he could get his posse to do in the basement of one of his mansions. Not the one with the meth lab in the basement. The other one.

                    He constantly refers to himself as “Your Boy” which I suppose is a hip-hop term of endearment letting me know that he is um, my boy? I’m not sure what to do with that but I guess just knowing that he’s my boy should comfort me in some way and I assume that it makes me his boy as well. Being that we are now boys I could probably ask him for a favor couldn’t I? That’s what boys do…they look out for each other. So here it goes:

                   “Yo Diddy wassup my  boy, it’s your boy Richard over here and my mortgage is too mutha-f-ing high. I’m trying to make a living here, you know what I’m sayin?… just scraping by, you know what I’m sayin?… and I actually have to pay my own muth-f-ing mortgage just like everyone else…now dat’s some bull!#$%…you know what I’m sayin?…I’m shoutin out to all my media moguls boys, rap artist boys, even the Pet Shop Boys…except my boy DMX who’s in jail…to send me some mutha-f-ing money so I can pay my mutha-f-ing mortgage…you know what I’m sayin?

The Olympics – Sport or No Sport

                         I know this may sound un-patriotic but I haven’t watched much of the Olympic Games from Beijing. I used to enjoy watching the Olympic’s and would often feel the strings of national pride tugging at my heart when an American performed well. My interest in sports hasn’t changed much since I was a kid. I enjoy watching almost all sports. As I said Almost all sports. What is insignificantly passing as a sport in these Olympics is ridiculous. It is obvious that the International Olympic Committee is being lobbied by groups who want their hobby recognized as an Olympic sport. Many have been successful in gaining Olympic status. Here are just some of the so-called sports approved by the IOC.

Badminton: The only sport where the medal weighs more than the racket. Forged in the hellfire competitive world of backyard bar-b-ques and company picnics this sport is long over due for IOC recognition. It is currently dominated by the Chinese, Koreans, and Indonesians. It is the fastest growing sport in China’s prison system played by both disidents and political prisoners alike. Badminton should not be taken lightly. The sport can be dangerous. A racket breaking during competition could cause a nasty scratch which if left unattended could eventually become infected. Badminton players are the newest hot item in the Olympics. The swimmers must be irked at all the hot babe action the Badminton Players are getting.

Beach Volleyball: I admit that I enjoy both watching and playing beach volleyball but that doesn’t mean it should be in the Olympics. We have volleyball already. It’s played indoors on a volleyball court. Just because you play outside on sand doesn’t change the nature of the sport which is to hit the ball over the net. What’s next, beach basketball? Beach tennis? Beach blanket bingo? Why not make building sand castles a sport?

Synchronized Swimming:I know that this has been around for a while but I have to ask why? I never thought that when I was a kid playing in the town pool copying my little sister’s movements in the shallow end that I was doing synchronized swimming. I just thought I was being annoying. I know that the swimmers must follow the movements of the lead swimmer in synchronized underwater harmony but I have often wondered if the lead swimmer drowns do the rest have to drown as well? Now that would be a testimony to commitment that I can identify with.

Softball: Again, we already have baseball so why do we need softball? Another weekend sport spawned from over-the-hill couch crustaceans drastically trying to hold on to the glory days of their misspent youth. Most of the softball games I’ve been to involved team sponsorship by a local bar. This was the place that all the athletes converged on after the game to drink beer and eat potato skins, poppers, buckets of chicken wings, and drink more beer. In one season a gifted softball player may put on between fifteen to twenty pounds of pure fat which prepares him for winter sports like coin collecting.

Equestrian:Isn’t the horse is doing all the work here? It’s a miracle that an animal that has been moved around in trucks and then shipped to China is able to come out of it’s stable at all. Don’t they eat horses in China? If a Chinese equestrian doesn’t perform well they may be sent for “motivational training” in one of China’s heavily guarded, brabed-wired, and windowless training centers. If the horse doesn’t perform well…let’s just say don’t order the #4 on the menu. If you do, no MSG you may bloat and not be able to play Badminton…which is a real sport.

Triathlon: This is a true sport but should not be allowed in these Olympics due to the dangerous air, water, and road quality in China. Triathletes will be running and cycling in some of the worse pollution on earth not to mention swimming in the filthiest water outside of an EXXON Men’s room toilet in Jacksonville. I’m reminded of the pool scene in Caddyshack. I’m not sure here but I think someone told me that the sewage system in China is so antiquated that the Triathletes may actually be swimming alongside Chinese poo.

