I write these words from a federal detention facility on the outskirts of Zurich. While my primary requirements have been met (a fluffy eiderdown duvet, filling meals with plenty of rosti, sparkling mineral water, and a medium-soft-bristle toothbrush), my cell is cramped. Clouds often scud across the sky in Switzerland; I miss my native France.
I am 76 years old. If, 32 years ago (and I say if), I consensually drugged, raped, and sodomized a 13-year-old girl in Los Angeles, or if a 13-year-old girl somehow mistakenly felt that I consensually drugged, raped, and sodomized her, then, obviously, I have regrets.
I regret having to leave the City of Angels, which afforded me untold opportunities. It was there that I met my gorgeous young wife, Sharon Tate, had her brutally snatched from me while she was pregnant with our child, and there that I embarked on the five stages of grieving.
I regret the string of court cases my life has become. Imagine being unable to appear in a London courtroom to bring charges against those who have cruelly libeled you because you fear the British will extradite you to a nation where you will be cruelly prosecuted for consensually drugging, raping, and sodomizing a 13-year-old.
It's like that scene in "The Pianist" (for which I won an Oscar I was unable to claim in person for the aforementioned reasons) when a man in a wheelchair is viciously hurled by the Nazis from his apartment window to the street below. I am the man, my fate is the wheelchair (to which I am inextricably bound), the apartment window is Switzerland (through which I will fly to my fate (provided my fate is, in this case, not the wheelchair to which I am bound)), and those who work in the Los Angeles District Attorney's Office are both the Nazis and the street below. Or, if you like, the Nazis may be both Swiss and American authorities who collaborate (and I use this word with full knowledge of its implications) to bring me to ground. In fact, the British are also metaphorical Nazis for they would be willing accomplices if given half a chance.
I fled America (for I am not currently nor have ever been wheelchair-bound) on the eve of my sentencing because I did not trust that country's judicial system. Daniel Ellsberg also mistrusted the American justice system, as did Bob Woodward, as did Martin Luther King, Jr. Yet I do not see those men in my Zurich prison cell.
I note that Daniel Ellsberg is now the subject of a flattering documentary: "The Most Dangerous Man in America," whereas the documentary released last year about me, "Wanted and Desired," was decidedly less complimentary. In that film, a now dead prosecutor discusses how he coached the judge overseeing my Los Angeles trial and describes the ways in which he attempted to influence the judge to view harshly my consensually drugging, raping, and sodomizing a 13-year-old girl.
Is it fair that the country which failed to bring the killers of Emmett Till, Medgar Evers, and Nicole Brown Simpson to justice continues to hound me? Was it right that I was forced to abandon a land with the world's most vibrant film industry for France, a nation which produces 36 films a year (33 of which are state-funded and must by law be screened in French cinemas regardless of whether they are of any redeeming value)?
Many in America have shown the capacity for mercy. The 13-year-old girl whom I supposedly consensually drugged, raped, and sodomized has publicly exonerated me. The Motion Picture Academy has honored my work. And the "Scranton Times" positively reviewed my 2005 version of "Oliver Twist." I am in continual exile: from Poland, from America, and now from France. Isn't enough enough?
I can certainly assure those who run the Zurich Film Festival that this will be my last such appearance here. I did not notice "being apprehended without warning and threatened with extradition to the United States" on the schedule of events I received earlier this year. Please know that while you claim to celebrate cinema, you have made it exceedingly difficult for me to focus on my latest work, "Ghost," and have very likely impeded its release.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
The Hotel Room
The hotel room plays a central role in American life. Many marriages (in some cases the same marriage) have been proposed, consummated, and dissolved in this special place. When young, we are enticed by the glamor of a hotel room. When old, we fear dying alone in one.
Often the space a hotel room occupies in our consciousness depends on its relationship to its locale. A hotel room in Warsaw, likely to be affordable, large, and equipped with a working television providing CNN reception, can prove a balm ("I can't wait to finish this large plate of pirogi and get back to the room") whereas a hotel room in Paris, likely to be cramped, expensive, and bereft of electric devices and rectangular pillows, is often a curse ("If you don't stop whining about your feet, you'll spend the day in the room and won't join us for tagine at Mommy's favorite Moroccan restaurant").
Adolescents frequently invoke the hotel room when faced with the prospect of entering a world-famous art gallery, opera house, or other cultural site. "Can't we just go back to the hotel?" is a most unwelcome question when asked in the foyer of the Museum of Modern Art after one has purchased four $20 tickets.
"How many stars is this hotel?" is a question asked by inquisitive fourteen-year-olds eager to ascertain to what degree their parents value them. This calculus involves deducting the number of stars of a hotel in which the offspring are lodged from the number of stars of hotels visited by Mother and Father when travelling alone. Constantly yammering about the elders' four-star hotel in Rome versus tonight's one-star enjoyed en famille in Paris has the effect of virtually reducing tonight's accommodation to zero stars and one's allowance upon return home by several dollars a week.
Hotel rooms can be employed as a form of vengeance against those who are footing the bill. For example, gobbling a Toblerone from the hotel mini-bar in Zurich when this confection is available in the lobby for one-half the price and down the street for one-eighth the cost is a sure way to induce a parental embolism.
Standing on a table in a Williamsburg, Virginia hotel room and imitating Steve Martin in the "Pink Panther" until said table develops a large crack in its surface and a sizable piece topples to the floor is another such method. As is pocketing the chambermaid's tip from atop the bureau and claiming one is due this sum because one "didn't order dessert yesterday at lunch."
Starting out as a young head of household, one warms an Entenmann's coffee cake with a motel-provided hair dryer, utilizes the packets of "coffee" thoughtfully provided by Super 8, and looks the other way when one's daughter pours a packet of cane sugar down her throat as the finishing touch to the morning meal. As one becomes increasingly prosperous, one leads his family down several chilly blocks to enjoy breakfast specials in a New York diner between the hours of 7 and 10:30 A.M. Then one progresses to a hotel that boasts a dining room and actually consumes breakfast there. Ultimately, in the final years of one's life, when one can no longer appreciate anything, one orders room service and eats breakfast in the room.
Quarreling in the hotel room is a risky proposition and is highly dependent on the size of the adjacent bathroom. If the bathroom is commodious, it makes sense to storm angrily from the hotel room, slam the bathroom door, and perch on the toilet with a copy of "Tatler" for an hour an a half. If, however, the bathroom is claustrophobic (Paris), lacks a door (Jakarta), or contains neither a Western-style toilet nor "Tatler" (Sharm al-Sheikh; summer 1997), you may rue your decision.
If one has booked a hotel for a phenomenally low rate in a major metropolitan area (Los Angeles) using Expedia.com, it is often best not to throw open the curtains with great bravado upon entering the room unless one wants to confront the back of a discount drugstore currently under construction. Better to leave the drapes drawn for a more romantic mood and to refrain from using the light over the bathroom vanity unless one is deeply curious as to the size of one's pores.
On the other hand, nothing feels better than staying in a deluxe hotel where rates are so astronomical that each employee smiles sycophantically at your every request lest he or she be taken out to a field and shot. One can become extremely habituated to the charming custom of having one's morning newspaper presented with a long-stemmed rose. So, too, is particular joy found in watching a resort employee struggle to adjust your bicycle seat for twenty minutes while you say "higher," then "lower."
During the current recession, many have been reduced to "staycations" in which a picnic blanket is spread on the living room floor, Smores are cooked over the kitchen stove, and each family member becomes so cripplingly depressed that he or she becomes catatonic. When faced with such drastic measures, it's far better to opt for a cheap four-bedded hotel room for the night. If you live in Florida, there'll be a pool. And if you reside in the United States, there'll be an ice machine and cable
Often the space a hotel room occupies in our consciousness depends on its relationship to its locale. A hotel room in Warsaw, likely to be affordable, large, and equipped with a working television providing CNN reception, can prove a balm ("I can't wait to finish this large plate of pirogi and get back to the room") whereas a hotel room in Paris, likely to be cramped, expensive, and bereft of electric devices and rectangular pillows, is often a curse ("If you don't stop whining about your feet, you'll spend the day in the room and won't join us for tagine at Mommy's favorite Moroccan restaurant").
Adolescents frequently invoke the hotel room when faced with the prospect of entering a world-famous art gallery, opera house, or other cultural site. "Can't we just go back to the hotel?" is a most unwelcome question when asked in the foyer of the Museum of Modern Art after one has purchased four $20 tickets.
"How many stars is this hotel?" is a question asked by inquisitive fourteen-year-olds eager to ascertain to what degree their parents value them. This calculus involves deducting the number of stars of a hotel in which the offspring are lodged from the number of stars of hotels visited by Mother and Father when travelling alone. Constantly yammering about the elders' four-star hotel in Rome versus tonight's one-star enjoyed en famille in Paris has the effect of virtually reducing tonight's accommodation to zero stars and one's allowance upon return home by several dollars a week.
Hotel rooms can be employed as a form of vengeance against those who are footing the bill. For example, gobbling a Toblerone from the hotel mini-bar in Zurich when this confection is available in the lobby for one-half the price and down the street for one-eighth the cost is a sure way to induce a parental embolism.
Standing on a table in a Williamsburg, Virginia hotel room and imitating Steve Martin in the "Pink Panther" until said table develops a large crack in its surface and a sizable piece topples to the floor is another such method. As is pocketing the chambermaid's tip from atop the bureau and claiming one is due this sum because one "didn't order dessert yesterday at lunch."
Starting out as a young head of household, one warms an Entenmann's coffee cake with a motel-provided hair dryer, utilizes the packets of "coffee" thoughtfully provided by Super 8, and looks the other way when one's daughter pours a packet of cane sugar down her throat as the finishing touch to the morning meal. As one becomes increasingly prosperous, one leads his family down several chilly blocks to enjoy breakfast specials in a New York diner between the hours of 7 and 10:30 A.M. Then one progresses to a hotel that boasts a dining room and actually consumes breakfast there. Ultimately, in the final years of one's life, when one can no longer appreciate anything, one orders room service and eats breakfast in the room.
Quarreling in the hotel room is a risky proposition and is highly dependent on the size of the adjacent bathroom. If the bathroom is commodious, it makes sense to storm angrily from the hotel room, slam the bathroom door, and perch on the toilet with a copy of "Tatler" for an hour an a half. If, however, the bathroom is claustrophobic (Paris), lacks a door (Jakarta), or contains neither a Western-style toilet nor "Tatler" (Sharm al-Sheikh; summer 1997), you may rue your decision.
