I'm, Like Ya Know, Available

Caroline Kennedy is breaking hearts again.

Forced by personal reasons to inform Governor David Paterson that she is unable to serve her state and her country in the Senate, Princess Caroline will now retreat to her Eastside townhouse and suffer in private.

Unlike that other paragon of the New York City conspicuous-charity scene, Bernard Madoff, Ms. Kennedy will not be required to wear an electronic ankle bracelet.

Her voluntary confinement, however, will be no less unplatable or reflective than that of Bunko Bernie, 21st Century Ponzi.

Perhaps, however, now is the time for the rest of us to reflect on how shabbily Her Grace was treated. How dare we question her motives, her qualifications, her resolve, her... like, ya know... experientials, and most of all her... like, ya know... wantingness for the job.

Poor dear. I suppose that she can go back to writing books, but I'm told that a member of the vast-right-wing conspiracy hid her box of Crayolas.

Shame on us.

But enough about the Lady from Hyannis.

Let's get down to business.

You're in a bind, Governor. The recent high-jinx in Illinois make it nearly impossible for you to sell this position at anywhere near what it's worth. Appointing another high-profile Democrat risks roiling the wrath of the House of Kennedy, especially that despicable ex-cousin in law. For the same reason, likely candidates are hiding under the couch in fear.

So Governor, since there's so little time and so few potential takers...

I'm available.

Here are the reasons why I am the perfect choice.

I have no relevant experience.

I have no appropriate training or education.

My interpersonal and communication skills are, to be blunt, crude and a little creepy.

Since I'm likely to be impeached or indicted before the next election you'll soon be able to sell the seat at the current market price. By next year that Blay-Go-Jevich stuff will have been long forgotten.

And lastly, my father is a very jolly, very likable fellow.

Oh, and did I mention... after paying my New York State tax bill I really, really, really need the money.

So call now. This offer won't last forever.

Yours truly,

Rufus T. Firefly
Soon-to-be-Former President
Democratic Republic of Freedonia

Oh yeah... Thanks JetBlue

Balancing the demands of shameless and brutal commerce with the impossible dreams of the preservationists, JetBlue has restored a measure of sanity into this cruel and sterile world. JetBlue resisted the temptation to raze Eero Saarinen's iconic Terminal 5 to make way for their new JFK complex. Just as significant, they also pushed back attempts to preserve the site as an obsolete museum piece.

The new JetBlue JFK terminal complex places Saarinen's masterpiece at the center of a beautiful, functional and, environmentally-friendly facility.

Nearly 50 years ago, after the concrete was poured, Saarinen and his chief engineer stood underneath the structure as the scaffolding was being removed.

When the last support was dismantled the architect paused for a moment, turned to his colleague and said:

"If this whole thing came came crashing down on my head right now, I would die a happy man."

It didn't. Firmitas, utilitas, venustas.

Vitruvius would be proud.

Bravo JetBlue.

Monuments & Anti-Monuments: The Death of Artistic Vision

I was confronted by three strands of cultural connective tissue this week which portend the death of artistic expression. No, it has nothing to do with the First Amendment or government suppression. It has everything to do with the tearing down of greatness and the worship of mediocrity by the dominant cultural elite.

First, Terminal 5 at John F. Kennedy International Airport.

Second, the Zurich Opera's production of Richard Wagner's Parsifal.

And third, that gaping hole in the ground where New York's World Trade Center once stood.

Terminal 5 was and is an architectural wonder.

Designed by Eero Saarinen nearly 50 years ago it stands as a soaring monument to flight and mankind's unquenchable desire to reach for the heavens.

Unfortunately, Terminal 5 was also the site and the title of an ill-fated "Art Exhibit" in 2005.

Organized by the Generation Y nouveau dilettante Rachel K. Ward, Terminal 5 featured works of quackery that spoke directly to those to whom they speak directly--folks who would not know a work of art from a hole in the ground.

In fact, these imbeciles often worship holes in the ground as breakthrough works of art.

