Greed Never Goes Out of Style

One of the rare assets The New York Times can tout is Walter Kirn, the journalist/novelist whose work is consistently among the best in the United States. In a July 21 Times Magazine essay headlined "My Fault," Kirn's description of the avarice of a nation was so true it made my eyes squint. He admits that five years ago he was also caught up in the mania, fearful of missing that "sure thing" so many instant high-and-low finance experts cashed in on. He writes: "Was I drinking a lot of espresso? Buy stock in Starbucks. Were all my friends on Prozac? Buy Eli Lilly." Kirn adamantly points the finger not just at Martha Stewart, Steve Case and Bill Gates, but millions of Americans.

People conveniently forget the pandemonium of IPOs, the ludicrous dotcom startups and the media-worship of men like Jack Welch that were so prevalent before the NASDAQ crashed in the spring of 2000. Everyone was a day trader: I recall an otherwise savvy salesman at New York Press who'd had such a lucky streak he didn't even deposit his considerable paychecks for 12 weeks in a row. I tried to convince him that he was playing with Vegas money, but that well-intentioned advice sounded like the words of Cotton Mather when he'd just made an $80,000 (paper) profit on a deal the very same morning.

Kirn continues: "Since there's no Congressional hearing room large enough to hold us all?the lunch-counter Morgans and couch-potato Rockefellers whose hunches and tips and systems warped the markets as surely as all those fraudulent corporate audits?the investigations into where the money went will, of necessity, be witch trials. Which isn't to say they won't feature some actual witches many of us will be happy to see burned, if only to exorcise our guilt for making them celebrities in the first place. Years ago, when the great fever struck me personally (I was drinking a Gatorade one minute and buying Quaker Oats, its maker, the next), I alarmed myself by sitting down one day and listing the names of 20 C.E.O.'s I hadn't realized I'd known until that moment. The names came to me from the media ether, magically, the way ballplayers' names had when I was 12. I resented this unbidden mental evasion. Ellison, Welch, McNealy, Ebbers, Whitman?useless info-bytes breeding in a brain that soon, to make room for them, would be forced to dump whole college seminars on Roman history and the complete set of Los Angeles area codes."

Kirn's story was a welcome relief from the sheaf of stories?every single day?that soil newspapers and magazines with anecdotal tales of the economic downturn that's wiped out the dreams of near-retirees or young men and women just out of school. A typical example of this trend-hopping also appeared in the July 21 Times, leading the "Styles" section, although it could've easily been an op-ed article. Talk about pack journalism.

Rachel Lehmann-Haupt and Warren St. John educate readers with this tax-the-imagination lead paragraph: "Just three years ago, Ameet Shah, 24, was successfully laying the groundwork for life as a corporate titan. After graduating from Duke University, he had landed a $50,000-a-year job in New York at J.P. Morgan Chase, working 100-hour weeks on deals involving companies like Enron and Kmart. But no sooner had Mr. Shah [I don't think picking a man named "Shah" instead of "Cumberland" was any accident] settled into the perks of his new career?expense accounts, car services and enough cash to support an apartment in a doorman building?than his world was shaken by a market downturn and a stream of stories about corporate malfeasance. The deals?and the perks?dried up, many of his colleagues were fired, and Mr. Shah got a peek at capitalism's dark side."

Isn't it a pity, Mister Shah?

You Really Got Me

Who knew, underneath all the feminist dung Katha Pollitt phones in to The Nation, that the 52-year-old gal is capable of splendid writing?

Sweet-as-sugar Katha contributed a fine first-person essay titled "Learning to Drive" to the July 22 New Yorker, a charming description of her attempts finally to earn a license from New York's Dept. of Motor Vehicles.

Her motives were twofold. First, to provide a lyrical account of negotiating stop signs, school buses and parallel parking under the instruction of a kind Filipino instructor named Ben; and second, to savagely attack her ex-boyfriend (Pollitt refers to the man as her former "lover," but that's a little too 60s for my taste, sort of like a hippie saying, "Oh man, I can't wait to ball that chick!"), a philanderer who apparently broke her heart and left the poet/abortion advocate with shattered self-esteem.