If one has booked a hotel for a phenomenally low rate in a major metropolitan area (Los Angeles) using Expedia.com, it is often best not to throw open the curtains with great bravado upon entering the room unless one wants to confront the back of a discount drugstore currently under construction. Better to leave the drapes drawn for a more romantic mood and to refrain from using the light over the bathroom vanity unless one is deeply curious as to the size of one's pores.
On the other hand, nothing feels better than staying in a deluxe hotel where rates are so astronomical that each employee smiles sycophantically at your every request lest he or she be taken out to a field and shot. One can become extremely habituated to the charming custom of having one's morning newspaper presented with a long-stemmed rose. So, too, is particular joy found in watching a resort employee struggle to adjust your bicycle seat for twenty minutes while you say "higher," then "lower."
During the current recession, many have been reduced to "staycations" in which a picnic blanket is spread on the living room floor, Smores are cooked over the kitchen stove, and each family member becomes so cripplingly depressed that he or she becomes catatonic. When faced with such drastic measures, it's far better to opt for a cheap four-bedded hotel room for the night. If you live in Florida, there'll be a pool. And if you reside in the United States, there'll be an ice machine and cable
Thursday, 24 September 2009
The Women
"India has introduced female-only Ladies Special commuter train services in its four largest cities"--The Times
Amboy, Minnesota is soon to become the first town in America devoid of males. Spokesperson Sue Willikers announced Tuesday that by January 1, 2010, Amboy will be populated solely by women. "We read about what they're doing in India with their trains and we thought 'What a brilliant concept: no men.'"
Social activists, scholars, and ardent feminists have long fantasized about a world free of men, but Amboy intends to act on its beliefs. "Everyone looked so happy on that commuter train to Delhi," says Willikers, "Smiling, talking calmly, actually enjoying life. And did you notice how much cleaner the single-sex trains are? Hygiene just isn't in the male genetic code. Men are smelly beasts, seemingly incapable of leaving a train compartment tidy, never mind a train toilet. I just thank God ours don't chew and spit betel nut."
Amboy officials claim it's not just men's messiness and odors which led them to become an all-female environment. "There's a variety of factors at work," explained a woman in town hall who requested anonymity. "First of all, we've lost six percent of our citizenry in the past nine years. We're down to 537, with 273 women and 264 men. This strength in numbers provided the catalyst to insist that the men leave."
When pressed to elaborate, the source continued: "We need to draw folks here. Even though we're in warmer, southern Minnesota, we've not traditionally been a people magnet. But since this announcement, realtors' phones haven't stopped ringing. My neighbor just sold her house for $14,000 over asking price. It's like California. In 2006."
Amboy's town council, composed of five women, hatched their bold plans early this summer when they drew up a list of ways in which the quality of life would be improved by the absence of men. "It's a long list," explained Willikers yesterday, "too long to read, too long to scan or fax. My daughter says it's too long to lift."
Some cite the town's graying demographics as justification for the Council's decision. "We're predominantly middle-aged," said Margaret Sanborn. "Most of us have been married for years and we're tired. It's really not that rewarding to make a meat loaf for someone who forgets your birthday and whose conversational skills are at the same level as those on display in 'Toy Story.' Sure, my husband draws a pension and shovels snow, but with the recession and global warming, there's been a lot less of each lately. I can pay a strong, young girl to clear the drive. And I won't have to do her laundry."
One of the more vocal advocates of removing men from Amboy is Candy Ledecker. "Why do I want men gone?" she asks, "Because they often shout rude comments when a woman walks down the street. Or they make obscene gestures. They pinch, grope, taunt, catcall, insult or harass women. They're also prone to "jostle," which is pretty much the same as grope."
Yet Ledecker refused to concede that these complaints about male public behavior are responsible for Amboy's initiative. "Hell, I'm just talking about what happens on the street. Behind closed doors is a whole other story. Did you ever see that Farrah Fawcett movie, 'The Burning Bed'?"
Amboy's only educational institution, Maple River West Middle School, will continue to serve both boys and girls through 8th grade. "At that point, it's a judgment call," says spokesperson Willikers, "we're taking a wait-and-see attitude. In my experience, after the age of 14, it's pretty much a downhill slide."
Already local restaurants have seen a surge in business. "Since I'm on the town council, the men are sort of boycotting me," acknowledges Matha Jameson, proprietor of Martha's Eats. "And guess what? No one misses them. No drunken shouting, guffaws, applause when a waitress drops a tray, or tiresome requests to watch the Vikings on TV. In fact, I haven't turned on the television over the bar since this measure passed. Women flock here from as far as Minneapolis to eat in a dignified environment. Without men it's...how to put it...more tranquil. And nicer."
Martha's spouse Larry begs to differ: "It's like a morgue in there. Sure, profits are up, but something's been lost. The place is dull. Two women toasting each other with glasses of wine? That doesn't sit right with me."
And what exactly are the women toasting? Candy Ledecker knows: "The abscence of life's biggest problem: men. Maybe younger women miss the sex, but for the vast majority of us, the opportunity to live without males is a no-brainer. On some level, I love my husband. We've been married since high school and he was present for the births of two of our four kids, but after three decades together, the man still drops his clothes on the floor next to the hamper."
Men in Amboy appear stunned by the recent decision. "What?" asked a bewildered Phil Thurgood, "just pick up and leave? What about my guns?" Andy Belknap is indignant: "No one's going to load me on a bus like I'm in Bosnia and cart me off to some godforsaken place like St. Paul. I'm a homeowner, a taxpayer, and a deacon in the church."
Actually, it turns out Belknap is now none of the three. His home, originally put in his wife's name for estate purposes, was sold without his knowledge last Wednesday. And henceforth, Amboy's congregational church will have only deaconesses.
Amboy, Minnesota is soon to become the first town in America devoid of males. Spokesperson Sue Willikers announced Tuesday that by January 1, 2010, Amboy will be populated solely by women. "We read about what they're doing in India with their trains and we thought 'What a brilliant concept: no men.'"
Social activists, scholars, and ardent feminists have long fantasized about a world free of men, but Amboy intends to act on its beliefs. "Everyone looked so happy on that commuter train to Delhi," says Willikers, "Smiling, talking calmly, actually enjoying life. And did you notice how much cleaner the single-sex trains are? Hygiene just isn't in the male genetic code. Men are smelly beasts, seemingly incapable of leaving a train compartment tidy, never mind a train toilet. I just thank God ours don't chew and spit betel nut."
Amboy officials claim it's not just men's messiness and odors which led them to become an all-female environment. "There's a variety of factors at work," explained a woman in town hall who requested anonymity. "First of all, we've lost six percent of our citizenry in the past nine years. We're down to 537, with 273 women and 264 men. This strength in numbers provided the catalyst to insist that the men leave."
When pressed to elaborate, the source continued: "We need to draw folks here. Even though we're in warmer, southern Minnesota, we've not traditionally been a people magnet. But since this announcement, realtors' phones haven't stopped ringing. My neighbor just sold her house for $14,000 over asking price. It's like California. In 2006."
Amboy's town council, composed of five women, hatched their bold plans early this summer when they drew up a list of ways in which the quality of life would be improved by the absence of men. "It's a long list," explained Willikers yesterday, "too long to read, too long to scan or fax. My daughter says it's too long to lift."
Some cite the town's graying demographics as justification for the Council's decision. "We're predominantly middle-aged," said Margaret Sanborn. "Most of us have been married for years and we're tired. It's really not that rewarding to make a meat loaf for someone who forgets your birthday and whose conversational skills are at the same level as those on display in 'Toy Story.' Sure, my husband draws a pension and shovels snow, but with the recession and global warming, there's been a lot less of each lately. I can pay a strong, young girl to clear the drive. And I won't have to do her laundry."
One of the more vocal advocates of removing men from Amboy is Candy Ledecker. "Why do I want men gone?" she asks, "Because they often shout rude comments when a woman walks down the street. Or they make obscene gestures. They pinch, grope, taunt, catcall, insult or harass women. They're also prone to "jostle," which is pretty much the same as grope."
Yet Ledecker refused to concede that these complaints about male public behavior are responsible for Amboy's initiative. "Hell, I'm just talking about what happens on the street. Behind closed doors is a whole other story. Did you ever see that Farrah Fawcett movie, 'The Burning Bed'?"
Amboy's only educational institution, Maple River West Middle School, will continue to serve both boys and girls through 8th grade. "At that point, it's a judgment call," says spokesperson Willikers, "we're taking a wait-and-see attitude. In my experience, after the age of 14, it's pretty much a downhill slide."
Already local restaurants have seen a surge in business. "Since I'm on the town council, the men are sort of boycotting me," acknowledges Matha Jameson, proprietor of Martha's Eats. "And guess what? No one misses them. No drunken shouting, guffaws, applause when a waitress drops a tray, or tiresome requests to watch the Vikings on TV. In fact, I haven't turned on the television over the bar since this measure passed. Women flock here from as far as Minneapolis to eat in a dignified environment. Without men it's...how to put it...more tranquil. And nicer."
Martha's spouse Larry begs to differ: "It's like a morgue in there. Sure, profits are up, but something's been lost. The place is dull. Two women toasting each other with glasses of wine? That doesn't sit right with me."
And what exactly are the women toasting? Candy Ledecker knows: "The abscence of life's biggest problem: men. Maybe younger women miss the sex, but for the vast majority of us, the opportunity to live without males is a no-brainer. On some level, I love my husband. We've been married since high school and he was present for the births of two of our four kids, but after three decades together, the man still drops his clothes on the floor next to the hamper."
Men in Amboy appear stunned by the recent decision. "What?" asked a bewildered Phil Thurgood, "just pick up and leave? What about my guns?" Andy Belknap is indignant: "No one's going to load me on a bus like I'm in Bosnia and cart me off to some godforsaken place like St. Paul. I'm a homeowner, a taxpayer, and a deacon in the church."
Actually, it turns out Belknap is now none of the three. His home, originally put in his wife's name for estate purposes, was sold without his knowledge last Wednesday. And henceforth, Amboy's congregational church will have only deaconesses.
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
The Moralist
Dear Moralist:
My husband insists on buying an unappetizing type of garlic-infused salami. My daughter recently saw a re-run of "Murder, She Wrote" in which Angela Lansbury claimed the tiniest amount of rat poison will temporarily sicken but not kill a person. Do you see a moral dilemma in adding the smallest dose of this substance to my husband's portion of garlic-infused salami to teach him a lesson?
Mary
Dear Mary:
I see no moral dilemma here. If you and other family members have informed your husband that you do not share his penchant for garlic-infused salami, you are well within your rights to use rat poison. Sprinkle, don't pour.