Case in point, Vanessa Beecroft whose naked narcissism is hailed far and wide by adoring acolytes who admire naked narcissism.

In addition to the Beecroft masterpiece, which was never shown, there was a square carpet made of padlocks, a red carpet leading nowhere, and a breathtaking message board with nothing on it.

Look out Michelangelo, the giants of 21st Century art have you in their sights.

Bottom Line: The opening night gala turned out to be a closing night disaster.

Why?

Because the scions of the New York art scene descended upon Kennedy Airport, got drunk, trashed the terminal, vomited on the floor and added their own personal artistic touches--in the form of spray painted graffiti--to Terminal 5's iconic white curved walls.

Then there's Parsifal. Now, I must confess that I am a theater throwback. When I buy a ticket and take my seat I willingly suspend my disbelief. Same thing at home when I pop the NetFlix DVD into the player. So if I'm watching a story that's supposed to take place in a forest in the Pyrenees I don't mind if the trees are made of papier mache and the rocks wobble a bit at the slightest touch.

IT'S THEATER. IT'S MAKE BELIEVE. GET OVER IT!

Not today. No, now we're treated to theater pieces designed and produced by people who hate theater.

So the clearing in the forest becomes a minimalist classroom with abstract furniture.

The Grail Knights are now represented by a professor in dusty frock coat and his slobbering pupils.

The wounded King is a pathetic wimp in a bloody white leisure suit being wheeled around on a stand-up hospital gurney.

Thankfully, as with Robert Wilson's putrid interpretation of Lohengrin, there's always the music. Close your eyes, drink in the monumental score and let your imagination run wild. It's better than watching the visual atrocity on the stage.

Which brings us to the hole in the ground in downtown New York.

As it stands, or more accurately as it doesn't stand, the World Trade Center site is an Al Qaeda victory monument. Every day that the site stands vacant is an expression to the world that Osama bin Laden has won the battle. Politicians debate. Interests groups demand a seat at the negotiating table. Construction workers and heavy equipment lay idle. And the overwhelming majority of Americans wonder...

WHEN WILL THE GIGANTIC SCAR IN THE NEW YORK SKYLINE BE HEALED?

There was great hope that the completion of the Calatrava Transit Hub would be the impetus to get the project moving.

Now, even this beautiful, functional and environmentally innovative project has hit a logjam.

Superstar architect Santiago Calatrava, who has a reputation for being able to exceed an unlimited budget, has created a magnificent structure that actually pays homage to Saarinen and adds 21st century technological innovations that will make it the greenest facility of its kind in the world.

However, cost overruns along with the anti-monument thinking of small-minded bureaucrats have conspired to halt construction.

The excuse du jour is the cost, but modifications to the mechanics of the facility can bring the budget in line without changing the integrity of the design. It's much more likely that the design will be trashed in favor of a transit hub that looks less expensive and costs twice as much. This isn't a unique paradox. I cannot count the times that a client has told me to design an event that "doesn't look expensive."

On his home-building blog Tedd Benson recently invoked Vitruvius, the Roman architect.

A building, said Vitruvius, must be strong, it must be functional and it must be beautiful--firmitas, utilitas, venustas.

Strong is easy. Functional is a bit more challenging. Beautiful? Artistic? Inspiring? These are qualities that are, today, all but impossible.

Today, the anti-monumentalist, anti-artistry movement represented by Ward, Beecroft, Wilson, et. al. worships the puny, the plain, the unimaginative.

In this day and age the Philistines no longer have to tear down the shrines.

They have simply enshrined mediocrity.

As was stated so clearly and so cynically by Ellsworth Monkton Toohey in The Fountainhead:

"A man more able than his brothers insults them by implication."

Heaven forbid that great thinkers, artists and builders insult those with small intellect, small imagination and small ambitions.

Is this the death of artistic expression in everyday life?

Maybe not, but it's definitely on life support.

If This is What They're Thinking About...

Thought you'd all get a kick out of this.

Just got a letter from the District Court of Nassau County, Criminal Term. Since most of you already know that I'm a hardened criminal, I'm not giving away any secrets.

