1. Let Them Eat Bagels

LET THEM EAT BAGELS

BLUMERT IS SO COOL HE GETS TATTOOED

It all began with a chance meeting at the local Social Security office. Although I’m no fanatic on the matter, I scrupulously avoid such places. Not because they are the very embodiment of the welfare state, but because they smell awful. It must be the combination of aging people sitting in decaying surroundings.

I had failed to fill out some Medicare form, and my private insurer stopped paying dental bills. The only way out of the morass was to go to the Social Security office and sign the paper. That should read, go to, get in line for several hours, and only then, sign the paper.

I first noticed the gent sitting 40 degrees to my left because he appeared to be smiling at me. There was something familiar about him, but the smile I remembered contained more teeth.

“Say don’t you remember?

They called me Al.

It was Al all the time.

Why don’t you remember?

I’m your pal,

Say, buddy can you spare a dime?”

He didn’t sing that refrain from the great Gorney and Harburg, 1932, depression song, “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” recorded by Bing Crosby. But, Al did remind me that we had downed a few Coor’s 50 years earlier at an Air Force base in Colorado.

He insisted we share the afternoon and suggested the following choices:

•We can sit and watch the stock prices at Merrill Lynch and the coffee is free.

•There’s a softball game in the park and sometimes the winning team buys hot dogs for everybody.

•At 2 o’clock there’s a juicy custody case at the courthouse in Redwood City.

•We could go to the movies. Seabiscuit is playing and the afternoon rate for seniors is $4.

I signed Medicare Form 6829, and fled the scene, advising Al that I had already seen the movie and, anyway, I was late for my break-dancing lesson.

Meeting Al confirmed why any and all “Reunions” should be avoided like the plague.

I have no desire to see Greta, she of the flaming red-hair, and the first to break my heart, looking, not like her mother, but like her grandmother.

Maybe I should be at peace, mooching free coffee with my fellow codgers, or playing Bocce Ball at the Commons, but such is not my fate.

I blame Rockwell. Between LRC and the Mises Institute, I seem to be bumping into young people much of the time.

I’m not complaining, mind you. The kids that show up at Auburn for Mises University each summer are dazzlers and I don’t have to tell readers at LRC about the quality of some of our columnists who are barely pubescent.

There is no doubt our culture is obsessed with “Youth.” Women endlessly seek the elixir that will undo the years, and eventually, many succumb to the surgeon’s blade.

Now the shameless hucksters have turned upon the male. “Whiten your teeth, seed your scalp, and take this pill to restore your manhood.” Repeated often enough, messages that were once offensive become amusing and, finally, just another consumer option.

But I was caught up on the wave of youth much earlier. Brooks Brothers was of another time. I now find my clothes in the Portly department at Banana Republic. And although the hair stylists at Supercuts used to draw straws when I entered the door (the loser got me), they now enthusiastically cut my hair, all the while regarding me as an oddity.

But all this was nibbling at the edges. If I truly wanted to make the supreme sacrifice to youthful fashion, it was time to be decisive. It was time to get tattooed.

We are surrounded by tattoos. Almost every young woman I see has colorful birds, flowers, or insects permanently stenciled on every available inch of skin (not that I’m looking, mind you). Some athletes have even taken to selling their exposed skin areas to advertisers.

Surely, I could find some up-to-date, yet tasteful defacing that will mark me as “cool.” Something my wife could tolerate, but at the same time, would win approval from the crowd at Starbucks.

Finding a reputable Tattooer was next and the Yellow Pages seemed the appropriate starting point. I was attracted by the candor of one company. They called themselves “The House of Pain,” but I decided upon “The Indelible Tattoo” with their clever motto, “Our Tattoo is forever. At least through your first marriage.”

It was clear “Charles the Artist” was the owner as he carried a needle like device that was constantly buzzing even while he ate his lunch. The blood stains covering his white tee shirt were merely evidence of his commitment to his craft.

The following dialogue ensued:

Charles the Artist: “Old man, if you are looking for a rest-room, or change for a parking meter, you’re in the wrong place.”

