We are becoming a society of isolated bubbles of sameness. Is it coincidence that as we are being herded into online colonies, there is a growing trend to nationalism? Nationalists are winning elections in country after country. It is not just in Hungary where there seems to be a thirst for herding and clustering ‘with our own kind’. It appears to be a global phenomenon. Recently, nationalist Tomislav Nikolic was elected President of our neighbouring country, Serbia. ‘Name-that-nation’ for ‘Name-that-nationality.’ Sound familiar? (Hungary for Hungarians.) That was the rallying cry for Jobbik, the kinder, gentler nazis, now holding 17 seats in parliament and likely to hold more after the next election.

Big Mac attack.

Apple computers, the underdog for decades and my platform of choice since 1984 has now become the rabid dog of cult and cultism. No, your iTunes ‘genius’ is not genius. It is repetition. It is sameness. Genius would suggest, not more of the same, but something completely different. Genius would engage and challenge my thinking and expand my horizons, not shrink wrap them.

Like Pavlov’s dogs, those who are creating this world salivate too quickly at the smell of money.

The online world is herding us into clusters of clones. Where we once engaged in divergent thinking (often through no choice), today we can become histrionic, vile and shrill when we encounter thoughts or points of view from outside the membrane of our bubble of sameness. Clusters of cloning is a recipe for cultural stagnation; more and more little mites clinging to the corner cobwebs in what was what once a well-kept home: an engaged society.

That I may not agree with you does not mean I don’t want to know what you think or how you think. I would hope you would extend the same courtesy and curiosity to me.

The day after Facebook issued its much hyped and anticipated IPO, Mark Zuckerberg, co-founder and King of Privacy Invasion and Exploitation, married his longtime girl friend, Priscilla Chan, in a private ceremony where not even the 100 invited guests knew what was going to occur. His discreet invitation was under the pretense of celebration for Ms. Chan’s graduation from medical school. If anyone knows how to protect their privacy, it is the one who has masterminded pilfering ours.

We have become e-Immortal.

Whenever you do a search or visit a website, your travels and activities are churned, logged and added to the whirling, mathematical algorithms sold to anyone trying to sell anything. The data is permanent. You cannot delete it. It becomes your online portrait and fingerprint. Even your death will not render your online portrait null and void and valueless. You have friends. And the more the merrier. Since my IP address is recognized to be in Hungary, when I visit many sites there are ads in Hungarian cluttering the page I am trying to read. I take comfort in the imperfection of their ‘geo-targeting’. I don’t read Hungarian.

Facebook is the poster child for the promise of online, 24/7 connectivity. We are ‘connected’ wherever we go just as we are disconnected from everything physically around us.

These programmers are thrilled with what they can do and think in terms of millions or even billions of dollars for what their programming may reap as a reward. They are not concerned with what it might be doing to the human experience and they might defiantly respond, ‘It expands the human experience!”

Thumbs up? Or thumbs down?

Human nature is being altered or mutated and the human brain is being rewired. Even our physiology is being changed because, as we text constantly on our smart phones, we alter our digits’ dexterity, particularly, our thumbs. While today we may need to see doctors for tendonitis, we will adapt. We will physiologically evolve. Species do that.

The Achilles heel to this well-heeled cloning is the human spirit. While the Zuckerberg’s of the world may have capitalized handsomely on using technology to tap into the human want to gather, cluster and chatter, they have failed to capture the spirit. Nor have they effectively been able to leverage the mountains of micro data on each of us into strong, performing,selling tools for marketers. They can reach us. the challenge has been to capture us. Days prior to the IPO, GM pulled its Facebook marketing budget. While just a mere $10 million (US), it sends an ominous signal. That early investors were cashing in on the IPO sends another signal. Early investors in these start-ups (Facebook launched on February 4, 2004) would not leave money on the table if they believed there was still money to be made.

Now, having said all this, I must concede one very important point: were it not for search engines and the worlds they open up to us, finding the information on Zuckerberg and Facebook would have been far too much trouble than it was worth.

Directly behind me for several rows were about 15 tribespeople who appeared to be from somewhere in the Indonesian area. Maybe. Some were children. Or Pygmies, I couldn’t tell which. Prior to even pushing back from the gate, three of the Pygmies needed to use the washroom and chose the one I was seated behind. Two of the Pygmies could not figure out how to shut the washroom door so I am prepared to wager that if they couldn’t figure out how to close the door, nor would they able to figure out how to flush the toilet. It was going to a long flight.

Soaking up the luxury

About an hour into the flight, they served the meal. About an hour and ten minutes into the flight, I was wearing part of my meal on my light blue sweater. Eat a meal in a crowded economy section of an airplane and one can’t help but think of Houdini.

