Victims and Villains

Victims and Villains
It was Saturday and I was returning to Club 55 shamefully for the third day in a row to attend the birthday lunch of a friend of a friend.

A table of 14 under pine trees and a make shift tarp was the venue. Our hostess happened to be a lady of a certain age who clearly had engaged in recreational surgery. Botox. Boobies. Lips, the Works. Her eyes were so arched that I thought she might catch flight at any moment were it not for the jewels around her neck weighing her down.

“Madam only has one wrinkle, and she’s sitting on it” my friend announces under his breath as simultaneously he made the introduction. “Charmed, I’m sure”
Frightening to look at upon first glance, Madam was bursting with wit and personality. She didn’t seem the victim of poor self-esteem which her multiple self-imposed surgeries would suggest. In fact she seemed bursting with pride next to her much younger boyfriend. She was actually a spectacular creature, the empowered Cougar. Her energy was electric , and I was hoping to be seated next to her!

Yet, fate was against me that afternoon.

Instead, I was seated next to a troll of a woman who looked like a blonde Kathy Bates and a tubby Cruella de Ville. Within seconds, she began to recruit me into her war against her ex-husband. He was a successful restauranteur who reportedly sold his franchise of restaurants and licensing agreements for $80 million. I didn’t know the man, and it quickly dawned on me that upon meeting anyone new, this woman established her identity as being the scorned woman of a man who ran off with a hostess who he impregnated while still married to wife #1.

As I looked down the table and saw my friend and the Cougaress laughing from the bottom of their stomachs at a story I was missing out on, I tried to summon an ounce of empathy for Mrs. Vinegar sitting to my left. “Was he unkind in the settlement?” I asked her travel companion sitting to my right? It looked like she had sucked the life out of this frail man who I couldn’t fathom to be her romantic partner. The only color he had left was the pink around his eyes and the yellow around his nails. He reminded me of one of the inbred children in “Flowers in the Attic”.

He informed me that the ex-husband gave her half of his net worth without contest though she had only been married to him five years. He had launched his company prior to their marriage, and they had no children because she didn’t want any. I asked her questions directly. “How long ago did this happen?” She replied that she found out about the affair seven years ago and the divorce had been finalized for six. He announced to her one morning that he had fallen in love with another woman who made him happy, and left with only a suitcase.

And, she kept making references to her therapist throughout the conversation. I thought well, at least she’s committed to therapy in an effort to try to find happiness. “You seem to admire your therapist. How long have you been seeing her?” She replied “twenty-two years”….

Although I had a glass or so of wine by this point, I was trying to calculate the present value of all these payments. Was paying her therapist in today’s dollars on average $250 per session over twenty-two years is about a million dollars assuming that money had been invested at 5% interest rate? It was no wonder she was depressed.

This lady had been playing the victim for at least seven years now, probably longer. She was holding onto anger as some false sense of empowerment. She wasn’t a defeated woman who invoked empathy; she was a bitter woman who entrapped herself in the past.

It was hard for me to even pity her as I saw her as a villain robbing me of a fun conversation at the far end of the table! Refusing to play the victim myself, I became empowered and departed for the beach in self liberation.

Victims and Villains? Aren’t we all protagonists in our own stories?

A Celexa Moment (...in Saint Tropez)

Let’s face it. The “Crisis” as the French call it, is over.

Having recently completed an educational sabbatical, the challenge of making new life decisions was upon me. I looked around at peers, friends and the people I love, and it seemed that a lot of us had deferred making decisions. Was this because of the Crisis?

I suppose the Great Recession was a convenience for all of us to collectively indulge in playing the “victim”. That is to say, we transferred control as it were to circumstance outside our control. Blaming the universe; claiming it was all out of our hands.

But, now it seems Hope abounds. It no longer seems fashionable to blame the Crisis…or even George Bush for that matter…for situations not to our liking. And, Obama is just too charismatic to blame for anything, plus he’s such a nice guy. (Although, Nancy Pelosi does make a nice villainess with that Darth Vader helmet hair and unveiled lust for power on her disfigured, sinister face).

