The Dick Cheney Film Festival.

Which of these famous movie villains

does our former VP resemble most?

1) "Uncle Charlie" in the classic Alfred Hitchcock film, Shadow of

a Doubt (1943). Joseph Cotten plays Charlie Oakley, a gentle

soft-spoken, serial killer hiding out in the heart of small town

America. He never raises his voice or averts his eyes even as

he calmly justifies murdering lonely, old ladies for their money.

If you don't see the connection, you're not watching the news.

2) The Tin Woodsman in The Wizard of Oz (1939). Not a villain?

He's cold, stiff, heartless and can't live without oil. Remind you

of anyone? The only difference is that when the Tin Woodsmen

gets a mechanical heart, it makes him a better person. He also

has Judy Garland as Dorothy to oil him when necessary. Who

does that for Cheney? I keep seeing Rupert Murdoch in pigtails

and a pinafore - or worse, Ann Coulter. In that outfit, she'd

look like a cross between the St. Pauli girl and the evil robot

from Metropolis (1927).

3) Rita Hayworth in Lady From Shanghai (1947). In this film,

written and directed by Orson Welles, Rita is the evil and cunning

wife of an equally corrupt Everett Sloane. The climax shows them

trying to kill each other in the hall of mirrors of an amusement park

funhouse. They keep shooting and missing each other because they

only get the mirror image, not the person. I feel the same way when

I see Mr. Cheney on the news. Change to a talk show and he's there.

Change the channel and he's there. Pick up anewspaper and he's there, too. Is there no escape?

4) All the above.

First, Do No Hard.

“Boston Medical Group is a network of independent

  physicians using intellectual properties to treat

                          Erectile Dysfunction and Premature Ejaculation.”

       - Advertisement

 

Good news for men whose package is a little too full of surprises. The Boston Medical Group has the answer to your problems. I don’t know for a fact that they do, but their ad claims that they helped 30,000 men last year alone. What’s more they have offices in every city where men are present, so they certainly are popular. Then, there’s the name - what could inspire more confidence than the Boston Medical Group? It practically screams Harvard Medical School. Assuming, of course, that the word “Boston” doesn’t conjure up thug-like politicians who spend half their time in jail and the other half serving violence-prone voters like the one Jack Nicholson played in The Departed. Since this organization started in Costa Mesa, CA, they probably want you to think Oliver Wendell Holmes rather than Charles Ponzi or Albert De Salvo. (No mention of John Holmes, although he’s implied.) I don’t know what they do or how effective it is, but they promise that you will “See results…on your first visit!” They also promise physician-monitored treatments, so your doctor will see the results, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Boston Method, as they call it, owes something to the Bangkok method, which involves picking a number from one to twenty. Thank heavens for their “private waiting rooms.” Again I don’t know what they do and, unlike Boston and Medical, which are a magical combination, Boston combined with Method doesn’t help in this regard. Unless the treatment involves a pair of red socks, a large bear or a leprechaun, they should choose another name. Instant Wood is already taken. The Patriot Method would be good, suggesting, as it does, both a football team and a missile. Minuteman is a non-starter. Of course, if you’re really in the market for the kind of help that they dispense, you aren’t going to quibble over the name. Still, you have to wonder about the quality of help that the Boston Medical Group provides. Call me skeptical, but, using my own “intellectual properties,” I’d say that theirs probably don’t include intelligence, judgement or ethics.

How Much Is That Nimbus In The Window?

The Cannes Film Festival was five days ago. The MTV Movie Awards are this weekend and The Tony Awards are next week. We are definitely in awards season. In fact, these are boom times for the halo business. Crowns are becoming as common as baseball caps and it's getting downright difficult to go unrecognized for one's achievements. How did this happen and why is each new awards show morecrass and commercial than the previous one?

 

We can start by blaming Alfred Nobel. Tired of blowing the world to pieces and hoping to make it a better place, he endowed the Nobel Prizes in 1901. Wisely, he did so through his will, so he wouldn't have to see the results. The Peace Prize, for instance, has gone to people like Henry Kissinger, Menachem Begin and, that big old softie, Yasser Arafat. As for the other award winners, their body count is even higher. The competition among scientists makes the Arab-Israeli conflict look like two kittens fighting over a catnip mouse. Instead of being shamed out of existence, the Nobels are, arguably, the best known and most highly regarded prizes in the world.

