2000-2009: Name That Ruin.

As the year and the decade ends, we should decide what to call the last ten years. The Oughts, the Ohs, the Zeros? How about “The Good For Nothings?” It seems appropriate for a decade that began with Y2K, followed with 9/11 and included natural disasters such as the Tsunami of 2004 and Hurricane Katrina in 2005. There was full compliment of man-made disasters, too, but unlike the natural ones, they’re ongoing: the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the failing economy and the airline industry. We should, of course, be careful, when using the word, “disaster” in connection with air travel. So, let’s describe it as routine humiliation interrupted by moments of panic. As for the economic situation, you have your choice of three names – recession, depression or deferred compensation – depending on your experience of it.

About the only bright spot was the election of President Barack Obama in 2008. Most of his term(s?), though, will fall in the next decade, so it doesn’t really count. It does, however, give us something to look forward to. So, say goodbye to “The Good For Nothings” and say hello to “The Splendid Tens.” Happy New Year.

FOUR SHREDDINGS AND A FUN-FOR-ALL.

1) By slowing progress towards healthcare reform, Sen. Joe Lieberman(I – CT) proves that he is a speed bump, who wants to be a stop sign, but lacks the literacy.

2) A question for Sen. Ben Nelson (D – NE) who is so opposed to abortion that he’s willing to murder the healthcare reform bill before it’s born: Do they not have irony in Nebraska or do they just not understand it?

3) Don’t you just love the new Boeing 787 “Dreamliner?” Sure, it’s made of plastic, but it’s strong plastic. Yeah, it’s two years overdue because it was largely made by subcontractors whose work was either sub-standard, didn’t fit together or something. (Neither of which should matter for a while.) The only real problem with the “Dreamliner” is that will be owned and operated by airlines - promising us an experience somewhere between going to a brand-new prison or being hanged with a fresh rope.

4) With every new usurious rate or contrived way of extracting money from their clients, credit cards have become the new airlines: a formerly respectable business, now so debased that they would be gone if they weren’t necessary.

5) There is a shocking lack of movies starring Blake Lively. Especially ones that an adult can watch – over and over. What does a man have to do? Write them himself? Hmmm.

A New Financial Model For Wall Street.

There have always been two Wall Streets, one for the rich and one for everyone else. I propose that we make it explicit and legal: a "Preferred" market for the rich and a "Common" one for the rest. As a rich individual or institution that engages in the "Preferred" market, you'll be free to indulge in every kind of financial instrument available: Hedge funds, derivatives, mortgage-backed securities, you name it. Arbitrage, leveraged buyouts, default credit swaps, everything is on the table. Most importantly, there will be no interference - not from self-regulating industry bodies and certainly not from government at any level. All conflicts will be handled with guns - like your heroes, the cowboys of the Old West, or your current analogues, Mexican drug gangs. The only rule is that you use your own money.

The "Common" market will serve everyone else. It will consist of a rubber donut for men and a dildo for women. You are, of course, free to choose either or all. We're not here to judge.

Suppose you're involved in the "Preferred" market and you're a bank that needs depositors, an insurance company that needs policy holders or a publicly-owned company that needs, well, the public? Go find your own rubber donut.

Will this new model conflict with programs, present and future, of the Obama administration? No, because it's very similar to their own strategy of recognizing a long-standing problem, disguising it as change and hoping it's mistaken for progress. TARP, for instance, acts like a tarp in covering up a problem until conditions improve. Then, we can go back to ignoring the problem or taking it for granted. True, President Obama has only been in office for a year and this new model is fueled - to a large degree - by impatience. It's the impatience, however, of someone watching the mandate of the last election recede quickly into the past and the future at the same time.

The Unwritten Laws of New York.

Everyone should visit New York City, especially at holiday time. To make your experience more enjoyable, I submit the following “rules” of behavior that you won’t find in any guidebook. If I've overlooked any, please send them to me. Thanks. Have a great time in the Big Apple.

1) "Don't Walk" signals are for tourists. Residents must cross the street whenever and wherever they want. Extra points are awarded for making turning cars slow down and get stuck in the intersection.

2) If you drive in Manhattan, shame on you. On the occasions when it necessary, you must teach arrogant pedestrians a lesson. Remember, they won’t learn anything if you kill them.

3) Any line of more than three people shall be considered a personal insult. Waiting patiently is like meekly accepting a slur against your character.

4) One must run up escalators and walk down them. You can not stand to the right and allow people to pass you unless you have crutches.

5) You must never go to more than one cultural event a year, although you must claim it as the number one reason for living in New York.

6) You must never cook at home and, under no circumstances, may you cook Chinese. restaurants and take-out are the only legal forms of eating.

7) Retail is for suckers:

A) Whenever someone compliments you on a piece of attire, you must tell them how much it costs. Modest women may avoid giving actual figures by muttering, "outlet" or “sample sale.” Men may say, "I know someone."

B) For larger purchases such as apartments and cars, you must go into detail about the financing. Extreme detail. A laptop is handy.

C) It's not an official bargain until you find someone who paid more and humiliate them.

8) Spring and autumn in New York must be so glorious as to inspire songs. If either lasts more than one week, it must be accompanied by a summer and winter of unendurable harshness.