For no particular reason, I had chosen the chicken over the pasta. Accompanying the chicken were green beans in a brown gravy-like liquid.  That liquid is what found its way off my plastic fork and onto my light blue sweater. It landed right by my solar plexus and landed in a grouping of two spots making it impossible to ignore for anyone but one with a seeing eye dog.

I remember reading somewhere that soda water could remove some spots if applied quickly. As my good fortune had it, a flight attendant was passing by with a trolley and I asked for soda water as well as some napkins. She gave me a full, unopened can of soda water and two pieces of paper the size of postage stamps. I did the best I could but realized I would need legitimate paper towels. That meant a trip to the washroom.

The Pigmy tribe had made several trips to the washroom in front of me but strangely had not ventured into the washroom directly across the one meter aisle. Wisely, I chose that one.  Once in there I thought it also would be an ideal time to relieve myself of the coffee, water and Chateau Screw Top wine which accompanied the meal I was partly wearing. I decided to multitask: sit, relieve myself and use the soda water to attack the dreaded spots. Multitasking has never been my strong suit. While feverishly attacking the brown blobs on my sweater, I spilled soda water into my boxer shorts. Thankfully, I used a lot of soda water attacking the spots which made them now larger, darker and attention-grabbing. With such obvious spots on my sweater, hopefully no one would notice if my wet boxer shorts showed through to my light, trendy, faded blue jeans.

We were less than two hours into a seven hour flight.

Behind closed doors

The Pygmy tribe made innumerable trips to the washroom. While some of them mastered the art of closing the door, few learned how to lock it. I enjoyed watching other passengers come, open the door only to quickly close it again with a slight look of horror on their faces. I have no idea what the Pygmy clan was doing in there and I am perfectly OK lacking that knowledge. The only other time I have seen so many people make so many frequent trips to an airplane washroom was in the 1980′s when they were going there to do cocaine.

Then another thought occurred to me about the washroom: Perhaps they had not seen a toilet before.

I spoke to a flight attendant about the activity in front of my seat. She told me similar stories of other passengers like my neighbours and she confirmed some had never seen a toilet before or at the very least, one at 35.000 feet. On one occasion, she walked into an unlocked washroom only to find someone doing his business while standing, not sitting on the seat. She spent years trying to forget that image. Wouldn’t that constitute “occupational hazard”? Surely there must some kind of unionized medical sick leave for that. Perhaps not.

The spring migration

My neighbours were part of a group, evidenced by stickers they were wearing with the letters. “I. O. M” prominently displayed. I later googled I.O.M. to discover it is the International Organization of Migration. Given where my flight was landing, I had a pretty good idea of their migration’s termination. Canada is often the country of choice for many of the world’s people wishing to create a better life. In Canada, the new norm is there is no norm. In our major cities one will see people of all origins. Including Pygmies.

Canada’s Refugee Program has undergone reform that should soon be passed into law. It will help streamline the ability for Canada to reject bogus claims and curb flagrant abuse. Last year, with 4,423 applications, Hungary was the number one country of origin for people seeking refugee status. According to Citizenship and Immigration Minister Jason Kenney, “Almost none of these European asylum claimants even show up for their hearings — they just overwhelmingly abandon them and withdraw their own claims. But they all do show up in Ontario’s welfare program.”

It is unlikely that those fraudulent refugee claimants knew how to apply and ‘qualify’ for welfare. They are being taught. And although frustratingly slow, they are also being caught.

Emigrating to Canada often means learning new skills, some as rudimentary as operating a flush toilet. But those people are far more welcome than those who seem to wish to learn nothing more than how to bilk our system and abuse our generosity.

I have been told secondhand through a couple of invisible sources that I should be careful what I write here in the Budapest Times.

Unacceptable. If you really want to know what I think, all you have to do is tell me to shut up.

Last time I checked, democracy is not a veneer or a pretty fabric covering to what one might mistake to be an iron curtain. It is a living, constantly changing social organism of managing the unmanageable: people with different points of views, human volatility, human frailty and perhaps most importantly, true democracy gives us a non-religiously founded sense of collective decency and justice.

Democracy can be an irritating little beast but to my knowledge no one has come up with a better alternative. If anyone out there has one, I for one, am all ears and come equipped with an open mind.

Speak up and shut up

Democracy (and especially freedom of speech), can be a burden and a pain. For example, in a democracy, a provincial government can bring potential secession from the federation to a provincial vote. It happened in Canada when Quebec separatists, provincially elected, brought it to a referendum. It was a gut-wrenching experience for Canada and there was more than one referendum. Being defeated once did not mean it could not be tabled again. Welcome to democracy. The referendums created division and tensions in Canada that can still be felt today. But they are waning. On a recent visit to the Belle Provence, I noticed a significant change from the Quebec I remembered from years ago. Although mon francais est tres mauvais (my french is very bad) I experienced something I had not in Quebec before: Courtesy and warmth to even a lowly Anglo like myself. Today, I have a deep respect for how French Canadians managed to maintain and protect their culture yet remained Canadians.