 

Not to be outdone by Europe, this country proved it was just as high-minded by creating an equally prestigious award in 1921. That's when Atlantic City hosted the first Miss America contest. Okay, not as high-minded, but they reward congeniality.

 

Meanwhile, history was being made on the West Coast. In 1928, a  small group of movie professionals held a quiet, little awards dinner at the Hollywood Roosevelt hotel. This affair would, in time, become the bloated monstrosity known as the Academy Awards. Not only has it given us such indelible moments as Mitzi Gaynor tap dancing to the theme from Georgy Girl, but it created the vogue for self-congratulation, which has since affected every industry. All three strands were woven together in 1947 when The American Theatre Wing bestowed the first Antoinette Perry ("Tony") awards. The Tony ceremony combines the earnest dullness (people who say thee-ah-tuh) of the Nobel Prize and the self-congratulation of the Oscars with women (and sometimes men) who are pretty enough to be Miss America. Ironically, its true achievement is commercial. That is, as a commercial for the legitimate theatre. ("Legitimate" applied to theatre is like "ethical" applied to pharmaceuticals – puzzling when it's not completely wrong.) It does so by presenting great songs from great musicals as done by the original cast. The Academy Awards, on the other hand, would probably have Enya do a New Age interpretation of "Rose's Turn."

 

The history of awards presentations reached a low point in 1991 when the ceremony for the Clio Advertising Awards devolved into an orgy of shameless statuette grabbing. I wasn't there for the melee itself, but I was present earlier. I was working as an advertising copywriter and, along with my partner, was nominated for a Clio. After a long delay, we were herded into the auditorium, where we heard a strange confession from the event's host. All records were lost. They don't know who won. All they have are slides of the winning ads. So, they will project the slides and whoever won will come up and claim their award. This man was clearly not a public speaker, which seemed odd. It turns out he was the caterer and was there in order to get paid. Our category was among the first and we didn't win. My partner, however, won for a different ad and returning from the stage, statuette in hand, he showed me that, unlike most advertising awards, it was not engraved. As we left, we saw some cagey newshounds who, pads out, were already getting the scoop. Not much later, a frustrated crowd rushed the stage and grabbed all the remaining awards. Looting encouraged by the lack of names on the statuettes. If you need convincing, just look up the Adweek magazine for that week. The cover will show the president of a large New York agency lunging after statuettes with both hands while his tongue, like Michael Jordan's, hangs out of his mouth. It being advertising, his career was not affected.

 

Network television, inspired by the challenge, showed that they could sink even lower than their commercial colleagues and created "American Idol." Although it seems like it's been on forever, it actually debuted in 2002. It began with there judges: the unfailingly genial music producer, Randy Jackson (think Al Roker dressed as a pimp) the grinning gamine, Paula Abdul, whose claim to fame is choreographing cheerleaders and the supercilious Simon Cowell,  playing the kind of movie villain who pinches snuff and runs over peasants in his carriage. Ultimately, however, America's Idol is chosen by the viewing public. It costs money to vote, you can vote more than once, the results are confusing, inaccurate and not confidential. What's more, Florida gets involved. Unlike certain elections, however, it can result in nothing worse than bad music. Eight seasons later, this show has jumped so many sharks, it might as well be The Sydney Lifeboat Races. They've added a blandly pretty songwriter, Kara DioGuardi, as a judge, but all she brings is her own lust for becoming a celebrity.  Paula is retreating into either drug abuse or premature senescence and Simon Cowell continues an R-rated love affair with himself. If his shirts get any tighter, his head is going to shoot off like a roman candle. Compared with this crew, Randy is Thurgood Marshall, but one who begins each opinion with, "Yo, dog!" Contestants? Who cares about contestants?