9) Nature shall be defined as a squirrel. Trees are a theory, grass is a dream and flowers are sold in bunches. Pigeons are flying rats and Birdsong was one of The Supremes. Under no circumstances may Central Park be confused with nature. It is simply a Hamptons for the resort-challenged.

10) You must brag about the quality of New York tap water - unless you want to be right.What we drink may begin pure and wholesome in the Catskills, but it travels here through pipes that were new when Boss Tweed was in knickers.

11) There is only one legal topic of discussion: real estate - everything else must be subsumed within it. Eg: "If Mayor Bloomberg doesn’t want Gracie Mansion, can I have it?”

12) You must drink at least twelve cups of coffee a day. Members of the United Kingdom may substitute tea, but only if they have an accent.

A) Coffee "regular" means with milk and sugar. Don't argue, it's the law.

B) Any concoction that involves steamed milk may be priced as if it was made with cocaine.

C) Coffee to go must be served in a blue and white paper cup adorned with the Parthenon. It must leak.

13) MTA stands for “Metropolitan Torment Authority.”

A) Every subway line must have three different names, none of them the destination.

B) Local and express trains must travel on separate tracks except when they don’t.

C) The MTA gets extra points if they change a train from local to express while you’re on it. Thus, forcing you to miss your stop. When they reach a hundred points, they can raise their fare another twenty per cent.

D) Uptown and Downtown trains must have different entrances except when they don’t. Transfer between them must always be possible unless you need it. Should such transfer be available, it must be through a tunnel so scary that policemen only enter in groups.

E) Crucial information about the subway will only be provided after you've paid your fare. Potentially life-saving announcements must be completely unintelligible.

F) You may only board a bus in Manhattan if you’re taking it to another borough. That’ll teach you.

14) If there are less than seven million people in New York on a summer weekend, it will be considered "empty." This obliges all remaining residents to see the same movie at the same time at the same theater. One can, however, get a table at a trendy, overpriced restaurant with only a week's notice.

15) If only six people are in the movie theater, they all have to sit directly in front of each other, forming a narrow line up the center, After all, those are the best seats. (See "Waiting In Line" 7/17/09)

16) The words “excuse me” no longer merit a response. Instead of meaning,“Please move and let me through,” they now mean “Please stand there and ignore me until I have to push you out of the way.” Unless the person in your way is a tourist. In which case, they don’t mean anything.

17) Rain will have the power to melt taxis and cause umbrella vendors to sprout from the pavement.

18) The practice of psychotherapy will be confined to the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The conversion of hysterical misery into common unhappiness in any other neighborhood is prohibited.

19) If you are born within the five boroughs of New York City, you may not pronounce a final "r." It is no coincidence that our teams are the Knicks, Nets, Giants, Jets, Yankees and Mets. The Rangers don't count. Until they won the Stanley Cup, New Yorkers thought hockey was a form of spitting.

20) If the Yankees ever move to another city, anyone who even looks like the owner will be put to death.

Sarah Palin Should Aim Low.

It’s painfully clear that Sarah Palin is unsuited for any form of government. She quit her last public office in mid-term to cash in on her celebrity, so her contempt for the people she serves is breathtaking. Her performance in the 2008 Republican Presidential campaign (otherwise known as the “Drag Me To Hell” Tour) leaves no doubt about her ignorance of public affairs. It’s so vast that it makes the State of Alaska look small. As for writing a book, former Miss USA, Carrie Prejean, has also written a book. I don’t know which one to read first. Yet, I see a clear path to success for Sarah – and I’m willing to share it. It’s been said that politics is Hollywood for ugly people. What if you’re a pretty, but lousy, politician? Where do you go? Hollywood!

I don’t, by any means, intend to slight Hollywood or to suggest, in any way, that Palin has the intelligence, training or gift to be an actor. I’m saying great screen careers have had humbler beginnings. For instance, picture Sarah Palin as a cheerleader. To help you, look at her picture on the cover of this week’s (11/23) Newsweek magazine. See the way she’s posing? (“Contrapposto” in art historical terms.) Give her a pleated skirt, two pom poms and a letter sweater. Perfect, right? Not in a wholesome, family entertainment way, either. The movie I have in mind is a low comedy of the leering sort. The kind that “Joe Sixpack” rents without telling his eighteen-year-old son, who’s also renting it. Imagine what one of Palin’s well-practiced winks could do under the circumstances.

If she’s ambitious (this is Sarah Palin we’re talking about) she will no doubt convince some producer to put her in a more prestigious film. A restoration comedy, for instance. “School For Scandal” only it’s been renamed it, “School for Rogues.” Remember, we’re not looking for artistic perfection. It’s a vehicle – lots of close-ups. Picture in your mind, Sarah Palin with bare shoulders, hair up in curls, blushing behind a fan. Every red-blooded Sheridan fan will be there the first day.

