Greg Smith in "The Sweet Smell of Sachs Excess."

Ex-Goldman Worker Said To Seek Book deal

The New York Times

3/23/12

A literary agent, Simon N. Scheister, meets aspiring author, Greg Smith, in the kind of fancy, but bad, restaurant that impresses people with no taste.

SMITH

I see this book as a coming-of age story. A young man gets the job of his dreams, investment banker at Goldman Sachs, only to discover that all they care about is money.

SCHEISTER

Unless the age he’s coming of is twelve, we’ve got a problem.

SMITH

Why?

SCHEISTER

Every knows that bankers are greedy slobs.

SMITH

I didn’t.

SCHEISTER

No one thinks that Wall Street exists for any purpose except making rich people richer.

SMITH

I did.

SCHEISTER

Don’t get me wrong. Stoking the furnaces of American industry is noble and makes a great mural. It just makes a lousy book.

SMITH

But what about Wall Street’s fall from grace? It’s epic. Especially at Goldman Sachs, which was known for its high standards. Their corporate culture was the secret sauce that made them great. Not anymore. What’s happened to them is an American tragedy.

SCHEISTER

Not without a murder. Know someone who was dispatched – preferably with an oar to the head?

SMITH

Of course not.

SCHEISTER

Hmm. Would you consider killing yourself?

SMITH

Excuse me?

SCHEISTER

Death Of A Bond Salesman. It reeks American tragedy. But it may put undue pressure on your writing style.

SMITH

In what way?

SCHEISTER

“Secret sauce?” That was fresh when MacDonald’s was new.

SMITH

Thank you, Mr. Schuster –

SCHEISTER

Scheister.

SMITH

But, I’m not sure –

SCHEISTER

Greg, may I call you Greg, I’m trying to help you. But you’ve got help me. I buy the whole fall from grace thing, I do. But, take it from one who knows, it’s not the fall that sells book, it’s the hitting bottom. What kind of wretched excess can you give me? Kinky sex? Boardroom depravity? If it’s lurid enough and we package it right, I may be able to arrange an advance.

SMITH

An advance? I was published in The New York Times. My name was on the evening news. I expect a huge advance.

SCHEISTER

I don’t want to promise anything, but an advance in the high two figures is not out of the question.

SMITH

I’m beginning to think a book is out of the question.

SCHEISTER

You discourage quickly.

SMITH

Unless I’m paid enormous sums of money on a regular basis, I discourage instantly.

SCHEISTER

The writer’s life may not be for you.

SMITH

I don’t want to be a writer. I want to write a best seller.

SCHEISTER

How about self-help?

SMITH

There’s nothing wrong with me.

SCHEISTER

For other people. If you can tell them how to get a job at Goldman Sachs –

SMITH

That’s the complete opposite -

SCHEISTER

Stay with me, Hemingway. People want to know, they crave knowing how you got hired at Goldman Sachs: the hard work, the preparation, the personal dedication, they’ll read it all twice if they think it’ll help them. Throw in some tips on rising in the ranks and I think we’re talking about the kind of money you want.

SMITH

I’m sorry, Mr. Schuster –

SCHEISTER

Scheister.

SMITH

I seemed to have wasted your time.

SCHEISTER

And I’m sorry, Mr. “Smith,” but you’re not the only former Goldman executive who wants to write a book. I’m not a leg breaker, believe me, I’m strictly into the smooth angles of this business, but I have an offer from a former chairman of Goldman, who was also a governor and a senator. He needs a lot - I mean a bushel - of money very fast and is willing to write what is necessary.

SMITH

This “self-help” book . . . how positive does it have to be?

The Marshal Falcon.

The headline in today's (3/29/12) New York Times reads, Inheritance For Astor Son Is Cut by Half/Settlement Ends

Dispute Over $100 million dollar Estate. So, it may be a good time to reprint my blog post, The Marshal Falcon (TFT 10/13/09) and thereby reacquaint ourselves with Brooke Astors's son, Anthony D. Marshall and the blonde limpet he made legal, but not respectable, by marrying, Charlene.

