Early in my Wall Street career, I was rejected for a trading job at a premier money management firm because I was apparently Jewish.

The firm’s managing partner, Carl, was a reasonably smart and affable salesman. We met many times for interviews, got along very well, and I was clearly the best candidate for the job (the person ultimately hired was not particularly talented and didn’t last long).

However, Carl’s discomfort with Jews kept him from hiring me.

His prejudice was rooted in family lore (someone generations back had been financially screwed by a Jew) and evident in his social circles: exclusive country clubs without Jews, a co-op with no Jewish residents, and no one on staff at his firm had a Jewish background.

His prejudice was further underscored by his previously being the sole board member of a Wall Street brokerage firm to oppose its merger with a Jewish-owned commodity trading firm. The merger went through, resulting in the commodity firm becoming the largest stockholder of the brokerage firm; meaning, Carl would henceforth be working for Jews.

Being denied a plum job on the grounds of my religious heritage might have angered others likewise situated; but, I found it funny.

I viewed Carl as struggling with a mental handicap that limited his ability to make choices in his best self-interest. His handicap was “labeling,” or categorizing, a generic form of distinguishing between people that shadows who they are as individuals.

Labeling, like broad generalizations, is a way to try to make sense of complexity, but it ultimately prevents us from truly understanding what we label.

It’s funny, when someone knows little; yet firmly believes otherwise.

In this specific situation, Carl’s ignorance was my bliss.

Ultimately, the entertainment value of the story of this experience is greater than the rewards that might have been had I gotten the job.

When I recounted this experience to others, a few asked if I had confronted Carl to express my assumed anger. I never said anything to him. How could I speak when I was laughing?

Ironically, those upset by discrimination are also funny, for they are also engaging in categorization.

In January, 1990 I went to trial in U.S. Federal Court for “insider trading.”

Prior to trial, I went to Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the spiritual leader of the Chabad-Lubavitch Hasidic Judaism dynasty, to ask for a blessing. The “Rebbe” as he was commonly referred to was renowned for his wisdom, compassion and connection the the Almighty. As there is a good deal of randomness determining the outcome of a trial, I had hoped the Rebbe would put in a good word for me and bring me some luck.

Some days after my visit, the Rebbe sent me a message: “Hopefully, the Messiah will arrive before the trial ends.”

I took this message to mean I would lose the trial which three months later I did.

However, as I considered my good fortune in terms of healthy, family and future opportunities, I gracefully accepted the loss and the resultant financial penalties and time in prison.

Now, 34 years hence, the Rebbe’s message still resonates with me.

Life is a trial.

Everyone is executed at trial’s end.

Yet, there is hope for reprieve before execution.

The Messiah will bring reprieve.

In the “Messianic Era” there will be peace, harmony, abundance and prosperity. God will be universally recognized and communicated with and evil will cease to exist. Moreover, the dead will be resurrected; that is, we will realize no one dies. Essentially, all will be enlightened.

Looking around the world today, it seems a far cry from the Messianic Era.

Yet, Messiah is here for those who open their eyes, for they will be enlightened.

Enlightened, they realize that however difficult their circumstances, they are lucky their circumstances are not worse. They realize that when circumstances are difficult, things will likely get better.

The Rebbe’s message did bring me luck. The luck to realize the Messiah is here. “Hap” means luck. Hap is the root of happiness.

In January, 2022, during the waning days of the quarantine pandemic (yes, a pandemic of quarantines), I travelled to Japan where strict quarantine protocols were still in effect; upon entering Japan I would be sequestered for three days in a government managed hotel. While I could have delayed the trip until the quarantine was lifted, it seemed fun to experience a quarantine.

Given a choice between three days of quarantine and three days of leisure, clearly I’d choose leisure. However, the quarantine didn’t seem it would be much of a problem and as 90% of any experience is experiencing oneself, the quarantine like most things would be fun for me. Moreover, the stories my memory could weave out of the quarantine experience would make it fun regardless of what it was at the time.