Finally, she’s ready for a big, starring role – Cleopatra. Not in a cheesy epic like the one with Elizabeth Taylor. I see a more kittenish Queen of the Nile - like Vivien Leigh in the 1945 film version of George Bernard Shaw’s “Caesar and Cleopatra.” (Okay, we’ve left reality, but stay with me.) Sarah Palin in a black pageboy with a golden asp curling around her head, pouting on a chaise longue, lower lip extended teasingly in your direction. But wait, there’s more! The tour de force of this movie – I’m talking hall of fame casting here – is John McCain as Julius Caesar. The gray hair, martial bearing, sly sense of humor – ne plus ultra. And the tension between them is already there. You don’t have to invent it. It’s built in. I’d pay to see that.

Have Gun, Will Shargel.

Time: The Near Future.

Place: Midtown Manhattan.

The office of Gerald Shargel, a prominent criminal defense attorney.The walls are covered with shelf after shelf of handsomely bound legal volumes, numerous awards and degrees and behind his desk (closest to his heart?) framed headlines about his many high-profile cases. Foremost among them, his daring use of an “intellectual property” strategy to successfully defend Robert Joel "Joe" Halderman, a former TV producer charged with blackmailing talk show host, David Letterman. The phone rings, Shargel presses a lighted button and talks into a speaker.

Shargel

Hi, Joe. Good to be free, isn’t it?

Halderman

Yes. Thanks again.

Shargel

Find any TV work?

Halderman

It’s very hard.

Shargel

Just be patient. People have a short memory.

Halderman

Except when you owe them money.

Shargel

Don’t do anything rash, okay?

Halderman

Define “rash.”

Shargel

I had a feeling this wasn't a social call.

Halderman

I tried to sell another screenplay.

Shargel

Why, Joe, why?

Halderman

I need the money. Especially, after paying you.

Shargel

I know, but not Letterman.

Halderman

Listen to me! It wasn't Letterman.

Shargel

Then who?

Halderman

The man who owns a bodega at Convent Avenue and 131 St.

Shargel

Why him?

Halderman

It’s the story of a storeowner at that very location who survives a robbery by quickly and quietly handing over all the money in his register.

Shargel

Did he buy it?

Halderman

No, he tried to sell me his screenplay about a holdup man who gets shot because the storeowner keeps a large, loaded gun under the counter. I say, “That’s a pretty flimsy premise for a whole movie.” He says, “It’s been tested. They love it in Harlem.” At this point in the negotiations, I stick my gun under his chin and say, “This is ‘can’t miss’ material.”

Shargel

Wait. Hold on. Stop right there. I’m getting the sense that this is no longer an “intellectual property” issue.

Halderman

Oh, we passed that a long time ago.

Shargel

Wish I could help you, Joe, but I don't have a free second. Since winning your case, I’ve been deluged with offers. More than I could ever take. I’m already overcommitted.

Halderman

You mean you won’t help me?

Shargel

I can’t, but I will give you a sound bit of advice.

Halderman

Anything. Please. I’m desperate.

Shargel

You don’t need a lawyer, you need an agent.

Christmas Charnel.

Not even on the Hebrew or Chinese calendars is it Christmas yet - or close. So why are we being assaulted by Christmas-related advertising, events and promotions? You can whine all you want about the bad economy, but that doesn’t excuse extending the holiday season by a month. True, no one is shocked anymore by Christmas ads appearing before Thanksgiving. They’re as unwelcome, yet predictable, as the Swine Flu. Starting them on November first, however is grotesquely commercial, brazenly offensive and an abuse of our patience. What’s more, it’s bound to be ineffective. If you start your Christmas-related advertising the first week of November, people will be sick of it by the second week. Especially if, in this bad economy, you’re too cheap to produce a lot of different ads. The media companies won’t complain, you’re all they need for a happy holiday, but it gives consumers six weeks to ignore your carefully crafted seasonal marketing. It may even provoke a backlash. I don’t advocate that, of course, but . . . if some early advertisers were boiled in their own puddings and had stakes of holly driven through their hearts - not all of them, just a representative sampling - I think it would send a message, a holiday message, to the rest: don’t be a ho, ho, ho.

Have You Seen Charles?

Charles Street in the West Village is one of the few streets in Manhattan that you can walk from end to end and one of the many that justify it. Beginning at Greenwich Avenue (not Greenwich Street), walk one block west until you come to a very familiar-looking corner. It’s familiar because the otherwise ordinary building at the corner of Charles and Seventh Avenue is where, every Thursday night for ten years, the cast of “Friends” lived. Directly across Charles Street is Harry Chong’s Barber Shop. Well, not exactly. It was Harry Chong’s laundry for sixty years. Now, it’s a barber shop and the current owners have kept the name because they like the way it’s written on the windows. They also have a taste for taxidermy: inside, a miniature deer head is mounted on one wall and a murder (the correct term) of crows is perched above a mirror. The kind of place where Alfred Hitchcock would go to get his head polished.

The block from Seventh Avenue to West Fourth Street is a short one lined with brownstones on one side and townhouses on the other. A distinction, apart from visual, that only the privileged occupants could explain.

Across West Fourth Street, we come to the Congregation Direch Amuno, a synagogue that’s almost one hundred years old. Though made of stone, it’s very narrow and looks like a strong cantor could blow it down with one good prayer. Further up on that side of the street is a building where the poet, Hart Crane lived. The brass plaque says he was an advertising copywriter before he became a famous author, a career path that society should do everything to encourage. (Throwing yourself off a ship into the Gulf of Mexico, however, should be discouraged.)

