Bird Massacre On Central Park West.

In an act of cultural vandalism somewhere between re-making the movie Sabrina and burning the library of Alexandria, someone has gotten their hands on The New York Historical Society. I don’t know who (probably just as well) but under the guise of a three-year, seventy-million dollar renovation, they’ve taken a minor museum and turned it into a major waste of real estate. In the process, New York’s foremost avian treasure, like the bird population over an English estate, has been muscled nearly out of existence.

The New York Historical Society never had much to recommend it. There’s the colonial-era portrait of a New York State Governor in complete drag. A novelty, at best, but, I’m willing to bet, one-of-a-kind. It also has a beautiful research library (more about that later.) Any distinction that it enjoys is derived from two things: its enviable location and John James Audubon’s Birds of America. The former is still there, the latter, like a peacock feather, is a pathetic reminder of something glorious.

Commanding the northeast corner of Seventy-Seventh Street and Central Park West, The New York Historical Society has, not one, but two panoramic – and protected – views of Manhattan. In the heart, yet, of one of the city's most prestigious, residential neighborhoods. A parcel of real estate worth, conservatively, eighty-two jillion dollars. To put it in perspective, the new building at Sixty-Second Street and CPW, where billionaires fight to buy forty-million dollar apartments, has a good, but not great location. Only a few blocks away, The Time-Warner Towers, which also have apartments in that price range, are located above a shopping mall at a traffic circle.

Not that its prime location is completely wasted on The New York Historical Society. The main reason it draws more visitors than the Museum of the City of New York is because the latter is rather too far north at Fifth Avenue and One Hundred and Third Street. (Unless, of course, you live in Harlem or work at Mount Sinai Hospital.) The Society, in other words, plays NYU to the City Museum’s Columbia University.

The Historical Society owns all 435 of the original watercolors by John James Audubon on which he based the prints in Birds of America. Prior to the renovation, they took pride of place in one of the major galleries. Though never displayed all at once, a great many more were visible than today. Currently, a mere five Audubon paintings can be seen in a niche across from the toilets in a corridor devoted exclusively to . . . toilets. I might be able to understand such a dismal priority if the rest of the building was filled with masterpieces. It isn’t - not by a long shot. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a huge Audubon fan nor am I a bird lover, but I think the work of an authentic American genius deserves better than being shoved in a corner next to some tourist squirting out the day’s soft pretzels, hot dogs and other fare.

The museum’s visitors also deserve better than to be frog-marched out of the library like they were caught climbing a fence. Apparently, one’s fifteen dollar admission fee no longer covers admiring the library’s stained-glass windows, paintings, columns and carved panels. Instead, registering for research is the sine qua non. Without it, you will be treated like an illegal immigrant. In Arizona. I remember a different policy. I also remember a larger room, but I can’t be sure because I wasn’t there long enough.

The Gingrich Who Stalks Christmas.

Newt Gingrich is so unwholesome in so many ways that he’s like a cartoon villain. Yet real people take him seriously. How is that possible?

In the four years that Mr. Gingrich served as Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives (1995-1998) he was charged with eighty-four ethics violations, lied to the committee investigating them, received an official reprimand and a fine of $300,000. He was instrumental in shutting down the federal government twice in late 1995 and early 1996. Conflict over the budget was one reason. Another, by his own admission, is that he felt snubbed by Pres. William Clinton, who asked him to sit in the back of Air Force One and leave by the rear exit. While leading the charge against Pres. Clinton over the Monica Lewinsky scandal, Newt Gingrich was, himself, having an affair with congressional aide, Callista Bisek. That must have come as a shock to his wife, Marianne, but it couldn’t be a surprise. She was, after all, the reason he divorced his first wife, Jackie. One of the reasons. The other, perhaps more compelling, ones were cited by Katharine Q. Seelye in her article for The New York Times of November 24, 1994. “A few weeks before Mr. Gingrich filed for divorce, he called his political aide and friend, Mr. [L.H.] Carter to talk about his marriage. Mr. Carter said he and other friends had been worried that the marriage was falling apart. Mr. Gingrich told him why he wanted a divorce. ‘He said, “She’s not young enough or pretty enough to be the wife of a President. And besides, she has cancer.’”

All of which his Republican colleagues seemed willing to overlook – but not their loss of five House seats in the 1998 election. Led by, of all people, John Boehner, they forced Newt Gingrich to resign as both Speaker and member of the House of Representatives on November 5, 1998.

That’s just his previous experience in government. We haven’t even gotten to his years as a lobbyist for special interests, lying about it, running for President and choosing Donald Trump (yes, that Donald Trump) as an advisor.

If the real Republicans out there would stop clipping coupons (unless that went out with stock tickers) and start paying attention, they may find a suitable candidate and not one who appears to have been concocted by Dr. Seuss.

Down Against The Wall!

I was down in the Wall Street area recently and there’s plenty for the Occupy Movement to learn there – if they wanted.

Zucotti Park, quondam home of the movement, is almost adjacent to the 9/11 Memorial, an object lesson in giving too many people control over a decision. Not only were the landlord of the former World Trade Center and the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey involved, but former Mayor Rudolph Giuliani promised the families of victims that they would have veto power over any proposed designs for the memorial. The result is a missed opportunity that took ten years to reach full disappointment. The 9/11 Memorial is neither as emotionally engaging as the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. or as serene and welcoming as a park. Instead, it is two holes filled with water and surrounded by tourists. If Occupy Wall Street wants to avoid a similar fate, they are going to need effective leadership, not some loose, self-defeating confederation that accomplishes nothing and takes a long time not to do it.