I did it, and I'm glad!

Yes, I exceeded the 5MPH speed limit on my jetski in Freeport Creek last summer. After a desperate struggle I was finally subdued and served with five bogus summonses, all of which (except for the speeding) were immediately dismissed.

Rather than spend another full day sitting on the "Group W" bench with slumlords and drunk drivers, I capitulated and paid the fine.

Now, the criminal justice system here in NYS is checking up to make sure that I'm remaining on the straight and narrow.

The letter reminds me that I (the defendant) shall abide by the following conditions of conduct:

- Avoid injurious or vicious habits.

- Refrain from frequenting unlawful or disreputable places or consorting with disreputable persons.

- Work faithfully at a suitable employment or faithfully pursue a course of study or of vocational training that will train me for suitable employment.

There's more, but you get the idea. My personal favorites are the requirements to seek psychiatric treatment and make restitution of the fruits of my crime.

It's heart warming to know that the State of New York is using all their considerable resources to protect the citizens of the Empire State from dangerous marauders who would ride their jetskis at 10MPH in a 5MPH zone.

Now we can all sleep easy.

Perhaps our state's highest law enforcement official, Saint Cuomo the Younger, should coordinate an undercover operation at the new Waverunner attraction in the Nathan's gameroom.

Looks like a career criminal to me.

Prudence and the Pill

Everybody loves a rollicking British bedroom farce.

In the 1960s sexual taboos were called into question, popular culture was in a transitional stage, and David Niven and Deborah Kerr starred in a harmless bit of cinematic fluff entitled:

Prudence and the Pill.

In keeping with the cultural imperative of the decade, "The Pill" of the title was looked upon as a Magic Bullet that could shield man and woman, young and old, from every manner of irresponsible behavior. As in all farce comedies, things go awry, birth control pills and aspirins get switched and mother and daughter wind up pregnant. A laugh riot.

Today we have another version of Prudence and the Pill.

Prudence is the sense of responsibility and discipline demonstrated by the great majority of Americans who live within their means, work hard and pay their bills.

The pill, in this case, comes in the form of government bailouts for the idiots and incompetents that have spent the last four decades running their old-economy enterprises into the depths of Hell.

These dinosaurs have no logical or rationale basis for their continued existence beyond the "too-big-to-fail" argument.

But what would happen if we were to turn that "too-big-too-fail" excuse on its ear?

What if we were to determine that a money-losing enterprise was too big to continue on life support? Now there's an idea.

Keeping General Motors, AIG and CitiGroup alive prevents younger more innovative companies from jumping in and filling the void. Pouring money into moribund Detroit manufacturers, irresponsible banks and predatory mortgage companies rewards bad judgement and forces those of us that bought cars and houses we could afford, after saving enough for a down payment, to subsidize those who refused to defer gratification.

It's exasperating. Time after time, our government steps in to save the fools from themselves. The result is that every well-run enterprise in America is placed at a severe competitive disadvantage.

Worse, they are forced through penal taxation to fund their competitors' idiocy.

And it seems that this folly will never end.

Instead of our prudence being rewarded we're forced to swallow the biggest and bitterest pill our government has ever served up.

And how will future generations look upon this sorry period in American history?

Will this this episode resemble a British farce?

I think it's much more likely that the ending of this drama will be An American Tragedy.

Faces in the Crowd

We toyed with the idea of ringing in the New Year at Times Square, but that was a few days ago when the forecast called for mild temperatures and light winds.

As the days and hours ticked off and the forecast changed from mild to brutal, the notion of a quiet New Year's Eve at home became more and more appealing.

Besides, with the kids planning their own acivities, staying close to the phone and not trapped in a Bloomberg pen seemed more prudent.

Then, early yesterday L'il Angel developed a cough, sore throat and congestion so it was off to the doctor. No strep. That was good news and the doctor said that going out with her friends was not prohibited. I think he's as scared of her as I am. But when the time came, she said that she wanted to spend New Year's Eve with her family. What a crock. So Matt invited his friends over to our house and we all celebrated the coming of 2009 in front of the TV. First it was the Twilight Zone Marathon, then the celebration from Times Square.