After a 14 hour flight from New York City to Tokyo, I was among a thousand or so people held at Tokyo airport for processing. We were held captive for 15 hours by dozens of police officers and people running around in hazmat suits. Everyone was in operating room mode, all masked up. It felt otherworldly, even in Japan which is already otherworldly. Food rations were limited to the inedible that no dietician would ever recommend; hot dogs, bread, sugary fruit juices. As we were closely packed together, people slept on chairs and floor, a veritable petri dish where a single Covid infected individual could easily spread the virus. At some point, people’s street clothes looked like pajamas needing a wash; people became restive. Finally, after extensive testing of secretions from nose to spit and waiting on innumerable lines with paperwork in hand, we were taken to a government hotel and placed in solitary confinement. My room was luxurious from the perspective of anyone living before 1850 or currently in a refugee camp, but otherwise basic. Fortunately, there was a big clock in the room, allowing me to identify breakfast, lunch and dinner as each meal was essentially the same thing, whatever the thing was. I did have the freedom to smoke cigars in the room; though the hotel stopped offering coffee three years back and what’s a cigar without a coffee! Entertainment was via cell phone and emails; fun connecting with others who pitied my plight which truly wasn’t bad. Ultimately, I’d recommend a quarantine as a good remedy for jetlag.

After the quarantine, I returned to the everyday world and typical high points of a trip to Japan; restaurants, onsens, meetings with colorful people, viewing gardens and landscapes and visiting shrines. Today, I hold little memory of those moments, but the odd and peaceful time in quarantine is with me forever. If we can’t enjoy a quarantine in a civilized country, how can we enjoy most things.

“Some squirrels in south Georgia, they’ll taste a little bit more nutty. Up here [Baltimore], our acorns and stuff aren’t really as strong as the ones down south. Most of them up here, it just tastes like squirrel. If you put enough seasoning on it, you can make it taste like anything you want it to taste like.” — Ben Cleveland

Cleveland is a football player for the Baltimore Ravens. He comes from Georgia where he ate squirrel meat when there wasn’t much else to eat.

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The British-American author and journalist Christopher Eric Hitchens (1949–2011)…once recounted a story about Chou En-lai, who served as the first Premier of the People’s Republic of China from 1954 until his death in 1976. According to Hitchens, Chou had been invited to speculate on how the course of history would have been altered if, say, Nikita Khrushchev had been assassinated instead of John F. Kennedy. Chou’s austere version of Marxism made him dubious about the importance of things like sheer accident and mere individuals. But in this instance, he was prepared to allow that things might have been different. How different? “Well,” said Chou with complete gravity, “I hardly think that Aristotle Onassis would have married Mrs. Khrushchev.”

Educational institutions identify smart guys who society ushers into jobs that make laws and rules. The smart guys painstakingly work at rule-making, take themselves very seriously and get quite upset when people break or find ways around their rules.

Wise guys figure ways around laws and rules and invariably laugh, for relatively less effort they are better remunerated than smart guys.

When wise guys figure ways around rules, smart guys eventually take notice and write more rules to thwart the wise guys. Of course, the wise guys figure ways around the new rules. This minor cycle continues until at some point the rules cause the wise guys to work relatively longer and for less renumeration than the smart guys.

Then, the wise guys move on to other venues for better opportunities. Soon after, price goes up and quality goes down for the goods or services subject to the rule-making.

Ultimately, it’s clear that the smart guys weren’t so smart. They’re fired from the organization at which they worked and their rules are abolished. A new system emerges with limited rules, causing prices to go down and quality to rise. However, soon after, smart guys are hired again to make rules. A new grand cycle then begins.

There is a Buddha parable that goes like this:

One day Buddha was walking through a village. A very angry and rude young man came up and began insulting him. “You have no right teaching others,” he shouted. “You are as stupid as everyone else. You are nothing but a fake.”

Buddha was not upset by these insults. Instead he asked the young man “Tell me, if you buy a gift for someone, and that person does not take it, to whom does the gift belong?”

The man was surprised to be asked such a strange question and answered, “It would belong to me, because I bought the gift.”

The Buddha smiled and said, “That is correct. And it is exactly the same with your anger. If you become angry with me and I do not get insulted, then the anger is yours to deal with.”

At that moment, the angry young man awoke and became a lifelong disciple of Buddha.

This story is reminiscent of my relationship with my father. From the time I was 13 until I went to college, my father was often angry with me; frustrated that I questioned his authority and mocked his core social and political beliefs. He screamed at me and on occasion hit me (not to hurt me but to vent his frustration). One time he said: “I wish you were never born.” To which I replied: “That’s your problem.”