If one looks at freedom of speech and tunes into any of the US presidential hopeful campaigns, one could not be criticized for wondering if it hasn’t gone too far. There is a vast, grey, horizonless ocean of language that laps the shores of freedom of speech on one side and slander on the other. And for that, I give you lawyers. And for those, I give you the supreme courts political parties are always trying to shore up with one of their own. For those following the issues here in Hungary you will connect the dots on the pending requirement for mandatory retirement of judges aged 62.

Simple truths and complex realities

I have said favorable things about this nation and I have a perspective on the trouble it faces. Hungary has a declining and aging population. It has fickle policies that will frighten money away: money it desperately needs. While everyone is wringing their hands over pending IMF loans, it is important to remember that loans are band-aids. Permanent solutions come from investments, such as the new Mercedes factory in Kecskemét. However, the Prime Minister made an interesting comment about investment versus colonization. Does that mean “bring us your investments, build factories, provide jobs but keep ‘your own’ out of here?” And oh, by the way, don’t worry about retroactive taxation. You’re in good hands here. Your investments are safe with us.

This is a beautiful and frustrating country. That the nation thinks it knows better than everyone else is its handicap. It happened with Kun in 1919. It happened when Hungary, wanting to look ‘progressive’, sent a woman to represent the nation to the Paris peace talks in 1919 who did little more than berate her underlings in public and make a fool of a great nation. And still they scratch their heads over Trianon; soon to be a century-old story and one not likely to be reversed.

Oh no! Not him again.

There are times when I embarrass my embassy here but that’s OK because there are times when Canada embarrasses me. I figure we’re even. Embassy? What do you think? Have you even once seen me write anything about building more prisons for a society with declining crime rates or buying expensive cold war machinery like the F-35s? No. Oops. Did I offend? Oh well. There goes that freedom of speech again.

You see? Freedom of speech is a vast and open playground and every once in a while it leads to debate and leads to improvement. And if any country is in need of improvement, we’re in it. Many of us, although ‘colonists’, love it.

As Hungary’s population declines, investments dry up and things stagnate, Hungarians may want  to wrap their heads around the fact that non-Hungarians can love and appreciate the nation, help make it stronger, and those people are not threats. They are assets. However, like young Hungarians, they too are leaving.

The last thing one should do is tell me to shut up. I am on record for praising this government and giving credit where few western writers did. And if I criticize? Welcome to democracy. It’s a beautiful thing. But it does not work by lip service. Or as I used to say in meetings when I got frustrated, “Wake up and smell the napalm”.

Hungarians currently top the list of foreign nationalities seeking refugee status in Canada. It is a delicate problem. As far as I know, the Canadian government would like to avoid imposing visa restrictions on Hungarians travelling to Canada because if it did, almost certainly Hungary would reciprocate. On my last two trips, ticket agents at the airport in Toronto have inspected my Hungarian residency permit. Maybe it was just out of curiosity (“Wow! I’ve never seen a Canadian with one of these before!”). But I think not. Today there is more scrutiny on Hungarians entering Canada and more scrutiny on Canadians making a return trip to Hungary. That’s speculation on my part but airline ticket agents never used to ask to see my permit. Today they do.

Papers Please

On several flights into Toronto, armed Customs and Immigration officials are at the door of the airplane checking passports when passengers exit the plane. I sometimes wonder if I am the cause of this heightened security. I am someone whose travel originated in Hungary usually via Frankfurt. Those familiar with Toronto’s poorly re-designed shiny Terminal One will remember fondly the feeling you are walking half way to Buffalo to get to the Customs and Immigration pit and the throngs of people, many of whom have neither bathed nor slept in over 24 hours. It’s a charming experience. However, during that laborious trek to the pit, I have never seen a way to skip out and bypass the border control. Still, in the last couple of years, armed officials have been at the door of the aircraft on several flights I’ve taken into Toronto.

The controversial issue of Hungarians seeking Canadian refugee status has not been helped in the least by a case that has been before the courts in Canada. It is the largest proven human trafficking case in Canadian history. The Hungarian defendants having been found guilty and sentenced. Nor does it help that the defendants are Roma. (Don’t shoot the messenger: I read it in Canada’s national newspaper, The Globe and Mail.)

Give me your tired, your poor, your crooks.