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

CHARLENE

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

ANTHONY

Where?

CHARLENE

Tehachapi.

ANTHONY

Is that near Kykuit?

CHARLENE

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

ANTHONY

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

CHARLENE

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

ANTHONY

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

CHARLENE

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

ANTHONY

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

CHARLENE

I won’t play the sap for you.

ANTHONY

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

CHARLENE

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

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

CHARLENE

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

ANTHONY

It was your idea!

CHARLENE

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

ANTHONY

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

CHARLENE

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

ANTHONY

The conditions were your idea.

CHARLENE

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

ANTHONY

You know whether you love me or not.

CHARLENE

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

ANTHONY

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

CHARLENE

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

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

Guilting Unrefined Goldman.

I see Greg Smith is leaving Goldman Sachs. Normally, I wouldn’t care. I don’t know him and never heard of him until The New York Times devoted the bulk of their Op-Ed page (3/14/12) to his valedictory address. Why would they trust the most expensive real estate in journalism to a banker who participated in – and profited from – the mortgage crisis? True, Mr. Smith says a lot of nasty things about his former employer, but why is this newsworthy and not just a breach of job interview etiquette?

“I don’t know of any illegal behavior,” writes Mr. Smith, “but will people push the envelope and pitch lucrative and complicated products to clients even if they are not the simplest investments or the ones most directly in line with the client’s goals? Absolutely. Every day, in fact.” If that’s whistle-blowing, it’s a dog whistle. It gets worse, though. “. . . managing directors refer to their own clients as ‘muppets’” and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, “It makes me ill how callously people talk about ripping their clients off.” Those aren’t indictments, those are aesthetic objections.

Okay, he’s not exactly kicking butt. Is he taking names? Yes. “ . . . current chief executive officer, Lloyd C. Blankfein, and the president, Gary D. Cohen, lost hold of the firm’s culture on their watch.” Of all the horrible things you can say about Mr. Blankfein, (for examples, see “Goldfellas” TFT 8/6/9, “Sounds like Gold in Sacks” TFT 10/20/9, “Sun-Sachs Boulevard TFT 7/27/10, “A letter to our clients from Gold Ransacks” TFT 11/13/10 and “The role of Lloyd C. Blankfein will be played by Mel Gibson” TFT 7/20/10) he chose a pretty pale one. It’s true, of course. I'm willing to believe that all his damning criticisms of Goldman Sachs are true. What I’m groping for is his moral authority. Why should I - or a Wall Street professional – allow him to tell us what’s right?

What was Greg Smith doing while everyone else was worshipping the Golden Calf? He’s only too glad to tell us – up to a point. Did you know that he managed a trillion dollars in assets? I didn’t. I don’t even know if that’s good. To paraphrase Sen. Everett Dirksen, “A trillion here, a trillion there and pretty soon you’re talking about real money.” Mr. Smith, in fact, slips his entire resume into his Op-Ed piece (no mean achievement itself) but neglects to tell us how he rose from intern to Executive Director in twelve years without succumbing to temptation, how he was promoted by Lloyd C. Blankfein while disdaining him and most, importantly, how he could sell derivatives to most of the world without being compromised. What are derivatives? Lucrative and complicated products that . . . never mind.

Is Greg Smith a martyr? Did he risk his job by writing this piece? Who knows? He tells us nothing about the circumstances leading up to his “leaving” Goldman Sachs. Is he endangering his future by publishing it? I’m assuming, at this point, that Mr. Smith doesn’t have to work for a living. So, he can either retire to the golf course or if he can find an impeccably client-centered financial firm that doesn’t place too high a value on loyalty, he may continue to polish his resume – and, presumably, his halo. I would, however, offer him one piece of advice. If you’re thinking of joining an exclusive country club or working in a small, highly-refined private bank, don't mention your bronze medal in Israel’s Maccabiah games. I know you’re proud of it, Mr. “Smith,” but some things you should keep to yourself.