Dear Moralist:
My wife and I own a waterfront home in Montauk which we purchased for $3.65 million three years ago. Recently, a couple from the City bought an equivalent home next to ours for less. Substantially less. Traditionally, the two homes have shared a dock, but we believe that since our monthly mortgage payments are nearly double those of our neighbors it is only just that we have sole use of the dock. Your thoughts, please.
Saul
Dear Saul:
My brother-in-law lives in subsidized artists' housing in Greenwich Village, where his monthly rent is $842 for a spacious two-bedroom apartment. He mentions this figure every time I visit, an occurrence which is increasingly less frequent as I scramble for work in the already glutted literary world in order to pay off the overpriced condo I bought on York Avenue at the height of the property bubble. If your neighboring "vultures" are contractually entitled to the dock, there is little you can do save to ensure that they don't enjoy it. I suggest a boombox, lots of gaudy lawn furniture, and littering the area with empties and used condoms.
Dear Moralist:
My daughter's dog recently gave birth. Her friend Daphne photographed the puppies with my daughter's digital camera, had the photos developed at her own expense, and now refuses to give the snaps to my daughter. We feel that since the puppies and camera are ours, we are the rightful owners of the photos.
Georgia
Dear Georgia:
Do you or your daughter suffer from a debilitating disease that prevents you from either operating a digital camera or walking to the corner pharmacy with a memory card after photographing the puppies yourselves?
Dear Moralist:
Our son was accepted by Yale, Princeton, Stanford, Columbia, Brown, M.I.T., Dartmouth, and Caltech. Unfortunately, Brian was wait-listed at his first choice: Harvard. Is it ethical to notify Harvard that a girl in Brian's class who was accepted by them recently received a B+ for an essay on which Brian received an A?
Lawrence
Dear Lawrence:
Being a Harvard graduate myself, I well understand Brian's disappointment. There is something undeniably special about Harvard and my own years in Lowell House were the highlight of my existence on Earth. That said, it's unlikely a grade differential of two variations on an essay will compel the University to admit Brian. If, however, you can convincingly demonstrate or insinuate plagiarism on the part of your son's schoolmate, Harvard has been known to reverse course and reject previously admitted candidates. Good luck.
Dear Moralist:
A neighbor in my apartment building is a professor at the Borough of Manhattan Community College and is always ranting about colonialism, post-colonialism, and neo-colonialism in the elevator, laundry room, and other shared spaces. My boyfriend says it's all right to affix a sign above the washing machines which reads "No Discussion of Any Form of Colonialism on These Premises." What do you think?
Lydia
Dear Lydia:
I think I want to meet your boyfriend! Seriously, that's a magnificent idea. I suffered for years in Chelsea at the hands of one of these creatures: a man perpetually blathering about "privilege" and "social parameters." He was ultimately flattened by a truck and the entire co-op sent flowers to the driver.
Dear Moralist:
My husband is a South Carolina politician whose job may be in jeopardy, given that he recently yelled something very rude (which he felt to be true) during the speech of an extremely important public figure. The august personage himself doesn't seem that bothered by my husband's outburst but writers in the "New York Times," etc. are baying for his blood. My spouse possibly made a mistake and feels he has apologized. What more can he do?
Mrs. X
Dear Mrs. Wilson:
I think the problem here (and I speak as a reader of rather than as a writer for the "Times") is that others feel your husband has "possibly made a mistake" of sizable proportions while offering a correspondingly minuscule apology. In any event, it's been a bad year politically for South Carolina and you're correct: at this point there is probably not much your husband can do.
Dear Moralist:
I grew up in a beleaguered section of Queens with no advantages whatsoever. I continue to struggle, sharing a one-bedroom apartment with my ex-husband and two teenage children. We often lack health insurance and can't even afford to buy, feed, and care for a pet. Am I right to feel resentful when I read that employees at Goldman Sachs will average $700,000 each in bonus pay in the midst of this "economic crisis"?
Gail
Dear Gail:
While I personally cannot relate to the circumstances of your life except for the absence of a pet (my wife's allergies), I can imagine how the fortunes of others would impart a certain sting. Nonetheless, capitalism is our system and while it's far from perfect, we do remain the envy of the non-Scandinavian world. You don't mention where your apartment is located, but I'm sure it stacks up fairly well against an equivalent unit in North Korea.
Dear Moralist:
Recently my wife and I seem to be meeting an inordinate number of people with children at the ultra-competitive, hyper-creative Brooklyn school, Saint Ann's. My wife feels it is acceptable to fib and state that our daughter Stacy is also at Saint Ann's. It makes conversation flow more smoothly and seems a small kindness to Stacy, who, truth be told, is no Einstein.
Philip
Dear Philip:
As someone whose daughter and son attended Saint Ann's, I can assure you that there are not an "inordinate" number of students enrolled. The senior class numbers all of 76, an extremely high percentage of whom (according to a well-known 2007 "Wall Street Journal" survey) go on to elite colleges. You do Stacy no great favor by lumping her with an exceptional subset and you tarnish the luster of Saint Ann's for those who are familiar with the school, your daughter, or both.
Dear Moralist.
I live in a fabled European city packed with Gothic palazzi. Local custom decrees the hanging of exterior striped awnings to heighten what is already a superb visual effect. Recently my husband
spotted an elderly workman perched precariously as he performed maintenance on a neighbor's awning. I inadvertently startled this fellow when I opened my window to observe him and he plunged five stories to his death. My question is this: given that he was clutching the awning when I found him on the ground and given that our guest bedroom awning is fraying, am I within my rights to claim this second awning as mine? Isn't this a clear matter of finders/keepers?
Lucrezia
Dear Lucrezia:
While I generally endeavor to limit my responses to queries from American readers, in your case I'm willing to make an exception. In my eyes, you do not bear responsibility for the workman's death; accidents happen. And it is to your credit that you were first on the scene. If rigor mortis had not set in and the victim's fist was not too tightly clenched around the striped awning and it fit the dimensions of your guest bedroom window, then by all means, keep it. Why not?
Dear Moralist:
I wrote you several months ago about garlic-infused salami- Now it's a cheap brand of sliced turkey my husband is inflicting on us. He buys copious amounts and then hounds us all to "finish the turkey before it goes bad."
Mary
Dear Mary:
Oh, Christ. More rat poison. And this time you can pour.
Dear Moralist:
I'm a moderately talented writer who lives on York Avenue, went to Harvard, and sent my kids to Saint Ann's. I'm considering starting a column in which I dispense ethical advice to others even though those who know me well believe I have no qualifications whatsoever. What's your opinion?
Sheila
Dear Sheila:
May I offer you some garlic-infused salami?
My husband insists on buying an unappetizing type of garlic-infused salami. My daughter recently saw a re-run of "Murder, She Wrote" in which Angela Lansbury claimed the tiniest amount of rat poison will temporarily sicken but not kill a person. Do you see a moral dilemma in adding the smallest dose of this substance to my husband's portion of garlic-infused salami to teach him a lesson?
Mary
Dear Mary:
I see no moral dilemma here. If you and other family members have informed your husband that you do not share his penchant for garlic-infused salami, you are well within your rights to use rat poison. Sprinkle, don't pour.
Dear Moralist:
My wife and I own a waterfront home in Montauk which we purchased for $3.65 million three years ago. Recently, a couple from the City bought an equivalent home next to ours for less. Substantially less. Traditionally, the two homes have shared a dock, but we believe that since our monthly mortgage payments are nearly double those of our neighbors it is only just that we have sole use of the dock. Your thoughts, please.
Saul
Dear Saul:
My brother-in-law lives in subsidized artists' housing in Greenwich Village, where his monthly rent is $842 for a spacious two-bedroom apartment. He mentions this figure every time I visit, an occurrence which is increasingly less frequent as I scramble for work in the already glutted literary world in order to pay off the overpriced condo I bought on York Avenue at the height of the property bubble. If your neighboring "vultures" are contractually entitled to the dock, there is little you can do save to ensure that they don't enjoy it. I suggest a boombox, lots of gaudy lawn furniture, and littering the area with empties and used condoms.
Dear Moralist:
My daughter's dog recently gave birth. Her friend Daphne photographed the puppies with my daughter's digital camera, had the photos developed at her own expense, and now refuses to give the snaps to my daughter. We feel that since the puppies and camera are ours, we are the rightful owners of the photos.
Georgia
Dear Georgia:
Do you or your daughter suffer from a debilitating disease that prevents you from either operating a digital camera or walking to the corner pharmacy with a memory card after photographing the puppies yourselves?
Dear Moralist:
Our son was accepted by Yale, Princeton, Stanford, Columbia, Brown, M.I.T., Dartmouth, and Caltech. Unfortunately, Brian was wait-listed at his first choice: Harvard. Is it ethical to notify Harvard that a girl in Brian's class who was accepted by them recently received a B+ for an essay on which Brian received an A?
Lawrence
Dear Lawrence:
Being a Harvard graduate myself, I well understand Brian's disappointment. There is something undeniably special about Harvard and my own years in Lowell House were the highlight of my existence on Earth. That said, it's unlikely a grade differential of two variations on an essay will compel the University to admit Brian. If, however, you can convincingly demonstrate or insinuate plagiarism on the part of your son's schoolmate, Harvard has been known to reverse course and reject previously admitted candidates. Good luck.
Dear Moralist:
A neighbor in my apartment building is a professor at the Borough of Manhattan Community College and is always ranting about colonialism, post-colonialism, and neo-colonialism in the elevator, laundry room, and other shared spaces. My boyfriend says it's all right to affix a sign above the washing machines which reads "No Discussion of Any Form of Colonialism on These Premises." What do you think?
Lydia
Dear Lydia:
I think I want to meet your boyfriend! Seriously, that's a magnificent idea. I suffered for years in Chelsea at the hands of one of these creatures: a man perpetually blathering about "privilege" and "social parameters." He was ultimately flattened by a truck and the entire co-op sent flowers to the driver.
Dear Moralist:
My husband is a South Carolina politician whose job may be in jeopardy, given that he recently yelled something very rude (which he felt to be true) during the speech of an extremely important public figure. The august personage himself doesn't seem that bothered by my husband's outburst but writers in the "New York Times," etc. are baying for his blood. My spouse possibly made a mistake and feels he has apologized. What more can he do?
Mrs. X
Dear Mrs. Wilson:
I think the problem here (and I speak as a reader of rather than as a writer for the "Times") is that others feel your husband has "possibly made a mistake" of sizable proportions while offering a correspondingly minuscule apology. In any event, it's been a bad year politically for South Carolina and you're correct: at this point there is probably not much your husband can do.