Only a block or two away from Zucotti Park is 23 Wall Street, former home of J.P Morgan and Company. An imposing stone building almost directly across from The New York Stock Exchange, it still bears the marks of an attempt by anarchists to blow it up in 1920 by parking a wagon full of explosives alongside it. (Warning: animals were hurt in the production of this anecdote.) Instead of destabilizing society and ushering in a millenium of economic justice, they succeeded only in making powerful enemies of J.P. Morgan and the U.S. government. (Almost, but not quite, the same thing.) Not that Occupy is likely to spawn bomb-throwers, but if they are tempted to take shortcuts, this is why they shouldn’t. Strategic targets, however, can be useful, but you have to know who they are, what they do and what you expect to accomplish.

You don’t have to go a block away to find the perfect example. At 140 Broadway, the very building that faces Zucotti Park, are the offices of Brown Brothers Harriman. You can’t miss it. The name is in big letters on both sides of the building. It’s the oldest and largest private bank in the U.S. and was founded, in part, by Governor and Ambassador W. Averill Harriman with money from his father, E. H. Harriman, who owned five railroads, a steamship company and Wells Fargo. Among the people it’s employed, over the years, are former Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan and two guys named Bush, I forget their first names. Brown Brothers Harriman is as insular and old school as wealth and power gets in this country. If Occupy Wall Street could get on its radar, much less effect any change in its practices, that would be consequential. Yet these movers and shakers aren’t on the movement’s radar. I’ll bet that people in the park stare at this building every day without knowing or caring what goes on inside.

What about those people in the park? There weren’t many on a weekday afternoon. One man was dressed in a cape and cowl that read, “Dark Knight.” I’m sure he was an enemy of injustice, but I don’t think the allusion to Batman helps. The others were a motley crew in various stages of hygiene: past, passing and to come. Fortunately, it doesn’t reflect the vigor of the Occupy Wall Street Movement. I have it on impeachable authority (not very impeachable, but not un -) that, these days, most of the movement’s work is done in committee. Like Congress.

Excuse Me, Is This Corner Occupied?

The first thing I noticed was the NBC News truck outside the entrance to my apartment building. They weren’t interviewing me, so the “Genius next door” piece still waits to be written. Then I saw the police, never a good thing. I have nothing against the police, I regard them as protection - but against what? Finally, I saw the protestors. A group of them, not many, had staked out the four subway entrances at my intersection. Some held signs reading, “Occupy Wall Street,” others, “Occupy all streets” and one that read, “Resist” on one side and “This is my vote” on the other. (For portentous obscurity, that gets my vote.) More surprisingly, a line of men and women, all in liturgical black, ran the length of the subway entrance on my corner. Like the man who was resisting and voting at the same time, their signs were legible, but not clear. Although, the marker-on-cardboard look gave them a touch of priest-like humility.

Where I live is not an obvious site for an Occupy demonstration. It is not the home of the corporate elite, nor conspicuously one per cent. Nothing in their signs suggested that they were trying to recruit supporters, either. So, I approached a woman carrying an “Occupy all streets” sign and - in my least confrontational voice – asked, “Why have you chosen this corner to occupy?” In a voice even gentler than my mine, she replied, “I don’t know.” This woman, by the way, did not look like a fire-breathing radical. If Mother Jones is a ten, she was a two. “They told us to come here and we did.” Soon after, they all left for a rally in Foley Square. Judging from the Occupy movement that appeared on my doorstep, my hopes for economic justice may have to be curbed.

More Bulls Than Occupy Wall Street Can Bear.

Mayor Michael Bloomberg did two favors for the Occupy Wall Street protestors. First, he let them stay in Zucotti Park long enough for them to be missed when he kicked them out. Second, he kicked them out. The latter may need explaining.

At 1 AM on Tuesday morning, 11/15, an overtime army of New York City Police Officers removed the Occupy Wall Street protestors, sleeping bag and baggage, from Zucotti Park in lower Manhattan. The stated reason for evicting them was offenses in excess of their First Amendment right to gather. More likely, the reason was being an unwholesome encampment on public property, unredeemed by Hippie nostalgia. Either way, their removal was complete, but not permanent. As a judge affirmed later that day, they may return to Zucotti Park and protest, but they may not live there. That’s the favor.

Now, that Occupy Wall Street supporters can only stand in protest, they have to stand for something. There are no secondary benefits to being on your feet all day in all kinds of weather. You’re never going to outlast an executive in an Aeron chair, so you need a specific goal and, most of all, you have to keep your eyes on the prize. A strong commitment to a vague ideal won’t work anymore. Everyone is against economic injustice. If the one per cent could have the same amount of wealth and privileges without doing violence to the ninety-nine per cent, they’d grab it. Some wouldn’t, but some protestors attacked an Emergency Medical Service worker. The Occupy Wall Street movement needs an agenda and to achieve that, they need a leader. None of this hand-waving stuff, you might as well wring your hands against injustice. The movement needs someone who will both take the lead and take the call when Mayor Bloomberg wants his favors repaid. (Don't think he forgot.)

Take the eeek train.

It was a rare day for people-watching on the New York City subway. First, there was a short, fat woman with her hair piled high and the cord from her earphones hanging down. She looked like the "Snookie" balloon in the Macy's Thanksgiving parade.