The next street that crosses Charles is Bleecker. While the strip of Bleecker near NYU is still a honky-tonk, student ghetto, it gets nicer as you go further west. By the time it reaches Charles, the dives are gone and it's one fashionable and expensive boutique after another, all tucked preciously into one quaint building after another. This stretch of Bleecker is as close as Manhattan gets to Job Lane in Easthampton – or should.

The next block of Charles is a good antidote for the cloying wealth of Bleecker. That’s where you’ll find the headquarters of the NYPD Bomb Squad. In case you have any doubts, it’s spelled out in large, unmistakable letters on a wide, metal garage door, “BOMB SQUAD.” Beneath it is their insignia: a bad guy in a black mask riding an aerial bomb downward over a clock showing the time, “six minutes to midnight.” During the Cold War, that was called “The Doomsday Clock” and was a popular way of signaling impending nuclear disaster. I wouldn’t linger in front of that door, especially if you’re wearing a bulky vest.

Once you cross Hudson, the buildings start playing scale games. At the corner of Greenwich Street (not Greenwich Avenue) is a whitewashed, wooden home, one story high, on a plot of land surrounded by a fence. Suburban in style, it would be considered tiny anywhere except in Manhattan. In this location, only a billionaire could afford it – and wouldn’t. Mayor Bloomberg, for instance, has already turned down Gracie Mansion because his own home is nicer.

Across Greenwich is a vastly larger red brick warehouse that’s been converted into apartments. Next to that is a two and one half story house built in 1834. I say two and one half because the attic has dormer windows. This house also appears to have two front doors, but look closer. The address on the main one is 131, on the much smaller one, down and to the left, 131 ½. Look through the window on that door and you see a narrow passage into a rear courtyard. It’s not a driveway and it’s too low to ride through on a horse, you would have to dismount and walk your horse through it. (Horseway? Trotsky?) Across from that house is a cozy, little coffee house called Mojo. Combining classical-style, cast iron columns and wide, horizontal, wood panels, it seems to straddle the border between SoHo and Big Sur. Next to Mojo is an extremely wide (four windows) brick house and next to that a yellow house with a large, black, metal doorknocker in the shape of lion’s head. The kind that turns into the face of Jacob Marley in “A Christmas Carol.”

The last block of Charles Street before the Hudson River, between Washington and West Streets, is a study in contrasts. On the right is a long, low, motel-style group of attached homes with a running balcony along the second floor. Given the dark, vine-covered and generally distressed nature of the structure, that would be the Bates Motel. At the end of Charles Street, facing the river, is a tall, glittering, glass tower designed by the eminent architect, Richard Meier. One of three such buildings with enviable locations and, no doubt, incredible views, apartments in them have been snapped up by celebrities such as Martha Stewart and Calvin Klein.

But wait, there’s more. A new pier, designed for recreation, extends into the river from the end of Charles Street. It is also home to contrasts: real trees and fake grass; affluent residents and homeless people. The first is intentional, the second probably not, but both groups seem to be coexisting happily – or, at least, quietly. Across the river is New Jersey.

Ashes To Ashes, Fairy Dust To Fairy Dust.

“Peter Pan” is a work that has always fascinated me and a book that promises new insights into it would, naturally, get my attention. Fortunately. Janet Maslin warns us away from the new biography of J.M. Barrie by Piers Dudgeon with her review in today’s (10/26/09) New York Times. She doesn’t quite go into high dudgeon criticizing it, but judging from her description, it falls somewhere between a tissue of lies and being made of whole cloth. I’m not put off by the “. . . scandal-seeking heavy breathing” that she attributes to the biographer. (James Barrie and Lewis Carroll, for instance, have a lot in uncommon.) Nor is it that Mr. Dudgeon finds a dark side to “Peter Pan.” It's always been there - very close to the surface, too. What’s shocking is that he found an entire book in it. If you, like many people, believe that “Peter Pan” is merely light-hearted, children’s fare, let me disabuse you.

We’ll begin with the notion (over one hundred years old) that “Peter Pan” is meant primarily, if not exclusively, for children. Sure, there are pirates, Indians and mermaids, but those are just distractions. It’s really about fear, loneliness, aging and death.

Take growing up. Peter is opposed. Not because he enjoys childhood so much, but because he fears adulthood. Peter is one year old, being pushed in his pram, when he overhears his parents making plans for his future. This doesn’t square with him, so he bolts. The fairies in Kensington Garden tell him how to get to Neverland and off he flies.

That he would make a life-altering decision at such a tender age shows an impulsiveness more common in tragic heroes. What’s more, like those heroes, Peter must face the consequences of his acts. Because of a decision made when he was in his baby carriage, he spends the rest of his life as a virtual orphan. Yes, Neverland has the aforementioned distractions, but he misses his mother. That’s why he visits Wendy. He’s not exactly self-sufficient, either. Peter cries when he loses his shadow and needs Wendy to sew it back on.

However much Peter wants or needs her, Wendy goes home at the end of the play. She does, however, agree to see him again next year at “Spring Cleaning” time. This hasty solution bears within it the seed of another dilemma. What happens when Wendy grows up? Both the play and the novel versions of Peter Pan acknowledge that Wendy must get older with each succeeding visit. The play hints at it. The later novel is much more explicit. It ends with Wendy, a married woman, sending her young daughter, Jane, off to visit Neverland with Peter. Thus, beginning a tradition that is passed down through the generations.