Dear Moralist:
I grew up in a beleaguered section of Queens with no advantages whatsoever. I continue to struggle, sharing a one-bedroom apartment with my ex-husband and two teenage children. We often lack health insurance and can't even afford to buy, feed, and care for a pet. Am I right to feel resentful when I read that employees at Goldman Sachs will average $700,000 each in bonus pay in the midst of this "economic crisis"?
Gail
Dear Gail:
While I personally cannot relate to the circumstances of your life except for the absence of a pet (my wife's allergies), I can imagine how the fortunes of others would impart a certain sting. Nonetheless, capitalism is our system and while it's far from perfect, we do remain the envy of the non-Scandinavian world. You don't mention where your apartment is located, but I'm sure it stacks up fairly well against an equivalent unit in North Korea.
Dear Moralist:
Recently my wife and I seem to be meeting an inordinate number of people with children at the ultra-competitive, hyper-creative Brooklyn school, Saint Ann's. My wife feels it is acceptable to fib and state that our daughter Stacy is also at Saint Ann's. It makes conversation flow more smoothly and seems a small kindness to Stacy, who, truth be told, is no Einstein.
Philip
Dear Philip:
As someone whose daughter and son attended Saint Ann's, I can assure you that there are not an "inordinate" number of students enrolled. The senior class numbers all of 76, an extremely high percentage of whom (according to a well-known 2007 "Wall Street Journal" survey) go on to elite colleges. You do Stacy no great favor by lumping her with an exceptional subset and you tarnish the luster of Saint Ann's for those who are familiar with the school, your daughter, or both.
Dear Moralist.
I live in a fabled European city packed with Gothic palazzi. Local custom decrees the hanging of exterior striped awnings to heighten what is already a superb visual effect. Recently my husband
spotted an elderly workman perched precariously as he performed maintenance on a neighbor's awning. I inadvertently startled this fellow when I opened my window to observe him and he plunged five stories to his death. My question is this: given that he was clutching the awning when I found him on the ground and given that our guest bedroom awning is fraying, am I within my rights to claim this second awning as mine? Isn't this a clear matter of finders/keepers?
Lucrezia
Dear Lucrezia:
While I generally endeavor to limit my responses to queries from American readers, in your case I'm willing to make an exception. In my eyes, you do not bear responsibility for the workman's death; accidents happen. And it is to your credit that you were first on the scene. If rigor mortis had not set in and the victim's fist was not too tightly clenched around the striped awning and it fit the dimensions of your guest bedroom window, then by all means, keep it. Why not?
Dear Moralist:
I wrote you several months ago about garlic-infused salami- Now it's a cheap brand of sliced turkey my husband is inflicting on us. He buys copious amounts and then hounds us all to "finish the turkey before it goes bad."
Mary
Dear Mary:
Oh, Christ. More rat poison. And this time you can pour.
Dear Moralist:
I'm a moderately talented writer who lives on York Avenue, went to Harvard, and sent my kids to Saint Ann's. I'm considering starting a column in which I dispense ethical advice to others even though those who know me well believe I have no qualifications whatsoever. What's your opinion?
Sheila
Dear Sheila:
May I offer you some garlic-infused salami?
Friday, 18 September 2009
The Power of Negative Giving
Children under the age of twelve love opening brightly-wrapped packages on their birthdays; for reasonably evolved adults, it's a different matter. Is someone who earns $346,000 per year excited to open something "precious" on her birthday? Yes, if it's a $347,000 Burmese star sapphire. Otherwise, probably not.
As we age, the Benjamin Button phenomenon kicks in and when receiving gifts we start to say the sort of snappish things teens utter with such aplomb: "Do you still have the receipt?" and "I'd rather have had the money." When you've not slept with someone in four years or have put them through medical school only to see them decide not to practice, such sentiments flow easily.
In the flush of youth, nothing quickens the pulse like a surprise birthday visit with friends to Six Flags, a ball game, or even a state park. "You're going to Chuck E. Cheese, drinking soda, and staying up past 8:30," packs a hell of a wallop when you're six. For the middle-aged and worse off, however, joy is found in what one doesn't have to do.
I learned this on my last birthday when my wife gave me the best gift of my life. For the next twelve months, I am excused from: all barbecues at my sister-in-law's house and subsequent invitations to join her and her enthusiastic co-workers for a night of karaoke, family reunions (on either side), pretending to be culinarily adventurous by sampling exotic dishes in Chinese restaurants (I am instead allowed to order sweet and sour pork and a Coke), attending parent-teacher conferences in which we are lambasted for our teenaged daughter's slothful attitude, answering the telephone, dancing in public, or reading our daughter's report cards.
What's so special about this gift is the thought that went into it: mine. Contemplating which facets of my existence I loathe (actually brainstorming on a cocktail napkin at a family reunion) was phenomenally cleansing, equivalent to jamming two good-sized pellets of wasabi deep into my nostrils.
Why race fruitlessly all over town prior to your wife's birthday before proudly unveiling her "big" gift: something she admired in a store window that very morning? Just cut to the chase and ask her what she doesn't want.
What my spouse turns out not to want this year is my reciting the story of how I removed all electric appliances from my apartment (including the refrigerator) sixteen years ago, bolted the door, studied twenty-four hours a day for five weeks, and consequently received the highest LSAT score ever recorded in northwestern Arizona. Apparently, she wishes me not to share this tale any time, anywhere, or with anyone (including, and especially, her) during the coming year.
Her second present has proved more problematic: she has requested a staggered series of "chits" allowing her to abstain from sexual relations at times when she is tired, irritable, ill or otherwise unmotivated, with the caveat (and she claims this is her "big" gift) that there be no residual anger, resentment, or retaliation on my part. Obviously, it is vexing to bestow such a gift with full-hearted loving tenderness, but I must confess she seemed euphoric to receive it.
Negative gifting, as we've come to call it, is a delicate process and must not be abused. It is tempting to pass the afternoon on the cramped boat belonging to your wife's boss and then to state, "I'd like never do that again for next year's birthday present," but is this a gift you truly value?
Seeing your husband emerge from the bedroom in a suit which he purchased many years earlier to celebrate passing the bar (with extraordinarily high marks) and snidely observing, "What I'd really love for my birthday is to never see you don that ridiculously tight garment in public again," is an unwise choice of a gift as well as profoundly hurtful.
So, too, is belittling a previous year's gift by requesting its absence in the future. For example: "You will make me exceedingly happy by never again "secretly" buying me a crappy box of Godiva chocolates from Bloomingdale's on the morning of my birthday while I am in the store" is not so much a wish as a taunt.
Do not, under any circumstances, make gifts after erring. Kobe Bryant's purchasing a four-million-dollar ring for his wife shortly after his arraignment on rape charges springs to mind. Proffering the gift that you will not paint the study and living room windows firmly shut in the future having just accidentally done so will have negative repercussions. Promising to properly record the Super Bowl for your husband's birthday will only draw attention to your complete inability to do so this year despite having been left explicit, printed instructions which a chimpanzee could have followed.
Know your limits, try to understand the desires (no matter how warped) of your partner, don't be vindictive, and negative giving turns out to be the gift that keeps on giving. My wife's presently fielding an angry phone call from our daughter's teacher and I've never been happier. In fact, I've asked for the same thing next year and for the first time in ages, I'm looking forward to my present.
As we age, the Benjamin Button phenomenon kicks in and when receiving gifts we start to say the sort of snappish things teens utter with such aplomb: "Do you still have the receipt?" and "I'd rather have had the money." When you've not slept with someone in four years or have put them through medical school only to see them decide not to practice, such sentiments flow easily.
In the flush of youth, nothing quickens the pulse like a surprise birthday visit with friends to Six Flags, a ball game, or even a state park. "You're going to Chuck E. Cheese, drinking soda, and staying up past 8:30," packs a hell of a wallop when you're six. For the middle-aged and worse off, however, joy is found in what one doesn't have to do.
I learned this on my last birthday when my wife gave me the best gift of my life. For the next twelve months, I am excused from: all barbecues at my sister-in-law's house and subsequent invitations to join her and her enthusiastic co-workers for a night of karaoke, family reunions (on either side), pretending to be culinarily adventurous by sampling exotic dishes in Chinese restaurants (I am instead allowed to order sweet and sour pork and a Coke), attending parent-teacher conferences in which we are lambasted for our teenaged daughter's slothful attitude, answering the telephone, dancing in public, or reading our daughter's report cards.
What's so special about this gift is the thought that went into it: mine. Contemplating which facets of my existence I loathe (actually brainstorming on a cocktail napkin at a family reunion) was phenomenally cleansing, equivalent to jamming two good-sized pellets of wasabi deep into my nostrils.
Why race fruitlessly all over town prior to your wife's birthday before proudly unveiling her "big" gift: something she admired in a store window that very morning? Just cut to the chase and ask her what she doesn't want.
What my spouse turns out not to want this year is my reciting the story of how I removed all electric appliances from my apartment (including the refrigerator) sixteen years ago, bolted the door, studied twenty-four hours a day for five weeks, and consequently received the highest LSAT score ever recorded in northwestern Arizona. Apparently, she wishes me not to share this tale any time, anywhere, or with anyone (including, and especially, her) during the coming year.
Her second present has proved more problematic: she has requested a staggered series of "chits" allowing her to abstain from sexual relations at times when she is tired, irritable, ill or otherwise unmotivated, with the caveat (and she claims this is her "big" gift) that there be no residual anger, resentment, or retaliation on my part. Obviously, it is vexing to bestow such a gift with full-hearted loving tenderness, but I must confess she seemed euphoric to receive it.
Negative gifting, as we've come to call it, is a delicate process and must not be abused. It is tempting to pass the afternoon on the cramped boat belonging to your wife's boss and then to state, "I'd like never do that again for next year's birthday present," but is this a gift you truly value?
Seeing your husband emerge from the bedroom in a suit which he purchased many years earlier to celebrate passing the bar (with extraordinarily high marks) and snidely observing, "What I'd really love for my birthday is to never see you don that ridiculously tight garment in public again," is an unwise choice of a gift as well as profoundly hurtful.
So, too, is belittling a previous year's gift by requesting its absence in the future. For example: "You will make me exceedingly happy by never again "secretly" buying me a crappy box of Godiva chocolates from Bloomingdale's on the morning of my birthday while I am in the store" is not so much a wish as a taunt.