Ferenc Domotor’s story had all the makings of a showcase immigrant success story. He emigrated to Canada in 1998 as a refugee, built a successful business servicing the construction industry and lived in an affluent suburban neighbourhood. The reality? He emigrated to Canada in 1998 as a refugee while facing extortion charges in Hungary. Oops. He then lured fellow Hungarian Roma men to Canada with the promise of a better life. If anyone needs that promise, it’s the Roma. Once there, he seized their passports and put them into forced, unpaid labour in the construction industry, often working 17 hours a day. They were locked in his basement, fed only one meal a day and he had all the doors and windows equipped with alarms to prevent them from escaping. Welcome to Canada.

Mr. Domotor’s criminal enterprise consisted of his wife, Gyongi Kolompar, two brothers, his son, his cousin and various in-laws. And I thought I had a dysfunctional family. The Domotor clan faced a litany of charges ranging from conspiracy to traffic humans to welfare and immigration offenses. With time served, Ferenc Domotor’s wife is now free. His son, with time served, with be free in a year and a half while Mr. Domotor will have to wait four and a half years before he completes his nine year sentence. The judge, Mr. Justice Stephen Glithero, summed it up well. “This country (Canada) has a long tradition of respecting human rights and dignity, and providing assistance to those who need it, and welcoming those from other countries….When our values are abused flagrantly, as they were by these three individuals, we are offended. Modern-day slavery is disgusting to us and it offends our core values.”

Time for a full court press

They were tried in a provincial court and any deportation proceedings would be the jurisdiction and responsibility of a federal court. Many Canadians are, if not frustrated, certainly cynical and skeptical of our refugee policies. This case is not good public relations for the refugee program. The government should get on deportations proceedings now if they have not already done so. And they should be very, very vocal about it. Apparently, new refugee/immigration laws come in effect in Canada on June 1st. Hopefully, they will help prevent future Mr. Domotors from gaining entry to our country.

Ms. Kolompar is free to go and unless she has been arrested on federal charges, she could disappear into the woodwork. However, prosecutors have a year and a half to prepare their case against the son and four and a half years to prepare the deportation case against Mr. Domotor. The bad news is, once deported, guess where they’re headed? Home sweet home. Hopefully, the Hungarian authorities will be dusting off the case jacket on the charges of extortion and will be giving Mr. Domotor the welcoming home party he deserves.

There is an old joke about Canadians that talks to how compliant and passive we can be. My American friends may enjoy the humour while my British friends may not get it. (They’re too much like us or we’re too much like them.) Here it is: Question: How do you get 200 Canadians out of a swimming pool? Answer: You say, “Ok everybody, out of the pool.” That said, there is another side to us. You violate our compassion and kindness and you do so at your own peril. Have a nice life, Mr. Domotor.

There are several theories why some men seem to find an interest in studying a woman’s mid-body backside. Some believe it is a primal signal about a woman’s child-bearing ability. For a woman to bear a child, something else has to happen first which may be the real driver in mens’ interest. Of course, this is nothing but speculation on my part. I would have no idea.

However, there are companies with budgets and resources to study such human behaviors in the interest of engaging customers, increasing market share and most importantly, solidifying repeat business. I give you McDonald’s.

A fresh look at the golden arches

No one can argue McDonald’s marketing prowess. Having worked on their competitor’s business (Burger King) I can assure you nothing happens within corporate McDonald’s without first being tested. Machinery is tested, food is tested, communications is tested, as is decor: everything right down to the staff uniforms.

McDonald’s is an ideal stop if one is looking for a clean washroom or change of a large denomination bill. Monday morning was such a morning. I was in need of McD’s, not for the washroom but for change for a 20,000 HUF note. Of course, you can’t ask for change you must order something so I ordered what sounded healthy but wasn’t: a McWrap. (If they really offered a healthy breakfast meal it would have to be some porridge/fruit concoction but I can’t imagine anyone ordering that.)

After ordering my faux healthy breakfast, the woman at the counter turned around to get said McWrap. That is when I noticed it. As I mentioned, I am not one of those chauvinistic, sexist men who steal flirting, passing glances at women’s posteriors. However, given my profession I am astutely interested in marketing and branding. And there, embroidered on the right cheek of the counter woman’s jeans was the McDonald arch. Intrigued, I looked at other women working behind the counter. In fact, academic and professional curiosity had me studying all the backsides of all the female McDonald employees. I noticed what appeared to be a hierarchy: One woman whom I assume must have been a supervisor, had more stylish pants and a more stylish McDonald arch on her right backside cheek.

Subliminal advertising

But why the right cheek? Is McDonald’s doing a subliminal endorsement of the American Republican party? Right cheek, right wing? Or is it the opposite? Are they suggesting anyone leaning to the right is an ass? One thing is perfectly clear: McDonald’s is capitalizing on a human behaviour so basic and primal, it speaks to the very core of our existence. Could it be with this staff uniform branding, McD’s will embed association in the minds of their male customers? Is it possible whenever a man steals a passing glance at a passing beauty’s posterior, he will think not of child-bearing qualities and the sex required to bear children, but instead, his mind with drift to the golden arches and the sex drive will be overpowered by the Quarter Pounder drive?

