Go Green

This Thursday I went out to for a dinner with a couple of friends from back at Columbia. I knew them as a nice couple so was looking forward to having a good time, probably reminiscing over the times at Columbia. And given that they were both philosophy and literature majors, I wouldn't have to talk about the current state of capital markets or economy and more so hear about their expert views on the subject.

Things, however, turned out to be not quite so rosy. Not so much because any of my above assumptions turned out to be not so sound. But because in the two years that had passed since I'd last seen them, they had turned Green, very very Green. It would have been alright if the greenness would have come from some sort of fervent Islamic fundamentalist following. That would have only meant that after the dinner, they would have gone back to their secret bunker in Queens and debated vehemently if they should take me hostage.  Ask for a half a million euros ransom (these days I am told even kidnappers are bearish on dollar, also the carry trade doesn't work very well, I must admit I am stuck in the wrong country). Or if they should blow up a few buildings in midtown Manhattan instead. The Greenness, however, was the sort one associates with the hardy bearded lot one sometimes runs into at screenings of independent films. And that was far more serious.

This meant they had succumbed in to the vegetarian plague that has been sweeping across the world these days. This epidemic is so widespread that these days they even have a special vegetarian menu at Daniel. Back in the good 'ol days if you asked for such a thing, the waitress would laugh so hard she'd burst. I wouldn't mind, but its a contagion thats spreading fast. And not surprisingly, because the members of this cult don't go about their business quietly, but work as little missionaries trying to convert as many people as they can. Which made for some rather amusing dinner conversation the other day.

So it started off, with the waitress handing us the menus. And immediately the two gleefully declared themselves to be vegetarian. I of course stood my ground and ordered the fois gras for the first course and followed it with the sea bass for the main course. The fois gras was a mistake, a big mistake. Not because it didn't taste good, I knew the place dished out some of the best fois gras west of Ile d'Oessant, but because it provoked the initiation of hostilities against me.  I was asked to explain my actions, the ducks were apparently up in the arms against the fois gras eaters and the lady had taken up their case. "force feeding" she said "is cruel. How would you feel Sud if a tube were stuck down your neck and stuff stuffed in there?". I would have to admit I wouldn't feel very good, but I am not a duck, unfortunately. And if my entire purpose in life were to end up as someone else's dinner, it would be like graduation really wouldn't it. Of course I forgot that the trial was only a sham, the jury was out, and I'd been found guilty on every count.

Then the duo turned to the most favorite of the green topics - global warming. Frankly, I couldn't understand, what beef this lot has with we having much nicer weather. Last year thanks to a few dedicated souls like Jeremy Clarkson and the chap at Ryanair, I almost felt like I was living in Cote De Azur.  But the green army, probably because of the self imposed vegetarianism, has become a sullen lot that fails to enjoy and let the rest of us enjoy. They seemed to be all worried about some penguins that were dying because the ice cap was melting. Which I find rather surprising, because I have learnt back in school (for whatever worth the Indian education system may be), that Penguins can swim.

Finally they told me they strongly believed that the world was in terrible shape and something had to be done. Finally something we agreed on. The only problem was I thought it had more to do with sub-prime debt than with sub-zero temperatures, or lack of them. I was of course clever enough not to mention that to them, and we ended evening on a positive note.

Of Ferraris and forty year old Frogs

Last Thursday (or synthetic Friday as its known on wall street thanks to the "Good Friday" after it), a friend of mine took me to the preopen cocktail at the the New York Auto show. And it was a rather wierd event in some sense. I mean it was a car show and had all the nice cars - the newest beamer, the Porshe GT4 and an entire range of Astons, with their red leather seats (what are we Italians?!). But what really surprised me was the social scene there.

To start with they had a sixty year old at the turn table (Now, it might not be politically correct to complain about that, but who cares about political correctness anyway?), and the music he played would have reminded my grandparents of their childhood days. And then there was the bar, and of course it didn't serve any beer. So, what was going on here?

To understand, one only needed to look around. The only people who could actually buy the half million dollar Ferraris were the grey haired fifth avenue advertisers - the sort that attend the wife swapping parties on Thursdays. That's of course if you don't count the odd sheikh who had made his wad selling oil to the Chinese. The rest of us could only look at what we couldn't own - and the car companies knew that. Unfortunately for me and many other young men there, so did the young ladies. 

Even so, I did manage to chat up a nice little russian girl. She even let me buy her a drink. I was beginning to get quite pleased with myself, when Duncan came along, and everything went wrong. The girl now completely ignored me seemingly to talk with a old fat bald man, with a beard. I was about to shout over the top of my voice - "he has a wife across the river; a mistress in Marselles; and two kids". But, I soon realized the young lady probably didn't care about all of that. Except, maybe for the little competition in France.

So dejected, I took another fill and looked around. And what I noticed this time was a third species. The botoxed beauties with their reupholstered breasts, trying to eye their next prey. I think the american vernacular for this sort is the cougar, and now I know why. Frankly there was no point being there anymore. So I made my way out, and went to bed, alone.