Blumert: “I’m no tire-kicker, Buster. I’m in the market for a tattoo, and it might be more than one if the deal is right.” (Calling him Buster lets him know that I’m tough as well as cool.)

C the A: “If you must know, I figured you for a cop from Weights and Measures checking on the purity of our vegetable dyes, but you sound OK, old man. I promise not to use the blunt needle.”

Blumert: “I’m feeling more confident by the moment. What do you recommend? What’s cool?”

C the A: “You want something smart, but not pretentious. Colorful, but not loud. A tattoo you’ll be comfortable with during the day, or for evenings.”

Blumert: Well, maybe something a bit more masculine. I don’t want anyone to think I’m gay, you know a ho—, uh, one of those—”

C the A: “Say it, old man, you mean faggot.”

Blumert: “I didn’t say that, you did. Why, some of my best—”

C the A: “Forget it, nobody could ever mistake you for one of—them.”

“Let me tell you about our Special for September. It’s a barbed-wire arm bracelet in light purple and you get your ears pierced free. The bracelet is our best seller. It’s from the Alan Iverson Collection.”

Blumert: “Maybe something less contemporary. Something classical.”

C the A: “Well, let’s look at my ‘golden oldies’ file. Let’s see: WWII, Korean War, Vietnam, the 60’s. Anything strike you yet?”

Blumert: I was in the Air Force during the Korean thing, but I try to forget all of that.”

C the A: “Tell you what, I have something perfect for you. As you walked through the door, YOUR tattoo flashed in my mind. Let the artist prevail. Let me pick your tattoo. You’ll not be sorry.”

Blumert: “I respect the artist in you and you can go ahead, as long as I get my senior discount,”

C the A: “Please remove your shirt, old man.”

Epilogue: Blumert is having his tattoo surgically removed next Thursday. He has been silent about the design, but, knowing Blumert, he will be blabbing about it as soon as he heals.

September 1, 2003

BLUMERT SURVIVES SHOPPING AT THE MALL

Maybe it’s because they were brought up as slaves to changing fashions. Whatever the reason, women don’t have the proper respect for tradition and the institutions which render service to those traditions. Take my wife, for example,

“Look, Blumert, Thom McAn Shoe stores don’t exist anymore. They’re history. The one that was on Market Street in San Francisco probably closed during the Johnson administration.”

I was going to make some crack about President Andrew Johnson being impeached in 1868, but, she wouldn’t have laughed.

Instead, I pointed out that, “If the US Government had shown some spunk there’d still be an American shoe industry and a Thom McAn’s store. All the jobs went to Tibet, I think. Pat Buchanan wrote all about it.”

“I know you were fond of those $13 loafers Thom McAn sold, but let’s go to the Mall and we’ll find you something just as nice.”

Going to the Mall is her solution to every problem.

It had been a while since I’d been to the Mall and I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to death with my observations.

It took only moments to realize that there were more cars parked than there were people shopping. This suggests that many of the vehicles were abandoned.

I scratched a note on my shirt cuff to do an LRC article on the mystery of abandoned cars at the shopping Mall.

Well, there was one vehicle that wasn’t abandoned; while snooping about, I inadvertently peered into a 1963 Chevy Station Wagon and startled a family of 6 having their dinner.

The back seat, which served as a bed for the children, had been converted to a dining table. (Their main course was Beef Wellington with wild rice and mushrooms) I was invited to join them, and later, while munching a zero carb sandwich at Subway, I regretted having declined.

You won’t be surprised to learn that the “Handicapped” have more of the choice parking slots than ever before. I have NEVER, EVER seen a single car parked in one of those Handicapped slots. That record remains intact.

It’s time for some class action litigation. Look, my handicaps are just as important as anybody else’s. What arrogant legislator or jurist gave them the cushy parking slots?

I look forward to giving testimony at the trial,

“Your honor, overeating is MY handicap. Every time I pass a “Handicap” parking slot I am forbidden to use, I get frustrated, and hungry, which leads to more overeating. Save me from that vicious circle and grant me a Handicap Parking Permit.”

