The Voice Of The Turtle Says, "Build Something."

When the days get longer and the sap rises, I feel that old, familiar urge. Actually, I feel several urges, but the safest one to act on is building something. Not that you can’t hurt yourself with chain saw, you can, but even if you saw off a limb, your marriage stays intact. Know what I mean? So when the flowers appear on the Earth and the time of the singing of birds is come, I head to Home Depot. Not that I’m adding a wing to my house or anything. One, I don’t live in a house, I live in a Manhattan apartment so small that the only place to add a bookshelf is on the ceiling (don’t try it) and, two, I’ve never built anything in my life. It’s the idea of building that appeals to me - especially if it involves shopping for tools. Thus, when the year’s at the spring and the day’s at the morn, I head to my local Home Depot with one thing in mind – erection.

“I don’t need a reciprocating saw and it doesn’t need me. Is that how the tool got its name?” “No,” said Joe, my friendly salesman at the first Home Depot to open in Manhattan, “It means the blade goes back and forth.”

“But don’t all saws do that?”

“If they have crosscut blades. A ripsaw, for instance, is better suited for moving in one direction.”

“Can a reciprocating saw have a rip blade?”

“That would be difficult.”

“It can make a big loop like an elliptical trainer.”

I trace loops through the air with my hands while Joe grips invisible hammers with his. “I’m sorry, you want Salon Depot,” he sneers, “where people discuss tools instead of buying them.”

Actually, he doesn’t say that, but it’s possible because, as I’m sure Joe realizes, I’m there as a tourist. After puzzling over laser operated measuring devices (Why don’t they shoot holes through walls?) and racking my brain for a reason to buy one (“Honey, it’s so much more accurate than our old, steel tape measure.”) I need a new department. Someplace where I can impress the sales help with my knowledge.

Within minutes, I am confronted by an attractive, young woman with a perky, blonde bob and an orange apron. Her name tag says, “Becky Sue.”

“Can I help you?”

“Yes.” I strike a casual pose. “My second floor lintels between the lally columns. I’m thinking of rabbeting them.”

“That hot water heater you’re leaning on won’t help.”

I tilt my head forward and look up at her (which is hard because she’s shorter than me) and fix her with my most superior “ I can’t believe you said that” look.

“When I work, I need strong coffee and,” rapping twice on the heater, “lots of it.”

Becky Sue snorts (that could be her full name) and I decide to seek more familiar environs like sinks and toilets.

Too familiar, I’m afraid. Even my apartment has a bathroom and a kitchen; I want something exotic. Something with hidden glamour that your typical homeowner takes for granted. Like gutters and downspouts. So, I go over to home improvements and if there’s any glamour in gutters, it’s well hidden. I consider returning to tools, when I see them - my goal, my destiny. Propped up next to the shovels (trenching, round point and wide mouth) are exactly what I’ve come for - a gleaming row of axes.

There’s only one thing to do with an axe – heft it. So, I pick one up by its bright yellow, fiberglass handle and feel the weight. There’s something deeply satisfying about hefting an axe. It also feeds into several of my fantasies. As I stand there, hefting, I realize two of my favorites are merging into one in which, wearing a hockey mask and dancing like Jacques D’Amboise, I chase Jane Powell through the woods of Oregon, screaming for blood. Unfortunately, my lips are moving as I daydream. Returning to reality, I notice shoppers slowly moving away and a crouching security guard approaching. Now, I think, may be a good time to leave.

I walk slowly, but purposefully, to the front door, carefully avoiding the grills. I enjoy grilled food, but I prefer not cook it myself owing to an experience several summers ago when I poured lighter fluid onto a gas grill. Not, I should add, the holocaust you’d expect. It just wouldn’t go out for several days.

Although I’m leaving empty-handed, I consider my trip a success. After all, every home repair that I do is one less job for a struggling plumber or carpenter. Not buying anything at Home Depot is, in its way, a silent vote for the working man. Yet, I am denied even this fantasy. As I walk out the front door, I see a man in an “Acme Plumbing” T-shirt loading three pipe wrenches and a reciprocating saw into the back of his Rolls Royce.