There are no easy answers to these questions and certainly, the corporate offices at McD’s will deny any such motivation in the design of staff uniforms. But I ask you this: when the uniforms were designed and modeled, what is one request that must have been made in evaluation? “Could you please turn around?”

I think McD’s is on the cusp of a huge marketing breakthrough: tell me the McD Libido Burger wouldn’t be a hot sale. A tad cheeky. But I’m lovin’ it.

How can you spot a former AVO informant? They are the people who are frowning.

How do Hungarians inaugurate a new bridge? By jumping off it.

This does beg the question: If Hungarians are so proud as a people and a culture, why do they keep killing themselves in such astonishing numbers? While no longer the world leader in suicides per capita, Hungary, in 6th place, still has a respectable showing in this dubious claim of distinction. Today, Hungary has been eclipsed by Lithuania, South Korea, Guyana, Kazakhstan and Belarus. (South Korea? What’s up with that?)

Much has been written about Hungary’s penchant for gloom and any student of mental health would surely want to spend some quality time in Hungary for a first-hand look at one of the world’s largest collective mental health problems.

No instance of mental illness is complete without a high suicide rate, a high incidence of alcoholism and a cavalier indifference to the health risks of cigarette smoking. Hungary has them all. In fact, Hungary also has it’s own suicide song, Gloomy Sunday, composed by Rezsõ Seress (music) and Lásló Jávor (lyrics) in 1933. This memorable little ditty is believed to have precipitated more suicides than any other piece of music. It’s so bloody depressing, even Seress killed himself. In 1936 the song was translated into English and since then Gloomy Sunday has been recorded by Billy Holliday, Sarah Brightman, Ricky Nelson, Marianne Faithful, Sinead O’Connor, Paul Robeson, Elvis Costello and Sarah McLachan to name just a few. Go to iTunes and you will find fifty versions.

Forever lost in the translation.

Although translations to English never do justice to the original Hungarian, (as we are frequently told) here is one version of this inspiring song:

Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless,

Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless.

Little white flowers will never awaken you,

Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you.

Angels have no thought of ever returning you.

Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?

Gloomy Sunday.

Gloomy is Sunday; with shadows I spend it all.

My heart and I have decided to end it all.

Soon there will be candles and prayers that are sad, I know.

Death is no dream, for in death I am caressing you.

With the last breath of my soul I’ll be blessing you.

Gloomy Sunday.

Gloomy is right. And trust me, the melody does nothing to improve the lyrics.

For a time, the public performance of the song was banned in Hungary since it was seen as a health risk, (unlike cigarettes and alcohol). There were numerous reports this song played during many suicides in Hungary and the United States but, of course, it is difficult to substantiate these claims when the only witnesses are dead. In Budapest, many people at the time when this song was at its peak in popularity, committed suicide by jumping off one of the Danube bridges while clinging the Gloomy Sunday sheet music.

A past to forget

Hungarians like to stake their claim to inventions, creativity and the numerous world firsts they have earned and they certainly are proud that Hungarians have won the most Nobel prizes per capita than any other nation. But having a high suicide rate is a distinction one would want to eradicate. Certainly, for the dark humourists, (especially the Hungarians living abroad and watching their homeland from afar), the suicide distinction is almost too good to ignore as a source of dark comedy. And heaven knows, I like a good laugh as much as the next manic depressive. But this is where perhaps even I might show some restraint.

There is a stigma to many mental health issues and depression is one of them. “Suck it up” being the common response someone might get to depression. But here, there is almost an encouragement of suicide. Why? Why Hungary? Another Magyar DNA anomaly? Or perhaps the hangover of an old-world phenomenon akin to settling disputes by challenging someone to a duel? Hungarian history is littered with politicians, musicians, artists and writers who chose to end their own lives, some in quite dramatic fashion: from throwing themselves in front of trains to the more popular bridge hop. These historical figures are not the most ideal role models. Noble, ideal-driven suicide was somewhat of a fade in the Victorian era, at least by myth or reputation. And while I admire the preservation of Hungarian history and culture, there are some things that are best left behind where we found them and bodies at the bottom of the Danube is one of them. Just saying.

There is nothing sane about love. It is simply a socially-embraced strain of insanity and there is ample evidence to prove the point. For starters, love and subsequent love-driven behaviours are known to have led to the bearing of children, often an emotionally heart-breaking and financially-crippling life-long burden. Where is the sanity in that?