Why Tibetans Should Have Two Sets of Dishes.

I am not an expert in Tibetan culture or the Buddhist religion. My knowledge of these subjects depends, almost entirely, on the movie, Lost Horizon (1937). Except, of course, for certain key concepts that have filtered into Western culture. Karma, for instance. I can state with authority that there are two kinds, good and bad, and that a great deal depends on which one you have. Past that it gets a little fuzzy. I only mention it because there's an article about Tibetan food in The New York Times.

In “Tibetans’ (Forbidden) Special Treat” (NYT 2/22/12) Julia Moskin reports that juicy beef dumplings, called sha momos, are “. . . an obsession among Tibetans” and amount to an “ . . unofficial national dish.” This passion embodies a cultural contradiction, however. “Though most Tibetans are Buddhists, who would avoid taking a life, they are also great lovers of meat.” That a religion should forbid you eating the food you crave most is not news to Jews and Muslims. Bacon, ham, lobster, shrimp - non-kosher foods are so consistently delicious, it’s almost intentional. The same is true for Halal dietary laws. (Indeed, one reason for Jews and Muslims not getting along may be that they are cranky from not eating pork.) Granted, a vegetarian diet is far more restrictive, but, in a way, that makes it easier to follow. There’s no judgement involved. No temptations. Eat your vegetables and shut up. Yet, all over Lhasa, people line up for yak dumplings. How do they justify it?

“The tradition of meat-eating is strong because without meat as a source of fat and protein, Tibetans simply could not have survived on their high, cold plateau for centuries, said Ganden Thurman, the executive director of Tibet House, a cultural center in New York City.” I’m sure that’s true. If climbing the Himalayas builds an appetite, imagine what commuting does. “Also, Mr. Thurman said, there is a practical, Buddhist reason for eating yak instead of, say, rabbit or fish. ‘The karmic load of one rabbit and one yak are the same: one life. But you can feed a lot more people with a yak.’” Nimble justifications and I’m sure they’ve served many Tibetans for many years. Still, while you’re tucking into your third serving of sha momos, you have to feel guilty knowing that the Dalai Lama is a strict vegetarian, right? Wrong. “The Dalai Lama himself has struggled with adopting a vegetarian diet . . . many Tibetans will tell you that doctors have advised him to eat meat for health reasons. The official position is that the kitchens of his residence in Dharamsala, in Northern India, are vegetarian, but that the Dalai Lama does eat meat elsewhere.” (Speaking of karmic loads, how big was Ganden Thurman’s in a previous life that the beautiful actress, Uma Thurman, is his sister in this one?)

There’s a much easier way to eat your dumplings and have them, too. Tibetan Buddhists should follow the Jewish example of having three sets of dishes: one for meat, one for dairy and one for Chinese food. Not that Tibetans eat a lot of Chinese food - not, certainly, since 1959 - but you get the idea: one set of dishes for vegetarian and one for whatever they call trafe. It will save them a lot of theological explaining and, if you’re the Dalai Lama, a lot of bouncing around India looking for a Ponderosa Steakhouse.

His Case Didn't Stand Up In Court.

By the Grace of Mellisa, reporter for the New York Daily News, we get this story straight from Tabloid Heaven. (Names, dates and other boring details have been left out.) A one-legged millionaire was arrested for drunkenly punching a stripper in the face with his gold Rolex watch.The man in question is missing a leg for the same reason that he’s rich: he won a $15 million suit against the Nassau County Police. It seems they ran him over while trying to arrest him for beating his wife. Prior to that, our Boy Scout did time for both stabbing a man in the face and stealing a car, which he then set on fire. All in the past, said his attorney. Since he’s been rich, he’s given money to charity. Specifically, Haitian earthquake relief. The defense attorney also claimed that the women in question was soliciting his client and/or trying to pick his pocket. What’s more, she cheats on her taxes. The Judge said, it doesn’t matter if she pays her taxes or not, you can’t go around punching people and gave Sluggo sixty days. His victim hopes to become a star on reality television.