I wasn't interested in this section too much?revenge in print isn't pretty?although Pollitt did let on that before Mr. Gourmet/Marxist took over her apartment, she was quite capable of "tim[ing] a meal so that the rice, the meat, and the vegetables all come out ready together." The meat! I had no idea carnivores were allowed to write for The Nation, one more example that a cliche like "You learn something new every day" is rooted in truth.

I read the following passage and was dumbfounded that a woman whose political columns are so full of hate and a lifetime of "Question Authority!" rhetoric could write a paragraph of real beauty.

She says: "Because it takes me a while to focus on the task at hand, Ben and I have fallen into the habit of long lessons?we drive for two hours, sometimes three. We go up to Washington Heights and drive around the winding, hilly roads of Fort Tryon Park and the narrow crooked Tudoresque streets near Castle Village. What a beautiful neighborhood! we exclaim. Look at that Art Deco subway-station entrance! Look at those Catholic schoolgirls in front of Mother Cabrini High, in those incredibly cute sexy plaid uniforms! I am careful to stop for the old rabbi, I pause and make eye contact with the mother herding her two little boys. It's like another, secret New York up here, preserved from the forties, in which jogging yuppies in electric-blue spandex look like time travelers from the future among the staid elderly burghers walking their dogs along the leafy sidewalks overlooking the Hudson. In that New York, the one without road-raging New Jersey drivers or sneaky cyclists, in which life is lived at twenty miles an hour, I feel sure I could have got my license with no trouble. I could have been living here all along, coming out of the Art Deco entrance at dusk, with sweet-smelling creamy-pink magnolias all around me."

Regardless of her narrow-minded, meanspirited political screeds in The Nation, I hope for the best in Pollitt's personal life?even if she's a proud atheist and gets queasy even looking at the American flag. Let the ex-boyfriend (whom the New York Post's "Page Six" rudely identified on July 17) rot, while Katha and her daughter move on to a new chapter in their lives.

Although I obtained a driver's license (on the first try, thank you) at age 16 in 1971 back in Huntington, upon moving to Baltimore for college I mostly called it a day when it came to getting behind the wheel. There was no need to have a car in a city with mass transit?not that I could've afforded one anyway?and besides one long road trip to Texas during freshman year, a nutty, 90-mph amphetamine-fueled blitz through the South (since this was 1974, my roommate and I, exhausted, tried to lodge at a Knoxville, TN, motel but were turned away because of our long hair), my vehicular excursions were confined to short errands when I visited my mother's home outside of Trenton.

Now, I haven't driven a car since the age of 25, which provides no end of amusement (and consternation when no cabs are available) to my sons. Mrs. M, a superb driver, commands the family station wagon and I sit white-knuckled in the front seat. It doesn't make much sense, since I ride in rickety cabs all the time without a worry, and have no problems in limos, but put me in a car with one of my brothers or my wife and I'm a bundle of nerves. Just another quirk in the aging process, I suppose.

By the way, New Yorker editor David Remnick got some gas from the website MobyLives.com last week when it was revealed that the majority of the weekly's writers are men. Instead of ignoring the "scoop," or responding that he wouldn't be held hostage to affirmative action, Remnick was a wormboy. He told USA Today's Peter Johnson: "We are publishing a lot of women, some of the best journalists and fiction writers around, but it's clearly not enough. It will change." Oh, great. I can't wait for the inevitable novella from Toni Morrison, accompanied by a feature on the Manhattan comedian/fraud named Reno.

Lights Out in Boston?

Granted, baseball's just a pleasant distraction, but it dominated a very kooky weekend in MUGGER's tiny corner of the world.