I don’t want anyone to think I’m just picking on the Summer  Olympics because they are being held in China and the Chinese Government is one of the worst violators of human rights in the world. I pick on the Winter Olympics no matter where they are held. If you think the Summer Olympics has tried to make even the most trivial of activities into sports you haven’t watched the Winter Olympics lately.

Winter Olympic Sports that shouldn’t be sports…because they aren’t sports!

The Biathalon: This sport incorporates skiing with shooting. This is the only sport in the Winter Olympics that appears in virtually every James Bond movie. I think they should make the athletes wear white dinner jackets with a black bow tie and ski with a martini in one hand. Shaken, not stirred.

Luge: This is the sport for the one guy who couldn’t get along with the other three guys on the bobsled team. The lone wolf sport of sliding down a curved hill on a sled. This is the kind of sport you don’t see every day… unless of course you’re at a water park or ski resort watching seven year olds do it on an inflatable raft. The word Luge is French for “talentless in the winter”.

Curling: Talk about intense. Even Badminton Players respect these guys. The object is to slide a metal object called a stone down the ice and try to get it as close to the center of a circle as possible. You must have to be in peak physical condition to play a sport like Curling. Besides the curler their are the guys who sweep the ice in front of the stone as it slides to create a better glide. Being the sweeper is not the most pathetic part of Curling. Being his alternate is though. If a sweeper hurts his wrist or gets an ingrown nail the alternate sweeper may be called in to take his place. Oh, for the glory of country.

Here are some of the activities that I think should be Olympic Sports:

SUMMER: Lawn darts, twisting a tight lid off a jar, Hungry-Hungry Hippos, ring-toss, belly-flop in the pool, tag, tanning, text messaging, beer quarters, Karaoke, chugging beer in a rented bounce-round, vomiting beer in a rented bounce-round, drunkardly trying to find the way out of a rented bounce-round.

WINTER: Urinating your name in the snow, building a snow fort, driveway shoveling (in this sport your wife acts as coach and continuously tells you that you’re doing it wrong), New Biathalon (combines extreme snowboarding with text messaging), walking on ice with high heels and one is broken, sliding down a hill on a cafeteria tray behind your high-school even though the Principal told you three times not to do it because everyone else will start which they did and it is still a tradition at your high school because of you, here’s one for the kids-synchronized defrosting frozen booger juice cascading from their little noses to their little mouths, tongue on frozen pole, ski-lift riding, throwing flamable stuff in the fireplace (My personal favorite) and last but not least the sport of taking Thin Ice warning signs down and watching people fall in frozen lakes.

The Cure: Why I Don’t Vote

                            The elections are just a few months away and I’m not planning on voting…again. I know, I’ve heard, every vote counts. So you can count my vote out. I refuse to assist anybody who aspires to be in politics for self gain under the guise of public servitude. That includes pretty much everyone currently in office and those currently running for office. It isn’t always the people. As a matter of fact it rarely starts out that way for most venturing into the political mosh pit known as Washington. Government has become a diseased animal that knowingly assimilates anything that enters it’s realm. The bright-eyed new congressman with thoughts of bringing change to Washington is systematically dismantled and beaten down faster than a fat kid in dodge-ball. He will spend the next four years dragging his feet through the thick partisan mud in Washington that virtually defers, postpones, reprieves, pauses, setbacks, and slows down every important decision affecting the American people today. What’s good for the party is good for the people right? The problem with that scenario is that their are two major political partys operating in Washington fighting for the power to be right…for us the little people. Sounds like South Central LA but instead of Bloods and Crips shooting each other over drug turf we have Democrats and Republicans slapping at each other across the isle like third graders on a class-trip school bus…to Washington. How is that for irony?

                          Politicians keep promising change yet our system of government continues to self implode pulling the faltering devotion Americans have into it’s vortex of disparity on a daily basis. In the past our politicians have gone to great lengths to encourage the American people to get out there and vote…for them of course. Young people are taught at an early age to believe that every vote counts. They are also taught to beleive in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. At around eight or nine years old they figure out that those things really don’t exist. At around seventy-five years old and ridden with medical bills and social security headaches you figure out that “every vote counting” doesn’t exist.   