This serial Wendyism may solve one problem, but, again, it creates another. How can Peter ignore the effects of aging upon the original Wendy? Immune to the passage of time himself, he must watch it consume her in year-long gulps. See her change in front of his eyes. Getting bigger - and then smaller. “Whom the Gods love die young” for this very reason. They are never diminished nor witness the gradual dimming of those they love. Something of which Barrie’s contemporary, A.E. Houseman, was exquisitely aware. Look at his poem, “To An Athlete Dying Young,” wherein he writes, “Smart lad, to slip betimes away/From fields where glory does not stay” and “Eyes the shady night has shut/Cannot see the record cut.” If there is a brief for not growing up, this poem is it. Houseman’s solution, however, is a little drastic. It follows, “The road all runners come/shoulder–high we bring you home.”

Peter Pan can’t die, though, because he’s already dead. Look at the evidence. He enjoys the only permanent, unchanging condition known to man. He lives in a paradise where no one ages. An undiscovered country from whose born a traveler never, never returneth. The play, itself, begins and ends in a bedroom. If you think that sleep is a rather unsubtle metaphor for death, you definitely won’t like the clock. Captain Hook is chased throughout the play by the man-eating crocodile that’s already taken his hand. How does he know this normally furtive reptile is near? The beast has also swallowed a clock. The approach of death is heralded by a ticking clock. The only thing missing is Tinker Bell saying, “Walk toward the light, walk toward the light.”

Now would be a good time to step back from the brink, if only to better appreciate the joy in Peter Pan. Thinking lovely thoughts, for instance. What could be nicer? And flying – what could be more fun? Then there’s Wendy, her mother and Nana, all of whom are unambiguously good. Not that a character has to be bland or sweet to be positive. Tinker Bell, for instance, is appealingly tart. Especially in the Disney version, where she gives off as much heat as light.

Yet, what do people remember about Peter Pan? Those charming moments in the nursery? Playing house in Neverland? Among writers (a brooding group, I’ll grant you) it tends to be the darker aspects. Peter’s literary influence, unlike his entrance, comes with shadows attached. Take F. Scott Fitzgerald. Only a generation later, he writes about a lonely dreamer stuck on this side of paradise. The following passage, the ending of The Great Gatsby, could just as easily be describing Peter as he hovers outside Wendy’s window, casting one last backwards glance before returning to Neverland. “He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in the vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on into the night. Gatsby believed in the green light, in the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther … And one fine morning – So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Again, a mere generation later, Peter returns, practically in the flesh, as Tom Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. Tom’s futile attempt to save his fragile, younger sister from the brutality of life with a dominating parent parallels the story of Peter, Wendy and her Captain Hook-like father. The directions to Neverland are, “First star to the right and straight on until morning.” The last part is significant because, as Tom Wingfield says, “I didn’t go to the moon, I went much further – for the time is the greatest distance between two places.” One reason why Peter is constantly fighting pirates and Indians may be that, like Tom, he is, “Attempting to find in motion what was lost in space.” Neither, of course, succeeds. Their days may be filled with violent activity, but they don’t build upon each other. They have no cumulative value. As Williams’s hero puts it, “They swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches.” Why does Peter return to Wendy every year at “Spring Cleaning” time? Tom Wingfield, again, may have the answer as he confesses, “I tried to leave you behind, but I am more faithful then I intended to be!” Tom feels enormous guilt over not being able to save his sister. As for Peter, who knows? Maybe he never expected Wendy to stay with him in Neverland. It is, after all, a candle-lit world and, as the last line of The Glass Menagerie reminds us, “Nowadays the world is lit by lightning!”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that Peter Pan isn’t for children. It’s exciting and fast-paced enough to thrill even the most video-besotted tot. It just shouldn’t be thought of as exclusively for children, something lost on most productions. Worse even than the simple-minded approach of these affairs is that they usually happen around the Holiday Season, when there is already enough saccharine in the culture to sweeten an ocean without adding calories. So, by all means, see Peter Pan with a child. They can hold your hand through the scary parts.

Giuliani Pal Gets Jail-iani.

Bernard Kerik, a man so unwholesome that his name was taken off a jail, is finally in one. Free to walk, talk and taint jury pools since 11/07, when he was indicted on federal, corruption, conspiracy and tax fraud charges (further tax fraud charges followed in 12/08) it's the last activity that put him on ice. With his jury selection scheduled for this monday (10/26/09), Kerik tried to generate public sympathy and influence potential jurors by leaking confidential information about his upcoming trial to The Washington Times. In revoking his bail, Judge Stephen C. Robinson of Federal District court in White Plains, New York said, according to an article by Benjamin Weiser and Stacey Stowe in today's (10/22/09) New York Times, that Mr. Kerik acted as if he was above the law and "thinks he is different" from other people. That the man now known as prisoner 210717 at Westchester County Jail (which accepts certain federal prisoners) has "a toxic combination of self-minded focus and arrogance" and feels "that rulings of this court are an inconvenience to be ignored or forgotten, or an obstacle to be circumvented."