Love and its resulting insanity affects behaviors in almost inexplicable ways and can negatively impact everything from the power of concentration to a regular TV schedule, including football. In men, the lunacy of love can be most insidious. Afflicted with love, men have been know to do things no man in his right mind would do. For example, men claiming to be in love have been known to voluntarily listen to Barry White. Men listen to Barry White only while in the presence of their love focus and they listen to Barry White for one reason and one reason only. This should require no further explanation.

You may think people in love say stupid things. That is incorrect. What people in love say is insane. Let’s examine just a few things people stricken with love have been known to say:

“I worship the ground you walk on”. The only sane people who worship any kind of ground are pilots and sailors after near-death experiences. If someone worships the ground anyone walks on, they are probably in a cult. “Worship” is a very inappropriate word to use when referring to mortals. Only an insane person would say something like that.

“You take my breath away”. If this were true, one should call 911 or, here in Hungary, 112. When someone has lost their breath and cannot breathe, it is rightly considered a medical emergency. However, calling 112 and telling the operator you are in love will likely end you up in a hospital room where the lock is on the wrong side of the door, if you follow my drift. They have special wards for people suffering from love and other mental illnesses.

“I am lost without you.” So buy a GPS.

What is unique about this particular strain of madness is that many people crave it. This fact alone should be ample evidence that love is some form of disorder. People never crave healthy things, only things that are bad for them. Have you ever heard of anyone craving zucchini? Or porridge? No. Craving is a bad sign.

There are so many signs pointing to the seriousness of this disorder and the negative impact it has on us, it almost impossible to know where to begin or where to end. Let’s take a look at something that may, on the surface, seem innocuous, perhaps even cute. Let’s look at the icon for being smitten with love: Cupid. Besides being nearly naked in all representations, what is the one thing Cupid always has? A bow and arrow.

Cupid is armed and dangerous. If you’re doubting me on this, ask yourself this, “What is the likelihood Cupid could board a commercial airliner today?” With a bow and arrow? Are you serious? Homeland security would go from Code Orange to Code Yellow, air traffic would be diverted to their alternate airports and the next thing you know, Wolf Blitzer would arrive on the scene making it official that a breach of national security had just been averted. Not only is Cupid armed and dangerous, Cupid is airborne. Cupid has wings.

Let us also look at when love is most celebrated (or most notorious, depending on your predisposition to insanity.) Valentine’s Day. Smack dab in the middle of a month so bleak, ugly and depressing, it was chosen to the be the shortest month of the year. Even in leap years it remains the shortest month of the year. February’s calendar bookends are January and March, both hideous and dreary with few, if any, long weekends. February is a hopeless month. So here, tucked in the middle of a bleak month, bookended by bleak months, we have a strategically-placed day of socially-embraced insanity.

It is on Valentine’s Day that love-generated insanity reaches close to epidemic proportions. Using sanity as our compass and barometer, let us look at the cost of a bouquet of roses. On February, 13th, these might set you back somewhere between 30 and 50 Euro, depending on whether you prefer roses with a life expectancy of six minutes or six days . On February 15, those roses might set you back between 30 and 50 Euro. However, on February 14th, those roses could set you back between 80 and 100 Euro. Nothing paints a more compelling picture of love’s insanity than the cost of roses on February 14. And what’s up with all the chocolate?

Thankfully, many spas and hotels offer insane specials for Valentine’s Day ‘romantic getaways’. We all know code words when we see them and we know exactly what the word ‘romantic’ implies. While these ‘insanely’ low prices for Valentine’s Day romantic getaways may seem like a generous and warm-hearted gesture on the part of hotels and spas sympathetic to those with mental disorders, don’t be fooled. Folks, it is the middle of February. Hotels and spas haven’t seen anyone but staff members since New Year’s and aren’t likely to see many more until spring.

The good news is that here in Budapest, the insanity of love seems even more socially-accepted than in most places, judging by the amorous activities one sees every day on the streets and park benches and in trams, shopping malls, art galleries, restaurants and pubs. If you are going to succumb to the insanity of love, you could not be in a better place than Budapest. Foreigners have often remarked that Hungarians can seem somewhat insane. So now you know the truth. It’s not that they’re insane, it’s just that they’re just in love. So are you in love? Or insane? Six of one. Half a dozen of another.

When it was announced  the Hungarian government was buying a stake in Malev airline, I wrote this column for the Budapest Times. This clearly falls into the ‘duh’ category. For those who don’t know, Malev ceased operations Friday, February 3. I would have posted this sooner but I was in Paris. No, I did not fly Malev and did not get stranded.

Pan Am couldn’t do it. Laker couldn’t do it. People’s Express couldn’t do it. Alitalia can’t do it. Air France, British Air, they can’t do it. Warren Buffet won’t even try to do it but the Hungarian government? They are going to do it. They are going to make money in the airline industry. Another Hungarian first is on the way.

