The Economic Discussion

Thinking about my professional employment is rather disheartening. The global economic meltdown, combined with the fact that our executive management possesses a preponderance of genes scavenged from Ebenezer Scrooge, makes the work environment less than fully enjoyable. Naturally my son, the economist, was supportive:

“They are reducing the salaries by 10%, Darius.” I explained. “It is a permanent salary cut and they’re doing simply because they can…”

“Of course, Dad. All companies should optimize labor costs.”

“By optimize, you mean reduce?”

“From an economic perspective, it is a fundamentally flawed strategy to pay more than replacement value for anything. Right now there is a huge labor surplus. Therefore..”

“Darius..”

“In these conditions, Dad, companies can reduce employment expenses. Thus, to stay competitive, they must reduce...”

“I don’t want my salary to be reduced.”

“Things will eventually turn around, Dad. The economy will reverse itself. Labor will be in short supply and then you will be able to demand a higher wage.”

“Somehow, Darius, I doubt that my ‘demand’ will be answered.”

“The economic model is clear..”

“The model doesn’t know that I’ll retire before the economy itself sesrever.”

The Winning Photo

As the family wandered hopelessly in a fruitless search for photographic excellence – there was the first annual MFPCT (Martin Family Photo Contest Trophy) to be won – I serenely worked on award-winning compositions. My experience with the digital camera made me the favourite. There were, of course, a few minor technical issues associated with the equipment used in the contest.

“You have to turn on the flash, Dad.”

“What?”

“It’s a disposable camera, Dad. And you missed the picture of Melika eating a candy bar,” Mitra snickered.

“I probably muffed the photo of Darius brushing his teeth,” I thought – Crestfallen.

Of course, I realized that it was possible to win the contest in two ways. You could take a standard approach – i.e. the winning photo – or you could be the winning photo. In former case, you would be credited with taking the picture, in the latter, you would be the picture. And idea came to mind:

Although the weather was generally cold and murky, I suggested a family stroll along Lake Zürich. We took, as usual, a long time getting ready to leave the house. Someone had to dress the dog and everyone had to decide on seasonably suitable outerwear. I chose:

“My Moroccan cape and my Яussian mink hat.”

“Your cape, Dan?” Nazy asked.

“Of course, my dear. It is red…”

“… brown…

“… and seasonal.”

“Do you believe that the kids will walk with you?”

“This,” I thought, “Will surely lead to the winning shot.” (It might have – if anyone had remembered to bring their cameras.)

On Christmas Day, Parental Martins slept late. Younger family members waited patiently – for a (very) short time. In the end, they established a candlelight vigil outside the door of the master bedroom.

Darius submitted his photo of the candlelight vigil to the contest organizers. A family vote selected this photo as the winner. Darius was the winner! (Contest rules mandate this excessive display.)

I tried to contest the results. “Block voting by the kids.” I said building my case.

“You lost, Dad. Just take your place down on the losers podium,” Melika said condescendingly.

Darius

Like the swallows returning to Capistrano , dispersed members of The Martin Family fly to Zürich in December. (Unlike the swallows, they come on different days at different times.) This year, Darius was the first to arrive. We expected a cheery Darius since his doctoral committee had endorsed his work: a complex paper full of integrals, summations and formulas. "Surely," I thought. "This paper could have prevented the entire financial crisis." In any event, he was on the way for a Ph.D. in June. Uncharacteristically, he was concerned about more mundane things:

“I don’t have enough job interviews, Dad”

“Why not?” I replied.

“I spent all my time making my paper perfect. The other candidates simply submitted applications before the deadline.”

“Before the deadline means ‘on-time’, right, Darius?” I replied.

“And now I have only one interview, for a job in Monterrey.”

“California?” I asked.

“Mexico.” Darius replied. “I’ve sent out more than 50 resumes.”

“I guarantee you’ll have five by New Years. Where are you applying?” Nazy asked.

“My top choice is Beruit.”

“Really?” I thought

“China, Egypt, Kazakhstan would also be exciting.”

“Really?” I thought. Over the holiday Darius’ mood improved as universities replied and granted interviews.

When we reached Casa Carmen, Nazy swept into the living room: “This Christmas Tree is 11 meters high, Darius,” she exclaimed.

“Which Christmas Tree?” Darius asked.

“The Martin Family Christmas Tree is 11 meters high.” Nazy repeated.

“If it was 11 meters high, Mom,” Darius responded. “It would be sticking out through the skylight.

“If it was that tall,” I thought. “They would have to change the landing pattern at the Zürich Airport.”

In fact the tree, while gargantuan and (undoubtedly) the very best on the entire planet, was not quite 11 meters high. Nevertheless, it dominated the room and offered a more than adequate number of hanging points for the vast collection of traditional ornaments and lights.

As he settled in, Darius played 3,219 games of chess, downloaded 313 ‘Best of You Tube” videos and parameterized a model of income distribution while checking email for interviews. He got an interview from:

“Lahore, Dad.”

“La Whore? That’s in France, right?” I replied.

“It’s in Pakistan, Dad. Each faculty member has a cook, a gardener and a driver.”

“How about a bodyguard, Dar? Would you have one or two of those?”

“Maybe Pakistan is a little dangerous.”

“A little dangerous?” I replied. “Do you have any opportunities in any normal place?”

“I’ve got an interview with a University in Christchurch, New Zealand.”

“You’ve been there, right? You stopped on the way to somewhere.”

“Christchurch is not on the way to anywhere, Dad.”

“Precisely! That’s why I was sure it had been on one of your itineraries.”

“Why can’t he do something in California or Zürich, Dan?” Nazy asked.

“Did you try Argentina,” Mitra inquired. “Buenos Aires is a wonderful place.”

“He is an economist, Mitra,” I explained. “There is no economy in Argentina.”

“Sounds perfect for someone who moved to Iceland, Dad.”

"Can you make them shut-up, Dad?" Darius asked.