 

Are there any valid, respectable awards? Yes. Since 1955, the Village Voice newspaper has been giving Obie Awards for achievement in off-broadway theatre. It's not a competition and there are no categories. If someone deserves an award that year, they get it. There's no limit to the number of awards that can be given. There's no commercial value and no publicity except in the Voice itself. The only people at the ceremony are the winners, their families and friends. Pretty much, the platonic ideal of an award. Yet, it all seems very unsatisfying. I miss the melodrama. Unfair, too. I can't escape the feeling that unless a grotesque amount of fame and fortune is attached, the winners are being cheated.

How Brown Was My Gurley?

Helen Gurley Brown is climbing the bestseller list again. Okay, her biography, Bad Girls Go Everywhere by Jennifer Scanlon, isn’t on the list yet, but give the girl a break. It takes her longer to climb now. There should, at the very least, be no doubt in your mind that her life deserves our attention and her career, the thanks of a grateful pubic – I mean public.

 

Condoms. Porno. Infidelity. If sex is on the agenda today, it's because Helen Gurley Brown put it on the menu forty years ago. As editor of Cosmopolitan Magazine, she encouraged women to demand sexual satisfaction. She urged them to be stern judges of its quality and connoisseurs of its variety. She made it as much a part of their daily lives as putting on eye shadow. Now, after four decades, Helen Gurley Brown’s life has been committed to print.

 

Was she the only leader of the revolution? The only life of the party? Hardly. Yet, no one can deny that she was a tent pole in the sexual big top of the Sixties. Can Helen Gurley Brown even claim exclusive credit for the influence of Cosmo? Probably not, but an executive who doesn't take credit is like a thief passing an open window. So, how do we know that her tenure reflects achievement and not just the sort of aggression usually rewarded with a prison sentence? Look around. Her influence not only remains, it's stronger than ever and has multiplied.

                                                     

Most daytime talk shows would not exist had Ms. Brown not preceded them with articles like, "What a real orgasm feels like. Some much beloved Cosmo Girls tell. Maybe you're being cheated." The romance novel industry and its weaker offshoot, publishing, owe thanks to the very covers of Cosmo. Here is where America learned what a bodice really looked like. They always featured a beautiful woman with abundant hair and pronounced cleavage (pronounced: KLEE-vidge). Carving these fabulous busts was Brown's court sculptor, Francesco Scavullo. (Frankie to his friends.) Is it too much to say he was Michelangelo to her Pope Julius II? Not if you remember how dull the checkout line was before they met.

                                                     

The most tangible proof of this editor's effect on popular culture is Madonna.Who else so deftly blends sexual aggressiveness, marketing skill and pure image? Helen Gurley Brown not only made Madonna possible, she made her necessary.

                                   

Women's magazines have been published in this country for over a hundred years. Brown's genius lies not in aiming at women, but hitting them where they love. Like Isaac Newton, if she has seen so far it's because she's stood on the padded shoulders of giants. Which leads naturally to the question of who she stepped on to get and keep her job. Let's just say she was in power almost as long as Franco and never had to bomb Guernica.

 

One still has to wonder about the personal qualities that go into such a life of achievement. I've never met Helen Gurley Brown, but I've formed a rather strong picture of her: bedroom or kitchen, office or vegetable garden, she strikes me as the sort of woman who calls a spade a spade and a cucumber, "Darling."

                                              

I don’t mean to strike an elegiac note, simply one of appreciation. So, I’ll say, “Thank you, Ms. Brown” as we, to paraphrase Steven Spender, think of one who was truly great and left the vivid air sighing with orgasms.

Bristol Palin: Mommy Dimmest.

The 6/1/09 issue of People Magazine features a young, smiling woman on the cover. She's wearing a cap and gown and holding a baby. She could be a proud mother graduating from college, but the headline calls her a teen mom. The father is absent because as the headline also tells us, she's Bristol Palin, the famously unwed daughter of Sarah Palin, a former Vice-Presidential candidate. Why is she preening, bastard in hand, on the cover of People and what on earth can she be smiling about? The caption should explain, but it only raises more questions.

The caption quotes Bristol Palin as saying, "If girls realized the consequences of sex, nobody would be having sex. Trust me. Nobody." Apparently, until nine months ago, she was unaware that sex could result in pregnancy and, until this day, is unaware that it doesn't have to. What's more, the idea that the consequences of sex (including sexually transmitted diseases) needn't be permanent - or life threatening - seems alien to her. Why does the average ghetto teenager know more about the subject than the Governor of Alaska's daughter? It can't be an accident - and it didn't happen overnight. Even in nature, it takes water a thousand years to produce a gap that big.