Then there was a wealthy businessman in a bespoke, gray, pinstriped suit. I know it was custom-tailored because the only place it wrinkled was where it met his shoes. His pocket square was a show-er, not a blower, and formed a perfect, white slash instead of those fake-looking three points. Just above it, his face sported a red glow that wasn't quite a sunburn. It was more of a "Monday morning, spent all day Sunday on the golf course" rosiness. He couldn't look more like a banker if he was conjured up by Occupy Wall Street.

Finally, there was a woman who . . . I'll just describe her. She was chewing gum, not a crime, but she was chewing it with her mouth open - and she had buck teeth, so her mouth contorted into a sneer when she chewed. Her gaping maw drew attention to an even bigger nose, which was topped by harlequin glasses. From it all came a nasal buzz, which I assume was her voice.

Welcome to the "melting pot."

Jeffrey Immelt asks, "Where's the Love?"

Jeffrey Immelt doesn’t want money and power. As Chairman and CEO of General Electric, he has them. What he wants is a little appreciation. Not much, just enough to keep him going. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Considering what’s he’s done for our country, a little thanks is in order. Very little.

As our country faces an unemployment crisis deeper and longer than any since the Great Depression, Mr. Immelt oversees a company with 300,000 employees, more than half of them overseas. What’s more, G.E. does sixty per cent of their business abroad. One source of those profits is selling advanced technology to foreign companies that compete with American ones. At home, G.E. can be counted on to pay little or nothing in taxes.

That may be a little harsh. I’m sure the chairman can put his company in a better light. As he told Lesley Stahl on Sixty Minutes (10/9/11), “It’s the world we live in. This where we have to be … the customers are here. And, that’s just the way it is. I’m never going to apologize for that, ever, ever.”

Not that Mr. Immelt is completely without a conscience. He isn’t. Not completely. “I wish all our customers were in Chicago . . . but this is where the growth is.” (Take that, Sears, McDonald’s and Kraft.) Nor is G.E. neglecting the U.S. They’ve just built a new factory in Batesville, Mississippi. A highly automated, new factory. “You’re going to have fewer people that do any task,” says the CEO, “In the end, it makes the system more productive.” They’re also hiring again at G.E.’s Appliance Park in Louisville, KY, but only because of rising labor costs in China and Mexico. It doesn’t take much to undercut them, either. Lesley Stahl says, “A lot of the jobs we saw were $13/hr jobs. That’s really not the ticket, is it, to a really vibrant middle class?” “You’ve gotta start somewhere,” is the reply.

As for that secret technology, it’s no secret at all. Ms. Stahl mentions, “ . . . recent joint venture with China, where a new G.E. computer system will go into a Chinese airliner that could eventually compete with Boeing.” Mr. Immelt’s answer is evasive, so Ms. Stahl counters with, “Let me be more specific, are we in any way giving the Chinese a technology that they didn’t have before? That depletes our competitive edge in the future?” “We give nothing,” sputters the CEO, “We own it” and “We see them as a big market.”

Okay, international business is extremely complicated, but everyone pays taxes. It’s the one national obligation that no one can avoid – no one except G.E. Neither Stahl nor Immelt will put a number on the amount that G.E. pays in taxes. She says, “It’s not quite zero, but it’s pretty low.” He prefers to say, “ . . . we’ve had an extraordinary couple of years.”

Is it possible that Jeffrey Immelt is unaware of the unemployment crisis in this country? No, for two reasons. One is that Lesley Stahl puts the question to him directly. “Shouldn’t American corporations – don’t they have some kind of civic responsibility to create jobs? No?” “My name is not above the door. I work for investors.” Two, he’s just been appointed to head a Presidential commission on job creation in the U.S. (Why Pres. Obama chose him for this particular post is, frankly, obscure. At best, it muddies the distinction between being President of all the people and being afraid of the powerful ones.)

That’s all fine and official and looks good on his resume, but where’s the love? Jeffrey Immelt, the person, not the CEO, pleads his case with Lesley Stahl: “I want you to root for me . . . Everybody in Germany roots for Siemens. Everybody in Japan roots for Toshiba. I want you to say, ‘Win, G.E.’ I think this notion that it’s the population of the U.S. against the big companies is just wrong . . .When I walk through a factory with you or anybody . . . our employees basically like us. They root for us, they want us to win. I don’t know why you don’t.”

What a guy. Makes you proud to be a G.E. stockholder.

Wedlock and Key: Update

On the front page of today's (11/4) New York Times is an article about Ryan Fitzpatrick, quarterback of the Buffalo Bills, who, unlike many of his colleagues, wears his wedding ring while playing. Ben Shpigel quotes him as follows, "It stands for something. It's not like I'm trying to throw a message in anyone's face. It's just a personal thing between me and my wife. It's important for me not to take it off." I couldn't have said it better myself. I've said it differently and, I hope, just as well, but with a different spin. I reprint it below.

Some people fear that marriage is doomed. Not by our society’s hideous divorce rate of 33%. Nor by laws that make it financially advantageous for poor and older people to remain single. Instead, it's the prospect of loving and devoted couples of the same sex being legally married that fills them with horror. All those people should go to jail. There, surprisingly, is where marriage receives its most ringing affirmation.

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. It doesn't matter to other prisoners whether you're married or not. It only matters, but matters greatly, to the person wearing the ring.

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 sometimes 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.”

For some reason, the people most worried about our society are also the most religious. The two seem to travel together like earthquakes and tidal waves. If these people truly care about the future of marriage, they should spend less time in a house of worship and more time in a House of Correction.