Yet, left to our own free will, we have to make decisions in life less those decisions be made for us. (YIKES!). And making decisions often creates anxiety. Isn’t it so much easier to blame someone else and point the finger rather than taking responsibility?

Many friends of mine often opt for Celexa or Wellbutrin as remedies to anxiety. (Committing to the idea of long-term depression or the treatment thereof is just too depressing in of itself for me, so I only engage in the periodic use of Ambien and Clonazepam along with the occasional recreational use of Cialis to get through periods of anxiety…)

In a clear and present mind, my free will took me on pilgrimage to Saint Tropez seeking the sacred sands of Club 55 to ponder the paradox of a world so rich in opportunity that it creates debilitating anxiety. With the value proposition of a falling Euro, treating two friends to lunch and a couple bottles of Domaine de la Rouillere Rose was cheaper than my “out of pocket” co-pay for a session with my shrink, and far more therapeutic. So, we indulged.

To my surprise, our French waiter was smiling, friendly and accommodating. I thought for a moment that “hope truly is in the air”. The euphoria, however, of experiencing a pleasant interaction with a French waiter was soon spoiled by the onset of a hostile ambush by Paparazzi who attacked from the perimeter of the club.

The older of the Collins Sisters was rumored to have been dining in the corner with her much younger husband, but who the hell cared about her anyway unless Dynasty was being re-released on i-tunes with promotional out-takes of the behind the scenes wig posturing between her and Diahann Carroll?

Grace Jones began to sing to me “La Vie En Rose”. The guitar melody repeated several times before the first vocal note…Miss Jones was not one to be rushed. Mon coeur qui bat…in the words of love, and in every day words, a life lived through rose colored glasses…” Well, that was my translation anyway.

So my Celexa moment in Saint Tropez as seen through my rose induced glasses was realizing that the most effective anti-depressant to combat anxiety is equal doses of embracing the power of choice and celebrating great experiences.

A lazy afternoon on the beach with good conversation and wonderful friends was indeed a cherished treat. As for choices, in the short term, I had committed to a sailing trip the following day. The tougher life choices would need to wait until my return to New York….

Is Lenox Hill New York’s version of the Eighth in Paris?

Sitting at Amaranth for dinner on a Sunday night next to a very loud and tipsy Carla Bruni with her husband, the President of France, I thought for a moment that I was in the 8th Arrondissement. It’s easy to draw a parallel between the two neighborhoods. Both have fabulous restaurants and are home to Hermes. Both have an international flare and boast well healed residents wearing $800 footwear. And, both have a veneer of respectability that seems to melt off when one enters the local haunts.

I was a recent transplant to the neighborhood having moved to a floor-through apartment in a brownstone located on 63rd off 5th, a swank address indeed. My apartment once belonged to ZsaZsa and Eva’s mother who rented the home to Edie Sedgwick in her Factory Girl days. Given the location and provenance, why was my rent so much less expensive than something half as grand in the West Village? Not even for a moment did I think I would end up on the Upper Eastside, until by chance, I was recommended to a sublet of an editor returning to Italy.

The benefits and amenities of Lenox Hill were pleasantly surprising. The first joy I discovered is that the area South of 72nd and West of Lexington, is an unofficial stroller free zone. And the spawn that are allowed access are most well behaved. The proximity to the Park was another unexpected delight. There is a true luxury in being able to step into the Park to take a stroll or run with no notice. The only drawback to the neighborhood is that there are no grocery stores in ten block radius, and there is the temptation to order take-out from Nello or walk to the Pierre for a snack.

The elegance of the people I have discovered has been a true delight. Doorman along residential Park Avenue often open the doors to taxis even if the passenger aren’t arriving guests or residents to their buildings. The streets are cleaned every day and the restauranteurs and shopkeepers say good morning and smile.
People leave their apartments with their hair combed, though they may return slightly disheveled from a martini or two too many later in the evening.

