Today is Thursday. Fortunately, my dear falcon seems to be Fine again and I am able to receive my usual package of messages from associates down in the valley below. As most of you know, Tuesdays and Thursdays are my days for outside-world communications, unless I use somebody’s laptop up here on Banker Hill, where the smart, prudent, honest, sensible and conservative investment bankers live.
I have a number of topics to cover today, many of which I just do not understand. Suffice it to say, things are weirdin these parts. It is now fifty-nine days of stony, dark, silent drought that has engulfed the Eden valley below. The Prairie has been transformed into a cruel wasteland of crusty, ravaged, tortured soil whose silence speaks of curious transformations which will soon belong to the future. It has become eerily quiet, with only limited activity along the river bank. The only consistent elements to this quiet stillness are the smooth, laminar flow of the river, itself, and the contemplative presence of the Tom cat.
I note that there are two Hubbies who have addressed me this week. First, I shall answer Baseball Fan and his post #1958. “Is all of this the precursor to the Second Coming?” ANSWER: I don’t know. I do believe some revelation is at hand, but I cannot understand what it is. My falcon is well and flying high, but he is acting very mysteriously after this week’s seizure and fall from dizzying heights. He has changed his behavior in certain ways. He sometimes flies where he can no longer hear me, the falconer. This is something new that never occurred before. Quietly, in a certain zone that is located well above the clouds, he rides the air currents in what looks like a peaceful contemplation of what he sees below. It is as if this zone has become his special place, his own private pool of calm from which he can look for meaning and ideas in a sea of change. What does this portend? I wish I knew.
“…it would help me if you would get to the point a little sooner.” There is no point. There is only the process, the flow of events which are out of our control. There is only the falcon, soaring above in his special zone of honesty and clarity, who will tell us what we need to know when that truth emerges. Remember what I said above, my dear Baseball Fan: Things are weirdin the valley below. I see strange shadows. I see this strange creature that has emerged from the freezing cold waters of the river. I see a shape with the head of a man, the tusks of a walrus and the body of a tiger. I see a small but noble ship, with the letters “RMS CryoPort” engraved upon its bow. And again, there is the Tom cat: That patient, quiet, interminable hunter who emerges from the weeds, on occasion, only to return again to his own private zone with a stare as blank as the sun.
Next I shall answer my dear Mr. CryoPort who always has something intelligent to say. Post #1965: “BMAN, I'm starting my ascent to the hills…” Answer: If you are serious about this, then you must do what I did a few months ago: Sell your stock, fade out of the picture, come up to Banker Hill and change your irresponsible ways. Decide that you want to learn from the honest, prudent, trustworthy investment bankers who live here. Come with an open mind. Decide to Fargo any thoughts of junkets to places like Las Vegas or to superficial spas and other such luxury establishments. It will be a Wynn-Wynn situation for you.
If you decide to come here, I will warn you in advance that these people are somewhat strange. To me, their sense of humor is odd and their recreational activities take some getting used to. Let me give you an example. A Wells Fargo bank executive told me a joke yesterday: Two guys are getting acquainted. One asks the other, “Where are you from?” “I’m from Alobama,” the second guy says. “Where’s that?” asks the first guy. “Everywhere. Right now it’s everywhere.” answers the second guy. “Ask me in 6 months where it is and I might tell you it’s between somewhere or in the middle of nowhere.” That was the joke. Do you see what I mean?
As for recreational activities, they sit around at night by a quiet campfire or go to each others’ houses and visit. Lately, ice cream from India, of all places, has become the big attraction. They tell me it is shipped from India in large aluminum containers that are filled with liquid Nitrogen. The Nitrogen keeps the product at a perfect temperature for well over a week. This allows them to buy these exotic flavors of ice cream that we cannot buy here in the U.S.A. (Another example of a joke one of the guys told last night: Question: “Do you know long this ice cream will last in the patented aluminum shipping container, filled with liquid Nitrogen? Answer: Yup. It will last until the Cubs win the World Series.” Again, see what I mean?)
They each bring in a different flavor and they have these elaborate taste comparisons. Flavors include Sagemen (sort of herby), Ben and Berry’s, Bengal Berry (don’t ask me), Amla (Indian Gooseberry), Chironji, (a type of nut used in making desserts, which fits some of the guys in the group, in my opinion), and a vast selection of other flavors that, for some reason, come from the Berry family of fruits. For whatever reason, they love their Indian ice cream, chocked full of fruits and nuts. Go figure. And this fascination with berries does not end with ice cream, by the way. I am told that, in the springtime, they go out as a group and pick on Berry bushes that grow in the surrounding hills. Anything with a Berry attached gets picked on. It’s their way of passing the time and enjoying the outdoors. Don’t ask me.
I could tell you more, help you find a place up here and introduce you to the group of honest, prudent, responsible, trustworthy and Wells-meaning bankers who live up here. Let me know when you are finished fading out of your stock and we will talk.
AI