Whatever YOUR handicap, join me in this class action. (Sorry, a golf handicap is not applicable.)

The most significant change I observed at the Mall was that the folks manning the aisles and the computers were no longer “sales people.” Salesmanship is dead. For purposes of this report they shall be known as “clerks”.

Let’s quickly dispense with the statistics:

•37 percent of the clerks do not speak English.

•29 percent of the clerks have English as their second language.

•100 percent of the remaining 34 percent speak English, but hate the customers.

(margin of error for this poll, 3–4 percent).

In such an environment, it’s no surprise that I didn’t find anything like those old Thom McAn loafers. (Tomorrow, I’ll look for them on eBay.)

I must admit that I was drawn to an astonishing Nike shoe that had lights and could be inflated by pressing a button.

The young clerk with the shaved head said they were a bargain at $285. He was unimpressed when I told him I paid less for my first family car (a 1957 Ford).

Now that my loafers were forgotten, I became a barely tolerated presence. Tolerated only if I stayed out of the way and spoke only when spoken to.

It was as though I had a Visitor’s Day Pass in an enclave meant for Females Only.

Teenage girls were the dominant population. They giggled and raced from one store to the next, understanding every protocol. After all, they were in training, in transit to the lofty status of “Superior Shopper” that every woman achieves.

I was lost in such thoughts when my wife rattled me out of my torpor with a deadly question,

“Which dress (substitute, shoes, purse,) looks better on me, the red or the blue?”

There are a series of dreaded questions every man learns to fear:

“Do you think I’m looking fat? (“Truth MUST be avoided when dealing with this question.”)

“Do you like this hair style? (If she’s crying hysterically, the answer is, “No!”)

“Does she look younger and prettier than I do? (The more beautiful the woman in question, the more vehement your, “No!”)

Finally, back home to the safety of my Lazy Boy Recliner, I realized what a close call I had survived at The Mall.

I won’t be going back there again soon.

July 2, 2004

WELCOME TO THE WRETCHED SKIES

The passengers carried the captain and crew on their shoulders cheering and popping bottles of cheap champagne as they disembarked the plane. They were followed by grim-faced stretcher-bearers rushing away the wounded.

The clean-up crew, wearing gas masks, prepared to board the aircraft and clear the debris. When they were done, our exhausted group of passengers for Flight 666 was finally ready to board.

This flight did not look promising.

Bad things had begun earlier in the terminal when I was “randomly selected” for special security clearance.

Blumert: “Why do you guys always pick on me? You see that I’m too old for this terrorism business. My bomb-throwing days are well behind me.”

(The mere mention of the word “bomb” triggered sirens and the release of snarling German shepherds. They would have surely eaten me, but someone decided I was more valuable alive.)

Turban Wearing Agent (TWA): “To paraphrase George W., either you’re with us, or you’re with them. Which is it?”

Blumert: “Can I have my shoes, please? My feet are getting cold and the last time I caught Athlete’s Foot from your filthy floors. Are you finally done with me?”

TWA: “Yes, but you will be on probation for the next sixty days.

You will report to the FreeRepublic website every fortnight and I advise that you give up eating halvah. It may be delicious, but it’s un-American.

Finally, it would be wise if you forgot about wearing that ridiculous Lawrence of Arabia costume you exhibit every Halloween.

Find an American costume in which to do your ‘trick or treating’.”

Blumert: “All right already. This year I’ll go as George Patton.”

Back at Gate 12, we passengers of Flight 666 fought our way onto the plane. I thought my luck had changed as I plopped into an unoccupied window seat.

How could I know that I was soon to be in charge of the Emergency Exit?

The Captain, swore me in using a King James version of the Bible, gave me a forty-eight-page pamphlet outlining my duties, and then strapped a slightly used WWII parachute onto my back.

“You’re in charge of that Emergency Exit Door, Blumert,” said the Captain. “You’ve never once shown up for Jury Duty when called. Well, here’s another opportunity for you to serve.”

I could feel the glaring eyes of my fellow passengers. I was determined to win their respect.