                          Since we have tried it their  way for so long without any reputable changes in government I think we should try the opposite. Nobody vote. That’s right. What if nobody came out to vote? Not one single person. I’m not talking anarchy here, I’m talking about political indifference. What better way to show our government that we are tired of footing the bill for the Democrats and Republicans to argue over who is right rather than what is right for the American people?

                            As I said, Washington is like a diseased animal that we need to stop feeding through our votes in order to remind our elected leaders that We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity…Those are the words of our constitution that they have pledged to uphold. We need to hold them to it.

The Death of Harvey Houtkin: On The Road With The Bandit Part 2

                          As All-Tech and it’s proprietary ATTAIN Trading system grew, largely due to Harvey’s widely publicized battles with the SEC and NASD, we had to spend more time on the road opening branches and giving seminars. Travelling with Harvey was always an enlightening experience. His abrasive and often bombastic honesty drew people to him wherever we went. He was aways willing to listen to someone’s ideas whether it be a trusted employee or a perfect stranger he just met in the men’s room of a hotel lobby. It wasn’t unusual for me to see Harvey talking to someone right after a seminar and then find them sitting with us for breakfast the next morning pitching the most insane ideas. These “Cling-Ons” were everywhere and part of my job was to make sure that Harvey didn’t agree to anything without talking to his partner Mark Shefts first. Harvey’s intense interest at the time would usually fade by the time we were back in New Jersey and after a few un-returned phone calls the “Cling-On” would usually give up.

                     When All-Tech was in the process of filing to go public it was critical for me to make sure Harvey didn’t mention the public offering while on the road. Linda Lerner, All-Tech’s general counselor and one of the most brilliant women I have ever met frequently reminded me of that prior to trips. Harvey mentioned the public offering at almost every seminar, which never surprised me. I had written speeches for him with bullet points to discuss but he never stuck to them. He always winged it and even sceptical people attending the seminars were impressed with his knowledge and dramatic presentation. Stock brokers and market experts would often come to the seminars and try and humiliate Harvey with a well planned out ambush question. After all, he was teaching people how to bypass the brokers and spit in the face of market tradition by trading for themselves. Harvey would often respond to these market scabs by asking them if they thought that they were smarter than everyone else in the room? He asked them how long it took for them to study for the Series 7 Exam to become a Stock Broker? A few weeks? Nobody else here is as smart as you? Once again he had turned the crowd against the broker. Heads turned to look at the Wall Street smart-ass who was now shrinking in his seat so quickly his feet were dangling like a two-year olds from a high-chair at a Denny’s. 

                      - Dallas, Texas- The Cowboy’s Cheerleader

                    The Dallas office was our first branch. It was run by three brothers, George, Bob, and David Thompson. Dallas was probably one of my favorite branches to visit. The Thompson brothers had fast cars and beautiful women around them constantly. They were ambitious, hard working and hard partying guys who knew how to live and they always treated me well when I was in town.

                       One of the brothers was dating a Dallas Cowboy’s Cheerleader and thought it would be impressive to have her pick Harvey and I up from the airport during one trip. She was a blonde haired, blue-eyed, anorexic Barbie Doll with the IQ of an after dinner mint. I listened painfully as Harvey tried to explain Day Trading to her in the car as she tried to find the airport exit. We circled the airport six times before she finally found one of four exits. During the six round trips to nowhere she had blurted out at least ten stupid items of information that only another Dallas Cowboy’s Cheerleader could decipher.

                   Harvey was asking her some very personal questions about herself including some very explicit sexual questions which she answered openly and without hesitation. I was in the back seat listening to her giggle like a half-witted imbecile as Harvey pursued a line of questioning like a razor tongued lawyer before a jury of porn actresses. With Harvey there were no limits and I was supposed to be the moral guardian on these trips. By the time we had arrived at the office we had learned that one of the Thompson brothers had urinated on her in the shower. Harvey was completely pleased with himself that he had coerced her into giving up so much personal information during a half-hour drive. I was glad that the ride wasn’t longer.

            - Boca Raton, Florida – Meet Harvey…Then Run

            Harvey and I were in Boca Raton for All-Tech’s first seminar to kick of a new branch office opening in town. I had made an appointment to meet with a local advertising agency to place some spots on TV and radio. Becca Tebon was a one-woman agency with a lot of experience in the Boca Raton market place. She came highly recommended and was both confident and competent. Within just a few minutes of meeting Harvey she was ready to walk out the door. Becca was attractive and athletic but was all business and was not going to tolerate any of Harvey’s sexual remarks. I spoke with her in the parking lot as she exited the building and explained to her that Harvey was very much a family man and that his bark was much worse than his bite. I assured her that she would be dealing with me on a day to day basis and not Harvey. Although we had a rough beginning, Becca and I would become friends for the years I was with All-Tech and we would work together on many projects. I could always call her and vent or ask her for damage control advice when Harvey committed an atrocity.