The Hungarian taxpayer, and I am one of them, has recently bought shares in an airline. As taxpayers-come-shareholders, if we are going to invest in businesses, wouldn’t it be preferable to invest in businesses that show at least a marginal possibility of profitability?

Welcome aboard Malev Flight 666, new nonstop service to nowhere. We expect our flying time to nowhere to be four months. In preparation for take down, please fasten your seat belts and be sure your spine is in the upright position.

Is it national pride that motivated the tax-payer bailout? Certainly, Hungarians have much to be proud of. Owning an airline isn’t one of them. Look how many nations have shed their albatross airlines. Don’t get me wrong. I understand the allure. I, too, love the airline business. I launched airlines, re-launched airlines, tried to save airlines and even went out and earned a pilot’s license. It’s a seductive business. Ed Acker (Pan Am), said, “Once you get hooked on the airline business, it’s worse than dope.” And hooked he was. Twenty years ago, when a million US dollars was semi-serious money, Pan Am was losing one a day. Just on the European routes.

It is brutal to try to turn a profit on a regular basis in the airline industry. Warren Buffet, a person with a reasonably sound reputation when it comes to making money, said in his annual letter to shareholders in 2008, “Think airlines. Here, a durable competitive advantage has proven elusive ever since the days of the Wright Brothers. Indeed, if a farsighted capitalist had been present at Kitty Hawk, he would have done his successors a huge favor by shooting Orville down.”

However, the Hungarian Finance Ministry issued a statement saying, “The Hungarian state taking a majority stake [in Malev] will create the possibility for the company to operate in a financially stable way.”

Move over, Warren. Bureaucrats and politicians are stepping up to the plate.

How on earth is the Hungarian state going to “create the possibility for the company to operate in a financially stable way”?

Going in the red in the wild blue yonder.

That’s where we taxpayers-come-shareholders might come in handy. Since taxpayers have non-voting shares in the airline (except indirectly during political elections), we will be powerless to stop the airline from engaging in a taxpayer-funded price war in an attempt to put fighters like Wizz where Malev should be: in bankruptcy.

Who else do they intend to compete with if it is not discount carriers? As a member of One World, Malev does code sharing (and frequent flyer mile award credit sharing) with a handful of airlines. The only other European carriers are British Air and Finnair. Star Alliance, One World’s major competitor, does code and frequent flyer reward-sharing with the following European carriers: Adria (Slovenia) Blue 1 (Finland), Austrian Airlines, Brussels Airline, Croatia Airlines, LOT Polish Airlines, Lufthansa, Scandinavian Airlines, Swiss Air, TAP Portugal and Turkish Airlines. So if you are a European business traveller, (the ones who pay higher air fares), which network would you join to reap the benefits of frequent flying? And Malev, now in the control of politicians and bureaucrats, will be equipped to compete with Star Alliance? How?

If the Malev strategy is to get into a price war with discount carriers and drive the discount carriers out of Malev markets, you can be sure that more than the discount carriers would disappear. So would the discounts. Discount carriers build their business around economies, such as flying into airports charging less, if any, landing fees than places like Heathrow, Charles du Gaulle, Frankfurt…all the airports you have to fly if you have found yourself shackled to an international network. Of course, one good thing about flying empty is the reduced fuel costs.

The big question about re-nationalizing Malev is ‘why’? All you have to do is try to connect the financial dots. Good luck. Hungary sells Malev to a private consortium of Russian and Hungarian investors/oligarchs. As best I can read between the lines, the sale was made with the purchaser promising to pay for much of the national asset at some future time which it could not do and in fact, wanted/needed cash infusions. So now, the government raises the capital of Malev through cash and converted debt to take a 95% position in an asset that has proven only one thing: it is a money-loser. Those aren’t called assets. They are called liabilities. Interestingly, when the government was raising the capital in Malev, Wizz was partnering with passengers to raise money for Haiti. That’s ironic, isn’t it? A private enterprise doing something purely for the good of people (and I doubt there is a huge Hungarian population in Haiti) while Hungarian government goes about doing something that will do its people absolutely no good whatsoever.

I wonder if the current deal would pass the sniff test.

Hey. If you can’t trust a Russian oligarch, who can you trust?

Apparently, the government. Wizz, don’t fail us now.

There is a crack; a crack in everything. 

We’re on an old familiar road; a well worn path carved into the dried, caked terrain we call earth. Although well-traveled, this road is not paved. No one wants permanence to this route. It is ugly, dirty, dusty and pockmarked.

Being led down this twisting road we’re told around the next curve or over the next hill, we will see it: Hope. Hope will shine bright in the distance and when we reach Hope, all will be well and all wrongs will be righted and our children and our children’s children will be safe and prosper for generations to come. All we need is Hope. And it’s right around the corner.

They promise.