Michael Kimelman: The Average Gatsby

He’s an American failure, but not a romantic one. An average Gatsby, not a great one. Michael Kimelman was all but guaranteed a successful career as a Wall Street lawyer, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted to work less and make more. Soon, he’ll be working in the prison laundry. How did he go from “white shoe” to white sheets in what appears to be record time?

Michael Kimelman was a first-year associate in corporate law at the old and distinguished firm of Sullivan and Cromwell. How old? Early partners preferred writing longhand to using that new-fangled invention, the typewriter. How distinguished? Partners may leave to become Secretary of State, but only temporarily. Starting salary for associates hovers around $200,000. Making partner means being a millionaire with job security.

It’s the kind of job that people dream about, but Michael was dreaming of something else. According to the article by Peter Lattman in The New York Times (10/23) “ ‘At S&C, I was working 100 hours a week and sleeping under my desk,’ Mr. Kimelman said, ‘Trading stocks seemed like a better life.” So “ . . . with the bull market raging in the 1990’s, he left the law” and “. . . pursued a career in the fast-money world of ‘prop shops,’ or proprietary trading firms, where dozens of traders buy and sell stocks with the firm's money. The traders then split their money with the firm, typically 50/50. Though Mr. Kimmelman lived comfortably, he was hardly a Wall Street titan. In his best year, Mr. Kimmelman said he earned $400,000 and never had more than $1 million in the bank.”

So far, so good. The unambitious among us might settle for a million in the bank, but not Michael. He wants his own "prop shop." Like F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Jay Gatsby, he believes in the green light: the promise of wealth and happiness that hovers just out of our reach. “. . . the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us.” Nothing wrong with that – unless you get involved with the Goffer brothers. In 2008, he opens Incremental Capital with his friend, Emmanuel Goffer as partner. To provide the initial funds, they approach Emmanuel’s brother, Zvi, “a fast-talking trader from Brooklyn.” What part of that description inspires confidence? (The words “a” and “from” don’t count.) Zvi, to his credit, has just been hired by a highly-regarded hedge fund named Galleon (as in “pirate ship”) and works for Raj Rajaratnam, one of the richest and most powerful men on Wall Street. Zvi arranges for Michael and Emmanuel to meet Raj and make their pitch. Everyone gets along, but no one gets money. That’s doubly a shame because Incremental Capital needs Galleon’s research as much as its money. To quote Mr. Kimelman, “ ‘Some guys do their own work, but there’s also a lot of piggybacking off of other people’s stock ideas.’ ” What’s worse, Galleon draws up the gangplank when they fire Zvi Goffer for poor performance. That green light is starting to flicker.

What do you do with someone who’s been fired for incompetence? If you’re Michael Kimelman, you hire him. He has reasons, though. Zvi knows everyone on Wall Street, just ask him, and he’s Emmanuel’s brother. To review, Mr. Kimelman is involved in a high-speed, high-risk financial operation (which he has not completely mastered) with two brothers, one of whom has been fired by a hedge fund for poor performance and is not exactly trustworthy. And he’s using his own money. What could go wrong?

The government could investigate Galleon on suspicions of insider trading. Well-founded suspicions, it turns out. Twenty-five executives, lawyers and traders are charged including Raj Rajaratnam himself. Far from being limited to Galleon, the trail leads into the boardroom of Goldman Sachs and down, way down, to Incremental Capital, whose star employee is busy passing out $100,000 bribes as if they were legal. So many people are arrested that the government decides to throw the small ones back. “Prosecutors offered Mr. Kimelman a deal shortly after his arrest in 2009: plead guilty to a sentence of participating in a conspiracy and receive no prison time, only a sentence of probation.” Great! The father of three young children grabs the deal with both hands and thanks all that’s holy for his deliverance, right? That’s one possibility. No shame in starting over. Gatsby is all about re-invention. Another is that he tries to beat the rap and get away clean. Given what you know, by now, about Michael’s judgment, which do you think he chose?

“ ‘Of course I have regrets about not pleading guilty; I could have ended this ordeal two years ago,’ said Mr. Kimelman. ‘But at the same time, I wouldn’t have been able to look at myself in the mirror if I admitted to something I didn’t do.’ ” Now, he’s been convicted of it and will have two-and-half years to ponder the difference. “With no parole in the federal prison system, he will serve out his entire sentence, though he can get a slight reduction for good behavior.” Michael Kimelman will be forty-three when he gets out of prison. Had he stayed with Sullivan and Cromwell, he’d be a partner by now.

Rich Who Deserve Obscurity: The Madoffs

Name a famous liar with a big nose and a heart of wood. That’s right, Bernie Madoff. We haven’t heard from him in while. The last time was two years ago when he was supposedly dying of cancer. (TFT 8/24/09) Like everything else about him, it wasn’t true. His family, however, is coming out of the shadows. His wife, Ruth, and remaining son, Andrew, were interviewed by Morley Safer on Sixty Minutes (10/30). Minus the perky bob that made her resemble a furtive Katy Couric, Ruth Madoff looked every one of her seventy years. She spoke reluctantly and revealed nothing. Her son, Andrew, spoke more easily, but also didn’t say anything. Who made the program worth watching was the woman sitting next to Andrew. Catherine Hooper is young, attractive and, most of all, fearless. She has to be. She’s Andrew’s fiancée. Getting married is always a leap of faith, but tying yourself emotionally and financially to someone named Madoff? That’s bungee jumping.

