Liar of the year

It was a highly competitive race this year, but in the end the clear winner was Goldman Sachs CEO Lloyd Blankfein for the scale of the lie in his assertion to the Times of London that “we’re doing God’s work here at Goldman.” I mean there are plenty of liars out there, but to make a claim like this one when you’re paying yourself $68 million (2007) while taking billions in taxpayers’ money and invoking the Almighty as your reference point…well, how do you top that?

Closer to the truth would be Matt Taibbi’s decription in Rolling Stone: “The world's most powerful investment bank is a great vampire squid wrapped around the face of humanity, relentlessly jamming its blood funnel into anything that smells like money.”

Secretary of Homeland Security Janet Napolitano made a strong late run when she claimed this week that “the system worked” in reference to the recent attempted fire bombing of a Detroit-bound jetliner.

It’s quite a system we have in place. The guy’s father drops the dime on him to the American embassy, the British had already barred him from entering their country, he bought a ticket with cash and checked no luggage, but that wasn’t enough to raise any red flags. I once got stripped searched because I had a outbound airplane ticket from New York to San Francisco but the return ticket was LA-NY. Apparently this was highly suspicious.

This leads me to ask, how in the world did they talk this kid into this mission? I understand suicide bombers. You put on the vest, you push the button, and you are vaporized in a millisecond. How bad could it hurt? And the next thing you know you are frolicking with your 72 virgins.

But this guy had to pack a half pound of napalm around his package, use a hypodermic needle to inject the napalm with acid, and then light it with a match. If all had gone well he’d have gone up in flames that eventually would have burned a hole in the plane. There were bound to have been a few minutes of discomfort involved if all had gone according to plan. (Plus then, what can you do with the virgins?) The New York Post captured it perfectly on today's front page with this headline: Great Balls of Fire!

That had to have been a tough sell. I’d like to see the video of the pitch. Whoever delivered it must have made Alec Baldwin’s character in Glengarry Glen Ross look like Willie Loman on a bad day.

Christmas in New York

I’d had a late lunch with an old friend the other day near 20th and Park Avenue South. My pal went back to his office while I finished the last drops of my Malbec at the bar of the Middle Eastern restaurant where we’d eaten. It was nearly 4:00. There was a Christmas party starting at 5:30 I that wanted to visit, but it was at 56th and Broadway – either a $25 cab ride that would be a long frustrating crawl through the densest of New York traffic, or a three-train subway ride with transfers at both Grand Central and Times Square. For me, a Hobson’s choice.

Or I could just jump on the #6 to Grand Central and easily catch the 4:23 home. My pleasant wine buzz would just be wearing off as we pulled into Yonkers. I could soon pour another and put the telly on ESPN in time for PTI; quite a pleasant evening for a retiree.

But I hate to miss a party. I had plenty of time so I began the underground trek to the west side. The first stop was Grand Central, which was at peak rush hour frenzy, and coming up to the main level from the Lex line was pure chaos – but with a sound track. Tucked between the up and downtown stairways was a 10-piece band -- five horns, two guitars, bass, drum and a singer – playing the old “Chicago” tune, “25 or 6 to 4”. There were commuters and tourists three and four deep with video cameras in every other hand. The singer seemed to be the leader of this half Asian/half African American ensemble, and he was holding his mic with one hand while selling CDs with the other – and briskly I might add. They were good.

I moved on to the Times Square shuttle, a longish walk to a special platform, passing on the way a stocky, 20-something, white man angrily shouting his devotion to the gospel of Jesus Christ.

And then what to my wondrous eyes did appear? Delta Dave Williams, a 40-something black man in a wheelchair playing acoustic (but amped) guitar and harmonica, with which he was pumping out real Delta blues, enhanced by the natural echo chamber of the grand arched and tiled ceilings under Grand Central. The shuttles come and go frequently which keeps the crowds moving just as quickly, but was not conducive to building the kind of audience the big band had. But that meant a good vantage point for me and I was happy standing there. For a moment I was back in Clarksdale.

“Excuse me sir.” Those words usually make me turn and walk the other way, but I looked up and saw a pair of shy, 15-year-old eyes meet mine. “Would you be willing to be interviewed for our student movie about the music in the subways?”

I couldn’t say no. She walked me over to a quieter spot to meet her crew. Two 15-year-old boys, one big and pudgy the other so small he looked more like 12. They were the classic, Hispanic version of AV clubbers. The larger one operated a tiny video camera while his smaller friend held the microphone. The young Miss, probably the only girl these boys talk to most days, will be a beauty when she loses her braces and reaches her 20’s. She served as the subway Katie Couric.

