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

Sam Cohen: Agent Of Destruction.

No, not Sam Cohen, the theater agent. Samuel T. Cohen, inventor of the neutron bomb. The other one may have been involved with bombs, but it was never intentional. According to the obituary by Robert McFadden (NYT 11/2/10) Samuel T. Cohen died at his home this past Sunday at the age of 89. He is survived by his wife, three children and three grandchildren. The irony is that he devoted his life to making sure there were no survivors. The weapon he created, unlike other bombs, was designed to kill people and leave buildings unharmed.

Born in Brooklyn to Jenny and Lazarus Cohen, Sam could, given his father’s name, be excused for thinking that death was not a permanent condition. His father, however, was a Jewish carpenter and, as a group, they tend to be peaceful. More “Turn the other cheek” than, say, “Lock and load.” His mother discouraged young Samuel from breathing through his mouth, believing it was unhealthy. She also forced to him to take daily ice-water showers to toughen him up. She was, in the words of Raymond Chandler, “Crazier than two waltzing mice.” Yet so are a lot of Jewish mothers and they have completely normal children. (Don’t ask me how I know.)

After graduating from UCLA and MIT, Samuel Cohen was chosen to work on the Manhattan Project, where he helped design the nuclear bomb that destroyed Nagasaki. You might think that incinerating civilians would have turned him into a life-long pacifist like Leo Szilard, the project’s founder, or Jacob Bronowski, who switched from mathematics to life sciences after witnessing it’s aftermath. Instead, it acted like an atomic appetizer.

In 1947, Cohen joined the RAND Corporation, a hothouse for Cold War strategy. He bloomed in its atmosphere of overheated speculation and in 1958, while serving as a consultant to Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, he designed the neutron bomb. Although “Many technical features of what the Pentagon called an ‘enhanced radiation weapon’ had been known for years, and scientists had theorized about a nuclear device that would release most of its energy as radiation” it took Sam Cohen to see the possibilities. (Insert “killer app” joke of your choice.) His patient cultivating bore fruit when the military successfully tested the neutron bomb. (Atomic testing is easy, you just blow the crap out of a bunch of dummies. How do you test a weapon that leaves structures untouched while killing every living thing in its path? Wouldn’t that require . . . living things? Hmmm.)

In 1969, five hundred thousand people marched for peace in Washington, D.C. Anti-war sentiment even breached the walls of the RAND Corporation. One of their top military analysts was suffering crushing doubts about his chosen profession. That’s right, Daniel Ellsberg, the man who leaked “The Pentagon Papers.” Samuel Cohen left that year to insure the future of his deadly invention. “. . . he relentlessly promoted the neutron bomb for most of his life, writing books and articles, conferring with presidents and cabinet officials, taking his case to Congressional committees, scientific bodies and international forums.” He also defended it when necessary. “Mr. Cohen called his bomb a ‘sane’ and ‘moral’ weapon . . . He insisted that many critics misunderstood or purposely misrepresented his ideas for political, economic or mercenary reasons.” (Mercenary in the sense of greedy and materialistic. Not, obviously, being paid to kill someone.) As an advocate, Samuel Cohen was operating outside his area of expertise. Fortunately – for the world –he was lousy at it.

“Washington rejected the bomb repeatedly. The Kennedy administration said it might jeopardize a test-ban moratorium. The Johnson administration said it’s use might raise the specter of Hiroshima – Asians again slaughtered by American nuclear bombs – drawing worldwide condemnation. President Jimmy Carter said development might impede disarmament prospects. In 1981, President Ronald Reagan ordered 700 nuclear warheads built to oppose Soviet tank forces in Europe . . . But deployment to the North Atlantic alliance was cancelled after a storm of antinuclear protest across Europe. President George Bush ordered the stockpile scrapped.” Was it Cohen’s fault for failing to convince them or did events conspire against him? Who cares? The neutron bomb was neutered.

Did Samuel T. Cohen experience any regrets about his devotion to death? Apparently not – although he many chances to do so. He lived a long time and went to his own death untroubled – except for one thing. The neutron bomb was never accepted into any of the world’s arsenals. His entire career as a bomb designer was, ultimately, a dud.

2010 Primaries: When DId Voting Become Ironic?

Is it me or is there something "Not Ready For Prime Time" about Carl Paladino and Christine O'Donnell?