What do Ruth and Andrew Madoff want? What do they expect to gain from this (and other) public appearances? It can’t be publicity for their newly published memoir, Truth and Consequences. They don’t need it. If the name Madoff doesn’t come back to you in waves, you’re not going to buy the book. Sympathy? Not as along as she lives in a gated community and both, by their own admission, are still worth millions. Respect? Not as long as their husband and father lives in a gated community. (He’s got one hundred and forty-eight more years to go.) If they really want to avoid his shadow, they should avoid the spotlight, too. They can’t change history by writing a book or change people’s opinions by appearing on TV. They can only change their name. Either that or wait until a bigger crook comes along and makes everyone forget Bernie Madoff. My money’s on the latter.

Let's Kick Some Class.

It’s not always possible to ignore the campaign for the Republican Presidential nomination. Sometimes I have to listen and, lately, I’ve been hearing a lot about “class war.” More surprisingly, the candidates are against it. I love the idea of class war. It’s not a hot war with shooting and killing. It’s a financial war and the worst that can happen is that people lose interest.

Let’s begin by choosing sides: Upper Class or Lower Class? There is no middle class, there can’t be. How can you have three sides in a war? It has to be Us against Them. Anything else is confusing. So, Upper or Lower?

Right there is our first problem. No one wants to be in the Lower Class. Maybe it’s the name? Working Class? No, the Working Class hates the Lower Class because it’s only a mortgage away from joining it permanently. Perhaps you’ve noticed. Maybe Upper is the problem? Ruling Class just makes things worse. Let’s try removing Class. Rich is good because it’s descriptive and has no connotation - unless you’re a Protestant who believes in “The Elect,” a Republican, or a stockbroker. (If you’re a Protestant Republican stockbroker, why are you reading this? You should be apologizing for talking me out of buying Apple stock ten years ago.) The problem is not with Rich, but the opposite. Who want to be Poor? Sounds like the second best game show in Kazakhstan. Owners and Renters? No, those are real classes in New York City. For arguments sake, let’s settle on The Solvent Minority and The Sucker Majority. Solvents and Suckers, for short.

Okay, all the Solvents on one side and Suckers on the other. C’mon, someone has to be a Sucker. Our economy needs them. You can’t have a free market without Suckers. Anyone still waiting for economics to “trickle down?” Sucker. Anyone who thought, even for a second, that our “mission” in Iraq was “accomplished?” Big sucker. Who thinks Alan Greenspan deserves a second chance? No, forget that. You’re all rich and that just confuses things.

How about a Draft? We’ll call it the Sucker Service. It will only be temporary – unless you die. Just like the real draft. And like the real draft, the Solvents will find ways to avoid it. (Don’t worry if you’re wounded. You’ve got health insurance. Sucker!)

So much for the Sucker class. Filling the Solvent class should be easy. Anyone who likes Cole Porter can join. What if you’re a fabulously wealthy rock star who hates Cole Porter? It’s only a matter of time. Know what a hedge fund is? In. Invest in a hedge fund? Definitely in. Think there’s no risk involved with hedge funds? I’m afraid you’ll have to join the suckers. Anyone who thinks naming a hedge fund after a pirate ship isn’t a big, fat clue? Wow, there’s more suckers than I thought. Maybe there are too many. Why don’t we call off the “class war?” Temporarily, that’s all. Until there are two clear sides.

Wall Street Protest Proves Law of Occupy and Demand.

There’s a fascinating article about “Occupy Wall Street” by Meredith Hoffman in The New York Times (11/17/11). It describes “working groups” drawing up a list of demands in a way that will seem intensely familiar to anyone who went to college in the late sixties and early seventies. The same earnest, high-minded attempts at group democracy foundering on the same rocks of idealogical partisanship and “It’s such a nice day.” Yet, there’s an equally large if not larger group of protesters who want nothing to do with demands. They are heavily into “process.” Whither this generation’s Weathermen?

More striking than the “working groups” (with their connotation of manual labor) is the “General Assembly,” a nightly gathering of the hundreds of protesters in Zuccotti Park. Salon moi, that evokes not the U.N. but the French Revolution. In particular, the Estates General, a gathering of concerned citizens which mutated into the horrifying Committee On Public Safety. Neither violence nor revolution, however, would seem to be a threat. Not if, as Ms. Hoffman writes, “A two-thirds majority is needed to approve each proposal, and any passionate opponent could call for the entire vote to be delayed.”

Many of the people occupying the park are more comfortable with what protester David Haack calls “. . . the movement’s ‘true democratic process’ even if it means slower progress going forward.” Meghan Sheridan of Occupy Boston wrote on the group’s Facebook page, “The process is the message.” “In Baltimore, Cullen Nowalkowsky, a protester, said by phone that the point was a “public sphere not moderated by commodities or mainstream political discourse.” Some even believe that having a point is beside the point. Notably, the Zen contingent, which, judging from photos that a friend took, organizes meditation flash mobs and brandishes candles in jars that read, “Protect me from Envy.” (Actually, if you’re protesting against the richest people in the world, protection from envy is a wise precaution.)

I’m in favor of making demands. To me, the greatest outcome of these demonstrations would be if they had a lasting, positive effect on economic injustice. That isn’t easy and it takes a long time, but it’s impossible without knowing what you want to change. Even if your goal is simply to get a job, not having one can be a sign of deeper economic issues that need to be addressed and redressed. Protester Shawn Reeden quotes Frederick Douglass, “Power concedes nothing without a demand.”