“Do you like this music?”

“It’s my favorite kind of music.”

“Does it make you feel happy?”

“It makes me feel contemplative.”

“Thanks for stopping. We might get in the Tribeca Festival so watch for us.”

I left some tribute for Delta Dave before getting on my train. The ride to Times Square featured a guy soliciting donations for his business – something he called “a Homeless Welcome Wagon,” a wheeled basket in which he carried a variety of goods he claimed to offer free of charge to other homeless people in the city: blankets, socks, bottles of water and such. I wasn’t close enough to get a good look, but his rap was pretty good.

On the #1 platform at Times Square I stood next to a tall young black man who was well-dressed and completely normal looking, and acting, except for the half-inch thick, pure white makeup that vertically covered one half of his face. We didn’t chat.

I surfaced at Columbus Circle, weaving my way through the Christmas market at the entrance to Central Park and down Broadway. Lounging under some scaffolding I passed an old man who looked like Santa, if Santa had been wearing the same clothes and sleeping in the streets for a year or so. There were no signs of fur trim left on his suit, and his hair and beard were mud gray rather than white. He had a collection plate at his feet and a hand-lettered sign around his neck: “I’m fine. Pray for Tiger Woods.”

As I passed him heading downtown, his twin brother was coming uptown wearing large felt reindeer antlers, pushing a shopping cart filled with random Evergreen trimmings.

It’s Christmas in New York.

Kabuki Kongriss

If the theater is where we go to pretend, then surely there is no more delusional stage than our Kabuki Kongriss. Last week the House passed a new financial regulation bill. The Democrats are pretending that it is actually meaningful reform. The Republicans (100% of whom voted against it) are pretending that they were saving America from bureaucratic strangulation. Both parties are pretending that the financial services industry didn’t really give members of Congress $344 million in the first nine months of 2009. That is an annualized average take of a little over $857,000 per member of the House and Senate. But of course this had no bearing on anyone’s role in either writing a toothless joke of a reform bill, or on voting against it to prove what a macho conservative one is.

But no worries; the Senate now gets to remove whatever meaningful provisions the bill contains before sending it back to the House. If the Senate can drag its feet long enough they may be able to get the financial lobbies to throw in an extra $100 mil or so.
Next up: pretend health care reform.

In other Congressional action, the Senate also began an investigation into the collegiate football playoff system. According to Jimmy Fallon, “In a related note, the NCAA has begun to explore options for getting out of Afghanistan.”

Joke of the Week: What is the difference between Santa Claus and Tiger Woods? Santa usually stops after three ho’s.

According to Gary Trudeau, “Twitter is the first rough draft of gossip.”

Finally, thank you all so much for your support of my new cowbell career. Who knew so many of you were into cowbelliana? The inside bell technique described by McRik was simply my attempt to recreate the sound that I hear inside my own head whenever I hear Joe Lieberman attempt to explain how he reached a particular political position.

One thing all the books tell you is that you need to have goals in order to have a happy and successful retirement, and I confess that I’ve been struggling in this regard. However, I am delighted to announce today that in January I will be enrolling in “The Bruce Dickenson Cowbell Academy,” located in beautiful Punta Mantua, Florida. It is now my dream to one day perform the cowbell trifecta of (Don’t) Fear the Reaper, Mississippi Queen and Time Has Come Today at Carnegie Hall -- accompanied by the Prowlers, of course.

The social season is really heating up now. I’m not sure when I’ll be back so let me wish you Happy Holidays now in case I fall off the map in an egg nog stupor. Going to Babbo tonight with Buzzard and a couple of hot ladies. Can’t wait to get on the outside of some BBQ sweetbreads.

More cowbell

How much more excitement can retirement offer than last night? It’s hard to imagine. I met McRik, BD, Richie, Marshall, Johnnie and Eddie - the Prowlers - at the upstairs bar at City Crab. We threw done a few oysters and a couple see-throughs before heading over to the Techline Basement Lounge where the band store their gear and hold their weekly practice sessions.

I love basement acoustics and Techline was sounding pure as the band tore through The Ballad of John and Yoko, Pretty Woman, Messin’ Around, and Makes No Difference. Then it was a couple of originals: Strange Love (I had her photograph - I had to tear it in half) and Prisoner of Love (a Prowler “greatest hit”).

Somewhere around this point in the evening McRik gave me the cowbell, a well-worn stick and a mandate to have at it. From there it was a joyous ride down sensory lane via What Does It Take, Wild Nights, Walkin’ the Dog, Live Forever, Tequila, and a big finish with I Don’t Need No Doctor.