Like the 8th, the neighborhood is a mix of sophisticated residents and eager tourists. But, only in New York would the First Couple of France be seated adjacent to two lady tourists from the mid-West dressed in vintage Acid Washed jeans who seem to use phemaldehyde as lip moisturizer…

Mr Gatsby’s Haunts
Amaranth
21 East 62nd
www.amaranthrestaurant.com

Le Bilboquet
25 E. 63rd

Monkey Bar
60 E. 54th

Rouge Tomate
14 E. 60th

I'll take (a) Manhattan...

Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité

Face up, I laid sprawled out diagonally across the sidewalk of Avenue Kleber with a twelve year old Louis Vuitton (pre-welovesprouse) tote in my left hand and a Jack Spade messenger bag twisted around my neck, and I thought about the French mottos “Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, and It’s not possible”….

It was my last week in France, and I had many things to accomplish before leaving. I started marching up the Avenue at a pace that would be more than appropriate in New York, but slightly aggressive in Paris, particularly in the 16th. Rather than kick the woman’s poodle walking ahead of me, I stepped off the sidewalk into the street to bypass her. I misjudged the stoop stepping back up and crashed to the pavement with a grace that can only be described as American. This fraternity of Parisians universally ignored me as they elegantly stepped over me leaving me in silence. The poodle had the well-bred manners not to lick my face.

This Fraternity seemed to have an unwritten, but frequently spoken motto “It’s not possible”. Was I starting to hear this phrase more than Bonjour? Friends had taken me to a fashionable and tasty restaurant called 6 New York a few nights before, and I was so thirsty for a martini. When the waiter arrived at the table I smiled and asked for a Manhattan as I stared gleefully at the bar. “It’s not possible” and he then instantly disappeared offering me no alternatives. Granted, he was probably scared as the sound of me speaking French sounds like Chewbacca the Wookiee being electrocuted, but at least I was smiling…

Earlier that day at the local café I asked the barista if his fruit smoothies were made fresh. “Mais, oui”. Wonderful, could I have the strawberry smoothie on the menu, and could he add one of the bananas sitting on the basket in front of me? “It’s not possible”. But, why not? “Because we only have strawberry smoothies on the menu, not strawberry-banana.” But, I can pay for Banana as well. “It’s not possible”. Hmmm…this wasn’t Burger King, so I guess I didn’t have the liberté to have it my way…

During that same weekend, my friend and I went to the famous fashion haunt, Mathis Bar which is one of my favorite places in Paris. The décor feels like it was created by Kenzo who might have been inspired by a 1920’s Bordello. The music is fantastic and the scene of people is always over the top. We squeezed past recognizable fashion models fresh from rehab and headed directly to the bar with eager smiles in anticipation of a martini. We said good evening to the bartender and asked for a vodka martini and a Cosmo. We really offended this one because he screamed “It’s not possible”. Ignoring us, he shuffled to the other side of the bar to stare at some void in the left corner of the room.

Egalite? I pondered. Was everyone treated equally as badly in this Fraternity or were we not part of the Fraternity?

My companion and I began to sit down at the two vacant barstools to allow the bartender’s hormonal flash to pass, and this immediately caught his attention. “You cannot sit here!” Why I asked? “It’s not possible!”

Somehow the two bottles of wine that my friend and I shared at dinner had made me very lucid. Within milliseconds, I was summarizing one of two strategies in dealing with this assault on our fun night out. I could use diplomacy to diffuse this bitter little man wearing some sort of Danskin leotard apparently stolen from his younger sister’s closet and made into a makeshift shirt. Or, I could engage him in a New York style confrontation that would result in one of us leaving the bar in tears. What would Obama do?

I chose diplomacy. I smiled and asked “are you having a good night?” Stung, he had not anticipated this. “No, it’s not such a good night”. Well, you could make it a great night for us if you will make us two Grey Goose sodas with limes. He began to pick up the vodka bottle and as his pupils gazed into another corner of the room, the whites of his eyes gestured for us to take the stools. We had passed the test! He liked us, and we felt we were part of the fraternity!