When it comes to intellect, Sarah Palin is not a force of nature. In a memorable interview with Katy Couric, she claimed foreign policy experience because she can see Russia from her window. You don't, however, have to be a genius to teach your child "the facts of life." You don't have to be a Supreme Court Justice, either, to teach them good judgment. Instead, it appears that the only thing Sarah Palin has passed on to her daughter is her looks. A not inconsiderable gift, I'll grant you, but without even a rudimentary form of guidance, that's like handing your car keys to a six-year-old. What about the men in Bristol's life? Don't they share responsibility? Her father, Todd Palin, and the father of her child, Levi Johnston, are not public figures, so they're harder to judge. Yet, from what I can tell, it's very tempting to underestimate them and very likely impossible. Still, the questions remain: what legitimate reason is there for her to pose with her illegitimate child on the cover of a national magazine and why is she beaming?

Qui bono? Who benefits? Certainly not Bristol Palin. Public exposure, under the circumstances, is public humiliation of a Puritan intensity. She may as well be in the stocks or, in the Nathaniel Hawthorne mode, wear a scarlet letter on her chest: A for adultery. Her mother, however, is a politician as well as governor. Perhaps her quixotic run for the Vice-Presidency stoked her national ambitions instead of dampening them. Could she be trying to put a good spin on her daughter's escapades by presenting Bristol's life as a cautionary tale? Thus, keeping her own name before the public and turning a political liability into an advantage - or is that too cold, too calculating, too Manchurian Candidate-ish to consider? If it's true, then Bristol is smiling because she has no other choice. And the person who should be wearing the scarlet letter is her mother: A for . . . amoral?

What's Bad For GM Is Bad For The Country.

                       “I’ve never seen a bankruptcy

                             that has such a happy face

                              on it as this one.”

 

                                                Gary N. Chaison

                                                Clark University

 

 

There are no good reasons for going into bankruptcy,

only significant ones. If you’re a young and foolish –

or old and cunning – individual, it’s an easy and

popular way of avoiding your financial obligations

(except to your lawyer.) If you’re a businessman 

who can’t even run a candystore  - and you run a 

candy store – it’s irrefutable proof that you should 

choose another career. What if you’re engaged in 

something larger? Suppose you are, from time to 

time, the largest industrial corporation in the world? 

It’s no longer a question of stiffing some 

soon-to-be-former friends or guileless candy suppliers, 

  your going bankrupt will effect a lot more people in

  a lot worse ways. That’s the issue that General Motors

faces right now. Yet, in an article by Michelle Maynard

and Michael J. de la Merced in the 5/26/09 New York

Times, Gary N. Chaison, professor of Industrial Affairs

at Clark University, sees the bright side.

 

Among the reasons for his happiness are the following:

The mere threat of GM going bankrupt has already 

coaxed concessions from the United Autoworkers Union;

If GM does file for bankruptcy, suppliers and the 

communities where GM does business will be eligible for 

federal assistance and, finally, consumers who insist 

on buying cars from General Motors will be rewarded 

with warranties backed by the Federal government.  

Professor Chaison claims that, from GM’s point of view, 

“You’re going to the hospital and that’s really good 

because you’ll be out soon and you’ll be much better.” 

I take a different point of view. Bankruptcy is not a 

business model and going on federal assistance is not 

a cause for rejoicing.  Everyone who trusted GM is 

being cheated and the further down the list of 

creditors you are, the more you’re being screwed. 

Calling it reorganization or Chapter 11 is just 

window dressing. Literally. It's like a restaurant 

that goes out of business and the landlord hangs 

a "Closed for Renovation" sign in the window or 

one of those electronics stores that exploits tourists 

by putting a "Going Out of Business" sign in their 

window - for years. There are no pros to this 

particular con. General Motors going bankrupt 

is like siphoning gas: a traditional form of stealing 

that leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

    

Steeling into the Night.