Mr. Kerik himself is only a small stain on the fabric of society. The man who left it there, Rudolph Giuliani, is a little, but only a little, more consequential. When Giuliani was mayor of New York City, he made Bernard Kerik his Commissioner of Corrections and then his Police Commissioner. Two years after leaving office, Kerik was nominated to head The Department of Homeland Security, largely due to the strong, personal recommendation of Giuliani. Kerik would soon take his name out of consideration for the post. Rudolph Giuliani, however, would make unsuccessful attempts to run for Senator from New York and President.

What makes all of this more than tabloid fodder or a small, sleazy footnote to history are the rumors that Rudolph Giuliani wants to run for Governor of New York. Granting him a full measure of the delusions common to politicians and the laughably low standards for being Emperor of the Empire State, this would be a hard campaign to take seriously. Wherever he goes and whatever he does from now on, Rudolph Giuliani will carry the albatross (apologies to the bird world) of Bernard Kerik around his neck - with all the faulty judgement, bordering on negligence, and disrespect for citizens, bordering on contempt, that that implies. The man Giuliani trusted to protect our country from terrorism is now, not only incarcerated, but separated from the prison population and a danger only to himself. Any further political ambitions on the part of "America's Mayor" would, likewise, only be a danger to himself.

Sounds like "Gold In Sacks."

I don't want to start a torchlight parade, that's the farthest thing from my mind, but . . .

what enormously successful financial institution with deep and lasting ties to the federal government is - amid torrents of negative publicity (deserved and un) - building a glamorous, new headquarters tower in Lower Manhattan. Parking a giant, inflatable rat - of the kind that unions use - in front of the nearly completed building is the absolute last thing that I want to happen, (No Michael Moore I) but . . . if you were to look for this angular, 43-story glass edifice, I wouldn't look in the Wall Street area. Instead, I'd go north into one of the most family-centered neighborhoods in Manhattan. Near one of the city's best public high schools, a more-than-comfortable example of senior housing and a relatively new, waterfront park named after one of New York's most illustrious families. That's all I'm saying. You'll get no more facts from me. If protestors build a tent city on the athletic fields immediately adjacent to the site, it won't be because of me. No, sir.

Thanks Rhymes With Banks.

The front page of today's (10/20/09) New York Times (upper left corner, above the fold -

for the three people to whom that still matters) has an article by David D. Kirkpatrick that

begins: " The Wall Street giants that received a financial lifeline from Washington may have no

compunction about paying big bonuses to their dealers and traders. But their willingness to

deliver "thank you" gifts to President Obama and the Democrats is another question entirely."

File this story under:

1) Shocking, but not surprising.

2) Okay, what part of this is news?

3) Boy, I want to read a whole story about that, especially while I'm eating breakfast.

4) How is this different from being held by the Taliban?

5) Is there an election coming up? Really? So soon?

6) Hey, those guys were really Republicans, after all.

7) You shouldn't begin a sentence with "But," especially if the previous sentence (or fragment) has the word "may" in it. But I could be wrong.

8) If the banks thank Obama for anything, it should be for giving them money without imposing regulations.

9) Aren't there, like, a thousand laws about corporations thanking government officials? No?!

10) What does "K Street" have to do with anything?

11) Shouldn't the banks be thanking the American people instead? What form would that take? Is there a toaster big enough?

12) The idea of banks thanking anyone is an "urban legend" like a alligators in the sewers or the baby in the microwave.

In The Land of the Hawkeyes, the Blind Man is King.

I don't usually read official pronouncements by Chet Culver, the Governor of Iowa, but a friend tipped me off to one that was very interesting. He's bragging about bringing 1300 jobs to Dubuque. How did he do it? Because he's so darn persuasive? Because, gee whiz, Dubuque is such a wonderful place to live and work? Because IBM wanted to be nice to a bunch of unemployed Hawkeyes? No, Iowa paid for these jobs - and they weren't cheap.

It cost $22 million dollars in incentives to bring 1300 jobs to Dubuque. (The state's own figures.) That's almost $20,000 per job - and that's only what's been negotiated. You know a lot of concessions are coming, too. I doubt very much whether IBM will be paying any local and state taxes there, don't you? It's what IBM calls, "A strong positive public-private partnership."

What kind of jobs are these, anyway? It sounds like a building full of servers and all they need are people to oil and fan them when necessary. (Okay, you don't oil computers and they have electric fans. Whatever. It may just be people watching outlets, so no one trips over the cord, unplugging everything.)

The ultimate irony is that IBM will be using their Dubuque facility for outsourcing. They admit it. The 1300 people that they employ in Iowa will be actively stealing jobs from the rest of the country. So, Governor Culver is bragging about giving away the store to attract customers. Hiring people to export jobs and who, net, will be making the local economy worse. It's the kind of thing that gives colonialism a bad name.

My Dim Butterfly.

The response to my post, “His Girl, Tosca” (10/7/09) has been virtually deafening. (Virtual as opposed to real.) The applause has been deafening. (I still can’t hear it.) So, for my encore, I offer this synopsis of another great Puccini opera. That magnificent, multi-culti melodrama about a legendary, lady Lepidoptera, “Madame Butterfly.”