It was a tight, twelve-number set. The first half was just a little weak for want of adequate cowbell, but we built to a strong finish. Tequila was my favorite as there was a cowbell solo. I am now lobbying to have (Don’t Fear) the Reaper added to their repertoire, as it is, of course, the sin qua non of cowbell-driven rock. The Prowlers will be at the Ace of Clubs on Great Jones Street in the Village on Saturday January 23rd. I will be back in Florida by then – not sure who will be on cowbell.

The absurdity of Afghanistan

According to the administration, we are staying in Afghanistan in order to protect the population from violence, establish a non-corrupt and functioning government, build a working infrastructure, provide a functioning education system, eliminate drug trafficking, and eradicate terrorists inside their borders.

We can’t even accomplish these goals in the United States.

Lying is the best medicine

Tiger Woods’ recent problems offer an opportunity to examine one of those things everyone knows is true. I speak of the principle that the only way to deal with an embarrassing laps in personal deportment is to “get out in front of it” and “come clean with the complete truth” before it is inevitably made public via a long, Chinese-water torture, process of daily embarrassing revelations.

Like most bits of common wisdom there is an element of truth here; in all likelihood holding back will keep the dogs digging for more bones, and they are going to find some, but let’s examine this more closely. First of all, who is it that is dispensing all this sage advice to the philanderers, dog killers and drug users of America? Members of the working media, people selling advice books and other “experts,” as defined by 25-year-old Good Morning America and the Today Show associate producers.

The “experts” say that Tiger should have come clean to them, which is just a bit of a conflict of interest, isn’t it? And really, how realistic is that advice? They would have had Tiger stepping in front of the cameras, while the Escalade was still resting on its side, fessing up to who-the-hell-knows-how-many extra marital affairs in advance of their discovery. This just isn’t the way the male mind works. Deny, deny, deny is DNA hard-wired in men’s brains as the only reasonable response. As Richard Pryor once claimed to have said to one of his wives when she caught him in bed with another woman, “Who are you gonna believe baby? Me or your lyin’ eyes?”

But let’s say one was able to overcome the power of genetics; is the advice actually any good? I say no. The experts think they got the best of Tiger because they uncovered 3-4 of his playing partners. Well, what if there we actually 25 of them? Don’t the undiscovered five foursomes potentially save him tens of millions on his newly renegotiated prenuptial agreement?

Then there is the argument that stonewalling the media will inevitably lead to a ruined public image and lessening of celebrity-driven earning power. This is clearly horse hockey. Buzzard and I were discussing the issue on the phone yesterday during the Florida-Alabama game, and here is a very partial list of celebrities who did not come clean after some sort of public indiscretion: Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, Ray Lewis, David Letterman, Bill Clinton, Kobe Bryant, Rob Lowe, Alex Rodriguez, Hugh Grant, and Eddie Murphy. Crack a beer and make your own list. It will be twice as long as ours before the foam settles.

Are any of these guys wandering penniless in the wilderness? No. Letterman’s ratings actually went up after his partial non-apology. Kobe is King of the NBA. They all earn millions a year. With the exception of Slick Willie, the expert’s advice may actually be true for politicians, but I think that’s only because nobody likes them before they screw-up so there is no reservoir of good will to draw upon.

So take my advice. If you get caught at whatever, don’t talk to the media, don’t admit anything, take as long a vacation as you can to the most remote place you can find, and when you come back, pretend nothing ever happened - this is America where everything is forgotten sooner or later.

West Point Afghanistan speech

President Obama’s speech from West Point tonight was one of his best. He made a strong, logical argument, and even infused it with a little emotion – something he injects into most of his speeches too sparingly.

Never-the-less, I am not persuaded that we will accomplish in the next eighteen months what we have failed to accomplish in the past eight years, using less than half as many troops as we’ve had in Iraq.

What will Afghanistan be like in a year after we pull out? The appropriate analogy is that is will be changed just as much as the glass of water is changed once one removes a finger from it.

It was very hard to look at all the strong young faces in the West Point audience – literally the best America has to offer – without wondering which of them will leave life or limb in the Afghan mountains, trying in vain to prop up a corrupt government while fighting a ghost army.

The Bush administration left Obama with few choices – none of them easy – but I fear he is not choosing wisely. We need to get out of there now and rebuild this country. Every day we spend in Afghanistan we’re nothing more than the most effective recruiting agent for the Taliban and Al Qaeda.