     -Montvale, New Jersey – Harvey and the Bloody Severed Cow’s Eears

                 While many of the more amazing and amusing antics were during road trips, it was All-Tech’s office in Montvale, New Jersey that served as Harvey’s ”mission control” of madness. Harvey loved a bargain and would often cut out coupons while day trading. One of his “passions of the moment” at the time was to raise and breed German Shepherds on his estate in Rockland County, New York. Upon returning from the pet shop one day Harvey was ranting on how expensive pig’s ears were. His dogs loved them but he hated spending the money on something he felt you could make yourself so easily. If you could trade stocks yourself making pig’s ears should be a snap. Coincidentally one of Harvey’s cult members was a young lady named Stacey whose family owned a very successful meat processing business. Their deli meats could be seen in virtually every food store in the tri-state area. If anyone could get Harvey pigs ears it was Stacey.

                  It was a Friday afternoon and Harvey had stepped out of the office for a while. The day trading school students were milling around the office during a break. Their classroom was the first room you passed as you entered the main reception area on the second floor where Harvey’s office was located. From my office down the hall I heard a woman gasp loudly and then shreik, “Oh my God, what is that?” I ran out of my office to see Harvey holding a large clear plastic bag full of bloody severed cows ears with the fur still on them. This was his answer to the high cost of pigs ears. He was going into the severed cow’s ears business. He felt that cow’s ears could compete with pig’s ears and he was going to corner the bloody market.

                   Since this was the same office that Forbes Magazine had just done a story about I thought it would have been more appropriate for Harvey to use a black plastic bag. But that just wasn’t Harvey. The irony was that we all knew that within a few days the Polish caretaker at his house would be bitching about having to discard the horribly smelling bag of rotting cow’s ears Harvey had left out in the sun completely forgetting about his new business venture.

The Convenience Store

                         The word convenience means conducive to comfort or ease. When prefixing the word store it denotes that your individual experience and subsequent purchase in a convenience store will be a quick no-frills transaction. So why does it bother me so much that the middle eastern gentleman behind the counter taking my hard earned money is talking on his cell phone in a foreign language while conducting my transaction? He isn’t even looking at me. Just taking in money and handing out change. “This would be a good time to ask for directions,” I thought. “Excuse me, I interrupted, can you tell me how to get to route 80?” “I don’t know,”he snapped at me and without missing a beat he was back to his conversation. Route 80 was located directly across the street from his store. I could hit the sign with one of his petrified buttered rolls from the parking lot…and I throw like a girl. “Thanks for nothing,” I replied sarcastically, “I’ll see if I can find my way across the street”. If it was the old country and I was on a mule pulling a cart he would have been nicer.

                               As I walked to my car I began to wonder what it must be like to be in his shoes. Not literally of course. Brown slip-on dress shoes should never be worn with sweat pants and a suit jacket. Dealing with people for twenty seconds at time day after day must be frustrating. Almost as frustrating as being lost and not being able to get directions. Okay, so what is it like to be him? The following essay might just give us all some insight. Please read this out loud while using a middle eastern accent and if possible use Coolio’s Gansta’s Paradise as background music. Really, it’s so much better with the accent and the music. 

when you walk into my store- I will say to your face -if you’re not here to buy -then please leave this place  

I don’t give directions-and the bathroom’s out of order - I can’t break a dollar – because I don’t have any quarters                                                    

please put down the magazine - it’s for sale not for free - this is a convenience store - not a public library                                                                           

we have 20 kinds of snapple -  and expensive bottled water - I’ll even sell cigraettes – to your 12 year old daughter                                                                                                                     

Chorus (repeat twice) People come and pay top price, to shop in convenience store paradise 

this week’s Slurpee flavor is - kiwi papaya lemon lime - you better get one quick - they’re only for a limited time                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     if you try to rob my store – it would be a big mistake – I don’t have any money – so there’s nothing for you to take