Was my reply reflective of a Buddha nature or a psychopathic mental disorder? My father would likely say the latter (he at times called me a “sadist”) as my reply didn’t bring him to see the light; it just made him more angry.

After my father’s untimely transition from life at 60 years old, I was once overwhelmed by sadness and tears; reflecting on not having awakened father to experience life as it is and not solely as he was.

Lying to a government official is a criminal matter. Yet, when governments lie to the public, that is not a crime; though it often leads to disastrous results like wars, wide scale prosecutions and poor health outcomes (drug laws) and political repression.

If lies promulgated by governments were a crime, governments would dramatically shrink in size as many government workers and politicians would be imprisoned; especially the most dangerous ones, those who are truly sincere, the ones lying to themselves.

In the early 1980s, I worked at Oppenheimer & Co, a medium-size stock brokerage firm in New York City.

At year-end, employees were evaluated and given bonuses. However, for some, the news was otherwise; they were fired.

John, with whom I was friends, was fired.

This came quite unexpectedly to John who had envisioned a lifelong career at the firm.

John, distraught, took to tears.

John’s empathetic friends were quick to console him. I didn’t.

I saw him as selfish, focusing on a small disappointment instead of being grateful for his good fortune relative to 99% of others living on this planet.

I eventually came by and congratulated John at now having all sorts of opportunities he hadn’t considered before his firing. As well, I thought we could figure a way John might wrangle some termination payments from Oppenheimer.

But John would have none of this talk of making the best out of current circumstances. He wanted to continue wallowing in self-pity. He wanted empathy, not compassion.

From my perspective, John was not in any immediate financial difficulties. He was a talented guy who could easily find another Wall Street job.

As he didn’t have a cancer protruding out of his ass, he had much about which to be grateful and happy.

His sadness was about being fired, an event that seemed real as the self is obsessed with the past; not letting John accept it as passed.

John was a prisoner of his self. That was sad.

Empathy is harmful, compassion is helpful.

When someone is distraught, it is their self that has upset them.

Empathy acknowledges the self’s thoughts and feelings which encourages us to take the self seriously, allowing the self to continue wreaking havoc upon us.

Alternatively, compassion comes from the Soul.

Compassion dismisses the self and efforts to helping others make the best of their circumstances.

Simply, empathy is consoling someone who’s upset about having lost their job which keeps them from finding a new job and compassion is helping them find a new job.

Robert Thurman is a scholar, author and academic who founded Tibet House and was in 1965 the first American Tibetan Buddhist ordained by the Dalai Lama.

For many years, Thurman biannually lead groups on tours of holy sites in Tibet. In the late 1990s, I sought to join Thurman on such a tour.

Geographic Expeditions (GE) is a tour operator out of San Francisco that organized Thurman’s tours.

Two years before his next trip, I contacted GE and was placed first on the list of those going.

Periodically I called GE for an update on the timing and particulars of the trip.

Finally, some months before the trip, I was told that as they were overwhelmed with interest from people than available slots for the trip, 15, everyone was required to write an essay as to why they wanted to go.

My essay spoke about my collection of ancient Himalayan and Tibetan Buddhist art and that I had read a couple of Thurman’s books on the subject.

As the tour was coming together in final form, GE contacted me to say that Thurman was allowing only “serious Buddhists” and the trip. He deemed I was not; so my application was rejected.

Upon further inquiry, I was told the number of essay applications was 16. I was the only application rejected.

I was surprised and not surprised by this turn of events.

Ultimately, I found it funny.

“Serious Buddhists” sounded like an oxymoron.

Yet, what’s truly funny is that some people would have been upset or even angry had they been rejected after waiting two years and never doubting they would go as they were first on the list of reservations.

It’s hysterically funny when people get upset by essentially meaningless things in the scheme of things.

Beyond a good laugh and story I can share with others which in turn will laugh, I felt good that now I had extra time and money to spend elsewhere.

In hindsight, had I gone on the trip, some other attendees might have enjoyed by presence. But as only “serious Buddhists”, maybe having a good laugh is not their interest.

“I used to get a laugh from students by quoting a Soviet citizen I talked to once. He said to me, ‘Of course we have freedom of speech. We just don’t allow people to lie.’ That used to get a laugh! They don’t laugh anymore.”