All week anticipation had been building in our household for the three-game Red Sox-Yanks series at the Stadium, especially with Pedro Martinez on the mound in the opener. The Bosox, who currently can't field a team with more than two or three hot batsmen at a time, even against the lowly Detroit Tigers or Tampa Bay Devil Rays, are reneging on the promise of a dominant April and May. On the other hand, the Yanks' bullpen has blown several games that could've given them a commanding lead in the AL East. As for Alfonso Soriano?the next Hank Aaron who'll probably be moved to the outfield and third spot in the order next season?and Jason Giambi, any fan who despises the Yankees has to bite off two fingernails each time they're on deck.

Here's the difference between Yankee Stadium and Fenway Park: George Steinbrenner doesn't tolerate rainouts. He may not invest in personnel at the park?you try to find an usher outside the box seats?but the field, unlike Fenway's, can withstand several hours of rain. Frankly, I think part of the reason is that George wants to keep a sold-out crowd twiddling their thumbs watching YES on the scoreboard and boosting concession sales.

Anyway, my buddy Rick, his son Sam, Junior and I left for the Bronx at 6 sharp Friday night, with an ominous sky overhead, and then waited for two and a half hours as it intermittently drizzled and poured, the water clearly visible on the infield tarp. Apparently, as Wally Matthews pointed out in the July 19 New York Sun, Yankee management has cracked down on the fans who habitually shout, "Boston sucks," threatening to eject the most unruly of them. Since George doesn't hire much security, there was a dead-drunk asshole, probably about 25, a section over from us in the loge, screaming during the rain delay every kind of epithet about the Sox along with "Go Yankees!" as if the game were being played. And New Yorkers are so indignant about the "crackers" down South.

For the record, I've got no problem with 50-year-old men wearing "Boston Sucks" t-shirts and chanting "1918" when Jose Offerman bounces into another double play. Isn't that what the Yanks-Sox rivalry is all about? I do draw the line at fistfights, tossing cups of beer and the abuse of women and little kids who root for the opposing team, but Steinbrenner's half-hearted attempt at "civility" at Yankee Stadium?which started with the outrageous ban of alcohol in the bleachers, not to mention the booting of all cigar-smokers?is an insult to not only fans but also one of the greatest sports venues in history.

Fine by me if the owners of clubs in Kansas City, Minnesota and Los Angeles preach a let's-all-get-along rap, which results in fans politely clapping even after, say, Shawn Green hits a 450-foot home run, but that's not New York. Besides, this new policy deprived me of wearing the "Yankees Suck" shirt I bought from a college student for 10 bucks right off Yawkey Way in Boston a few weeks ago. With all the Red Sox fans who come to the Stadium, a gutsy guy would make a mint selling Nomar and Pedro paraphernalia. Would he be kicked into the gutter by the other sharpies lined up in front of Stan's one-block empire? I doubt it: The fraternity of vendors, and desire to make an honest buck, transcends partisanship.

At about 8:45, pretty sure the game would be called, and the boys restless, Rick and I decided to bail out, figuring we'd get a rain check for the September return of the Sox?in the unlikely event there's no strike. We get home, turn on Channel 2 just to make sure, and there's Pedro stifling Giambi, on the way to a 4-2 victory that was enormously satisfying not only for Nick Johnson's defensive screwups, but Jorge Posada's four strikeouts and key throwing error.

The Yanks are an odd team this year. Sure, there are young stars like Soriano, Derek Jeter, Giambi and Posada (although I think trading Ted Lilly was a goof, and that was before Jeff Weaver, the former Tigers' ace, began his Bomber career as the second coming of Randy Choate). But the pitching staff is old and battered, with Roger Clemens and David Wells liable to break down at any time as they reach Social Security eligibility. Bernie Williams, a killer at the plate, has never had a great wing in the outfield, and now he's lost several steps in chasing down balls on the warning track.

Robin Ventura, the comeback player of the year, and Raul Mondesi (incredible rightfielder, but no longer a sustained threat at plate) are not in for the long haul. The team's power this season is unfathomable, but the defense and speed (aside from Jeter and Soriano) have taken a nosedive in the last six years, and when they inevitably end up in the World Series, maybe against the Diamondbacks again, I think they'll be in trouble.

But none of that mattered this past weekend.