             (Sung to the tune of  

       “O Little Town of Bethlehem”)

 

      O little town of Bethlehem,

      How steel has let thee die!

      Above thy dark and jobless streets

      The Sands Hotel stands high;

         And in the gambling pits below

         The everlasting hope;

         That all those years of steep arrears

      Will be paid off by dopes.

 

 

         A gambling-based economy

      Though it may seem quite grand!

     Means freedom from morality

      And ethical demands.

      Great, fire-belching furnaces,

         These many years grown cold,

         May still await you in the end.

         Don’t say you weren’t told.

Wedlock and Key.

May 20 is my wedding anniversary and that always makes me think of prison. Not in a bad way, though. According to the Federal Bureau of Prisons, inmates are allowed three personal items: religious medals, prescription eyeglasses and wedding rings. The first two help you see the light, so they are essential for being saved – if only by “The Midnight Special.” The last one bears examination.

 

There are several, logical reasons for prohibiting jewelry behind bars: they don’t want convicts indulging their vanity, getting bludgeoned for their baubles or cutting their way out with a diamond ring. Why is a plain wedding band (it must be plain) the exception? Prisons are not pubs, wearing a wedding ring won’t discourage romantic interest. The only thing that might, under the circum- stances, is a homemade knife. In prisons, as elsewhere, wedding rings only matter, but matter deeply, to the people wearing them. 

 

 A wedding ring means that you are never alone or forgotten, two feelings that are common while incarcerated. It reminds you that, as in marriage, losing privacy and control over your life can some- times be a good thing. That unlike your debt to society, some debts never have to be repaid. While prison is busy trying to erase your identity, a wedding ring doubles it. What’s more, that frail-looking gold band is your unbreakable link to the outside world.       It even allows you to visit that world if only in your heart and mind. As Romeo says, “With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot keep love out.”

 

So, if you ever doubt the value of marriage or fear for it’s future, go to jail. That’s where you'll find its most ringing affirmation.

Dancing With The Star-Crossed.

It's too bad that Shawn Johnson won Dancing With The Stars. Not that I have anything against her. She's a wholesome teenager, an olympic athlete and, not incidentally, a good dancer. That’s the problem. Shawn is a winner and Dancing With the Stars is not for winners.  It’s not for losers, either.  It’s for people, usually of a certain age, who just want to stay in the game. Those who, having made one or several comebacks, are now between re-inventing themselves and being rediscovered. For them, being on Dancing With The Stars is necessary. It’s their best - and often their last - chance to go from being famous for something to famous for being famous. In other words, to be a celebrity. The seeming inexhaustible supply of these unfortunates is why the show is in its eighth season. It's certainly not from any burning desire to see Emmit Smith do the Rumba. Until now, the only people who could imagine that were other NFL players who landed on their heads.

 

        Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing pathetic about this show. It’s not Charity Ballroom or ¾ Time’s Neediest Cases. Half of each team is a professional dancer and he or she is seriously good. The actor, singer or sports figure they dance with is also pretty good. None of the amateurs embarrass themselves – unless they lose. Then it’s a short trip to doing infomercials for geriatric beds with a rolling, laxative motion. For Shawn Johnson, this show may be nothing more than another trophy on her shelf. For most of the women who compete, it's a lot more. For them, it’s like being divorced. The good part of being divorced. They get in the best shape of their lives, put on the type of clothes they haven’t worn in years and do something very romantic with a young, handsome man. The only difference is that they’re doing it on TV and being judged.

Cap and Frown.

Another spring and no has asked me to speak at their graduation. It doesn’t have to be a     big or fancy school and I don’t expect an honorary degree, although one would be nice. I just want to share my wisdom. The speech   is written, so all I need is an invitation. Until then, all you wisdom seekers can read the     text below.

 

In the story, "Trouble Is My Business," Raymond Chandler writes, "Anna Halsey was about two hundred pounds of middle-aged putty-faced woman in a black tailor made suit. Her eyes were shiny black buttons, her cheeks were as soft as suet and about the same color. She was sitting behind a black glass desk the size of Napoleon's Tomb and she was smoking a cigarette in a black holder that was not quite as long as a rolled umbrella. She said, 'I need a man.'"