Do not, under any circumstances, make gifts after erring. Kobe Bryant's purchasing a four-million-dollar ring for his wife shortly after his arraignment on rape charges springs to mind. Proffering the gift that you will not paint the study and living room windows firmly shut in the future having just accidentally done so will have negative repercussions. Promising to properly record the Super Bowl for your husband's birthday will only draw attention to your complete inability to do so this year despite having been left explicit, printed instructions which a chimpanzee could have followed.
Know your limits, try to understand the desires (no matter how warped) of your partner, don't be vindictive, and negative giving turns out to be the gift that keeps on giving. My wife's presently fielding an angry phone call from our daughter's teacher and I've never been happier. In fact, I've asked for the same thing next year and for the first time in ages, I'm looking forward to my present.
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Pablo Comes Home
As a short, stocky Latino who left school in eleventh grade, my options in life were fairly limited until I recently journeyed to the Miami clinic of Ruben Martinez, the doctor famous for performing reconstructive surgery on Colombian drug kingpins. When Martinez first laid eyes on me, he gasped, "Oh, my God, is it...?" "No," I smiled, "but I'm gonna be."
The two things I'm best known for are being able to turn my eyelids inside out and bearing an uncanny resemblance to Pablo Escobar. When he was gunned down by a special Colombian drug task force and his corpse put on display, my friends told me, "He looks just like you would if your body was riddled with bullets and your face covered in blood." Using photos from back issues of "Time" and "Newsweek," Dr. Martinez was able to give me the appearance of the late Mr. Escobar while also "scarring" my legs and chest with what looked like ammunition wounds from automatic weaponry.
Stepping off the plane in Medellin, Colombia, a mere three weeks later, I instantly drew stares. Accustomed to being ignored by virtually everyone in all settings (from the clerk at Payless Shoes to my relatives at family reunions), I found this new attention most welcome. I approached a chauffeur holding a sign which read "Montgomery," and caught his eye. He immediately lowered his placard and said in a quavering voice, "At your service, Senor Escobar." Based on satellite photos I'd seen on GoogleEarth, I instructed my driver to take me to the Escobar hacienda with the greatest number of swimming pools (6). As I exited the limo, he handed me the equivalent of fifty U.S. dollars.
Upon entering the house, I found my "brother" in the Jacuzzi with a can of Pepsi and two young locals. "Out of the hot tub," I barked, "though the girls can stay." Roberto stared at me in shock. "Pablo," he stammered, "are you back?" I smiled: "What does it look like?" His face was beaded in sweat and Jacuzzi bubbles. "We thought you were...." "Indestructible?" I supplied. "Yes," he nodded vigorously, "indestructible, immortal, whatever." "What I am," I told him, "is very hungry." Then I turned to the girls, "And very horny."
Four hours later, I had completed the best afternoon of my 42 years on earth. I'd enjoyed six cans of Pepsi, three trays of nachos, an entire turkey, a half-gallon of Welch's grape juice, Lucia, and Isabella (twice). Then, when I was watching an episode of "Lost" on an 84" flat-screen (a personal record for me), people started to arrive out of nowhere. Cars filled the grounds as everyone showed up to verify if what they'd heard was true. It was like I was dead all over again.
Their bowing and scraping was fantastic. I took my cue from Brando in "The Godfather." I didn't stuff cotton in my cheeks, but did slap men at random. If some drug lord offered me tribute (soccer tickets plus $150,000), I struck him across the face and ordered, "Act like a man." This led to better tickets and more money.
In less than 90 minutes, I had raked in nearly four million dollars and all tickets to the remainder of that season's home games. I was beginning to understand why "Forbes" had ranked "me" the seventh-richest man in the world prior to my death.
Suddenly, a tall man entered the room. I realized this was Robert Duvall to my Brando: that is, the one who'd been to college. "Don Pablo," he said, eyeing me closely. I countered with some DeNiro: "You lookin' at me?" No dice. "I am most surprised to see you," he announced. I spread my hands: "Here I am." "You have aged well since you were shot in the legs, torso, and through the ears on December 2, 1993, at the age of 44." "Time has been good to me," I explained. "As I hope it will continue to be good to you," I added menacingly.
He appeared unfazed and I sensed a little college could be a dangerous thing. "Don Pablo," he said, "with no disrespect, may I see your bullet scars?" "Have you brought no gift?" I asked. He remained silent. "Have you brought me not even a collander from Williams-Sonoma?" He shook his head no.
It was now or never. I whipped off "my" 800-thread-count, royal purple bathrobe embroidered with baby peacock feathers and gold flax torn from an ancient 16th-Century Belgian tapestry and thrust my bare chest at him. He was as stricken as a man watching his new 600-series Mercedes loaded with hundreds of kilos of uncut cocaine plunge off a pier. While he stood speechless, I pressed a finger to each of my nipples: "These, too, are filled with lead."
I could almost see the thoughts racing through his head: "When? Where? How? Who? Why? What the...?" I stood my ground, placing full faith in the advanced scarification techniques of Dr. Martinez. Hoping something which had never previously let me down would not fail me now, I reached deep into my bag of tricks and turned my eyelids inside out. "Don Pablo," I heard, "you shall have your collander."
The two things I'm best known for are being able to turn my eyelids inside out and bearing an uncanny resemblance to Pablo Escobar. When he was gunned down by a special Colombian drug task force and his corpse put on display, my friends told me, "He looks just like you would if your body was riddled with bullets and your face covered in blood." Using photos from back issues of "Time" and "Newsweek," Dr. Martinez was able to give me the appearance of the late Mr. Escobar while also "scarring" my legs and chest with what looked like ammunition wounds from automatic weaponry.
Stepping off the plane in Medellin, Colombia, a mere three weeks later, I instantly drew stares. Accustomed to being ignored by virtually everyone in all settings (from the clerk at Payless Shoes to my relatives at family reunions), I found this new attention most welcome. I approached a chauffeur holding a sign which read "Montgomery," and caught his eye. He immediately lowered his placard and said in a quavering voice, "At your service, Senor Escobar." Based on satellite photos I'd seen on GoogleEarth, I instructed my driver to take me to the Escobar hacienda with the greatest number of swimming pools (6). As I exited the limo, he handed me the equivalent of fifty U.S. dollars.
Upon entering the house, I found my "brother" in the Jacuzzi with a can of Pepsi and two young locals. "Out of the hot tub," I barked, "though the girls can stay." Roberto stared at me in shock. "Pablo," he stammered, "are you back?" I smiled: "What does it look like?" His face was beaded in sweat and Jacuzzi bubbles. "We thought you were...." "Indestructible?" I supplied. "Yes," he nodded vigorously, "indestructible, immortal, whatever." "What I am," I told him, "is very hungry." Then I turned to the girls, "And very horny."
Four hours later, I had completed the best afternoon of my 42 years on earth. I'd enjoyed six cans of Pepsi, three trays of nachos, an entire turkey, a half-gallon of Welch's grape juice, Lucia, and Isabella (twice). Then, when I was watching an episode of "Lost" on an 84" flat-screen (a personal record for me), people started to arrive out of nowhere. Cars filled the grounds as everyone showed up to verify if what they'd heard was true. It was like I was dead all over again.
Their bowing and scraping was fantastic. I took my cue from Brando in "The Godfather." I didn't stuff cotton in my cheeks, but did slap men at random. If some drug lord offered me tribute (soccer tickets plus $150,000), I struck him across the face and ordered, "Act like a man." This led to better tickets and more money.
In less than 90 minutes, I had raked in nearly four million dollars and all tickets to the remainder of that season's home games. I was beginning to understand why "Forbes" had ranked "me" the seventh-richest man in the world prior to my death.
Suddenly, a tall man entered the room. I realized this was Robert Duvall to my Brando: that is, the one who'd been to college. "Don Pablo," he said, eyeing me closely. I countered with some DeNiro: "You lookin' at me?" No dice. "I am most surprised to see you," he announced. I spread my hands: "Here I am." "You have aged well since you were shot in the legs, torso, and through the ears on December 2, 1993, at the age of 44." "Time has been good to me," I explained. "As I hope it will continue to be good to you," I added menacingly.
He appeared unfazed and I sensed a little college could be a dangerous thing. "Don Pablo," he said, "with no disrespect, may I see your bullet scars?" "Have you brought no gift?" I asked. He remained silent. "Have you brought me not even a collander from Williams-Sonoma?" He shook his head no.
It was now or never. I whipped off "my" 800-thread-count, royal purple bathrobe embroidered with baby peacock feathers and gold flax torn from an ancient 16th-Century Belgian tapestry and thrust my bare chest at him. He was as stricken as a man watching his new 600-series Mercedes loaded with hundreds of kilos of uncut cocaine plunge off a pier. While he stood speechless, I pressed a finger to each of my nipples: "These, too, are filled with lead."
I could almost see the thoughts racing through his head: "When? Where? How? Who? Why? What the...?" I stood my ground, placing full faith in the advanced scarification techniques of Dr. Martinez. Hoping something which had never previously let me down would not fail me now, I reached deep into my bag of tricks and turned my eyelids inside out. "Don Pablo," I heard, "you shall have your collander."
Friday, 11 September 2009
Harvard Marred
Harvard has entered into a licensing agreement for a line of preppy clothing to be marketed under the name Harvard Yard--The Times
From many worthy, few are chosen. No one is more aware of this cruel fact than the thousands denied admission to Harvard each year. In this spirit, we offer a susidiary brand of clothing, The Wait List. Crafted from nearly identical quality materials with approximately the same high degree of workmanship you've come to expect from Harvard Yard, these accessories have slight imperfections which in no way render them unfit for inclusion in the wardrobes of discerning gentlemen. We realize that no one keeps you from reaching for the stars. Why let an imperceptibly flawed inseam prevent you from wearing trousers you might not otherwise be able to afford?
Whether you're raking leaves on a glorious autumn day, overseeing a paid employee doing the raking, or merely watching someone perform manual labor on television, you'll feel at home in our classic oxford shirt. Order burgundy glen plaid or houndstooth to feel more like a Harvard alum ($169).
Our classic Harvard Hoodie is perfect for, let's say, breaking into your own home. Since you're going to be arrested for trespassing on your property, you might as well dress for the occasion ($49; optional ski mask $29).
Do you recall standing glumly in your B.C. sweatpants on the river bank at the Head of the Charles observing carefree, good-looking, gifted youths from prominent families frolicking in front of the Harvard boathouse? Expunge that unpleasant memory with our faded maroon sweatshirt which features something those Harvard undergrads missed out on: 100% polyester fur fleece and kangaroo pockets ($59).
How about breaking open an authentically-aged wicker hamper for your next picnic or tailgate? Our sumptuous tartan blanket, tartan-handled cutlery, tartan-covered beakers and silver (-plated) flasks look like they've been in the family for generations ($319).