Things brightened when the Flight Attendants started to serve lunch. This time, I would beat the system. “Order a kosher lunch,” the travel experts recommended. “You won’t get the same tired fare,” they said.

Well, I got the same tired ham and cheese sandwich as everybody else, only mine was in a wrapper with Golda Meir’s picture on it.

The fellow next to me had ordered vegetarian. His ham and cheese sandwich wrapper had a picture of a cauliflower.

We all munched in silence.

The reality of air travel these days is hardly less absurd than the above.

Southwest and America West may be the only money-making airlines in the nation. In fact, they may soon be the ONLY airlines in the nation.

Just as Kaiser Permanente became the model for today’s HMOs in providing minimal levels of medical care, so Southwest and Jet Blue have established standards (or should I say sub-standards) to the misery of the air travel consumer.

Southwest ticket holders are given Boarding Passes, but no assigned seats. This is part of the “success” of Southwest. Get those seats filled. No frills, no comfort.

There are three categories of Boarding Passes, A, B, and C. Which you get depends on how early you arrived at the ticket counter. A’s board first and so on.

Getting on board early means a place for your bag in the compartment above your seat. Getting on board early means avoiding the middle seat between two three-hundred-pound garlic eaters.

The flight would only last an hour and twenty minutes, but I waited almost that long to protect my “turf” in line B.

There is a democratic aspect to current and future air travel. Everybody is in steerage.

The fear that kept people from flying after 9/11 appears to have vanished. The terminals are jammed with travelers. They seem numb, surly if approached, but they’re not afraid. At the airport, even fear has been stamped out.

Going through Security used to engender outrage and archives filled with horror stories. A genre of gallows humor developed and we laughed while we shared our humiliations at the hands of the security buffoons.

“I can top that,” said the office comedian. “I had to explain why I wasn’t wearing underwear and the security clerk hardly spoke English,” he recounted, to roars of laughter.

Maybe it’s since the feds took over the job, but there’s an attitude at Security which says, “there is nothing humorous going on here.”

Say the magic “woid” and you’ll wind up in jail. Try, “box cutter,” or “9/11,” or, “I remember a time when you just walked to the gate and boarded the plane, without being set upon by bozos.”

There’s no illusion that anybody is safer for “their efforts.” The purpose is to compress the passenger into a silent, obedient and docile lump.

“Since our flight is two hours from now, let’s have some lunch,” my wife suggested, recognizing my blackening mood. “Look,” she said, “All the fast food restaurants are here now.”

She was right. They were all there: Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried, even Nathan’s Hot dogs from New York. I don’t remember airports having all the national fast food chains on site.

I’m not a big fan of these great American dining institutions, but, they are predictable in what they deliver.

Not at the airport! Their prices were higher than in the outside world and the food was markedly inferior.

“Blumert, you’re on the brink of some conspiracy theory,” she said, pretending that her slice of pizza was edible.

I made it sound as if I had some facts when I told her, “Look, almost all fast food places are operated by franchisers, small business men who try their best to provide a decent product. Who knows who is running these dumps at the airport?”

Maybe I guessed right.

I wanted to tell you about what happened at the Car Rental place in Phoenix, but the Judge said we can’t discuss the case until after the trial.

I can tell you that I had ordered a luxury car and they delivered the winning vehicle from a Demolition Derby.

They’re not getting away with it.

October 28, 2004

COFFEE, TEA, OR ME IN YOUR AGONY?

Afriend, beer in hand, complained. “For the past twenty years you’ve predicted the collapse of real estate values, the stock markets, and the entire political apparatus. I’m fed up with your gloom-and-doom view of the world.”

“True,” I responded meekly, “but you must admit it’s all twenty years closer now than when I first started to tell you.”

My critical friend misses the point. We are swept along by a whirlwind of technology that brings change by the minute. It is a revolution brought to us by young innovators in the great American tradition. Simultaneously, we endure a loss of quality in the everyday aspects of life. In spite of assurances from government officials and social engineers, things are not always better than they used to be.