Carl Paladino, Republican candidate for Governor of New York, likes to share ". . . racist jokes and pornographic images, espoused turning state prisons into dormitories where inmates can be given classes on hygiene, and defended an ally's comparison of the Assembly Speaker, Sheldon Silver, who is Jewish to an "Antichrist or a Hitler." (NYT 9/15) Let the record show, however, that he defeated former congressman Rick Lazio for the nomination. Lazio, the pride of Long Island, makes that other pride of Long Island, former Senator Al D'Amato, look like Alexander the Great.

Christine O'Donnell, Republican candidate to fill Vice-President Joe Biden's seat in the Senate, ". . . has struggled for years with personal finance problems - she has reported earnings of only $5,800 for most of this year and last and she has defaulted on her mortgage - and fudged her educational background and former campaign achievement." She also founded an "...abstinence organization that denounced masturbation as a form of adultery" and has been criticized by Karl Rove (top White House advisor when Al Gore was elected and Dick Cheney was President) as "unelectable, untruthful and 'nutty.'" (NYT 9/16) That she defeated Rep. Michael N. Castle, one of Delaware's most popular and longest-serving Republicans, says, perhaps, more about the state than about her.

True, neither has been elected yet and Mr. Paladino has a formidable opponent in Andrew Cuomo, New York State Attorney General and son of former Governor, Mario Cuomo. Ms. O'Donnell will face New Castle County Executive Chris Coons in the Delaware Senate race - unless they find her legs sticking out of a mulcher first. Not that the Republicans would ever stoop to dirty tricks, but . . . if I were Christine O'Donnell, I'd keep my eye on Karl Rove.

Fashion Week or Fashion Strong?

You can look at fashion as art, industry or a form of entertainment. You can even look at it as clothing. I prefer to look at it through the eyes of photographer, Richard Avedon.

Avedon's work for Harper's Bazaar magazine in the late Forties and early Fifties is uniquely elegant and sophisticated because the people in it express a certain maturity. They smoke and drink and stay out late with authority. They wear evening clothes in a way that says, "What else would you wear in the evening?" Scenes in casinos, nightclubs and fine restaurants suggest that whatever happened to these people (and by implication, an awful lot did) wouldn't be wasted on them. There's nothing tentative or naive about them and they certainly don't worship a Youth Culture. These people enjoy their adult privileges. In fact, they enjoy a lot of privileges because they are unself-consciously elite. They aren't monsters of entitlement, they are gods and goddesses of it. Look at them. Suzy Parker and Dorian Leigh don't live "next door" and they are, most emphatically, not "girls." Dovima is not trying to convince you that she's sixteen. Young as they are, they're women of the world.

Another strong element in Avedon's fashion photography is movement. He either catches his people in mid-action or in the moment just before or after. Even when they're posing or sitting or leaning, there's a tension to his photographs - the tension of a dancer balancing on one foot. More than a ballerina, in fact, the dancer his pictures suggest is Martha Graham. Partly, it's the grandly sweeping fashions of the time. To mark a sharp change from wartime austerity, Christian Dior's "New Look" employed extravagant amounts of fabric. To wear these clothes - and not look like you're wearing a costume - requires equally sweeping gestures and a strong degree of conviction expressed in a detached, almost abstract, way. Since Avedon, Graham and Dior were contemporaries, mutual influence is a possibility.

Avedon didn't work alone, of course. He collaborated with - indeed, owed his career to - some rather exceptional people. The fashion director of Harper's Bazaar, Diana Vreeland; Design director, Alexei Brodovitch and the magazine's editor, a woman with the appetizing name of Carmel Snow. Not only did they recognize Avedon's talent when he was twenty one, TWENTY ONE, they kept him busy and happy for the next twenty years. The fashions themselves are more than major contributors to these photographs, they are the raison d'etre. Yet, I don't want to go into detail. Any discussion of fashions then and now is bound to become a pissing match between fathers and sons, founders and heirs, mentors and students. Suffice it to say that Christian Dior, Balenciaga and their peers were at their peaks and produced exquisite work.

Then, there are the women. Take Dorian Leigh, considered by many to be the first supermodel. A 1949 photograph of her wearing a coat by Dior shows why. She is swaddled up to her neck in a coat with a fur collar and voluminous sleeves. Gloves and a small, fur hat complete the ensemble. A small dog sits patiently in her lap as she sits in the back of a convertible or open carriage, next to a large hatbox. All the movement is internal. She may be sitting, but her mind is racing. What is Dorian Leigh thinking as she gazes down pensively at the smoke curling up from the cigarette clasped in a long, elegant holder? Is she worried, bored or remembering something? Introspecting or waiting for someone? She's not smiling. Does that mean she's unhappy or just momentarily distracted? Is the way the smoke seeps out between her barely parted lips the hottest thing since nuclear fusion? If modeling objectifies women, then Dorian Leigh is a novel - by Colette.