— Gary Saul Morson

When I was 13 I didn’t need glasses but marveled at the experience of those who did. I thought people with myopia could see things two ways, with and without glasses. Poor eyesight seemed like a blessing that could lead to interesting insights.

This might be the case.

With myopia, one realizes they don’t know what they are looking at. This arouses curiosity which exercises the mind.

A well-exercised mind is fitter.

Statistically, people who are myopic have a higher IQ than those who are not.

CAT is an acronym for a sheriff’s Criminal Apprehension Team which tracks and arrests offenders wanted for serious felony crimes.  Cats don’t scratch when they purr. Cats don’t like any sort of water.

Some years back, I lived in Westport, CT. One day, as I was driving to play squash, I was on a business phone call and startled by red lights in the rearview mirror. Soon enough, I was parked on the side of the road with a police car behind me. An overweight officer came out of his vehicle. He was livid, screaming: “You were on our cell phone.” I said: “Officer, I know I was on the phone, I shouldn’t have been, poor judgement on my part. But I’m a bit late for a squash game. How about I give you my license and registration and meet you back at the station house after the game and we’ll sort it all out?” He then got even angier and screamed: “You can’t do that.” As our temperatures were rising, I said: “Officer, I see you are upset. I think you are upset with me. I feel terrible. We are here to take care of each other and I’m not doing a good job of it. Please, tell me, what can I do to make you feel better?” At that point, our minds calmed and he said: “Let’s forget about it.” A cat doesn’t scratch when it’s purring.

I told this story to a lawyer friend from Spain. He said that he often gets stopped for traffic infractions but never gets ticketed. Simply, when stopped, as the police officer comes asking for his driver’s license, my friend puts his right hand finger, which is out of the officer’s view, to his nose. From his left side, it appears his finger is sloshing around in his nose. He then takes out his driver’s license with his right hand and offers it to the officer who invariably refuses it and tells him to be considerate (perhaps prophylactically) of others. Cats don’t like all sorts of water.

By definition, a mutt is a dog of uncertain pedigree. A mutt is also a person who is stupid or incompetent. Those who don’t allow a mutt to compete at a dog show are also mutts.

Imagine an extraordinarily beautiful, athletic and intelligent rescue mutt; so smart, the mutt masters every trick in the book and even learns to play checkers competitively with a 10-year old. Surely, the mutt would win first prize at any accredited dog show, become instantly popular with the general public and be in great demand for breeding which would improve the genetic pool of dogs generally, be financially rewarding for its owner and allow the dog to have fun.

Unfortunately, without a pedigree, the mutts who run dog shows wouldn’t allow the mutt to compete, fearing the mutt would outshine them as it would do more to promote general interest in dogs than could they or any pedigree dog.

The mind can make the most pleasurable things unpleasurable.

I was recently informed by my sister that my father, an orthodox Jew, was angry the night he consummated his marriage to my mother. Their lovemaking turned from pleasure to anger when he realized my mother was not a virgin as she had claimed.

I thought it funny that his mind distracted him from the pleasure at hand; that she had bed others before him and mislead him seemed besides the point.

I don’t know whether my father was upset because he felt my mother’s deception compromised the foundational trust upon which a solid relationship is built upon or perhaps my father felt that marriage was a significant financial commitment on his part for which he expected to have first dibs on certain bedroom benefits; yet, apparently, others received the benefits for free.

In October, 1992 I started collecting tribal art. While initially I didn’t imagine tribal art would be expensive, I was soon amazed at how expensive some objects were; some fetching hundreds of thousands of dollars. What made these objects so expensive is that there is a limited supply of “authentic” objects. (Authentic objects are those made by a tribal people for their own use and used accordingly. That’s unlike “tourist” objects made for others and “fakes” made to appear like authentic objects.) Authenticity is essentially the sine quo nom of the collectibles markets generally. Without a limited supply of art objects qualifying as authentic, the art market would collapse. If objects were judged simply by their aesthetic appeal alone, facsimiles that were indistinguishable from authentic objects would flood the market, making authentic objects not worth more than the cost of making a facsimile. Without high-priced collectibles, there would be no collectors spending huge sums to support art museums, auction houses and well-heeled dealers.