That’s not the only good outcome, however. There are slower, more incremental benefits that are also valuable. Simply by lasting, the protest keeps a skeptical attitude towards Wall Street in the public eye. If, in the long run, the only thing it does is blunt the near universal appeal of Wall Street and it keeps one smart, ambitious, college graduate from rushing blindly into finance, the protest will have succeeded.

There’s even a certain charm to the infrastructure that has sustained these protests for thirty-eight days and counting. The eating, sleeping and cleaning involved has such a warm, domestic quality that it sings, “commune.” (Hog Farm, not 1848. Wavy Gravy, not Karl Marx.) They even have their own newspaper and provide their own entertainment. How peaceful and self-sufficient is that? Throw in a woman wearing a peasant blouse while baking bread and I’m there. I’ll bring the wind chimes and macramé plant holders.

Ultimately, though, the protesters have to make a choice. It’s not either/or but, they have to decide what’s more important: change or process. If change is important, demands are necessary - and for that you need a leader. Someone who’s decisive, but won’t impose his views. Someone people listen to out of respect and not because he or she has the loudest voice. If you want self-defeating political correctness or as Mike Hine of Occupy Seattle says, “We want to include as many voices as possible,” you don’t need a protest. That’s what the Democratic Party is for. If you want a “be-in,” free-form and spontaneous, let it happen. Enjoy yourselves, but don’t have any illusions. Don’t think it’s going anywhere or achieving anything. To paraphrase Bob Dylan, you don’t have to be a weatherman to know that the wind has to blow in a certain direction.

Elaine May, But Woody?

Elaine May interviewed fellow writers Woody Allen and Ethan Coen in The Sunday’s New York Times. (11/16/11) I enjoyed the questions, but found the answers a little underwhelming. So, I’ve replaced them with my own.

Q: A miraculous being with divine powers appears to you and says, "You have a choice. You can be fabulously attractive and have an even better physique or you can reverse climate change." What do you say to her?

A: I'd definitely go for better looks. I'd never get credit for stopping global warming. Even If I claimed it, they'd ask me to prove it. Better looks, on the other hand, would have immediate and satisfying results.

Q: How would you go about achieving world peace if you had the time?

A: I'd make the world bigger, so everyone had lots of room. That way, no one could complain about their neighbors. But would I get the Nobel Peace Prize? Nope. The Nobel Peace Prize exists to give Third Worlders honor instead of dinner and to piss off Republicans.

Q: . . . It would be helpful if you told me something startling about yourself, you've never told anyone else.

A: I have stigmata. I know that's supposed to be good, but I hide it because if anyone knew, I'd have to convert.

Q: What is your understanding of "redeeming social value" and which plays had it last year?

A: Forget about redeeming society. Ain't happening. Value on Broadway? Are you kidding? At these prices, even if I took myself, I'd feel obliged to sleep with myself.

Q: What's the biggest secret you were told and asked not to repeat?

A: I'm the one they trusted to bring "The Message to Garcia." At least, I think it was me. Yeah, it was, but . . . was it Garcia? There was war on, I know that. See? That's why people don't trust me with secrets.

Q: "What if the law of gravity just wears out and lets go and I drift into space?" Does that ever make you nervous?

A: It's not the drifting that worries me. If gravity stopped, all the parts of my body that hang would suddenly slap me in the face.

Q: What question that I haven't asked would you like to answer.

A: What makes Patty Lane lose control? A hot dog. "Where Cathy adores a minuet / The Ballet Russe / And Crepes Suzette / All Patty loves is rock and roll / A hot dog makes her lose control / What a wild duet."

Night of the Living Flat Tax.

I can’t believe the Republicans are resurrecting the idea of a flat tax. No, wait. I can. They wouldn’t be conservatives if they changed with the times. (There are no liberal Republicans. The last one was John Lindsay and he left the political dialogue at the same time as the word, “Patrician.”) But the flat tax? No one believed it when the plaid-coated patroon, Steve Forbes, made it part of his Presidential campaigns in 1996 and 2000. Who would fall for it now?

Not the rich They know it’s just an excuse to lower their taxes. “Would I rather pay nine per cent of my income in taxes or thirty-five per cent? Hmmm.” Not the poor. Their taxes would go from nothing to nine per cent. That leaves the middle class, but they’d have to be convinced to vote against their economic interest. I’d tell you how the Republicans do that, but I just had lunch. One thing is sure, they couldn’t do it without the Democrats.

A flat tax? It’s not even economically feasible. Anytime you reduce tax revenue like that, you wind up replacing it later – with more taxes. If you don’t believe me, read George H.W. Bush’s lips. (The earlier Bush. The one that’s good by comparison.) What Herman Cain is thinking by proposing a new tax as well, I can’t tell you. I can, however, say one thing with confidence: “Nine nine nine” should never be uttered in an economic context unless someone is asking Angela Merkel, President of Germany, to bail out the rest of Europe. If you still harbor doubts about the flat tax consider that Rick Perry likes it, too, and is being schooled in its intricacies by none other than Steve Forbes, who, no doubt, has spent the last fifteen years pondering them.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Herman Cain and Rick Perry. I’d pay full price to see them in a buddy comedy, but I wouldn’t give you two cents for their economic insights. The problem is certain, powerful Republicans also feel that way. Not people like Warren Buffet, who think they should pay more in taxes, but people – and corporations like G.E. – who pay nothing. Why would they want to change the tax code? They’re the reason that an undead idea like the flat tax will return to its coffin before it ever sees an Iowa caucus.

On A Clear Day, You Can See Anderson Cooper.