A Very Hot August For Father Lawrence C. Murphy.

August 21, 1998. Rev. Lawrence C. Murphy pauses before entering the Gates of Hell. He talks with the guard, an average-looking man with a flaming clipboard.

MURPHY: Excuse me, there’s been a mistake.

GUARD: Rev. Lawrence C. Murphy? From St. John’s School For The Deaf in St. Francis, Wisconsin?

MURPHY: Yes.

GUARD: No mistake. This way to eternal damnation.

MURPHY: You don’t understand. I’ve been forgiven.

GUARD: There’s no record of that.

MURPHY: I was there, I should know. I got Last Rites.

GUARD: Were you conscious?

MURPHY: No.

GUARD: That way to the lake of fire.

MURPHY: You mean I died unshriven?

GUARD: Don’t ask me, I just work here.

MURPHY: Okay, I was really forgiven before that. A long time before that.

GUARD: By whom?

MURPHY: The Archbishop.

GUARD: Forgiven?

MURPHY: Not exactly, but I wasn’t punished.

GUARD: Lack of punishment is not forgiveness. It’s more like a vacation.

MURPHY: Okay, I did something that some people might think was wrong, but I wasn’t punished.

GUARD: Hmm. Was there any official recognition of wrongdoing?

MURPHY: No, not even by the Pope. Although, he wasn’t Pope at the time. He was a Cardinal.

GUARD: Congratulations!

MURPHY: I go to Heaven?

GUARD: No, you got away with something. The wailing and the gnashing of teeth begin at seven. Don’t be late.

MURPHY: Who’s in charge here?

GUARD: See that line over there? That’s the line to see the Devil.

MURPHY: That’ll take forever.

GUARD: You’re catching on.

MURPHY: I want to speak to him now.

GUARD: Get in line – if you know what’s bad for you.

Father Murphy gets in line and – after what seems like an eternity – gets to speak with the Devil himself, another average-looking man except he’s bright red and wears a pink suit.

DEVIL: Drives the art directors crazy. (He takes a long sip from a tall, cold glass of lemonade.) Want some?

MURPHY: Sure!

DEVIL: Can’t have it. Ha! I love myself.

MURPHY: There’s been a mistake. I should be in Heaven.

DEVIL: By all means, let’s get down to business. You’re Father Murphy, right?

MURPHY: Yes.

DEVIL: Do you know why you’re here?

MURPHY: No.

DEVIL: To make my life miserable, that’s why! This was a good job until the priests starting coming. Sure, it’s Hell, but I got to rule and that was enough for me. Then it started filling up with Catholic priests – and they all think they’re special. “I repented. I was forgiven.” God doesn’t care! God sent you here for treating his church like a toilet! You, Father Murphy, took hundreds of innocent, little boys - deaf boys, that’s the brilliant part, even I couldn’t have imagined that – and raped them over a period of twenty years. They were already disabled and you ruined them for life! Is there any doubt that you belong in Hell?

MURPHY: But the Pope –

DEVIL: He’s coming. Don’t worry about him. I opened a new German wing after World War Two and there’s plenty of room for the Pope.

MURPHY: But I spent my entire life serving God. I can’t believe he would do this to me.

DEVIL: If it’s any consolation, that’s the worst part of his job.

MURPHY: It’s no consolation at all.

DEVIL: Good! I thought I was losing my touch. Now, beat it before I get angry. You don’t want to see me angry.

UPDATE: Have Gun, Will Shargel.

Robert “Joe” Halderman (The Freedonia Times, 11/12/09) pleaded guilty to Attempted Grand Larceny in a Manhattan court yesterday. Accompanied by his lawyer, Gerald Shargel, he apologized for trying to extort $2 million from television host, David Letterman, in the guise of selling him a screenplay. He is free on bail until May 4, when he will be sentenced to six months in prison and one hundred hours of community service. He has given up his right to appeal and is forbidden to profit in any way from his crime.