Being in France for over a month, I did start to understand the mottos. I didn’t see any Burger Kings anywhere in the city, and I couldn’t have it my way. The architecture, the culture, the elegance of Paris works because there is a consistency. “It’s not possible” was really a collective resistance to changing too quickly and a preservation of the integrity of the collective society. This City had maintained its elegance because it did not change too quickly and was not subject to the whims of individuals. And, hadn’t I retreated to Paris from the New Economy because of this elegance and slightly slower pace?

Paris had given me the reprieve I needed…time to wander, ponder and write. I was becoming eager to return so I could launch the new website for Mr. Gatsby’s Travel Club. I also understood that I was missing New York where everything is possible!

I’ll take Manhattan…(but I still love Paris and these strong-willed, difficult French!!!)

So, I was having drinks with the housekeeper…

So, I was having drinks with the housekeeper in East Hampton the other day and I commented on her new Louis Vuitton bag from the welovesprouse.com collection. Every few months she seemed to have a new one. Real ones, not the fakes.

Was she affected by the crisis, I asked? She replied very matter-of-fact that Housecleaning in the Hamptons is like Heathcare in America; it’s a recession proof industry. Even though she has steady income, she volunteered that she had to make choices in life...she's on a budget after all. For example, she nodded to her new Escalade parked next to my 1998 Ford F-150 and lectured me that she didn't opt for the platinum package because the gold package was good enough...and she wanted to save her money for handbags.

As we finished off a bottle of Wolffer Rose, I told her I was trying to better monetize Mr. Gatsby's Chic Experiences. Could she share some of her ideas as an entrepreneur?

She told me that gouging me $25 an hour was really a loss leader for her as she lit-up a cigarette on my terrace and asked me to get her an ashtray. She made her real money through "affiliate programs" and "repackaging".

Through a very structured network, she explained that she receives distribution "royalties" from an affiliation of gardeners, pool men, handymen and caterers whom she refers to her client base. The royalties she receives from referring into the program range from ten to thirty percent in perpetuity. Additionally, she bills the client hourly for meeting service affiliates, in effect double dipping.

When she helps cater events, often she is given left over bottles of alcohol, wine and champagne that she repackages and sells through the affiliate network. Open bottles are deeply discounted while sealed bottles are sold at a 20% discount below retail. Clients can also request to purchase alocohol from her inventory which she charges at full retail, plus delivery fee. Had I asked her to pick up the case of wine from which we were drinking?

Fascinated by this sophisticated revenue model, I wanted to learn more, but had to end the conversation as I saw the electrician pulling up in a Range Rover to adjust a dimmer in my cottage. Was he waving to me or the housekeeper?

I found it strange that the electrician was so quick to respond to my request which I had submitted only a few days earlier. As he came into the garden, something in his stride told me he wasn't here to adjust the light. The housekeeper sensing my disorientation, explained that she hadn't expected me to linger so long at the cottage given this was the off season. I then realized this house was effectively hers until Memorial Day. She had invited members of the affiliate program to the cottage for a cocktail party. Could I stay? Of course, but somehow the tables seemed to have turned as I found myself serving drinks and emptying ash trays...



(Legal Disclaimer: Characters are fictionalized in this story....)

YSL's Lalanne, my 401k and Thoughts on Real Estate

620 was meant to be my lucky paddle number at the YSL auction. The paddle was assigned to me last Friday and would be my ticket to investing in the “New Economy”.

There was a private viewing of the Yves Saint Laurent collection at the Grand Palais this past weekend with much pomp and pageantry….a lot of pomp and a lot of pageantry if you catch my drift. In addition to putting themselves on display, many had come to pay respects to Saint Laurent and peek at the articles of his private life.

I had my eyes set on several pieces created by Claude and Francois-Xavier Lalanne after having seen the estimates in the Christie’s Catalogue. Given the mood in New York when I left, I was hoping these particular pieces would go towards the low end of the auction estimates. I thought this would be a great time to invest! When I need to retire, in forty years I can sell these pieces for thirty times what I paid giving me enough money to pay for astronomical insurance premiums and bad health care.