Follow The Yellow Catwalk.

Don’t worry, I’m not writing about the fashion industry – or the modeling business – or even Fashion Week in New York 2012. I will limit my comments to a single person: Duncan Quinn, a former corporate lawyer, who has owned a boutique in Manhattan since 2003. Mr. Quinn charges $30,000 for a custom-made suit of his design and, as interviewed by Patrick Cole for Bloomerg News (2/14/12) claims to have customers. If ever there was a grand and powerful Oz, it’s Duncan Quinn. Pay no attention to the man behind the dressing room curtain.

What makes a suit worth $30,000? “It’s made of a fabric called Guanashina,” says the designer, “It’s . . . main components are kid pashmina . . . a caliber of baby cashmere only obtained from the brushing of the soft, under-fleece of 18-month-old goats bred only in Inner Mongolia, and Guanaco, the yarn of choice for the coronation robes of Incan Royalty.” First, Kid Pashmina lost a twelve-round decision to Primo Carnera in 1933. Second, brushing the soft under-fleece of an eighteen-month-old goat will get you eighteen-to life in Inner Mongolia. Finally, he’s confusing Guanaco with Geo. Naco, author of the only surviving Incan comedy, Machu Picchu About Nothing.

Mr. Quinn further justifies the price with a comparison. “The $1 sandwich won’t move your soul the way the $50 truffle burger will.” All we can hope is that it moves your soul to a richer neighborhood.

Regarding his own personal style, Mr. Quinn likes fabrics from Naples, which “I guess reflects a rather more playful approach to life.” It’s true. Look at the way Mount Vesuvius erupted, playfully extinguishing all life in Pompeii or the way the Camora (Neapolitan mafia) will playfully put you in a pizza oven – and turn it on – if you don’t pay. As for watches, “I’m drawn to old Breitlings. They went through a dodgy patch in the 1980s and 1990s, but I think they’re somewhat back on track now.” They didn’t go through a dodgy patch, Breitlings are made in Dogpatch to look like the kind of watch Capt. Bligh used to time the next flogging. Then, there's fragrance. I hate to brag about my own fashion sense, but that's where I’ve got him beat. Duncan Quinn may have been wearing Roger and Gallet’s Eau de Gingembre for fifteen years, but I’ve been wearing Sherwood & Schwartz’s Eau de Gilligan for forty-five.

Still, I’m glad that Mr. Quinn has found his way from the Kansas of Wall Street to the Oz of the fashion world. The clothing options, even in a white shoe law firm, are extremely limited.

Newt Gingrich: What is the Sound of One Shoe Scraping?

Newt Gingrich threatens to be around for a while. Literally. After a decisive loss in the Florida primary, he didn’t concede or quit. Instead he threatened to wage a long, hard campaign for the nomination. Just whom he was addressing is in question.

The best way for Mr. Gingrich to threaten Mitt Romney is by beating him and winning a single primary won’t do it. What’s more, if the Civil War is any indication, things that start in South Carolina don’t always end well.Unlike Rick Santorum, his speech wasn’t a brave attempt to rally his remaining supporters. Nor, like Ron Paul, was it a guarded way of telling them they’re not getting their money back. So, he couldn’t be directing his comments to the cheering people around him. And there’s never any doubt when Newt is threatening a Democratic opponent. So, the answer must be that, as always, he was talking to himself. After all, one of the two things about Newt Gingrich that you can always depend on is that his ego and self-involvement are limitless - even for a politician. (The other is that his respect for women falls somewhere between Mel Gibson and The Taliban.) That Newt can fool himself into thinking that he still has a chance is, therefore, without question. Whether he can continue to fool his major contributor, Sheldon Adelson, remains to be seen. Until then, Newt Gingrich’s fellow Republicans would be wise to step carefully on the campaign trail.