Luxuriate in our burgundy-and-white-striped pajamas. Even in August, it gets awfully chilly in Bar Harbor and this jaunty flannel nightwear flatters every build while you sleep easy, secure in all that you and yours have accomplished ($109; "Sleepy" nightcap $19 extra).
Our quilted riding jacket is the perfect fit for one who fits in perfectly. You're no stranger to the equestrian world and our lightweight insulation keeps you toasty while watching others muck out the stalls. Maroon snaps and pocket piping complete your look ($189).
The Wait List Braided Leather Belt is a must-have for dressy or casual events. A secure hidden-zip compartment offers you the option of using this as a money belt. Comes in handy when encountering pesky bellhops, washroom attendants, or Girl Scouts. Simply display your empty wallet and explain, "Sorry, I'm skint at the moment" ($89).
Our signature Crimson Boxers delight women the world over when you drop trou and they exclaim, "You really did go to Harvard!" You've let them in on a special secret they'll never forget. Trust us: it's the veritas ($19).
Ultra-dependable rainwear is synonymous with The Wait List. After all, with the exception of London, who has worse weather than Cambridge? Clad in our breathable burgundy fabric, you'll resemble a linesman at The Game on a sodden November day. Ideal for New England barbecues, hikes, or funerals ($99).
Premium Shetland sweaters (crew-neck, of course) are a required complement to any prosperous person's wardrobe. Available in seven nautical colors, these are so well-made they'll disappoint the Old Guard in only one respect: they won't develop holes ($149)!
Meeting friends after work? Whether you're a physician, lawyer, entrepreneur, or simply wish you were, we present a spiffy blue blazer as the last word in classy comfort. You'll never feel out of place at brunch again ($289).
Don four-pocket Cambridge Cords and imagine what it was like to stroll across the Yard on a winter's morn as a student at the nation's oldest, most prestigious, selective university. Casual, confident, and never conspicuous: that's you! Our 16-wale cotton corduroys are pre-washed to give you a broken-in look from the moment you slip them on ($129).
The Wait List Original Hunting Jacket isn't only for those who shoot duck or grouse. In fact, in these tight times, many of our customers wear this handsome garment while on the prowl for the last thing even Harvard grads ever thought they'd have to hunt for: a job. Lined in top-drawer maroon wool substitute, this jacket is just the thing for working in an office in the Pacific Northwest or for chopping wood in the Boston area ($289).
The Crimson Cravat is the ultimate conversation starter. Embroidered with tasteful depictions of campus buildings whose interiors you may never have glimpsed, you'll resemble the quintessential Harvard graduate whose speech never wavers from one subject: his alma mater. Enjoy your Scotch while others scrutinize your tie and finally blurt out enviously, "You went to Harvard?" ($69; $49 bow-tie.)
Nobody's perfect and nobody grasps this better than the folks at The Wait List. Ours is an inclusive enterprise, accepting of frailty in both humanity and merchandise. No matter where you live, what you do, or where you attended college, you'll wear our colors proud. Above all, you'll remember what your peers who wear Harvard Yard never want you to forget: you've arrived.
From many worthy, few are chosen. No one is more aware of this cruel fact than the thousands denied admission to Harvard each year. In this spirit, we offer a susidiary brand of clothing, The Wait List. Crafted from nearly identical quality materials with approximately the same high degree of workmanship you've come to expect from Harvard Yard, these accessories have slight imperfections which in no way render them unfit for inclusion in the wardrobes of discerning gentlemen. We realize that no one keeps you from reaching for the stars. Why let an imperceptibly flawed inseam prevent you from wearing trousers you might not otherwise be able to afford?
Whether you're raking leaves on a glorious autumn day, overseeing a paid employee doing the raking, or merely watching someone perform manual labor on television, you'll feel at home in our classic oxford shirt. Order burgundy glen plaid or houndstooth to feel more like a Harvard alum ($169).
Our classic Harvard Hoodie is perfect for, let's say, breaking into your own home. Since you're going to be arrested for trespassing on your property, you might as well dress for the occasion ($49; optional ski mask $29).
Do you recall standing glumly in your B.C. sweatpants on the river bank at the Head of the Charles observing carefree, good-looking, gifted youths from prominent families frolicking in front of the Harvard boathouse? Expunge that unpleasant memory with our faded maroon sweatshirt which features something those Harvard undergrads missed out on: 100% polyester fur fleece and kangaroo pockets ($59).
How about breaking open an authentically-aged wicker hamper for your next picnic or tailgate? Our sumptuous tartan blanket, tartan-handled cutlery, tartan-covered beakers and silver (-plated) flasks look like they've been in the family for generations ($319).
Luxuriate in our burgundy-and-white-striped pajamas. Even in August, it gets awfully chilly in Bar Harbor and this jaunty flannel nightwear flatters every build while you sleep easy, secure in all that you and yours have accomplished ($109; "Sleepy" nightcap $19 extra).
Our quilted riding jacket is the perfect fit for one who fits in perfectly. You're no stranger to the equestrian world and our lightweight insulation keeps you toasty while watching others muck out the stalls. Maroon snaps and pocket piping complete your look ($189).
The Wait List Braided Leather Belt is a must-have for dressy or casual events. A secure hidden-zip compartment offers you the option of using this as a money belt. Comes in handy when encountering pesky bellhops, washroom attendants, or Girl Scouts. Simply display your empty wallet and explain, "Sorry, I'm skint at the moment" ($89).
Our signature Crimson Boxers delight women the world over when you drop trou and they exclaim, "You really did go to Harvard!" You've let them in on a special secret they'll never forget. Trust us: it's the veritas ($19).
Ultra-dependable rainwear is synonymous with The Wait List. After all, with the exception of London, who has worse weather than Cambridge? Clad in our breathable burgundy fabric, you'll resemble a linesman at The Game on a sodden November day. Ideal for New England barbecues, hikes, or funerals ($99).
Premium Shetland sweaters (crew-neck, of course) are a required complement to any prosperous person's wardrobe. Available in seven nautical colors, these are so well-made they'll disappoint the Old Guard in only one respect: they won't develop holes ($149)!
Meeting friends after work? Whether you're a physician, lawyer, entrepreneur, or simply wish you were, we present a spiffy blue blazer as the last word in classy comfort. You'll never feel out of place at brunch again ($289).
Don four-pocket Cambridge Cords and imagine what it was like to stroll across the Yard on a winter's morn as a student at the nation's oldest, most prestigious, selective university. Casual, confident, and never conspicuous: that's you! Our 16-wale cotton corduroys are pre-washed to give you a broken-in look from the moment you slip them on ($129).
The Wait List Original Hunting Jacket isn't only for those who shoot duck or grouse. In fact, in these tight times, many of our customers wear this handsome garment while on the prowl for the last thing even Harvard grads ever thought they'd have to hunt for: a job. Lined in top-drawer maroon wool substitute, this jacket is just the thing for working in an office in the Pacific Northwest or for chopping wood in the Boston area ($289).
The Crimson Cravat is the ultimate conversation starter. Embroidered with tasteful depictions of campus buildings whose interiors you may never have glimpsed, you'll resemble the quintessential Harvard graduate whose speech never wavers from one subject: his alma mater. Enjoy your Scotch while others scrutinize your tie and finally blurt out enviously, "You went to Harvard?" ($69; $49 bow-tie.)
Nobody's perfect and nobody grasps this better than the folks at The Wait List. Ours is an inclusive enterprise, accepting of frailty in both humanity and merchandise. No matter where you live, what you do, or where you attended college, you'll wear our colors proud. Above all, you'll remember what your peers who wear Harvard Yard never want you to forget: you've arrived.
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
The Whole Ball of Wax
Imagine asking a favor of a good friend of your father's, a man who worked closely with your dad for many years. You ask him to identify someone who can work beside you in, say, a candle shop. The man searches and searches and one day he comes to you and says, "The search is over. I like you and I like candles and I will work beside you in the candle shop." So you say, "Great, that'll be fun. We'll work together. Why didn't I think of that?" But maybe inside your head you're thinking, "You chose yourself?"
Because the thing about you and your dad is that even though you went to the same high school and college and both like sports and the Maine coastline and he used to work in the candle shop and now eight years later you're working there, you don't have all that much in common.
Except this friend. Now you have him in common. But you're thinking maybe you'd like to do things differently in the shop. Like not have the friend there. So you phone your dad and he starts telling you how great your brother's doing in Florida in, say, a fruit shop. And you think, "The candle shop is way more important than a fruit shop. Why do you care so much about little brother and his fruit?" But you don't say anything because you're just glad your dad picked up. Usually he screens.
Instead you say, "Dad, your old friend would like to help me in the candle shop," and he says, "That's terrific. He is a great old friend and he is a good choice." And you tell him, "Yes, but the choice was his. He chose himself." Your dad says, "He will be a big, major help in the candle shop." Then there is a pause and your dad says, "Son, you need him in the candle shop." You can't even remember the last time your dad called you son.
So let's say you start working in the candle shop together with the friend. Things are going pretty well: the work's not too demanding, you get driven around in a big car, and you can order whatever you want to eat anytime of day or night.
Then one day after you've been working together nearly eight months, something bad happens. I mean really bad, like everyone knows about it. A man who can't read, floating on a log off the coast of Argentina knows about it.
When it happens, you are reading a story in an interesting voice to some children. You're not at the candle shop that day, which is good, because the candle shop is targeted for destruction. But you are not destroyed. You survive.
And when you see what is destroyed, you tour the wreckage and show that you feel terrible. And your customers see this and feel better. And you've never been so happy to be working in the candle shop. Those days after the bad thing happens are the best of your life.
Then customers start asking, "What are you going to do about this bad thing? How will you respond?" Your dad tells you, "Keep calm and focus on the candle shop," but his friend wants to wipe the people responsible off the face of the earth. And a lot of their relatives too. You ask, "But isn't that just revenge?" The friend shrugs: "So what's wrong with revenge?"
You do what he says to do. Which may be a mistake. Your dad starts screening your calls again and friends of your dad begin saying bad things about you and even about your dad's friend (even though he is their old friend too).
Suddenly working in the candle shop is very unfun. It's almost like you're going out of business. Even though you're still there. Actually, you have four more years. You've never really liked working, particularly when people say you're doing a bad job. Your customers are angry. Some stand outside and say mean things about you. Very mean things. People only come into the shop to return things. They accuse you of selling crummy candles. You tell them, "Hold on, it wasn't my idea to sell candles; I only do it 'cause my dad did." "No," they say, "you're different from your father. He may not have been the best candle seller, but you are definitely the all-time worst." It seems like the further you get from those good feelings you had when the bad thing happened, the further your customers get from their feeling of liking you. Now no one likes you. The guy on the log off Argentina doesn't even like you.
