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Once upon a time, over a long hot Summer, Americans were glued
to their collective television set watching something called
"Watergate". Aka "See Dick Fall". Almost thirty years later,
we had "Those Crafty Clintons!". Today, the drama is called
"WorldCon". Some prefer "Enronomics". The title "Wall Street"
has already been taken. The effects of our most recent TV event
will be socially transforming. This time, there will be a legion
of Nixons and Clintons to excoriate. Shifty eyed, sweating,
fallen gods of business are already squirming beneath the harsh
inquisition of our fraud busting political representatives.
The first round of executives have been arrested-- courtesy of
Adelphia Communications. Book em Larry. As in Thompson, our new
corporate crime czar. Of course, Adelphia isn't WorldCom or
Merrill Lynch. And many of the politicians now waxing righteous,
sucked divine CEO boot so recently you can still smell shoe
polish on their breath. It's into the memory hole with that one.
A friend asks "Where is the Red Guard now that we need them? How
about some public trials and executions?" I must admit the idea
has appeal. A slew of stadiums have been built with public
"revitalization" money; why not use them to revitalize the stock
market? It's being said that in order for the market to recover
fully, the public needs to see herds of CEO's marched off to
jail. Through the streets, preferably nekid. But why settle for
mere recovery? Mass public slaughter of bad boy big wigs might
bring back the bull(s). And if the events were held in second
tier cities, it could help boooooost their economies. I'm sure
any number of consulting firms, could be called upon to provide
rock solid proof that x amount of public executions (renamed
justice festivals) would produce x amount of jobs. Non polluting
ones too. Blood is organic. Though most of the jobs would be low
level, such as hot dog hawkers and mop up crews, some would be
highly skilled. Beheading and flogging take training. Plus
willingness to wear a hood. Which isn't as common as you'd
think. Hood head is hell on the do.
Speaking of hair, I used to get mine cut at Astor Place Barber
in downtown Manhattan. Astor Place started out as your typical
barber shop but in the 80's, due to the proximity of the East
Village, became the source for the world's best punk cuts.
In the 90's, Astor became tonier as the East Village became
gentrified. Astor was always a great place to visit. Many of the
barbers were recent immigrants from Italy and Greece. Most were
men and they'd trade amusing, pro forma insults with each other
while cutting hair. The Italians could really talk food and you'd
pick up recipes and tips on butchers. The radio was usually tuned
(loud) to a generic rock station. Various barbers would at times
sing along with a favorite. As I was in and out of NYC, my visits
to Astor became more infrequent. The last was about two and
a half years ago. An invasion of the body snatchers had taken
place. Launched from the planet "Bubble". Instead of the radio,
there was a TV mounted near the ceiling in every corner of the
room. Tuned to CNBC. All stock market, all the time. Shills
nattered breathlessly, pumping dead cert future wealth. Maybe the
sets were initially installed for customers, but it was the
barbers who were mesmerized. Their hands moved over customer
heads, clipping and snipping, scissors guided by habit. Eyes were
turned heavenward, as if Jesus himself was delivering a sermon
from the wall mounted sets. Conversation with customers was
desultory and distracted, communication among the barbers had
gone group mind; consisting of sharp cries of joy, or groans of
disgust in response to market movements. It was mondo bizzarro
and strangely embarrassing. Almost as if you'd seen them
engaging in-- well, you know.
Another scene from a bubble. Real estate related, taking place
a few years earlier in New Jersey. When living in Hudson County,
I frequently took a bus that ran between Port Authority in
Manhattan and Jersey City, in the process passing through
Hoboken. The run was a commuter haul, carrying loads of young
professionals from their NYC places of business, to their beds
and bars on the "Gold Coast", the strip directly across the
Hudson from lower Manhattan. Though the trip was only about five
miles, it often took over an hour due to traffic snarls. Riding
the bus gave me an opportunity to study architectural detail
at length, plus brush up on the inner world of yupsters. Which
revolved mainly around career trajectories, the failings of
ex-lovers and real estate.
On one run a young woman I'll call "Laurie", described to
a friend, in loud and indiscreet detail, how a certain realtor
had "fixed" it with a bank, so that even though she was
financially unqualified, she could buy a condo. The "fixing"
involved faking assets and using another, hidden loan from
the realtor's buddy. Laurie's tone was gleeful. She'd cut
a clever deal with the help of a professional with "connections"
who "was on her side". She was lit with the glow of verified
self worth, like a slot machine addict when cherries line up in
a row. Coincidentally, I knew others who'd scored via the very
same realtor, who was moving turkeys at inflated prices for
a couple of secret partners. Old boy politicos figured into the
mix. HUD had bucked the original investments and the not quite
code compliant renovations. Bank loans were bouncing faster than
the dumps of a rap video ho. There was plenty of cream for all.
A typical tale and not that major compared to say, the unsavory
acts perpetrated by some who deal in affordable housing. But over
the past few decades, when real estate profits (be they real or
imagined) beckoned, some pretty typical people were more than
willing to go creative with accounting and take advantage of
conflicts of interest. And when stuck with a dud, they kept mum
and passed it on down the line. In order not to be "the greater
fool": the last person caught at the end of a scam. Or beneath
a collapsing bubble.
A post Enron television commercial for Charles Schwab, touts
the trustworthiness of the firm by drawing a contrast with the
competition and depicting a boiler room telephone sales manager
hyping his crew into pushing a worthless stock. He urges them
to "get out there and put some lipstick on this pig". It's
a pungent bit of drama. A mini Glengarry Glen Ross. Lipsticking
pigs has become a national sport. Not played solely by CEO's. Not
that I'm knocking the stadium idea. The golden boys did indeed
kick the pins out from under a lot of trusting people. I support
closing egregious loopholes that encourage particular frauds,
plus a much stronger law enforcement focus on white collar
criminals-- of all stripes. Who knows? When the public tastes
blood, it can become a habit. Corrupt pols, crony campaign
contributors and housing crooks might be next on the menu. Bring
on the weenies!
Till next time--
Carola Von Hoffmannstahl-Solomonoff
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