ACT I

American sailors carouse through the streets of a Japanese city in 1904. They sing the lusty, Tokyo, Tokyo, Una Citta Como Inferno (“Tokyo, Tokyo, It’s A Helluva Town.”) Their leader is the young and handsome Lieutenant Pinkerton. He explains why he loves Japan in Cosi Fan Tutti (“I Dig Chicks With Fans.”) He’s about to make a pacific overture to a three hundred pound bar girl when a beautiful, young woman enters the saloon asking for directions. He immediately approaches her and sings Que Una Bella Ragazza (“Hello, Gorgeous.”) She hides behind her fan, giggles and responds with the enchanting Che La Luna (“I’d Love To Kiss You, But I Just Washed My Happi Coat.”) Pinkerton realizes he’ll get nowhere without marrying her, so he proposes on the spot. Marry Mio Domani, Okay-o? She says yes. That night, Butterfly is too excited to sleep. Instead, she sings the joyous Allegro Mon Non Topo Gigio (“I Couldn’t Be Happier If I Was An Italian Mouse.”)

ACT II

The wedding day arrives and both the townspeople and the sailors celebrate with the spirited Libiamo (“Who Cares As Long As The Drinks Are Free.”) On the first day of their honeymoon, Pinkerton declares that he must return to the U.S. to join his father’s detective agency. Butterfly begs him to stay in the famous aria, Un Bel Di Dramamine (“I’d Go With You, But I Get Seasick.”) He responds with the equally well-known, Volare (“I Can’t Wait For You To Invent The Airplane.”) He leaves.

ACT III

Butterfly waits for him to return. And keeps waiting. So its not a total loss, she waits in the bar where they first met. As months drag into years, Butterfly sings the touching lament, Uno For My Bambino And Uno For The Autostrada. Finally, Pinkerton returns, but he is accompanied by an American wife. Butterfly is so heartbroken, she threatens to kill herself. The lieutenant waxes philosophical in Que Sera Sera. That night, Madame takes her life by eating poisonous blowfish sashimi. Before she dies, she gives forth with a last, tragic aria – the thrilling, “Fugu? I hardly know you.”

Smack My Ass and Call Me Sally.

Should Quentin Tarantino ever stop making movies (not that he should) his unique talents would be well used in the hot sauce business. Where else - besides the Defense Department and professional wrestling – are violence and creativity so closely entwined. Not in the making or selling of the product – an innocent condiment – but in the naming.

Take “Ass Reaper.” Sounds very hot, but not very appetizing. Conjures up a lot of images, too, but none of them include fried eggs. How about “Possible Side Effects.” What could they be besides heartburn and, well, ass reaping? Unless, as years of pharmaceutical advertising have drummed into us, possible side effects include vivid and disturbing dreams, suicidal thoughts and a sense of confusion, which, in rare cases, means you’re going to die in two weeks. Death, by the way is a popular theme in the naming of hot sauces. My favorite is “Jersey Death.” Like the New Jersey Turnpike, it suggests a lot of exits, all of them different. There’s the Jimmy Hoffa kind, being eaten by pigs or having Giants Stadium built on your nose. There’s the kind that Tony Soprano doled out or – kicking the bucket old school – the way Sonny Corleone gets his ticket punched at a Garden State toll booth. There’s death by pollution, gang war in Newark and the slowest and most agonizing form, watching TV commercials for the New Jersey Governor’s race.

Some names go too far, however. Spontaneous Combustion Powder, for instance. If it causes you to burst into flames, then, by definition, it’s not spontaneous. I’m skeptical, too, of Doctor Phardtpounder’s Colon Cleaner. I doubt whether it packs much of a G.I. jolt.

Finally, there’s “Smack My Ass and Call Me Sally.” It doesn’t matter how hot it is, I’d buy it just so I could go into a store and ask for it. It doesn’t seem to be sold outside of Texas, though. Besides, who would sell it? Hole Foods?

Bush On A Hot Tin Roof/ The Marshall Falcon.

A brisk, October morning. George and Laura Bush sit on the covered terrace of their house in the exclusive Preston Hollow neighborhood of North Dallas. Laura wears a dressing gown over tailored silk pajamas and drinks tea out of a silver service. George wears a t-shirt down to his knees that says, “Hook ’em, Horns!” For breakfast, he’s having an RC and a moon pie.

GEORGE

Damn. That guy gets everything.

LAURA

Who, George?

GEORGE

Obama. He just got the Nobel Peace Prize.

LAURA

Are you sure?

GEORGE

They just announced it.

LAURA

But he hasn’t done anything.

GEORGE

Exactly. I’m President for eight years and what do I get?

LAURA

Did you want the Nobel Prize?

GEORGE

No, but a little recognition would be nice.

LAURA

We came here so we wouldn’t be recognized - by the wrong people.

GEORGE

You make it sound like we’re hiding.

LAURA

Relaxing.

GEORGE

It’s hard to relax when you’re humiliated on a worldwide scale.

LAURA

Don’t take it so personally.

GEORGE

It has to be personal. First, Gore gets it. Then, the very next one goes to Obama. They don’t even wait eight years. They want to make it very clear that George W. isn’t getting one.