Anderson Cooper, the respected TV journalist (a short list, getting shorter) has an afternoon talk show. Usually that would spell doom for his reputation, but he pulls it off. Not by advancing the genre, raising the level or having a gimmick. He does it by doing well what afternoon talk shows do best: balancing the lurid and sensational with the sentimental and maudlin. He does have a secret weapon, however, and it’s not his looks – they’re no secret. Imagine a white-haired Ken doll that swapped eyes with a husky and you’re getting close. Nor is it the backdrop to his set, a giant picture window with a view of Manhattan only a Vanderbilt could afford. There, I’ve given you a hint. Anderson Cooper has found a way to combine all of the usual talk show categories and a couple of new ones into a single guest: his mother, Gloria Vanderbilt.

The merest outline of her life sounds like a miniseries: object of a custody battle between her aunt (Whitney Museum) and her mother (madcap heiress) that was splashed across the tabloids of 1934. Hollywood romances with the high and the mighty. Four husbands including the conductor, Leopold Stokowski and the film director, Sidney Lumet. Then a hugely successful clothing company that virtually invented designer jeans. Not to mention the deaths and suicides.

Her appearance is no less striking. Think of Mary Tyler Moore playing Norma Desmond. Her manner is straight out of Sunset Boulevard, too: someone who can’t help being glamorous trying to be dignified. And she sees dead people. Maybe not sees exactly, but she definitely talks with them. I saw her do it. On a recent program, Cooper had both his mother and the psychic, John Edward as guests. I don’t say “reputed psychic” or that he claims to be one because Mr. Edward is very convincing. Partly it’s his high school biology teacher persona and his spiel (energy without bodies/communicating by other means) that is blessedly free of booga booga. Mostly, though, it’s his success at clairvoyance as judged by its effect on other people. He seems to possess knowledge, intimate details, of people’s lives that have no source except the one he claims – dead people talk to him.

Both Gloria Vanderbilt, a devout believer, and Anderson Cooper, an avowed skeptic, communicated with dead relatives through John Edward. It wasn’t limited to them, however. A cameraman, a sound technician and members of the audience got messages, too. Unsolicited, I might add. The afterworld must be a rowdy place with everyone clamoring to get through. As if the Today Show is this world and all the people trying to get Matt Lauer’s attention are in the next.

Who these people (former people?) are and what they may have told the people on Cooper’s show is not important. Except, perhaps, for Marilyn Monroe. Gloria Vanderbilt knew Marilyn Monroe and was not surprised to be contacted by her. John Edward, on the other hand, was flabbergasted. Talking with dead people? Another day at the office. Meeting (in a way) a world-famous movie star like Marilyn Monroe? Totally blows his mind. There’s something touchingly naive about that.

As for Marilyn herself, I hope she’s happy. Up there. Out there. Wherever.

“Niagara Falls! Slowly, I turned . . .”

The good news is that Muzzami and Aasiya Hassan of Buffalo, New York will not be getting divorced. The bad news is why: he beheaded her. It only took an hour, this past Monday, for an Erie County jury to find the TV producer – and founder of a Muslim-oriented TV station - guilty of murder. It takes longer for most juries to order lunch than it took this one to deliver a verdict. So,there's no reasonable doubt that Muzzami Hassan killed his wife. The question remains: why did he do it? Specifically, why did he do it this way?

You can't accidentally chop someone's head off. The old “I was only trying to scare her” excuse doesn't fly. It takes an act of will and an axe or, at least, a saw. You’re not deboning a chicken, a woman’s head doesn’t come off easily. (I don’t speak from experience, but it seems, well, common sense.) It also requires a distinct lack of resistance from the victim. You can’t coax someone into a guillotine. No matter how much they love or trust you or how gullible they are, no one will put their head on a block for you – especially when you’re holding a machete. The victim must be bound, unconscious or . . . beyond caring. That Aasiya Hassan was also stabbed forty times with a hunting knife suggests the last possibility.

Ultimately, why Muzzami Hassan severed his wife’s head may be connected (rather more sturdily) to why he killed her in the first place. Speaking in his own defense – and acting as his own attorney - Mr. Hassan claims he was a victim of spousal abuse. He also claimed comparison, as a man of principle, to Nelson Mandela, Ronald Reagan and Mahatma Gandhi. (Three people who would have trouble coming together on a scrabble board.) The jury was not convinced. What they seemed to find more compelling was the fact that his wife served him with divorce papers a week before her demise. The only way to prove a connection, of course, is if Mr. Hassan confesses. Until then, I'll leave the last word to MSNBC.COM: “Immediately after Aasiya Hassan’s death, the manner in which she died prompted speculation her death was an honor killing. The practice is still accepted among some fanatical Muslim men, including in the couple’s native Pakistan, who feel betrayed by their wives.”

The First Annual St. Valentine's Day Parade.

1/4/11

Finally get permits and approvals to begin organizing first annual Valentine's Day Parade in New York City. Paint red stripe down Fifth Ave.

1/5/11

Ask Mayor Michael Bloomberg and Diana Taylor to be Grand Marshals. He says Diana is busy, but Gov. Andrew Cuomo is available. Two men? There’s already a parade for that.

1/6/11

Mayor Bloomberg offers to march alone – unless it snows.

1/12/11

Ask former Governor Elliot Spitzer to lead parade. He's glad to oblige. Every statue of St. Valentine in the country screams, jumps off its pedestal and smashes itself to pieces on the altar.