The Invisible Mitt.

In my mind, I dance like Fred Astaire. The reality is different. Just as, I’m sure, in Mitt Romney’s mind, he’s Calvin Coolidge. Both are worthy goals, but nothing we will achieve in this lifetime. As a politician, the closest Mr. Romney will ever get to resembling a famous person (beside the model on a box of hair color) is Claude Rains in The Invisible Man (1933): an empty suit that walks and talks like a man. True, he doesn’t scare anyone (except Republicans) but if you listen to him (I don’t advise it, but it’s becoming inevitable) what he says amounts to nothing more than the insane cackle made famous by Mr. Rains.

Mitt Romney can’t complain about the Obama administration when he’s spent the last four years earning $86 million - without working. Oh, he can complain, but the eighty six million people who made nothing in those years won’t take him seriously. He can brag about his achievements in finance, they’re real, but, again, if Joe can’t afford a six-pack, it’s not the right strategy. He can boast about being Governor of Massachusetts and making low-cost, high-quality healthcare available to all residents, but not if he wants the Republican Presidential nomination. As for professing his Mormon faith - about which, I’m sure, he’s entirely sincere - I don’t think the nation is ready for it. If the broadway musical, The Book of Mormon, can be compared to a minstrel show, (I haven’t seen it) true acceptance is far off. You can’t even count on the Osmonds anymore. At this point, Donny and Marie are no more than abnormally charming adults.

It doesn’t leave much for a candidate to talk about. Any candidate. That wouldn’t stop Newt Gingrich, of course, but nothing would besides a glue trap. So, if I were Mitt Romney, I’d give up elective politics and aim for something remotely possible (very remote, I hope): Secretary of the Treasury in the next Republican administration. Until then, he should be content with resembling James Garner in the movie, Cash McCall (1960): a handsome, young, business executive, who buys companies and sells them for a profit. I’d take it. After Fred Astaire, it’s my second favorite fantasy.

Newt Gingrich Is To Class War As Donald Trump Is To Class.

It’s not impossible for Newt Gingrich to say something intelligent, it’s just unnecessary. So, imagine my surprise when he said something recently that, if not intelligent, was, at least, thought-provoking. Responding to the State of the Union Address, he accused President Obama of advocating class war. I, personally, have always advocated class war (Let’s Kick Some Class, TFT 10/25/11) but, to my knowledge, the President never has. Even if you were only paying half-attention on Tuesday night, there’s no way to construe his remarks otherwise. Yet, Mr. Gingrich did. Why?

There can only be two sides in a war: us and them, right against wrong, good vs. evil. Thus, there can only be two classes in a class war, forcing people to choose one or the other. Which class would Mr. Gingrich choose? He seems to make an upper-class income, but knowing for sure is hard because someone who was thrown out of Congress for eighty-four ethics violations may be tempted to under-report. (The Gingrich That Stalks Christmas, TFT 12/7/11) Bloomberg News claims that “Newt Gingrich made between $1.6 million and $1.8 million in consulting fees (what he calls being a “historian,” what you call being a “lobbyist”) from two contracts with mortgage company, Freddie Mac, according to two people familiar with the arrangement.” Even with expensive habits like cheating on his wives and marrying his mistresses, that would still leave him well-ensconced within the one per cent. The problem is that he faces an opponent for the Republican Presidential nomination, Mitt Romney, who is conspicuously, even defiantly, upper-class. A man so stupendously wealthy that he can afford hundreds of wives. (Although his religion has forbidden it since 1898.) Welcome to the lower class, Newt. But wait, Newt Gingrich hates poor people. Unless their children are earning enough to send the whole family back to the old country, he begrudges them the air they breathe. The only groups he may hate more are women, minorities, gays, liberals, the media and anyone who disagrees with him.

As far as I can tell, the only role for Mr. Gingrich in the coming war between the classes is that of Switzerland. You know, the country that claimed to be neutral while melting Granny’s gold teeth into ingots for their favorite bank customers, the Nazis. But that’s no good, either. How do you explain that to voters, especially in an election year?