In addition to being my nest egg, my small collection of art and furniture is also something that gives me pleasure every day. As for other investments, my 401k now is worth the same amount of the actual cash contributions I made, and I quit investing in it almost ten years ago. When paper shredders first came out, I enjoyed shredding papers at my father’s office. But shredding those incomprehensible 401k statements doesn’t seem so fun anymore, well at least not as much fun as collecting art, furniture, and real estate.

John Thain, the former CEO of Merrill Lynch, must have thought similarly when he commissioned Michael Smith to decorate his then office for a reported $1.2 million. Knowing Michael’s work, I’m sure he selected wonderful antiques and rugs that have a tendency to appreciate in value. I saw Thain on the news apologizing for using Merrill’s money to decorate his office as the press badgered him for squandering Merrill’s money on furnishings when the company was generating multi-billion dollar losses. After all, the company had earned the right to decorate the CEO’s office by "earning" fees from 401k holders like me even if those fees didn’t’ make the company profitable….right?

If the “collection” Michael Smith assembled belonged to Merrill, Thain was actually investing well…investing much better than allocating more corporate funds to the toxic crap he and his cronies were hocking to other money mangers.

But Thain must be clever as a fox as they say. He said he would “make right” by offering to reimburse Merrill for the antiques and the rug in an attempt to atone for wrong doings. Might he have traded the value of his own Merrill stock “at the time the collection was assembled” so that he could take possession of those pieces? A shrewd investment indeed!

Thinking of Thain reminded me of a Merrill retail stockbroker who tried to hock me some stocks, mutual funds and term life insurance in my early twenties. I have a BS degree from the Hotel School at Cornell with a concentration in real estate and corporate finance. I had worked as consultant at Arthur Andersen, and even with this background, I wasn’t sophisticated enough to understand “whole life insurance”. I was hopeless at choosing stocks and always felt I was at least one day behind the market.

Instead, we bought a house in Los Angeles in the best area that we could afford (which felt quite expensive at the time). We paid the house down over the years instead of investing more money in a 401k or a Roth-IRA. When mortgage rates dropped a few years ago, I refinanced to a fifteen-year term at a 5 percent interest rate. Last year, we moved to Sag Harbor and now let (rent) the house in Los Angeles. If we were to moderate my lifestyle and spending habits just slightly, the income that the house in LA generates would be enough on which to live. The 401k plan doesn’t seem to offer quite the same flexibility as income producing real estate.

Other collectors attending the auction must also have had a similar investment perspective to mine as I lost out on bidding for the objects of my desire. Many of the YSL Lalanne pieces sold for more than ten times Christie’s high estimates. Such is a sign of investing in the New Economy. The buyers may have overpaid for the pieces, but unlike Madoff investors or Lehman bond holders, they have a story AND something to show for it…..

Good Intentions Gone Bad...

As I was driving through Provence in search of great villas to represent for the Travel Club, I passed by an empty farm stand, and I thought of my grandmother who lives in a small town outside Aiken, South Carolina (which itself is a small town). My grandmother loves to drive through the county from whence she hails and buy peaches and pecans. This is her form of “recreational shopping”.

I turned to my co-pilot and suggested that we find some locally grown lettuces or parsnips to offer our villa hosts. I think I made the declaration that driving leisurely through the country in search of fresh produce should be the new form or "recreational shopping", and that I intended to write about it on the Blog.

We continued on through the vineyards and fields somehow winding our way down to the beach. It was after one o’clock, and I thought we shouldn't “hunt” lettuces on empty stomachs so we ended up at Le Club Key West. The intention of "Recreational shopping" turned into the reality of "Recreational Drinking"...

Two bottles of wine and three hours later, I panicked. All the farm stands must be closed by now!

We ended up "hunting" for a parking spot at the Geant Marche, the French equivalent of a Wal-mart/King Kullen hybrid. We walked to the back of the store under fluorescent lights passing tabloids and frozen foods to pick out four bottles of wine. As we waited in line for the clerk to scan our merchandise, I thought. "So much for finding a farm stand out in the sunny countryside…"