Did I say celebration?

We've been to New Year's Eve at Times Square prior to the Bloomberg restructuring of the iconic celebration. It was quintessential New York--a raucous, spontaneous and chaotic affair. You could be a child again. No rules. Total anonymity. Anarchy... PRICELESS!

But now? You have to get to the venue by the appointed time.

You must stand in the designated place.

Once there, you cannot move about or wander past the barricades.

Participants in this atrocity are given party favors, told when to cheer and invited to sing along with Lionel Richie. I know it was Lionel Richie because they told me. After multiple plastic surgeries you have to take their word for it.

"Wave your blue balloons. Jump in place. Sing along."

It's not New Year's Eve, it's a Bar Mitzvah.

And worst of all, in this Brave New World the stars of the show aren't the anonymous revelers drawn to the Hub of the World from every nation on Earth.

No, our senses and sensibilities are assaulted by the giants of American culture... Carson Daly, Kellie Pickler... The Pussycat Dolls!

Spare me.

Happy New Year.

Now let's switch back to The Twilight Zone.

It's Time to Put the Fun Back in Dysfunctional

Several years ago the New York Times ran a Sunday Magazine profile of several young and successful TV sitcom writers. They spoke of their therapy sessions, their shoes and their families.

"You can't write for television" said one comedy writer, "if you didn't grow up in a dysfunctional family."

Okay, I admit it. I love oddball families.

There were the Dowds, the extended family of Harvey the six foot rabbit. In You Can't Take it With You the Sycamores took in every misfit in town, even the wealthy son of the bigshot banker who was trying to evict them.

And of course my personal favorites, those lovable Brewster sisters of Arsenic and Old Lace who buried their problems in the basement.

Did anyone who went to the theater ever believe that these were authentic slices of American life?

Of course not. The Dowds, the Sycamores, the Brewsters were all fictional. And that's the point.

So, for anyone here with a sensitive nature or a fragile ego, cover your eyes, ears, nose and throat. What you are about to read will shock and amaze you. It may revolt you. It may even enlighten you, although I doubt it. The reason is that my conclusion is so basic and so self evident that for those that understand the concept it's as clear as crystal. For those that don't it's as dense as treakle and ten times more unpatatable.

Here goes. You have been warned.

There is no such thing as a dysfunctional family.

You read it right. There is no such thing as a dysfunctional family. It's a fiction. What we have today is a pathetic legion of dysfunctional people, aided and abetted by an army of psychologists and social workers, who have slithered out from under their beds to blame those that love them most for all their problems and difficulties.

It's nearly impossible to miss the symptoms.

Bad habits become addictions.

Anti-social behavior is defined as a public health problem.

Unpleasantness is defined as honesty and "speaking my mind."

And all personal failures are ascribed to an all-consuming but nebulous family pathology, i.e. dysfunction.

So, not only do these dysfunctional people make life a hell on Earth for family and friends, they also turn the mirror toward the wall and blame everyone around them for their own shorcomings. Worse, these losers have now reached a critical mass as the designers of the popular culture. They are eroding our objective sense of right and wrong, human and inhuman, functional and dysfunctional.

When I turn the key to start my car and hear nothing but a faint clicking sound, I can be fairly certain that my battery is dysfunctional. I don't blame the entire automobile industry for inflicting dysfunctional cars on an innocent and unsuspecting public. Then, when I notice that I had left the lights on the night before, as a relatively sentient being I blame the occasional dysfunction in my own brain rather than any defect in the battery.

Not so for the dysfunctional person.

"That battery should know that I'm imperfect. It should recognize my weaknesses. It should adjust and accomodate. It's that damn battery that doesn't understand me!"

As Elwood P. Dowd told us so eloquently, "In this life you have to be oh so clever or oh so pleasant. I decided to be oh so pleasant."

It seems that the designers of today's popular culture have decided that they want to be oh so unpleasant. Tragedy is, there's not a thing that's the least bit clever about any of it.