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.

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."