After reading a prepared statement to the press, he joins Mr. Shargel in a limousine. The following conversation takes place during the ride back to Mr. Halderman’s apartment.

JOE: Will you visit me in jail?

GERALD: Why would I do that?

J: No one else will. My family, friends and former colleagues all treat me like poison.

G: One possible disadvantage to going into the extortion business.

J: I thought you liked me?

G: Since we’re not appealing, I’m afraid our association is at an end. Besides, my career depends on not being too closely associated with prison.

J: I thought it depended on keeping people out of prison?

G: I don’t work on contingency. You knew that from the start.

J: What jail will I go to?

G: I don’t know. You’re in the system now. I would, however, advise you to spend the next two months putting your affairs in order.

J: You make it sound like I’m dying.

G: Nothing of the sort. In fact, with any luck, you’ll be out by Christmas.

J: What do you mean luck?

G: Don’t dwell on the details. There is, however, one detail you should not overlook – my fee.

J: Oh. Yeah. Uhh, I forgot –

G: My secretary will send you a bill.

J: I was kind of hoping that, you know, we could –

G: Work out a payment plan? Sure. Is monthly good?

J: What I meant was, could you sort of, you know, reduce it?

G: Not in the plan, Joe.

They arrive at Joe’s apartment building.

G: Here we are. Limo’s on me.

J: Uhh, thanks.

G: Good luck – and don’t try to sell any “screenplays” in prison. Okay?

The Alan Levine Career Arc.

Not, I hasten to say, the career of Alan Levine. That can best be summed up by the title of Sigmund Freud’s book, The Future of an Illusion. Instead, I propose a list of the stages in one’s career that, I'm pretty sure, most professionals will recognize. Note: I use the male pronoun strictly out of laziness. Feel free to replace it with any words or initials that you prefer.

1) Who is this guy?

2) Hey, this guy’s good.

3) Get me Alan Levine.

4) Get me a cheap Alan Levine.

5) Get me a young Alan Levine.

6) Get me the next Alan Levine.

7) Get me an Alan Levine type.

8) Who is this guy?

I hope you make it to number seven and don’t linger too long at number two. It should also be noted that – of all the stages – number three is the shortest. At least, that’s what they tell me.

Patterson, Montserrate and Spitzer: A New York State of Fiend.

The scandals involving Gov. David Patterson, former State Senator Hiram Montserrate and former Gov. Eliot Spitzer all have one thing in common: abuse of women. Gov. Patterson’s top aide, David Johnson, is accused of domestic violence by his girlfriend, Serruna Booker, and the Governor is accused of using the New York State Police to silence her. Hiram Montserrate was convicted of assaulting his girlfriend, Karla Geraldo, by slashing her face with a broken glass, then dragging her out the front door of his building by her hair. The latter in full view of an operating security camera. Since he was charged with felonies, but only convicted of misdemeanors, his expulsion from the State Senate was not automatic. He had to be voted out. Still, he hasn’t given up. In fact, he wants his job back. So, he will be on the ballot for the special election called to replace him. You may think that former Gov. Eliot Spitzer looks good by comparison. After all, that call-girl was bought and paid for - many times - by him with his own money. There are no accusations of cruelty or excessively kinky sex (though what would be considered excessive on that gaudy scale?) Even if we overlook that, while Governor, Spitzer was breaking the law on a regular basis, he was still supporting – I mean supporting body and soul – the sexual debasement of women. That really sucks.

What the hell is wrong with these people? Were they raised on blood? Do they not know right from wrong? Or are they just assholes? Furthermore, what is to be done with them? Taking them out of public life, just puts them in the private sector, where they will commit the same abuses in their private life. Sending them to rehab only rehabilitates their images. You just know that none of them will serve time. I’d say mulch them, but they’d probably kill trees.