Before we give in completely to the nostlgia induced by these pictures, we may want to consider the society that produced them. It isn't pretty. Not one of the socially progressive movements that we know today was even in existence back then. Racial segregation was legal, antisemitism widely and openly practiced and most of the women alive, Dorian Leigh included, were born without the right to vote. Not a single democratic or equalizing impulse had any influence - including the G.I. Bill of Rights. All the G.I. bill proves is that, in this country, you have to kill someone before the government will help the middle class. Of course, all that's really necessary to fall out of love with the era is to consider what they ate. There was no Italian food, only spaghetti. No Chinese, only chow mein and people smacked their lips over Chicken a la King. This is the kind of food that made Julia Child historically inevitable. Though we may admire the beauty that these ugly conditions produced, it's very hard to feel nostalgia for the real world of that time.

Not impossible, however. If life in 1949 was nasty and brutish if you fell short of the upper class, it was a much bigger world for everyone. Take Paris, the background for many of Avedon's most compelling fashion fantasties. There were far fewer ways to experience the French capital in 1949 than there are today. No television, computers, internet, cell phones, iPods, iPads or DVDs. Tourism, halted by World War II, was only beginning to revive. Commercial air travel was still in its adolescense, not its second delinquenthood like today. So, Richard Avedon didn't have to make Paris seem exotic - it truly was. There's a freshness to these photographs, a sparkle to the City of Light, that appeals to our jaded eyes. Not innocence exactly, more like an innocent view of experience that we can only see in retrospect.

Enough loitering in the past, where are the Avedons of today? The first place to look would be the Vogue and Harper's Bazaar magazines of today. (The former assuming pre-eminence after an exodus of stars - including Vreeland and Avedon - from the latter.) Look carefully, however, because you may not recognize them. With the exception of putting Blake Lively on the cover - something which, in my opinion, should be done all the time forever - they look rather, well, commercial. Lot of words, typefaces, colors and, occasionally, a banner across the entire affair called, appropriately, a "violator." It's easy for photograph to be overwhelmed, for fashion and style to get lost. Inside is the usual hash of demi-news and disguised marketing. (Thinly disguised, at best.) The fashions spreads show the usual twelve-year-old models, mugged by their hair and make-up stylists and left to strut against a colored backdrop. Clothes? Yes they're wearing clothes. One particularly edgy layout shows the backdrop itself. You can see that the models are in a photographer's studio. Edgy.

I realize that this comparison is unfair in several ways. We're taking the cream of twenty years work and comparing it with random issues of a magazine. I'm also aware, having worked in advertising, that pragmatic, marketing decisions must be made. And the pressures facing Vogue today are not the same as sixty years ago. Massive differences in style, though, overcome the differences in selection and presentation.

Style? What style? Thanks to Avedon and Harper's Bazaar, we know exactly what was considered stylish in the Forties and Fifties. We have a perfectly rendered set of fantasies that conveys it. What about now? What is stylish in 2010? Is urbanity still valued - even though our shrinking and interconnected world puts it, literally, at our fingertips. How about maturity? Has the Youth Culture, propped up by plastic surgeons and the cosmetics industry, slammed the door on adulthood - or are entitled Boomers trying to close the door on youth as they age? Do people still aspire to elegance and sophistication - or have fifty years of social advancement leveled the field until no one wants to play anymore? Have we been traveling in coach so long that all we can dream about is legroom? I hope not. Day-to-day life is not so rich that we can do without dreams. Life is not so full of good taste that "Jersey Shore" is a relief.

A Story For Rosh Hashanah.

All happy families are alike; each unhappy family in nineteenth century Russia is Jewish. Especially in the little village of Anatevka, where, on this day in 1875, Count Vronsky is leading a pogrom. That means he and his regiment of cavalry are killing every Jew in sight. Vronsky has the local milkman, Tevye, by the beard and is raising his saber, when the frightened man pleads, “Why me? I’m just a poor milkman.”

“You may well ask,“ replies Vronsky, “I’ll tell you. I don’t know, but it’s a tradition!” The cavalry join him in a lusty chorus of “Tradition.”

In a Moscow train station, it’s love at first sight for Count Vronsky and Anna Karenina. Her chiseled features part the steam like an icebreaker. He’s no zhlub himself (he’s a colonel) and exceptionally dashing in his uniform. Anna, however, rejects him because she has a husband and child back in St. Petersburg. In addition to getting his heart broken, Vronsky sees a man run over by a train and his mother arrives for a long visit. “Now I Have Everything,” he sings.