I have a .44 magnum - and a shotgun too – 6 surveillance cameras -  and a rottweiler named Babu                                                                                                                          

Chorus (repeat twice) People come and pay top price, to shop in convenience store paradise 

I’m open 24 hours a day - in case you need a snack - I lost my liquor license – but soon I’ll get it back   

I made a little mistake - when I took a fake ID - that kid with the SpongeBob tee shirt - looked old enough to me  

from scratch-off lottery freaks - to condom buying geeks - all walk through my door - to shop inside my store

I know all about you - because I see what you buy – from the councilman who likes Hustler  -  to the Mayor’s son who gets high                                    

Chorus (Repeat twice) People come and pay top price, to shop in convenience store paradise                                                                                   

 So thanks for coming in - and paying top price - it’s worth every penny – to shop in convenience store paradise

                                                                                                                                                                                                           

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

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The Art of Conversation

                       I like to talk. Whether I’m teaching a class, giving a lecture, or just exchanging ideas with others, I truly enjoy the art of conversation. I can easily navigate from an intelligent conversation with someone on an important issue that affects society to a conversation on which cereal stays crunchier in milk. While growing up my father’s nickname for me was “mouth incorporated” which I hated because it was always used when I was arguing over something that I was strongly committed to and wouldn’t back down from. I had the same problem with a few second grade teachers who for some inconceivable reason thought they were smarter than I was. In fourth grade the teacher asked me if I was trying to be a smart ass. I responded, “Would you rather I try to be a dumb ass”? This was to be my first but not last trip down the Green Mile to the Principal’s Office. I recall the halls being ominous and eerie in their emptyness as every step echoed closer to the large wooden door that symbolized both judgement and punishment. I remember telling the Principal that getting in trouble for speaking my mind is something that will bring us together for many visits in the future. While he unquestionably appreciated my intelligence and ambition to communicate my feelings he illustrated to me that when and where you choose to speak your mind is just as important as what you say when you do. It is a lesson that has taken me a lifetime to learn.

                      Having a private conversation at a respectable voice level whether one on one or in a group of like-minded individuals can be both stimulating and thought provoking. Being forced to listen to Check-Out Girl Number 3’s conversation with Check-Out Girl Number 4 while on line at the supermarket because they are speaking so loudly that a North Korean spy satellite is picking it up is another story. Why does it seem like everyone is speaking in deafening cell phone voices these days? Has our ability to modulate our own voices become obsolete? Having a conversation with sombody in a crowded public place should not require a police bull-horn. You’re speaking to someone right next to you, not trying to talk someone down off a roof. Use your small voice. You know, the one you use when telling an ethnic joke or dirty story after spinning your head around like Linda Blair in the Exorcist to see if anyone can hear you. The last thing you want to do is tell a Samoan hockey joke and turn around to see a tanned volcano of a man in a Hawaiian shirt carrying a hockey stick eclipsing the sun as he approaches you with a pissed look on his pillow-sized face. I’ve known some Samoans up close and personal while staying with a shipmates family in San Francisco while in the Navy. They are a friendly-to-a-fault kind of people which conflicts with their inherently huge frames. I found Samoans to be big people with a warm teddy-bear demeanor. Make fun of their heritage though and, “Watch out Mommy! The Rhino is charging the car!”

                           I suppose everyone has something that sets them off and compels they to finally take action. Some may choose to climb a tower and open fire into a crowd of people while others sit at computers and write blogs. I wonder if most of the people who respond to the obvious fatuity of the life by writing blogs are simply out of bullets. What prompted me to write this blog was my forced eavesdropping on a conversation that took place yesterday. I was on line at the supermarket and a store employee was in front of me purchasing a few items. She was an older woman probably in her late fifties with short graying hair tainted yellow in the front by years of cigarette smoke and dented bottles of cheap shampoo stolen from the store. She was still proudly wearing her store vest adorned with pins and buttons with witty sayings as if it was a billboard into her psyche. The woman behind the register was ranting to her about a supervisor who had “Gotten in my face”. They went back and forth like two spotted hyena’s tugging on a piece of zebra meat left behind by lions. Naturally the woman on the register was now moving at a dyslexic snails pace demonstrating her inability to slide a can of Tuna fish over the glass scanner and talk at the same time. I reminded myself that she is a professional with nearly a half-hour of intensive training. ”The next time she talks to me like that I’m gonna knock out her tooth,” she continued angrily. “Doesn’t she mean teeth,” I thought? I now live in rural Pennsylvania so she could have meant tooth. After listening to this tirade for almost ten minutes It was finally my turn to have my 4 items scanned by undoubtedly the next “Employee of the Month”.  