The Yanks' maddening ability to win in the late innings was proven again Saturday, when the Sox's crummy reliever Wayne Gomes failed to keep Ventura from tapping a game-winning fielder's choice to Rey Sanchez. Nonetheless, the boys and I, joined by our friend Chris Caldwell, had a grand time at the park, especially when Shane Spencer dropped a fly ball in the second inning. But with the Sox down 6-2 in the seventh, and MUGGER III at his limit, we left Chris alone to watch the conclusion of what turned out to be a monumental game, a huge comeback for the Yanks tainted only by Mariano Rivera's continuing health problems.

Now, as fortune would have it, sacrificing the thrilling final innings of the game was the right move. We were listening to John Sterling's irksome play-by-play on the FDR going home, when a bulletin broke in to spill the news of the Con Ed explosion at 14th St. and Ave. C, and the resulting loss of power in much of Lower Manhattan. The traffic snarled once we were on Houston St., and upon arriving in Tribeca, our apartment building was pitch-black and neighbors milled about outside with more than a tinge of the panic that followed the Sept. 11 massacre. We walked up 12 floors and found Mrs. M not in the best of moods. Who could blame her? She'd already booked a room at uptown's Four Seasons, fearing the worst, and got a little testy as I listened to the end of the game on a battery-operated boombox. First things first, I whispered to Junior, who wholeheartedly agreed.

But it wasn't pleasant, with food in the first stages of decay in the refrigerator, and the bathrooms a complete disaster. The boys, who'd filled up on Cokes, popcorn and dogs at the Stadium, naturally needed to use the facilities, bringing to mind that old saying from Berkeley in the 70s during a drought: "If it's yellow, let it mellow, if it's brown flush it down." Problem was, the flusher didn't work: I'll spare readers the details. Sometime after 7 p.m., all power was restored, and though I still thought the fire was suspicious, and a harbinger of upcoming homicide-bomber attacks, at least order was restored.

As for Sunday's repeat 9-8 Yank victory, with the normally sure-gloved Trot Nixon letting a Williams single skip through his legs in the ninth, what can I say but it's all but "Taps" as far as the Sox winning the AL East division title. Love the fact that Tony Clark hit a home run?his third of the season?but he and Offerman are double-play machines and have to be released if the Sox are going to compete for a wildcard spot. (Offerman's weak attempt to steal in the ninth is just one more demerit against the moody player.) When Garciaparra and Manny Ramirez both have two-homer games, the team overcomes a 5-1 deficit and still loses, what else can you do but join Dick Gephardt in the fourth dimension and imagine that Bob Stanley and Bill Buckner played perfect baseball back in the '86 World Series. Works like a very powerful Valium.

The New York Post's Tom Keegan is a moron for calling Boston's new owners "penny-pinchers"?only about 26 other team owners would dispute that statement?and I suspect he's just trying to save face after his tabloid's absurd rumor that Mo Vaughn would return to Fenway Park, a trade that might even offend Robert Reich.

On July 19 Keegan wrote: "Bring your pink socks tonight, wave them, and boo the Red Sox like you've never booed them before because they deserve it for taking the fun out of what could be an exhilarating race for the American League East title... The Red Sox [could contend] by getting the Mets to eat some of Mo Vaughn's contract..." He followed on Sunday: "The Red Sox need more muscle, all right, but not the muscle of Wayne Gomes. The muscle they need is in the N.L. at the moment, banging baseballs off scoreboards. Too bad the arms of the Red Sox owners aren't long enough to reach deep enough into their pockets to get Mo Vaughn to chase the Yankees."

Is Keegan on the Mets' payroll?

That said, there's no way Cleveland's going to re-sign Jim Thome at $8 million/yr., and the slugger's a buddy of Sox manager Grady Little, so why not just get the transaction completed now? After Sunday's game, Trot Nixon (one of my favorites) is now the player the team has to sacrifice, probably along with Casey Fossum, to snare Thome. Or Steve Cox and Brent Abernathy (plus a little extra) from the Devil Rays. Anything to get rid of Clark and Offerman.

July 22

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