Let’s face it, this utterance defies rational analysis and further discussion would only dignify it. Newt Gingrich’s statement on class war would appear to be another half-thought from a half-wit with a loud mouth. Someone like Donald Trump, but without the entertainment value.

Filming The Great Gatsby: A Classic Blunder.

About ten years ago, film director, Baz Luhrmann, wondered why The Great Gatsby succeeded as a novel, but always failed as a movie. He never found out. But that didn’t stop him. According to an article by Michael Cieply in The New York Times (1/17/12), “Baz. Luhrmann – the Australian director of films like “Australia” and “Moulin Rouge!” - is planning to release a star-packed, high-budget version of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s much-admired novel of the Jazz Age next Christmas.”

Both the weaknesses and strengths of The Great Gatsby defy dramatization, but it’s easy to see why filmmakers are tempted. They think, “White suits! Mansions! Limousines! Best of all, we get intellectual credentials by adapting a classic of American literature.” The last director to fall into this trap was Jack Clayton in 1974. You may not have heard of him, but the star of the film, Robert Redford, is well known. So is its screenwriter, a fellow by the name of Francis Ford Coppola. (I hear they’ve both done some directing.) Why did all their combined talents produce nothing more than a sleeping pill? No mystery. Anyone who attempts to dramatize Gatsby faces the same four challenges. One, a stupid plot: some claptrap about seeking the girl of your dreams in Great Neck, Long Island - with a side trip to Queens. Two, weak characters: the women are playthings; the men are macho jerks, sniveling wannabes and the title character, who is vague until the end, when he is less than he seems. Three, doing justice to not one, but two themes that are central to American culture: our worship of success in the form of money and the belief that we can always re-invent ourselves. Finally, there’s the language – the gorgeous, poetic style in which the novel is written. Any filmmaker who attempts to put Fitzgerald on the screen must find a visual analog for his literary style.

No amount of gangsters, flappers or millionaires will suffice unless they “. . . came and went like moths among the whispering and the champagne and the stars.” Cast any actress you want as Daisy Buchanan - unless “Her voice is full of money . . . the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it” she’s wasting her time. You can show a man brooding at the end of a pier, but how do you convey, “He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in the vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.”

The first choice (and last resort) of most directors would be a voiceover narration. A famously weak device, all voiceovers say the same thing: you couldn’t come up with a visual solution. (Citizen Kane and Sunset Boulevard are the exceptions that prove the rule.) Baz Luhrmann had a better idea. At least, he thought he did. Shoot it in 3-D! It occurred to him while listening to James Cameron talk about “Avatar.” What convinced him was Alfred Hitchcock’s Dial M For Murder, a film that hasn’t been seen in 3-D since it was first released in 1954. In fact, Mr. Cieply writes, “He found only two projectors, one in New York, one in Burbank, Calif., that could still play that film.” Why exactly was seeing Ray Milland in 3-D a revelation? “‘It was like theater,’ Mr. Luhrmann said.”

Hmmm. He seems to be going in a different direction entirely. Maybe it’s not the literary style that matters? Maybe the thrill of getting up close and personal with Leonardo DiCaprio is enough? A lot of people are betting a lot of money that it is. How much money? According to Mr. Cieply, The Great Gatsby “. . . was shot in Australia, with a budget of roughly $125 million before government rebates.” So, even if moviegoers stay away in droves, Australian citizens will have the thrill of watching their tax dollars go down the drain clockwise (or so they say.)

To his credit, Mr. Luhrmann admits the project is not without controversy. “But Fitzgerald, he insisted, would have approved. ‘He was a modernist,’ Mr. Luhrmann said, ‘He was very influenced by the cinema.’” I’ll say. Within three years of moving to Hollywood to work as a screenwriter, F. Scott Fitzgerald had drunk himself to death.

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.