                       While I can certainly understand a person’s need to vent or communicate their feelings in the heat of a controversy; time, place, and particularly innocent bystanders must not be forgotten. When words fly like bullets it is usually about someone who isn’t even there. Those unfortunate enough to be within listening distance of the conversation are often wounded by words meant for those unaccounted for on the battlefield. If you have something to say to somone, than say it to them and not about them. If you are going to rant, complain, commiserate, or engage in any conversation while in the presence of others please try to keep it as quiet as possible and ask yourself if their is a more appropriate time and setting for this conversation.

Here are just a few tips on having an unintrusive conversation.

• Use your dirty joke low voice or speak closely into the other persons ear if possible…providing you’re not a spit talker. Nobody likes that.
• Don’t speak poorly about your job in front of the customers. We like to think that everyone loves their job while we are present. I like to imagine that the guy wearing the Mickey Mouse costume in Disneyland  loves his job and gets a thrill out of seeing the wonderment in a small child’s eyes… hearing that he is sweating his ass off, hates kids, and is involved in a bitter dispute with his supervisor about over-time pay just kills the experience for me.  
• Sometimes it is better to listen than to talk. This has proven difficult for me in the past but I’m getting better. When someone engages you in a conversation that you have no interest in at all it can be uncomfortable. Drifting away and occasionally nodding in agreement may work well until you’re asked to comment on what was said. Getting busted for not listening can be embarrassing. I advise that you strongly contrast with whatever it is they are saying, agree to disagree and walk away from the conversation. Using this tactic can have serious repercussions. Talking about hunting Panda bears for fun during a conversation with an environmentalist will probably not win you any new friends.
• The following places and times are acceptable for starting a conversation with *willing participants: Dinner table, office, picnic or outing, in bed, car, in the house, while walking, during commercials and on a boat. * Willing participants include anyone who has engaged you in conversation or has clearly demonstrated that they actually want to talk to you. If you are unsure you are probably just annoying them and should stop it immediately.
• The following places and times are unacceptable to begin a conversation: To the person in line next to you in the supermarket. Just because I am trapped between you and the lady in front of me doesn’t mean I want to hear about how you haven’t taken your medication today because it gives you gas. Two seventeen year-old girls should never begin any conversation within earshot of any other human being above the age of thirty. That’s what text messaging while driving very fast in your father’s car is for. Other places include church or temple…or mosque. In movie theatres or while watching a flat screen plasma TV in your living room, during the Simpsons, whether it be a new episode or repeat, while bench pressing heavy weights, during the UFC… unless Tim Sylvia is fighting, then it’s okay, at funerals, on a buffet line or on a ticket line at a Jimmy Buffet concert, and finally to the person sitting next to you on an airplane. Unless you have a bomb attached to your waist I don’t have anything to say to you.

Conversation is an art form that should be painted on a proper canvas at a proper time. Conversation thoughtlessly and loudly thrown about is like graffiti…it only has meaning to the one who painted it while the rest of us are forced to tolerate it

NOTE: My new website will be called mouthincorporated.com when it is launched in September. I tried to launch it last month but I promptly found out that breaking a bottle of Champagne on the PC to launch the new site was a poorly thought out plan.

The Death of Harvey Houtkin: On the Road With The Bandit – Part 1

                    Harvey Houtkin first walked into my martial arts school a short time after the stock market crashed in October of 1987. Like most brokerage firm owners he was devastated by the crash. A once full and thriving brokerage firm in Northern New Jersey was now a cavernous enclave with a few slobs sitting in a poorly lit corner trading stocks via the Internet and sticking it to the brokers. He was just beginning his exploration into direct access trading which would quickly become the “Day Trading” frenzy of the  ninetys that flooded the stock market with migrants from every walk of life looking to make some big cash by being their own broker. My story isn’t about Harvey’s numerous and well publicized fights with  the large brokerage firms that controlled Wall Street, the NASD, and the Securities Exchange Commission. Those are as I said, well publicized. He was referred to as “The Bandit” by Wall Street greed mongers who were now growing fearful of him and his cult of geeks all clamoring for direct access. Players on the street began to catch glimpses of their diminishing roles in the markets through the clouds of their own cigar smoke and they were pissed. This was their game, their rules and the thought of trading stocks against pimple-assed college dropouts and former roach-coach truck owners was too much to bear…or is it bull?