When it’s time for Anna to return home, Vronsky insists on joining her and won’t take nyet for an answer. That plus quitting his regiment are enough to overwhelm Anna’s fragile morality. They

arrive in

St. Petersburg on a Sunday - to the evident joy of her son, a noisome cherub of the Freddy

Bartholomew variety and the

seething displeasure of her

husband, who looks like Basil

Rathbone and acts like Dick

Cheney. A high-ranking

paskudnyak in the Czar’s

government, he’s a proud man.

He’s also not into swinging, so

he gives his wife an ultimatum:

either give up Vronsky or never

see your son again. She agrees

to stop seeing Vronsky, but

secretly wishes her husband

would die in a samovar

explosion. “Sabbath Prayer.”

When the house of cards that

Anna calls her character

collapses in record time, she

and Vronsky are lovers once

more. Seeing no future in St. Petersburg, they plan to run away together. London or Paris, anywhere as long as it’s “Far From The Home That I love.” They decide on Venice and in no time, they’re canoodling on the Grand Canal. To further escape detection, they pretend to be a Jewish couple from Fairlawn, New Jersey. Toasting each other with Bellinis at Harry’s Bar, they sing, “L’Chaim.”

Meanwhile, back in St. Petersburg, Anna’s husband goes to the matchmaker and demands his money back.

“I got you a wife who looks like Greta Garbo, “ she yells, “I should

have charged you double!”

“But she’s cheating on me with a man who looks like Frederick March!”

“I didn’t say you’d be happy. I’m not Doctor Philsky.”

Mr. Karenin pleads his case musically:

“Matchmaker/Matchmaker/Make me another match.

Find me another find/Catch me another catch.”

“Listen, Kerensky –“

“Karenin.”

“Whatever. I want my customers to be happy, but I can’t start giving refunds or I’ll go out of business.”

“Then how about a wife – for the night.”

“I’m a matchmaker, not a pimp!”

“And the difference is?”

“Making me angry won’t help.”

“Sorry.”

“Mr. Korsakov –“

“Karenin.”

“Whatever. I’m not out to cheat anyone, so, I’ll give you half your money back. Half! But you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone. Okay? “

Karenin agrees and sings, “Miracle of Miracles.” Then he goes home and tells his son that the reason the boy’s motheris missing is because she’s dead. The winsome tot refuses to believe him. Preferring, instead, to believe that it’s a “Rumor.”

Anna Karenina has no money of her own and Count Vronsky is rich in title only, so they run through their cash presto. On the train back to St. Petersburg, Vronsky muses on what their life would be like “If I Were A Rich Man.”

Anna is overjoyed to see her son again. He responds with a display of filial devotion matched only, perhaps, by Anthony Perkins in “Psycho.” As Anna is leaving, she meets her husband coming up the stairs. He banishes her forever, refuses to give her a divorce and tells her that she’s gained weight. She reprises, “Far From The Home That I love.”

Fortunately, Count Vronsky has a friend, Madame Ranevskaya, who invites the couple to stay at her country home. Anna loves spending time in the cherry orchard, but Vronsky, a man of action, grows restless. He tells Anna that his old regiment is planning a pogrom in Lithuania and that he’d like to join them.

“That’s just an excuse,” she says, “You want to leave me.”

“No, it’s very important that I go. There’s a cantor and kosher slaughterer who must be nipped in the bud before he has great grandchildren.”

“Admit it. You’re bored with me and can’t wait to leave.”

“It’s a small town near Vilna. We’ll demolish it quickly and I’ll come right back. I promise.”

“Do you love me?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you love me?”

“Do I love you?/With no cherries left to pick/

And there’s trouble back in town/You’re upset/

You’re worn out/go inside/go lie down/

Maybe it’s indigestion?”

“Vronsky, I’m asking you a question/

Do you love me?”

The Count is so frustrated that, instead of answering, he picks up an axe and chops down a local merchant named Lopatkin. (This later turns out to have been a good idea, but that’s another story.)

Vronsky goes back to Moscow and rejoins his regiment. Regretting their argument,

Anna follows. She gets to the train station just in time. His train is about to leave, when Vronsky sees her. He jumps off and they embrace. As they apologize and promise to love each other, the train starts to move. Vronsky is so happy, he reprises, “Now, I Have Everything.” The train begins to speed up, but before he can jump back on, three

women named Hodel, Tseital and Chava push him under the train, killing him. They are Tevye’s daughters. Anna Karenina briefly considers throwing herself under the same train, but comes to her senses. Taking the long view, she sings the touching, “Sunrise, Sunset.”