Evan Bayh's Resignation: The Bunk Of The Wabash.

You can either buy fertilizer or get it free. Evan Bayh, two-term Democratic Senator from Indiana, just gave us a steaming pile of the free kind. On Monday, February 15^th, he announced that he was retiring from the Senate.There could a worse time to do that, but it isn’t likely. His President, party and country need all the Democratic votes they can get – now! Yet, what reason did he give? That extreme partisanship has made it impossible for Congress to accomplish anything. He didn’t give examples, but he doesn’t have to. Evan Bayh accomplished nothing during his twelve years in the Senate.

Does Sen. Bayh take any blame for that himself? No, instead he takes the vulgar popular notion of “extreme partisanship” and tries to hide behind it. What is he hiding? It’s obviously possible for someone named Bayh to achieve great things in the Senate, his father proved that. Holding the same seat as his son from 1963-1981, Sen. Birch Bayh was principal architect of the 25^th and 26^th Amendments to the Constitution. He was principal Senate sponsor of the Equal rights Amendment, which passed both houses of Congress, but wasn’t ratified by the states and was a major force in passing Title IX to the Higher Education Act, which gave women equal opportunities in school sports. A different time, you say? Yes, the late Sixties and early Seventies were a peaceful time in this country. No dissension at all. Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon really brought the nation together.

Does Evan Bayh blame congressional Republicans for consistent party-line voting, filibustering and other tactics intended to obstruct? No. Does he, at least, point the finger at House Minority Leader, John Boehner and Senate Minority Leader, Mitch McConnell, the Guillain and Barre of creeping congressional paralysis? No, because then he would be “partisan.”

What’s wrong with being “partisan” anyway? The two parties should be different. The more alike they are, the worse for everyone. Attacking the other party is healthy, defeating them is an obligation. When the other party blocks legislation for their own selfish reasons, you don’t blame “partisanship,” you blame them. Being “bipartisan” is not some mysterious goal. It won’t usher in the Millenium. Being “bipartisan” is simply the result of not being a selfish pig. When politicians think about what’s good for other people, things get done.

Evan Bayh doesn’t even think about what’s good for other politicians. Not only has he betrayed every Democratic colleague at the national level, up to and including the President, he’s screwed the ones in his home state of Indiana, too. By announcing his retirement on Monday, none of them had time to qualify for the primary. Now, the Democratic nominee will be chosen by the state party committee. He didn’t learn that kind of behavior from his father. Birch Bayh is the man who pulled Teddy Kennedy from the flaming wreckage of a plane crash in 1964. So, not only is he a hero for saving Teddy’s life, he can lay claim to the next forty-five years of Kennedy’s career in the Senate, too.

What does Evan Bayh plan to do once he’s out of office? Be a lobbyist? Not after burning all his Democratic bridges. Run for Governor of Indiana? Been there, done that - twice. Granting him the full measure of self-delusion common to all politicians, he may want to run for President. But why? Even a conservative Democrat is too liberal for the Republicans. A third party? Good luck. That leaves Joe Lieberman, the Independent who looks like a donkey, but votes like an ass.

The only respectable thing for Bayh to do now is rescind his resignation and beg to be forgiven. If not, then he should be beaten senseless with a chair by Bobby Knight, the hot-tempered former coach of the Indiana Hoosiers, who liked to fling furniture onto the basketball court when things weren’t going his way.

The First Annual St. Valentine's Day Parade.

1/4/10

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

1/5/10

Ask Mayor Michael Bloomberg and Diana Taylor to be Grand Marshals. He says Diana can’t make it, but Gov. David Patterson is available. Two men? There’s already a parade for that.

1/7/10

Ask John Edwards and Rielle Hunter to lead parade. They are glad to oblige. Every statue of St. Valentine in the country screams, jumps off its pedestal and smashes itself to pieces on the altar.