So you end up alone and misunderstood. You can still eat whatever you want whenever you want, but you can't wait to stop working in the candle shop. And your customers can't wait for you to stop either. One day you're sitting in your large, ovular office and you say to your father's pal, "I have no friends." And he says, "That's not true. You'll always have me."
Because the thing about you and your dad is that even though you went to the same high school and college and both like sports and the Maine coastline and he used to work in the candle shop and now eight years later you're working there, you don't have all that much in common.
Except this friend. Now you have him in common. But you're thinking maybe you'd like to do things differently in the shop. Like not have the friend there. So you phone your dad and he starts telling you how great your brother's doing in Florida in, say, a fruit shop. And you think, "The candle shop is way more important than a fruit shop. Why do you care so much about little brother and his fruit?" But you don't say anything because you're just glad your dad picked up. Usually he screens.
Instead you say, "Dad, your old friend would like to help me in the candle shop," and he says, "That's terrific. He is a great old friend and he is a good choice." And you tell him, "Yes, but the choice was his. He chose himself." Your dad says, "He will be a big, major help in the candle shop." Then there is a pause and your dad says, "Son, you need him in the candle shop." You can't even remember the last time your dad called you son.
So let's say you start working in the candle shop together with the friend. Things are going pretty well: the work's not too demanding, you get driven around in a big car, and you can order whatever you want to eat anytime of day or night.
Then one day after you've been working together nearly eight months, something bad happens. I mean really bad, like everyone knows about it. A man who can't read, floating on a log off the coast of Argentina knows about it.
When it happens, you are reading a story in an interesting voice to some children. You're not at the candle shop that day, which is good, because the candle shop is targeted for destruction. But you are not destroyed. You survive.
And when you see what is destroyed, you tour the wreckage and show that you feel terrible. And your customers see this and feel better. And you've never been so happy to be working in the candle shop. Those days after the bad thing happens are the best of your life.
Then customers start asking, "What are you going to do about this bad thing? How will you respond?" Your dad tells you, "Keep calm and focus on the candle shop," but his friend wants to wipe the people responsible off the face of the earth. And a lot of their relatives too. You ask, "But isn't that just revenge?" The friend shrugs: "So what's wrong with revenge?"
You do what he says to do. Which may be a mistake. Your dad starts screening your calls again and friends of your dad begin saying bad things about you and even about your dad's friend (even though he is their old friend too).
Suddenly working in the candle shop is very unfun. It's almost like you're going out of business. Even though you're still there. Actually, you have four more years. You've never really liked working, particularly when people say you're doing a bad job. Your customers are angry. Some stand outside and say mean things about you. Very mean things. People only come into the shop to return things. They accuse you of selling crummy candles. You tell them, "Hold on, it wasn't my idea to sell candles; I only do it 'cause my dad did." "No," they say, "you're different from your father. He may not have been the best candle seller, but you are definitely the all-time worst." It seems like the further you get from those good feelings you had when the bad thing happened, the further your customers get from their feeling of liking you. Now no one likes you. The guy on the log off Argentina doesn't even like you.
So you end up alone and misunderstood. You can still eat whatever you want whenever you want, but you can't wait to stop working in the candle shop. And your customers can't wait for you to stop either. One day you're sitting in your large, ovular office and you say to your father's pal, "I have no friends." And he says, "That's not true. You'll always have me."
Sunday, 6 September 2009
Go Big Green!
"In Shifting Era of Admissions, Colleges Sweat"--The Times
DARTMOUTH COLLEGE: Good morning, I'm calling on behalf of Dartmouth for Jason Goodwin.
JASON GOODWIN: This is him.
DC: Hello, this is President Rogers. It's come to our attention you're interested in joining our community. If you have a few minutes, I'd like to conduct an informal interview.
JG: You're President of the Admissions Office?
DC: President of the College, actually. Tell me, Jason, what makes you click?
JG: Snobby people, people who channel surf, people who screen their calls, stores that won't tell you how much electronic stuff costs over the phone....
DC: (Dubious) All this makes you click?
JG: I thought you said "sick."
DC: How about heroes?
JG: Why would heroes make me sick? Do you mean like hoagies?
DC: Tell me about your personal heroes.
JG: Action figures? That I actually own?
DC: You're stranded on a desert island with three books. Which three?
JG: How am I supposed to know?
DC: Choose three.
JG: I'm more of a visual person.
DC: I see. Perhaps you've heard of our renowned Hopkins Art Center.
JG: Shouldn't that be at Hopkins?
DC: This one's at Dartmouth. Say you're asked to contribute half a dozen items to a time capsule. What do you share?
JG: I'm not really comfortable with that question.
DC: All right, let's move on. Do you play any sports?
JG: No.
DC: Hobbies?
JG: Aren't they the same as sports? What temperature is it there now?
DC: We're in the midst of Winter Carnival. What a grand time: ice sculptures, bonfires....
JG: Cold, huh?
DC: About sixteen degrees. Jason, it's wonderful getting to know you. Do you have any questions for me?
JG: What's a time capsule?
DC: Well...
JG: (Interrupting) Would I have my own computer at Dartmouth?
DC: Absolutely.
JG: How about cable?
DC: We could explore that. In conclusion, how would you describe yourself?
JG: I'm right-handed.
DC: Really? So am I. What else?
JG: I like pizza. The crispy kind. Not deep-dish.
DC: We have plenty of pizza. And beer. Now if one of your parents is available....
JG: Hold on.
PG: Hello, this is Philip Goodwin.
DC: Good morning, Mr. Goodwin. This is President Harold Rogers of Dartmouth. I understand from the preliminary query you sent in that you won't be requesting financial aid.
PG: No.
DC: Congratulations.
PG: Thank you.
DC: And congratulations on your son's acceptance to Dartmouth College.
PG: This is very sudden. We haven't submitted his transcript, test scores, or teacher recommendations yet.
DC: Some may call us old-fashioned, but we take a more personal approach. After our phone interview, I feel Jason and Dartmouth are a perfect fit.
PG: Still....
DC: Let's call it Early Decision.
PG: He hasn't even applied.
DC: Binding early decision. I would need a commitment now.
PG: Excuse me?
DC: Are you familiar with our "Stay four years for the price of three" offer? Jason can enjoy a free year in bucolic Hanover if you simply pay the first three years' tuition today.
PG: I can't make that sort of promise. And I should tell you: Jason's looking at other colleges.
DC: Who's on your short list?
PG: Princeton and Amherst.
DC: Amherst is now a subsidiary of Princeton. There was an auction last week. The U.S. government owns 36% of Amherst and Princeton owns the rest.
PG: Does Dartmouth own any colleges?
DC: Bowdoin, half of Haverford, and 15% of N.Y.U.'s program in Abu Dhabi. We also have a number of private equity holdings, real estate partnerships, hedge funds, commodities, venture capital stakes and other alternative investments available for immediate sale at very attractive prices.
PG: I should be going.
DC: Princeton and Amherst are pretty tough to get into.
PG: Not anymore: Princeton calls during dinner.
DC: Work with me. If you can FedEx us a cashier's check for $11,000 this morning, I can guarantee your son a corner room overlooking the Green next fall.
PG: Jason's doing an eco-service project in Costa Rica this August. When do classes start?
DC: When can he get here?
DARTMOUTH COLLEGE: Good morning, I'm calling on behalf of Dartmouth for Jason Goodwin.
JASON GOODWIN: This is him.
DC: Hello, this is President Rogers. It's come to our attention you're interested in joining our community. If you have a few minutes, I'd like to conduct an informal interview.
JG: You're President of the Admissions Office?
DC: President of the College, actually. Tell me, Jason, what makes you click?
JG: Snobby people, people who channel surf, people who screen their calls, stores that won't tell you how much electronic stuff costs over the phone....
DC: (Dubious) All this makes you click?
JG: I thought you said "sick."
DC: How about heroes?
JG: Why would heroes make me sick? Do you mean like hoagies?
DC: Tell me about your personal heroes.
JG: Action figures? That I actually own?
DC: You're stranded on a desert island with three books. Which three?
JG: How am I supposed to know?
DC: Choose three.
JG: I'm more of a visual person.
DC: I see. Perhaps you've heard of our renowned Hopkins Art Center.
JG: Shouldn't that be at Hopkins?
DC: This one's at Dartmouth. Say you're asked to contribute half a dozen items to a time capsule. What do you share?
JG: I'm not really comfortable with that question.
DC: All right, let's move on. Do you play any sports?
JG: No.
DC: Hobbies?
JG: Aren't they the same as sports? What temperature is it there now?
DC: We're in the midst of Winter Carnival. What a grand time: ice sculptures, bonfires....
JG: Cold, huh?
DC: About sixteen degrees. Jason, it's wonderful getting to know you. Do you have any questions for me?
JG: What's a time capsule?
DC: Well...
JG: (Interrupting) Would I have my own computer at Dartmouth?
DC: Absolutely.
JG: How about cable?
DC: We could explore that. In conclusion, how would you describe yourself?
JG: I'm right-handed.
DC: Really? So am I. What else?
JG: I like pizza. The crispy kind. Not deep-dish.
DC: We have plenty of pizza. And beer. Now if one of your parents is available....
JG: Hold on.
PG: Hello, this is Philip Goodwin.
DC: Good morning, Mr. Goodwin. This is President Harold Rogers of Dartmouth. I understand from the preliminary query you sent in that you won't be requesting financial aid.
PG: No.
DC: Congratulations.
PG: Thank you.
DC: And congratulations on your son's acceptance to Dartmouth College.
PG: This is very sudden. We haven't submitted his transcript, test scores, or teacher recommendations yet.
DC: Some may call us old-fashioned, but we take a more personal approach. After our phone interview, I feel Jason and Dartmouth are a perfect fit.
PG: Still....
DC: Let's call it Early Decision.
PG: He hasn't even applied.
DC: Binding early decision. I would need a commitment now.
PG: Excuse me?
DC: Are you familiar with our "Stay four years for the price of three" offer? Jason can enjoy a free year in bucolic Hanover if you simply pay the first three years' tuition today.
PG: I can't make that sort of promise. And I should tell you: Jason's looking at other colleges.
DC: Who's on your short list?
PG: Princeton and Amherst.
DC: Amherst is now a subsidiary of Princeton. There was an auction last week. The U.S. government owns 36% of Amherst and Princeton owns the rest.