 

Beginnings are important. They can tell us     a lot about the rest of the story, even determine it to a certain extent, but no one should presume to guess the end from the beginning - especially with a mystery. The same is true of you. It's fine to have ambitions and feel you have a grip on the future, but not too tight. A relaxed grip is best.

 

"I need a man good-looking enough to pick up a dame who has a sense of class, but he's got to be tough enough to swap punches with a power shovel. I need a guy who can act like a bar lizard and backchat like Fred Allen, only better, and get hit on the head with a beer truck and think some cutie in the legline topped him with a breadstick."

             

Yes, the description only applies to men, but      a woman is doing the talking and, more importantly, the hiring. As for the passage itself, it’s both prescriptive and descriptive. It prescribes the sort of man that Anna Halsey claims to need. Indeed, the sort of person that any man would proudly be. Right down to knowing who Fred Allen is. But this passage also describes Anna as a woman who knows what she wants. Not literally – she doesn’t name anyone - but vividly and explicitly. That's a good quality. Have goals, but don't get hung up on specifics. Note that Anna never says why she want this man or even if she expects to finds him, yet her sense of direction is firm.

"It's a cinch', I said. 'You need the New York Yankees, Robert Donat and the Yacht Club Boys.'" 

Don't ever take yourself too seriously. Who was Robert Donat?  He was a lot of people, he was       an actor. 

 "You might do,” Anna said, "cleaned up a little."

 You might, too. Thank you - and good luck.

Three Lovers, But For You, Two.

The movie, Two Lovers, seems to have come and gone without anyone seeing it. Actually, one person did and described it to me. I don't remember all the details, but the following summary should cover the major points.   

Brighton Beach, Brooklyn is a melting pot of Russians, Jews and Russian Jews. If you’ve ever tried to cook with a melted pot, you know how practical an arrangement that is. Schmulka Bernstein (Conan O’Brien) is a sensitive, young Jew, born and raised in Brighton Beach. He hates living there, but doesn’t leave because he’s afraid to take the  Q train. Virile, but not very smart, he impregnates Natasha Yar (Queen Latifah) daughter  of the notorious Russian gangster, Boris “Babi” Yar, a man who takes the murder of  34,000 Jews by the Nazis as his business model. They’re arranging the wedding when Estelle Liebowitz (Gwyn Paltrow) the rabbi’s daughter, returns from Israel. Not only is she beautiful, intelligent and pious, she’s hot as a wool yarmulke. Schmulka and Estelle fall instantly and completely in love. At this point, Natasha returns from the doctor and ecstatically announces that she is carrying triplets. (Not to be confused with the restaurant owners, whom her father carried for years.) Schmulka tries to lure Natasha into a rowboat, but she’s seen A Place in the Sun and, no Shelley Winters, shoots her faithless fiancé in the groin. He considers himself lucky until he realizes what her father will do when he finds out. It’s impossible to hide from “Babi” Yar (even the Pope owes him a favor) so, as a last resort,  Schmulka goes to his synagogue and seeks sanctuary. 

The Rabbi, his future father-in-law, wants to help, but can’t (“You were expecting, maybe, Notre Dame?”) He does, however, hire a member of his congregation to act as Schmulka’s bodyguard. Irgun Mossad (Austin Pendleton) is so tough, he can smoke a whitefish just by looking at it. There is a climactic battle in which Mossad kills three thousand Russian gangsters, all named Gyorgi Foreman, and only sustains a flesh wound himself. Schmulka and Estelle get married at the Palm Beach Country Club, where the Rabbi announces that, as wedding gift, he’s invested all their money with Bernie Madoff. The happy couple are toasting their good fortune when Natasha Yar bursts in, brandishing a Kalashnikov rifle. She fires a warning shot, which gets their attention, but also hits a mounted swordfish on the wall. It falls, sword down, stabbing Natasha through the heart. No one takes it as an omen, but the Country Club takes it as  a business expense. Everyone lives happily ever after – they think.  

The Chrysler Bilking.

Now that the United Autoworkers Union owns 55% of Chrysler:

1)    Have you noticed how much the UAW President, Ron Gettelfinger, resembles the millionaire on the                     Monopoly game?