Bill Clinton sold hope. I have the letter postmarked from Hope, Arkansas to prove it. Barack Obama sold hope. Hope is Oz and hope is the straw we grasp when there is nothing left to cling to.

Hope is a strong selling message. That selling hope is increasingly relevant to voters today speaks volumes about the world we live in.

Orbán, however, did not sell hope. Hungarians are far too wise and realistic to buy any promise of hope. No, Orbán sold resurrection, rebirth and independence.

Hope is what the hopefuls often sell to win votes to overthrow incumbents. In defense, incumbents sell fear; fear of change, fear of the unknown, fear of the litany of enemies waiting to pounce, ready to strike, waiting to bring us to ruin. Evil lurks everywhere. Around every corner, behind every tree evil empires are waiting to destroy us, pummel our values and cast our children into a cauldron of servility. We must fight evil. We must have a War on Evil.

Evil, marketed properly, fuels war.

Hope, unfulfilled, fuels revolution.

This ugly little road we are on today is that very road to revolution. And at the root of the pending revolution is what is at the root of all war: inequity and money (or more to the point, lack of it). What we have today is the Marie Antoinette Syndrome: Power and wealth are too disconnected from what what ultimately gives them their power and wealth and that would be the workings of mankind. Humans.

We have entered a new age of servitude. Serfdom has been reborn, repackaged and dressed in a flimsy little garment we call ‘democracy’. The middle class is all but wiped out. And what is the hook to servitude, whether it is with the middle class or entire nations, (such as Hungary)? The hook to servitude and serfdom is a thing of beauty, if you can manage to brush aside its ugliness and look at it objectively.

The hook to servitude is artificially created debt.

Debt is the new landlord and there is beauty in it’s creation. Imagine if you had the ability to turn on a printing machine, print money with nothing more than paper and ink and then take that money and give it to a government but with a catch: Interest due. And the interest due, is passed on and on, always increasing, all down the food chain until it reaches some poor unsophisticated, most likely uneducated consumer who is paying almost 30% credit card interest charges on money that came off a printing press from nothing more than paper and ink. I give you America’s Federal Reserve and the banking cartel.

What we have is the puppet dance of democracy and pulling the marionette strings over the cheap little cardboard theatrical sets are the banks and the money Lords.

Did we take note at the international outrage when Fidesz asked not the taxpayers to bear an increased burden footing the bill for national survival but instead went to (among a couple of other sectors), the banks? This fueled the rage within the international community. Global telecoms did not (to my knowledge) bellow and protest at unjustified abuse. But the banking world did and with it came threats.

Rewind the tape and we see the American taxpayer bailing out the banking system; the many ‘too big to fail’ institutions to the tune of billions of dollars. How long did it take these on-the-verge-of-collapse banking institutions to pay back the money? Just a few months. And the bailout was paid back for a very simple reason: to keep the taxpayers (the government) off the shareholder list where they would have a say, a vote, a voice and some clout. Where was the international outrage over this abuse of taxpayers? It camped in shoddy tents, trying to occupy it knew not what, knowing only that something was terribly wrong in Oz. Who wasn’t arrested or evicted, simply faded away. Or have they?

The private banks will keep government out of their money-making business at all costs; costs usually passed down to someone else, such as today’s voting serfs as they trundle down this dusty road listening to yet another promise of hope, just around the corner, just after the next election, just after they cast their vote for Hope in the hope it has substance. And if it doesn’t? 1776. 1789. 1848. 1917. 1949. 1956. 1968. 1989. 2011. 2012. All years to remember to what can happen in the name of hope, unfulfilled.

She recently posted about getting a job as a nurse in Austria and seems happy to be following this new path.

This post, then, is for her future patients.

With this nurse, you are likely in very good hands. You are in wounded hands and the wounded know and appreciate care more than most. This one suffers a wound that does not bleed, does not ooze, shows no visible abrasions or fractures. This one bears a wound that is often dismissed, trivialized or ridiculed. She bears the pain of this wound as a matter of course, as a fact of life and a card she has been dealt. She will most likely be more motivated to help ease your suffering, whatever its cause and most likely will not marginalize your suffering, dismiss it out of hand or walk away from your bedside thinking to herself that you should ‘suck it up” and deal with whatever ails you.

Anyone who lives with chronic pain understands pain better than those who experience pain in fleeting moments, be that from a stressful session in a dentist’s chair to a broken bone. This one deals with pain every day. And it is not pain that gets much sympathy. It is the pain inherent in depression.

The blessing in this curse is what you read in some of her writing or see in some of her photographs. While some simply show the angst of depression, some show beauty.

If I were, (like you), a patient lying in a hospital bed, this is a nurse I would want at my side. This one understands pain and isolation and was not textbook taught about compassion but learned it the hard way: through experiencing a lack of it.

You are in good hands. You are in caring hands.