PG: Does Dartmouth own any colleges?
DC: Bowdoin, half of Haverford, and 15% of N.Y.U.'s program in Abu Dhabi. We also have a number of private equity holdings, real estate partnerships, hedge funds, commodities, venture capital stakes and other alternative investments available for immediate sale at very attractive prices.
PG: I should be going.
DC: Princeton and Amherst are pretty tough to get into.
PG: Not anymore: Princeton calls during dinner.
DC: Work with me. If you can FedEx us a cashier's check for $11,000 this morning, I can guarantee your son a corner room overlooking the Green next fall.
PG: Jason's doing an eco-service project in Costa Rica this August. When do classes start?
DC: When can he get here?
Thursday, 3 September 2009
My Reign On Your "Parade"
(Second in a two-part series)
When word reached me in Zimbabwe last year that Parade magazine had placed me sixth on their annual list of the world's worst dictators, I questioned the publication's methodology in a letter to its editors. It was evident to me that Parade had failed to rely on the sort of peer review component employed by U.S. News and World Report when ranking colleges. Had the input of other malevolent rulers been sought, I'm sure the results would have been vastly different.
Admittedly, there was worthy competition in 2008 and I doffed my cap to Hu Jintao (#5 on last year's list), who managed to subjugate 1.3 billion Chinese, no easy feat in this age of the Internet. I also applauded Sayid Ali Khamnei, supreme leader of Iran (#7), who was cited by Parade for carrying out public hangings and permitting the execution of juveniles. I was particularly appreciative of his efforts as it was I who broke ground in this area, executing juveniles, toddlers, and, lately, newborns. I salute you, Ayatollah, for stoning a man to death for adultery; you are a true professional.
I did however take exception to the presence of North Korea's Kim Jong-il atop last year's list. Parade claimed this fellow ran "the world's most repressive regime." Really? Was it not Kim Jong-il who recently handed over two American journalists to Bill Clinton after sharing tea with the ex-president? Did not Than Shwe (#3) release an American prisoner into the custody of Jim Webb after the Virginia senator paid a social call on the Burmese leader?
Real dictators don't sip tea or chat with U.S. officials. They escort them to a defunct soccer stadium, strip them, fasten them them into extremely uncomfortable high-backed chairs, introduce a significant amount of electrical cable into the proceedings.... Well, I won't tell tales out of school.
A neophyte like Uzbekistan's Islam Karimov (#9) is still at the stage where he is noted for exceeding his two-term limit. This is a dictatorial baby step. Show me a man who has had his sixth wife decapitated on their honeymoon for allowing him to consume a soggy crouton and I'll show you a dictator.
Especially painful to me was the fact that I was as distant from Kim Jong-il on last year's list as I was close to Muammar al-Qaddafi (who led the category entitled "dishonorable mention"). For a number of years my wax likeness has shared space at Madame Tussaud's in London with those of Saddam Hussein and Hitler. I have no objection to keeping company with them, but have always resented the inclusion of Qaddafi in the museum's "corner of infamy." According to Parade, "reports of torture are common in Libya." Please. This is the man who scuttled his entire nuclear weapons program to curry favor with the West. You know whom Qaddafi has tortured? Me, with his pusillanimous, sycophantic behavior. Rolling out the red carpet for the accused Lockerbie bomber is nothing more than a transparent attempt to disguise his true spinelessness. Such a worm does not belong in the community of dictators.
King Abdullah (#4) was singled out for "most oppressed women in the world." I'm not sure if this cryptic phrase refers to the number of oppressed females in Saudi Arabia (presumably half of the country's 27 million population) or to the degree of their oppression. I have only 13 million subjects in Zimbabwe (perhaps 11 million of whom are women as I've disposed of most males), but I can assure you, no females on the face of the planet are more oppressed. Even in Harare, simply shopping is a nightmre. This January, to counter nineteen-digit inflation, I released a $50 billion banknote. Unfortunately for Zimbabwean housewives, the only thing rarer than this bill is what it can purchase: two loaves of bread.
Last year's Number Two, Omar Al-Bashir, was included because "Darfur continues to be a hotbed of violence." True enough. Omar scares the daylights out of many of Sudan's black citizens. But I traumatize blacks and whites. Specifically white farmers reluctant to participate in my land reform scheme. Have you ever seen a family of seven attempt to hide beneath a tractor, President Al-Bashir? I'll wager you have not.
I was in the greenhouse Saturday when my nephew Bobby Mugabe phoned from Lausanne with joyous news: Parade has named me the world's worst dictator for 2009. There is a God! I am ecstatic to outdistance the world's most barbaric despots and honored that a publication which boasts a circulation of 33 million and is distributed in 470 Sunday newspapers came to its senses without my customary intimidation.
Clearly the opinions of my peers played a crucial role in my triumph. That my fellow dictators acknowledge my ruthless savagery pleases but does not surprise me. It is I, after all, who pioneered the use of the circular saw and power drill in interrogation, presided over one of the worst cholera outbreaks in modern memory, and have forced uncooperative subjects to swallow more gasoline than is currently available in my entire country. And it is I who, in the years since Zimbabwean independence, have obliterated any chance of human happiness in my native land.
Being recognized in the twilight of my life, at the ago of 85, for significant acievement in the field of dictatorship is deeply gratifying. Nonetheless, I have two quibbles. In the event that there will be an awards ceremony at Parade headquarters in New York, I will be unable to attend due to cumbersome visa restrictions placed on me by the U.S. government. Second, given that the essence of being a dictator is having power and that power means getting others to do what you want, and given that I've brutalized my people for nearly three decades while an impotent world has looked on, should I really be labelled the "worst" dictator in the world? Given my inordinate skill as a tyrant, to proclaim me anything other than the best is truly unjust.
When word reached me in Zimbabwe last year that Parade magazine had placed me sixth on their annual list of the world's worst dictators, I questioned the publication's methodology in a letter to its editors. It was evident to me that Parade had failed to rely on the sort of peer review component employed by U.S. News and World Report when ranking colleges. Had the input of other malevolent rulers been sought, I'm sure the results would have been vastly different.
Admittedly, there was worthy competition in 2008 and I doffed my cap to Hu Jintao (#5 on last year's list), who managed to subjugate 1.3 billion Chinese, no easy feat in this age of the Internet. I also applauded Sayid Ali Khamnei, supreme leader of Iran (#7), who was cited by Parade for carrying out public hangings and permitting the execution of juveniles. I was particularly appreciative of his efforts as it was I who broke ground in this area, executing juveniles, toddlers, and, lately, newborns. I salute you, Ayatollah, for stoning a man to death for adultery; you are a true professional.
I did however take exception to the presence of North Korea's Kim Jong-il atop last year's list. Parade claimed this fellow ran "the world's most repressive regime." Really? Was it not Kim Jong-il who recently handed over two American journalists to Bill Clinton after sharing tea with the ex-president? Did not Than Shwe (#3) release an American prisoner into the custody of Jim Webb after the Virginia senator paid a social call on the Burmese leader?
Real dictators don't sip tea or chat with U.S. officials. They escort them to a defunct soccer stadium, strip them, fasten them them into extremely uncomfortable high-backed chairs, introduce a significant amount of electrical cable into the proceedings.... Well, I won't tell tales out of school.
A neophyte like Uzbekistan's Islam Karimov (#9) is still at the stage where he is noted for exceeding his two-term limit. This is a dictatorial baby step. Show me a man who has had his sixth wife decapitated on their honeymoon for allowing him to consume a soggy crouton and I'll show you a dictator.
Especially painful to me was the fact that I was as distant from Kim Jong-il on last year's list as I was close to Muammar al-Qaddafi (who led the category entitled "dishonorable mention"). For a number of years my wax likeness has shared space at Madame Tussaud's in London with those of Saddam Hussein and Hitler. I have no objection to keeping company with them, but have always resented the inclusion of Qaddafi in the museum's "corner of infamy." According to Parade, "reports of torture are common in Libya." Please. This is the man who scuttled his entire nuclear weapons program to curry favor with the West. You know whom Qaddafi has tortured? Me, with his pusillanimous, sycophantic behavior. Rolling out the red carpet for the accused Lockerbie bomber is nothing more than a transparent attempt to disguise his true spinelessness. Such a worm does not belong in the community of dictators.
King Abdullah (#4) was singled out for "most oppressed women in the world." I'm not sure if this cryptic phrase refers to the number of oppressed females in Saudi Arabia (presumably half of the country's 27 million population) or to the degree of their oppression. I have only 13 million subjects in Zimbabwe (perhaps 11 million of whom are women as I've disposed of most males), but I can assure you, no females on the face of the planet are more oppressed. Even in Harare, simply shopping is a nightmre. This January, to counter nineteen-digit inflation, I released a $50 billion banknote. Unfortunately for Zimbabwean housewives, the only thing rarer than this bill is what it can purchase: two loaves of bread.
Last year's Number Two, Omar Al-Bashir, was included because "Darfur continues to be a hotbed of violence." True enough. Omar scares the daylights out of many of Sudan's black citizens. But I traumatize blacks and whites. Specifically white farmers reluctant to participate in my land reform scheme. Have you ever seen a family of seven attempt to hide beneath a tractor, President Al-Bashir? I'll wager you have not.
I was in the greenhouse Saturday when my nephew Bobby Mugabe phoned from Lausanne with joyous news: Parade has named me the world's worst dictator for 2009. There is a God! I am ecstatic to outdistance the world's most barbaric despots and honored that a publication which boasts a circulation of 33 million and is distributed in 470 Sunday newspapers came to its senses without my customary intimidation.
Clearly the opinions of my peers played a crucial role in my triumph. That my fellow dictators acknowledge my ruthless savagery pleases but does not surprise me. It is I, after all, who pioneered the use of the circular saw and power drill in interrogation, presided over one of the worst cholera outbreaks in modern memory, and have forced uncooperative subjects to swallow more gasoline than is currently available in my entire country. And it is I who, in the years since Zimbabwean independence, have obliterated any chance of human happiness in my native land.
Being recognized in the twilight of my life, at the ago of 85, for significant acievement in the field of dictatorship is deeply gratifying. Nonetheless, I have two quibbles. In the event that there will be an awards ceremony at Parade headquarters in New York, I will be unable to attend due to cumbersome visa restrictions placed on me by the U.S. government. Second, given that the essence of being a dictator is having power and that power means getting others to do what you want, and given that I've brutalized my people for nearly three decades while an impotent world has looked on, should I really be labelled the "worst" dictator in the world? Given my inordinate skill as a tyrant, to proclaim me anything other than the best is truly unjust.
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