1/18/11

Harvey Weinstein, the famous movie producer, agrees to march. Lose his unlisted phone number. Have to invite every Harvey Weinstein in NYC.

1/23/11

Woody Allen offers to be Grand Marshal. Tell him I liked his earlier parades better.

1/28/11

Finally, I realize the best possible choice for Grand Marshal. It’s so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. The greatest love story in the history of New York City is between Donald Trump and himself! Ask The Donald and he agrees, but insists on calling it the Trump Day Parade. Tell him to kiss something besides his reflection.

2/03/11

Ask Archbishop Timothy Dolan if he will march in parade. Says there is no St. Valentine. I tell him there is no Santa Claus. He cries. I feel very guilty. Meet with Dr. Sol Roth, Rabbi of the Fifth Avenue Synagogue, who says he can’t make it. Monday is free latke day at the Second Avenue Deli.

2/5/03

Meet with leader of New York City’s Moslem community, who loves parades and guarantees hundreds of marchers. Turns out to be The Shriners. I thought it was too easy.

2/7/11

Think about asking any or all of New York’s famous championship teams to lead the parade. Think about moving to Boston.

2/9/11

Running out of options. Ask the New York Chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous if they will lead parade. They will only march twelve steps at a time.

2/11/13

Ask New York Psychoanalytic Institute to do the honors. They will only march for fifty minutes.

2/13/11

Cancel St. Valentine’s Day parade. Make dinner plans with wife. She’s busy.

"Tiger Mother," Another Cultural Revolution?

Two things struck me about Amy Chua’s article, “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior” (WSJ 1/8/11) One is how severe and uncompromising her approach to childrearing seems and the other is how familiar. Not that I was raised in a similar way, I wasn’t. The closest my mother came to being Chinese was playing Mah Jong. What rang a bell (or gong) with me was how Ms. Chua places social goals above personal ones. How she thinks raising the next class of high-achieving professionals is more important than helping individuals develop their full potential. Add extreme forms of coercion, put it in a Chinese context and you’ve got - The Cultural Revolution of the late sixties and early seventies. (The Red Guard? The Gang of Four? No? “The Sayings of Chairman Mao?” Anyone?)

Simply put, Mao Ze Dong was afraid that China was becoming a capitalist country (yeah, yeah, I know) so he organized millions of young people into Red Guards who took their elders (sometimes their parents) to task for acting bourgeois. A nice way of saying they tortured them. They didn’t call it torture (or waterboarding.) Instead, they called it, “Re-education.” Dragging the high-achieving professionals of their day out of the cities, the Red Guards put them on farms, where they broke their spirits with humilation and their backs with manual labor. Then, when the subjects were nice and pliable, they were brainwashed – or re-educated –with party doctrine. All described in horrific detail by William Hinton (a sympathetic observer, no less) in Fanshen: A Documentary of Revolution in a Chinese Village (1966, Monthly Review Press.)

Compare that with the way Amy Chua raised her daughters, Sophia and Luisa. “If a Chinese child gets a B - which would never happen – there would first be screaming, hair-tearing, explosion.” “. . . the solution to substandard performance is always to excoriate, punish and shame the child.” In practice (piano practice, in fact) this means “. . . I hauled Lulu’s (Louisa’s) dollhouse to the car and told her I’d donate it to the Salvation Army piece by piece if she didn’t have “The Little White Donkey” perfect by the next day. When Lulu said, “I thought you were going to the Salvation Army? Why are you still here?” I threatened her with no lunch, no dinner, no Christmas or Hannukah presents, no birthday parties for two, three, four years. When she still kept playing it wrong , I told her she was purposely working herself into a frenzy because she was secretly afraid she couldn’t do it. I told her to stop being lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic.” Luisa was seven at the time. Sophia had it relatively easy. If she acted disrespectfully, her mother would simply call her, “Garbage.”

A week later, in the article, “Retreat of the ‘Tiger Mother’” (NYT 1/14/11) Amy Chua tells Kate Zernike, that she wanted to “clarify some misunder-standings” about her book, “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother,” (of which the WSJ article is an excerpt.) “Her narration, she said, was meant to be ironic and self mocking – ‘I find it very funny, almost obtuse.’” That would put her more in line with the French model of revolution than the Chinese. I’m thinking of those ironic self-mockers, Danton (“No, I meant reign of terroir. Like wine, get it? Things should taste better.”) and Robespierre, who was fond of whistling, Allez Les Bon Temps Roulez, and was famously misunderstood by Dr. Guillotine.

The idea of “revolution” is mine, though. Hewing to her real profession, professor of law at Yale, Ms. Chua may be one of those funny, almost obtuse Ivy League law professors portrayed by Holland Taylor in Legally Blonde (2001) and John Houseman in Paper Chase (1973) You know, the kind that teach classes in “Irony and Contracts.”

Okay, I’m skeptical. I doubt that her intention was primarily humorous. If, however, it was and Amy Chua thinks of her book as one, long jape at the expense of Chinese parenting, then she was poorly served by the publisher who titled her book, Battle Hymn of The Tiger Mother. It’s a bad title for two reasons: first, comparing mothers to predators (“Grizzly Moms”) is far from the sure-fire gimmick that Sarah Palin makes it seem and, second, taking your title from “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” does not guarantee humorous content - look at The Grapes of Wrath. It doesn’t even guarantee success - look at John Updike. He wrote a book called, “In the Beauty of the Lily” and no one read it. (You did?!) Offhand, I can think of several better titles. How about, The Great Earth or The Joy Skill Club? Better yet, East is Eden