                   It was after class on a weekday evening when Harvey Houtkin and his wife Sherry waked down the stairs from the Italian Restaurant that was on the first floor of the mini mall. I was sitting at my desk when I heard them come in. I walked out and introduced myself. Harvey was inquiring about classes for two of his sons. I gave him my usual speech because so far he seemed like a usual guy. Then we got to the money part of my presentation. With surgeon-like precision he had quickly figured out how much it came to per class per child and then the fun began. “If you are teaching a room full of kids what does one more matter,” he asked with the question mark innocence of a five year old asking for ice cream for breakfast?” ”If I pay for one kid, the other should be free because you can pair them off together and not be affected,” he continued. I looked at the jewelry on his wife’s hand, neck, wrists, and ears. I wondered how she could even walk with over twenty pounds of gold and the best diamonds force-mined by children in Africa. I explained about my overhead, salaries, and other factors that needed to be considered when structuring my fees. We went back and forth for about an hour. He never lost his smile or became impatient. It was then that I realized that to this rich pain-in-the-ass, this was sport. He was truly enjoying this battle.

                    His wife had already walked out and was pacing in the reception area like a rock star’s wife who had seen the show thousands of times and couldn’t stand it anymore. It was getting late and neither of us was going to budge. I had my pride and he wanted to see if he could break me. It wasn’t about the money, I don’t think it ever was. To him we were sparring. This was his after meal workout and to be honest he was sweating like a used car salesman during an air conditioning outage. I gave in a little and he was beaming with victory. He didn’t know that usually the uniforms are included. I charged him double for them.

                      Harvey’s sons trained with me for years and I saw him often at school events and tournaments. His youngest son Michael showed a lot of talent and guts in training and competition. He was fierce and fearless which was unusual considering he was a rich kid. Harvey’s middle son Brad was more like Harvey. He was a funny foul-mouthed kid who would rather spend his private lesson time negotiating the amount of push ups he was doing for saying something stupid or shooting pool with me and talking about his sexual conquests which I always imagined was with himself.

                     Discusted with the way the martial arts industry was selling out and cashing in on the whole peaceful conflict resolution movement, I walked away from it to try something else. I called on Harvey’s brother in law mark Shefts and asked to see him. He was also a friend and over the years he and his wife Wanda had come to many school events. I had been their personal trainer as well as Harveys on and off for a few years so Mark knew my personality pretty well. Mark had nothing for me work wise. I had no Wall Street experience and really wasn’t qualified to work in something as complicated as the day trading industry. As I was walking out the sales manager recognized me from my tournament fighting days. He asked me if I was being hired for the new sales position that had just opened up. I told him that Mark had just hired me. He said he’d see me on Monday. When I went back on Monday morning Mark saw me and asked what was going on? As I began to explain the market opened and everyone ran for computer terminals like rabid rats to dumpsters. The conversation never came up again and I was in way over my head. I was terrible at math and knew nothing about the stock market. How was I going to sell something that I don’t understand?

                     The sales office was a small room with 5 salespeople trying to sell a $5,000 training program and a minimum investment of $50,000 to open a day trading account with the firm. Prior to this the largest program I ever sold was about $450.00 for a year of martial arts classes…and that was broken down into monthly payments. I was sure that I would be found out soon but I was going to try anyway. I listened to the others as they gave their varied sales pitches to people who had called in from all over the country. Harvey’s message of fairness in the markets and commercials depicting a life of sail boats and racing cars was too much to ignore for many people. The diamond-studded gates to lifestyles of the rich and insensitive were open and they were being flooded like a UN refugee camp by people looking for a better life. I figured out quickly that it was the lifestyle that we were selling not a career.

                     I moved up quickly. It was just a month after being semi hired and I was made sales manager. It didn’t hurt that the former manager was escorted out by local police for taking a dip into the deep end of the reality pool. As the business expanded over the next 4 years my leadership skills were tapped often and at one time or another I held the position of Vice-President of Training, Sales, Marketing and Advertising, and Branch Development. It was during my tenure as the Branch Development V.P. that Harvey and I traveled often throughout the country giving seminars and visiting new branch offices. A large part of my job was to watch Harvey and make sure he didn’t do or say anything offensive. The first trip was to Dallas and it proved to be the neon writing on the black-lite wall as to the madness that was still to come during future trips with The Bandit.  