Art, as well as everything else, is viewed by our eyes and our mind. Our eyes see things as they see things. As our eyes have no memory, our eyes cannot compare one thing with another. However, while some things engage and appeal to us and some less so, just about everything has a unique beauty to it from some perspective. Our mind cannot see, it can only hear. When we look at an art object in terms of its authenticity, provenance, description and in comparison to other art objects, we are “seeing” through our mind, not our eyes. The art market depends on collectors seeing through their mind, not their eyes.

As a collector I’ve met many dealers. One thing that several said in passing particularly struck me: there have been many well-considered collectors that as they got on in years often sold many of their “top” objects and purchased others that were clearly fakes or of lower quality. Dealers speculated that these old collectors simply lost their “eye;” that is, they could no longer distinguish a fake from an authentic object or they lost their sense of taste and as such were satisfied with lower quality objects. Perhaps or maybe these old collectors finally saw art objects with their eyes, not their mind.

Now, I too am an old collector and appreciate the mindset of the old collectors who were pooh-poohed by dealers and museum people. Someone truly engaged with the art itself (not with art as an investment or status symbol) solely focuses on the aesthetic and engaging aspects of an art object. Whether it’s fake or real is immaterial. Each object is what it is whatever it is; to be appreciated as it is, absolutely, not relative to something else or because it’s dressed in superlatively flattering adjectives. Collectors who’ve come to this realization tend to be older, having spent many lifetimes and considerable sums building their collections. They truly have a great “eye” as they see objects with their eyes, not with their mind.

More generally, beyond art, these older individuals tend to be in Act 3 in the play of life; the transition from their finite material selves to who they were before their birth, the Soul. In the transition, we see beauty everywhere. As to the art market, they shake their heads and laugh at the foolish collectors they once were.

Marriage is like a corporate partnership where each spouse assumes different department roles: Chief Executive Officer, Chief Financial Officer, Director of Human Resources, etc.

Of course, conflicts sometimes arise when there’s confusion about who’s in charge of which department.

Take, for example, a familiar scenario: A wife voices her dissatisfaction about something her husband said or did. The husband, caught off guard, may wonder why he’s being confronted; after all, he sees himself as head of the Rewards Department, not the Complaints Department.

His solution? Assign his wife as the head of the Complaints Department; after all, she’s got the most experience in that area.

Alternatively, when complaints arise, the wisest course may be to simply listen and agree (“Yes, you’re right”), allowing her to vent until she feels better.

A common mistake is to try to address her concerns rationally, or to help her see things from a different perspective. This usually backfires, leading to the classic: “You don’t understand me.” And she’s right; if you truly understood her, you might not have married her in the first place.

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All our wishes come true but not in the forms we imagine.

In 1973 I graduated from college and planned to start working, have a family and take a year at a Zen monastery when I reached 40, like Philip Kapleau who wrote The Three Pillars of Zen. At 40, my family and business partners would not have been encouraging had I taken a year-long sabbatical. However, at 43 my family and 140 friends threw a farewell party for me at the Harvard Club before I left for a 13 month stay at a Federal prison.

What landed me in prison was my involvement in an “insider trading” case. I personally profited $50K. Legal fees cost me roughly $2M and fines and penalties another $1.8M. Moreover, I was no longer allowed to manage other people’s money, though all of my investors stayed with me until I was prohibited from working. As a result of my not being allow to work, my net worth today is not even a tiny fraction of what it would have been otherwise.

I didn’t think that my trading was criminal. But others obviously did. In any event, the cost of going to trial, fines, penalties and the sanctions placed upon me undoubtedly were punitive to an extreme.  How do I feel? Pretty good as I play squash 4 – 5 times a week and I play with the prosecutor in my case. Why? Because I was born with the gene of happiness and the prosecutor is a wonderful guy, good squash player.

I did learn something from this ordeal: best be careful what we wish for as every wish will come true but not in the form we imagine. While I didn’t go to a traditional Zen monastery, prison was a Zen monastery of sorts. It did provide an awakening moment.

During my stay, my interactions with the other prisoners was for the most part fun. As well, I generously paid some to make my bed, clean the shower before I used it and make me foods like hand-cut French fries. The night before I left the prison, I asked a group of inmates whether they would miss me as we had a good time together. Seemingly in unison, they said no, because they hated me. I was a bit shocked. They said they hated me because I had such a good time. Maybe they needed a Zen monastery more than I did.