 2)    Does this mean that the workers own the means of production?    Was there a revolution and no one told me?

3)    Will Chrysler try to break the union? Will the union go out              on strike? Can you collectively bargain with yourself? Can you        be your own scab?

 

Now that Fiat owns 35% of Chrysler:

 

4)    The future of the company supposedly rests on Italian technology. Most American's can't operate an espresso machine. Are we setting the bar too high?

 

5) Yes, most Americans can drive and many would love to drive a Ferrari, but, again, we're talking about people whose first choice is a Chrysler.

 

6) Ever see a Pirelli calendar? Ever forget it? How about a Chrysler calendar. We can get Miss California, uhh, never mind.

 

Can we pin the whole mess on Lee Iacocca? Should we try?

 

7)    He’s either the brilliant leader who took a government bailout for Chrysler in 1979 and paid it back ahead of schedule – or the guy who wheels his dead buddy into a store so he can cash the man’s welfare check.

 

8) Sure, he can take credit for the Ford Mustang, but did you ever see him drive a Ford Pinto?

 

9)    He saved Chrysler by introducing the innovative “K” line of cars, but, what would you give me for a 1981 Plymouth Reliant?

 

 

Madoff: The Success of His Secret.

If a heavily armed Somalian boat approaches your oil tanker in “Pirate Alley,” you know you’re in trouble. Bernard Madoff is different. He gives to charity. He’s good to his family. He even looks like nice guy. Is that why he was able to defraud investors out of an estimated sixty billion dollars? Yes, but only in tandem with another powerful force: nostalgia. There is a nostalgia for relationships in business instead of transactions and it works to the advantage of people like Bernard Madoff.

A long time ago, all business was done through relationships. Every company gave its banking business to one bank, its legal work to one law firm and never considered using anyone else. These relationships were often so durable that they were passed down through the generations. If you needed a specialist of some kind, you developed a relationship with him and he became your specialist. There’s a lot of security in this arrangement, but no motivation to improve. Then, one day, someone suggests a change. They propose having different firms compete for the business and may the best deal win. If the old firm wants it bad enough, they know how to get it. This idea becomes very popular and soon, a lot of healthy, new relationships are spawned. However, given the tendency of people to take things too far unless someone stops them, the relationships get shorter and shorter until they become mere transactions. “What have you done for me lately?” becomes “What can you do for me?” The rise of hedge funds makes the transactions larger and the use of computers and the Internet makes them faster until entire fortunes are made – or lost - in seconds.

One beautiful, quiet evening before the current financial crisis, a hedge fund manager is replacing the green light at the end of his pier, when he stops and gazes at Long Island Sound and the sky stretching above it. He’s always admired their power, but tonight, for the first time, he realizes how empty they are. Then he looks back at the warm glow coming through the windows of his seventeen room Georgian-style mansion and experiences a stronger, almost over - whelming realization: not that there’s more to life than money, but that there’s definitely more to business. The next day he trades his warm-up suit for a business suit and goes downtown to see his old friend, Bernie.

They have a wonderful lunch (the Chateau d’Yquem goes perfectly with the foie gras) and the man realizes how much he misses working with people, especially people he likes. Where is the trust, he wonders. Remember when a man’s word was his bond and deals were sealed with a handshake? He vows to change his ways. Feeling equally expansive, his friend, Bernie, decides to let him in on a deal that, technically, is closed, but he’s willing to make an exception. Not only are the returns excellent, but they are consistent to a surprising, even shocking, degree. That’s all the financier needs to hear before sinking a tidy piece of change into the enterprise. They shake on the deal and our investor heads home, filled with a sense of gullible warming. He is, in fact, so pleased with himself, so convinced that his virtue has been rewarded that he decides to share the deal, Bernie won’t mind, with twelve of his closest friends. Then they tell twelve and they tell twelve and before you can say, “Ponzi scheme,” bankers in Vienna are in on the deal.

Does our misty-eyed mogul ever learn his lesson? Possibly, but it doesn’t matter. Today, everyone who trusted Bernard Madoff or trusted someone who trusted him is in the same financial toilet – and all the excuses and all the lawsuits in the world can’t make it a Jacuzzi.