                    I can’t remember exact dates, but cities, places, and exploits are truthful and accurate. The names have been changed to protect the insane cult of bottom feeders that followed Harvey around from state to state. They were his fan club. They were my nightmare.

- Montvale, NJ – \

                      All-Tech’s headquarters was based out of a modern office building in upscale Montvale, New Jersey. Harvey’s office was the corner office on the second floor of the two-story building. The office was a combination of junk that Harvey had bought at garage sales and a large wooden desk also purchased at a garage sale. Harvey usually sat behind the desk staring at his monitors, talking on the phone, and welcoming visitors in just to talk. His office door was rarely closed and anyone could walk in and engage him in a conversation. It was like the locals stopping in at Floyd’s Barbershop back in Mayberry for a game of checkers. Unlike Floyd’s ordinary and predictable customers, the parade of misfits that walked into Harvey’s office ranged from the criminally insane to the foolishly cerebral. It was like throwing gas on a fire virtually every day.  

- Seattle -

             The seminar was a diverse group of market conservatives and Microsoft millionaires all there to hear the fiery Harvey Houtkin speak on direct access and fairness in the markets. By now his fights with the SEC and NASD were becoming legend. He was called the “Robin Hood of Wall Street” in one publication but everybody knew him as the “SOES Bandit”. He had been on nearly every financial show on television and was always adamant and judicious. He never backed down and always made the other guy look as if he was an elitist and that the stock market was a country club exclusively for stock brokers. The more the people loved and believed in him the more they traded. Wall street hated him and viewed the growing number of non-professional traders as an expensive nuisance. Not only were day traders taking away their commissions, they were now competing with them.

 Russell in Seattle                 

                     Russel looked like a cross between Bobcat Goldthwait, Beetlejuice, and the Penguin. He was a day trader that wandered into Harvey’s office like a one-eyed stray cat a few years ago. Upon meeting Russell it was immediately evident that he was a deranged animal that in another time would probably have been shot and then beheaded. After one of his long-lingering hand shakes he always made you feel dirty and in need of a Tetanus shot. Harvey of course welcomed him with open arms into his legion of dumb. Mark Shefts, Harvey’s brother-in-law and partner often referred to Harveys’ group as his cult during staff meetings. 

                When I met Harvey in the hotel restaurant for breakfast the morning after the seminar Russell was already sitting at the table wearing a pair of gray sweat pants and a noticeablystained pink t-shirt with a strip club logo on it. His hair looked like he had slept on one side for three weeks and then tried to comb it out with a sharp rock. Harvey had woken up that morning to find Russell sleeping at the foot of his bed. He had no idea how he got in the room. Sitting at the table, oblivious to the fact that he had put his arm in a tub of maple syrup and it was running like a river wild down his arm and all over his semen-stained sweat pants Russell asked Harvey if he wanted to go to a strip club. It was 8:00AM. I interrupted and told Russell that we had to go to the Seattle office for the opening of the market. Russell began running the numbers out loud with Rainman accuracy and almost instantly figured out how much time we had before the opening bell and how many lap dances he could fit into that time. 

                        As we were walking out of the lobby the hotel security guard approached us and asked if we knew who Russell was. Harvey told the guard that we knew him. The guard gave all of us a dirty look that made me wonder what Russell had done the night before. We were waiting for a cab when Russell offered to drive us to the office. I said no right away but Harvey saw no problem with it. Russell said he’d be right back and disappeared into the parking lot to get his car. After 15 minutes I told Harvey we should just call a cab. We waited a few more minutes and I called. We would be lucky now if we made the opening bell. During the cab ride Harvey’s cell phone rang. It was Russell asking where we were. Harvey told him that he never came back to get us and asked where he was. “I’m at the strip club,” he answered. “I thought you guys were in the back seat. Where’d you go?” “You’re an idiot” Harvey responded and hung up the phone. Two weeks later Russell showed up back in Montvale and told us that someone had stolen his car from the strip club parking lot that night. He had been in the club from 9:00AM until after 2:00AM the next morning. He had his mother wire him money to get back home but was kicked off a Greyhound Bus somewhere in Kansas due to some presumed lewd behavior. That stuff may fly on the east coast but Kansas shoots people for that kind of craziness. More to come.