1/10/03

South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford agrees to be Grand Marshal, but only if he can march with his Argentine “soul mate.” I tell him to take a hike.

1/16/03

Ask Roman Polanski. He’d love to do it, but can’t leave Switzerland. Sends a fondue set and three excellent phone numbers.

1/19/03

Have to explain to three irate fathers why I’m calling their daughters.

1/23/03

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

1/28/03

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.

1/31/03

Ask Archbishop Timothy Dolan if he will march in parade. Says he’s busy on Sunday. Oops. Meet with Dr. Sol Roth, Rabbi of the Fifth Avenue Synagogue, who says that he’s also busy on Sunday. “Don’t you mean Saturday?” “No, Sunday is when I go to brunch at “Russ and Daughters, the Queens of Lake Sturgeon.”

2/9/03

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.

2/13/03

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

For J.D.Salinger - With Love And Squalor.

Author J.D. Salinger is dead at the age of 91. I was never a huge fan of his novel, The Catcher In The Rye. No plot and no real characters besides the main one, an American teenager named Holden Caulfield, who’s just been kicked out of prep school. Not much in the way of content, either. It follows a lonely, sensitive and - let’s face it - pretty intelligent guy as he lurches from one intense emotional state to another. Although, when you think about it, that’s exactly what someone his age is like. So, in a way, the book is what it’s about. A neat trick, but what I really like, what really impresses me is the voice. Holden’s voice. The Catcher In The Rye is told from his point of view and Salinger captures exactly how someone like that speaks. I mean perfectly. Of course, even the strongest voices fade over time if you’re not reminded of them. But you have to be older than Holden Caulfield to know about that.

My favorite story by J.D Salinger is For Esme – With Love And Squalor. I like it because it’s about a damsel in distress. Except she’s not a damsel and she’s not really in distress. It takes place in London after World War II. An American serviceman, a writer in real life, meets an English girl and they get along. Briefly, but well. It’s hard to say exactly how old she is. In the story, she’s thirteen, but precocious and - without getting all Roman Polanski on him - it’s a distinction the author is wont to obscure. One difference that he captures perfectly is between what you want and what you need. In the story, the soldier wants to help Esme, the girl, but really needs help himself. He thinks she’s lonely, but he’s the one who’s lonely. Not a completely alien set of circumstances. At least, for yours truly. Anyway, Esme wants the soldier to write a story especially for her. It should be squalid and moving, too, because she is extremely interested in squalor. Being an English aristocrat, she has no knowledge of it herself. So, there’s a story within the story and, if not squalid, it’s very moving. Pathetic, if you want to know the truth. It’s about an American soldier in post-war Germany, who has a raging case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. In those days, however, it’s called “Battle Fatigue” or a “Nervous Breakdown” by indifferent bureaucrats and crude civilians, respectively. So, he’s living in Germany, all untreated, and his condition isolates him from everyone. He doesn’t even answer the letter from an English girl/woman named Esme (get it?) who also sends him a sentimental gift. Then it ends. Yeah, it’s pretty awful – in a sad way. I know it’s just a story and the real soldier makes it moving as a favor to the real Esme, but it’s pretty goddam authentic.

Now, for the squalid and moving part of this story: J.D. Salinger’s life. He spent most of it as a cranky hermit in northern New Hampshire. He wrote little or nothing after 1953 and lived alone after 1966. He banged the occasional hot chick, but that’s pretty thin gruel if it’s like your life. Unless he went completely to the other side and became a Zen Buddhist, then empty is your goal. Otherwise, I’d say J.D. was an unhappy guy. A picture of Salinger smiling would be up there with the photo of a beaming Albert Camus, which hangs – or did – above the stairs in the French Library of Boston. Exactly contemporary with the Existentialists, he was not one himself. J.D. Salinger did not contemplate existence. He merely described the part of it that got in his way, which was, basically, all of it.

Washington, DC: The Low Tidal Basin.

What’s that smell? It can only be American politics.