LAURA

If you wanted a Nobel Prize, you should have started a long time ago.

GEORGE

I’m not making claims, but a little thanks – is that so bad? A thank you for being President.

LAURA

I keep telling you, George, don’t expect to be thanked. Just be wonderfully surprised when it happens.

GEORGE I’ll be surprised all right.

LAURA Try to relax, dear – and don’t do anything foolish.

GEORGE

You mean go off the wagon?

LAURA

Yes.

GEORGE

It’s tempting.

LAURA

Don’t give in.

GEORGE

Sometimes I really miss drinking.

LAURA

Giving up drinking is the best thing you’ve ever done.

GEORGE

Huh?

LAURA

In a personal way. That and giving up drugs.

GEORGE

I always miss them. Just as well, though. Being President would have killed me if I was snorting. Three days would have done it.

LAURA And I would regret that.

GEORGE

Really?

LAURA

Deeply and forever.

GEORGE

Sometimes I don’t think so.

LAURA

What on earth could you mean?

GEORGE

You’ve been very critical since I left office. Not always directly, but in subtle ways.

LAURA

I’ve been honest with you, George. You should appreciate that. I can finally say what I think without worrying about protecting your image.

GEORGE

A little protection is okay. I could stand you protecting me.

LAURA

I protect my memory of you – and that isn’t easy.

GEORGE

I know I’m going to regret this (He steadies himself by grabbing the table) Why not?

LAURA

I remember when you were young, hot and a little dangerous.

GEORGE

(Breathes deeply and squares his shoulders) And now?

LAURA

I shouldn’t say.

GEORGE

You can’t stop now. The horse has left the station.

LAURA

Now, you’re old, cold and only dangerous when you use power tools.

GEORGE

Thanks a goddamned bunch, Laura. That really makes my morning. Thanks a whole lot. That really puts a cherry on it.

(George gets up to leave)

LAURA

Where are you going?

GEORGE

To clear some brush.

LAURA

We’re in Dallas, we don’t have brush.

GEORGE

Then I’m going to Crawford.

LAURA

George!

GEORGE

Don’t go? You take it all back and want me to stay?

LAURA

No, don’t use power tools.

(George shakes his head and mutters as he leaves.)

GEORGE

Of all the goddamned mornings.

___________________________________________________________

A brisk, October morning. Anthony Marshall, 85, and his wife, Charlene, 64, stand facing each other in the parlour of their seventeen-room Park Avenue duplex. Flames lick and rollover in the fireplace, but the temperature of the room remains arctic because Marshall has just been convicted on fourteen counts of Grand Larceny and Conspiracy to Defraud. He plundered the estate of his mother, 105-year-old heiress and philanthropist, Brooke Astor, while she was helpless from Alzheimer’s disease. Marshall is free on bail, but faces a sentence of up to twenty years. With his drooping eyes and sagging jowls, he looks like a bloodhound in a bespoke suit. Charlene looks like Liz Smith from Hell.

CHARLENE

If you get a good break, you’ll be out of Tehachapi in a couple years.

ANTHONY

Where?

CHARLENE

Tehachapi.

ANTHONY

Is that near Kykuit?

CHARLENE

I hope they don’t hang you, precious, by that sweet neck.

ANTHONY

This wasn’t a capital crime. The only hanging I’ll be doing is around.

CHARLENE

The chances are you’ll get twenty years. If you’re a good boy, you’ll get out in five. I can’t wait that long.

ANTHONY

Don’t, Charlene. Don’t say that even in fun. I was frightened for a minute. I really thought . . . You do such wild and unpredictable things.

CHARLENE

You’re taking the fall - and I’m taking a vacation. Liposuction here, botox there and Charlene’s got her groove back.

ANTHONY

You’ve been playing with me . . . You didn’t care at all. You don’t love me.

CHARLENE

I won’t play the sap for you.

ANTHONY

You know in your heart, In spite of everything I’ve done, I love you.

CHARLENE

I don’t care who loves who. I won’t play the sap. I won’t follow in Morrisey’s and I don’t know how many others’ footsteps.

ANTHONY Morrisey was our lawyer. He followed in our footsteps.

CHARLENE

You robbed your mother and you’re going over for it.

ANTHONY

It was your idea!

CHARLENE

This won’t do any good. You’ll never understand me, but I’ll try once and then give up. I was already old when I met you. Now, I’m over the hill. My chances of finding another husband are slim to none. I can’t waste any of them waiting for you.

ANTHONY

But I won’t last in prison. You know that. You won’t be waiting long.

CHARLENE

Your mother lived to be one hundred and five under worse conditions.

ANTHONY

The conditions were your idea.

CHARLENE

The only reason I should wait is maybe you love me and maybe I love you.

ANTHONY

You know whether you love me or not.

CHARLENE

Maybe I do. I’ll have some rotten nights after they send you up the river, but that’ll pass.

ANTHONY

If my mother had died when she should have, twenty-five years ago, would you still feel this way?

CHARLENE

A lot more money would have been one more thing on your side of the scales.

(Anthony takes a poker and plants it in Charlene’s forehead. Then pours himself five fingers of 100-year old cognac, drinks and calls his lawyer.)