The “Nay State” Votes.

I used to think that Massachusetts was so liberal that they’d elect a Democrat without thinking. After choosing Scott Brown to replace the late Senator Edward M. Kennedy, it’s clear that they’ll elect a Republican without thinking. too.

Where’s Anatole France when you need him?

The Supreme Court, in its majestic equality, protects the right of the rich as well as the poor to buy political candidates, bribe media and steal elections.

The “Swamp State” sinks even lower.

Governor Mark Sanford and Congressman Joe Wilson are not the only creatures living in the mud of South Carolina politics. Add Lieut. Governor Andre Bauer, who recently compared children in a free school lunch program to stray animals who must not be fed or they will multiply. As they say down South, “A man who won’t use his head might as well have two assholes.”

What is it about the Carolinas?

North Carolina, the state that perfected college basketball, is far behind in the quality of its politicians. John Edwards, for instance. Not only did he father a bastard while running for President of the United States, his wife was dying of cancer at the time and he didn’t admit parenthood until two years later. The “Tarheel State” can also lay claim to one of our larger shitheels.

In a blue state.

I like a pile-on as much as the next man if the next man is on the bottom. So, I won’t join the chorus of liberals complaining about Pres. Barack Obama’s lack of progress towards health care reform and regulating Wall Street. Instead, I will hold my breath until these policy initiatives are achieved. If they find my limp, blue body slumped over my computer, you’ll know who to blame. That’s right, the Republicans!

Letter To Our Clients From Gold Ransacks.

Harold F. Shellgame

Managing Director

Head of Inequities Trading

Dear Client,

Happy 2010! We hope your year was as profitable as ours – however unlikely that may seem. After all, we unloaded some real dogs on you. In your defense, they were highly rated by the largest and most prestigious agencies. In our defense, those ratings cost a bundle, forcing us to hedge our bets. You’ve never met divas like these rating agencies. They’re so concerned about their “reputations” that to get a good rating, you practically have to perform sex. True, those investments sank like matzoh balls, but that wasn’t our fault. We profited, of course, but we didn’t cause them to go down. Apparently, the economy has been in poor shape for quite some time. Something to do with the housing market.

Fortunately, there were some really sweet opportunities that made up for all the others. Investments that – despite all the handwringing about mortgages and such – performed outstandingly. I hope our traders shared them with you. They were supposed to.

In closing, Gold Ransacks wishes you a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year. Ignore any headlines about the size of my bonus - it’s none of your business, anyway.

Sincerely,

Harold F. Shellgame

2000-2009: Name That Ruin.

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

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

FOUR SHREDDINGS AND A FUN-FOR-ALL.

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

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

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

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

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

A New Financial Model For Wall Street.

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

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

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

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

The Unwritten Laws of New York.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7) Retail is for suckers:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

13) MTA stands for “Metropolitan Torment Authority.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah Palin Should Aim Low.

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

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

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

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

Have Gun, Will Shargel.

Time: The Near Future.

Place: Midtown Manhattan.

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

Shargel

Hi, Joe. Good to be free, isn’t it?

Halderman

Yes. Thanks again.

Shargel

Find any TV work?

Halderman

It’s very hard.

Shargel

Just be patient. People have a short memory.

Halderman

Except when you owe them money.

Shargel

Don’t do anything rash, okay?

Halderman

Define “rash.”

Shargel

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

Halderman

I tried to sell another screenplay.

Shargel

Why, Joe, why?

Halderman

I need the money. Especially, after paying you.

Shargel

I know, but not Letterman.

Halderman

Listen to me! It wasn't Letterman.

Shargel

Then who?

Halderman

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

Shargel

Why him?

Halderman

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

Shargel

Did he buy it?

Halderman

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

Shargel

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

Halderman

Oh, we passed that a long time ago.

Shargel

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

Halderman

You mean you won’t help me?

Shargel

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

Halderman

Anything. Please. I’m desperate.

Shargel

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