The last time I took an international flight was six or seven years ago, and when I recently booked an overseas trip it was with some trepidation. Does the consumer get more for his airfare dollars today than he did in, say, 1965? No, and the evidence is overwhelming.

Like every passenger destined for steerage, there is the knowledge that conditions are better on the other side of the curtain. I did not have bonus miles nor time and energy to search out a “deal.” If I wanted a better seat I’d have to buy it. The price of a roundtrip San Francisco-London business class ticket was $3,500. I decided to suffer in economy, and suffer I did.

Thirty-five years ago a nonstop flight from San Francisco to London took approximately eleven hours. Today it remains eleven hours, but everything else is worse.

Today’s “airbus” is austere, devoid of anything soft or comfortable. In fact, the interior seems designed to be cleaned between flights with a high-powered water hose.

Back in ‘65 an economy airline seat was fashioned for the average American male provided he was 4’11” and weighed less than 120 pounds. Seat #32F on my recent Swissair flight to London was configured for the backside of a marathon runner or a Tour de France cyclist.

As passenger space shrinks, one becomes territorial. My left arm-rest was shared with a gentleman from Cambodia, and for much of the flight we maneuvered for possession. At one point violence appeared likely, but western guile proved superior to Eastern mysticism and I prevailed for more than 50 percent of the time.

On the face of it, prices compared with years ago may appear at bargain levels, but many of today’s passengers are “on the house.” They are recipients of mileage plus coupons. Upgrades, airline employees, their friends and family fill the bulk of the seats, often the choice ones up front. Someone has to pay the bills, and it’s the poor bloke who doesn’t have coupons or sufficient advance time who is the victim and pays through the nose.

An airport has been defined as a construction site where they land planes. That’s always been true, but it’s worse than ever today. Many overseas travelers will relate that their worst frustration involves getting in and around the airports. Delays plague almost every commercial carrier. Add to that the cumbersome and often unnecessary security measures bugging the traveler, which add hours to a scheduled flight.

In the old days they were called stewardesses, all single, husband-hunting attractive young women clearly on site to please the predominantly male clientele. Aka flight attendants, today they are more like matrons in a women’s prison whose sole purpose is to herd the sheeple into compliance.

No, I have not forgotten airline food. Not only was what they served inedible, it was unidentifiable. My Swissair flight was under the auspices of Delta Airlines. The net result was that the Swiss have adopted Delta’s menu and efficiency while Delta now exhibits Swiss charm and graciousness.

By hour six I was so degraded that a bag of peanuts seemed essential to my survival. Spirits rose as one of the prison guards appeared with a heavy cart filled with bags of peanuts lurching down the narrow aisle. An eighty-year-old woman headed for the lav had to dive to avoid being crushed by the deadly object. The rest of us were relieved. Had she been squashed, we might have been peanutless.

Needless to say, the passenger’s mood darkens with each passing hour. I was unable to shake the notion that the air I was breathing had been filtered for everything but seven deadly viruses, and that we were on the radar screen of the missile-launching ships attached to the Seventh Fleet on maneuvers below.

The final hour of the ordeal becomes almost manageable. Survival seems assured and freedom imminent. For me, it meant I was an hour away from a steaming cup of strong English coffee, a package of Frothman’s Biscuits, and the morning Telegraph.

The landing was bumpy, and on shaky legs we quickly cleared customs. In celebration, I rushed to get my coffee, biscuits, and Telegraph, quickly found a space at a long common table, and life seemed worth living again. I removed the wrappings from the Frothman’s package, selected one, and was not disappointed. They were as delicious as I remembered.

Then my eye was distracted by the strangest occurrence. Seated across from me was a middle-aged gent wearing a bowler hat and certainly a denizen of Lombard Street in the old City.

He was taking one of my biscuits. He did it brazenly and deftly. I tried to dismiss what I had seen.

While consuming my second biscuit, I must admit, my focus was no longer drawn to the Telegraph but on my bowlered neighbor.

He seemed absorbed in his newspaper (the Guardian), and managed to extract the fourth biscuit in the package, his second. In New York or San Francisco, I might have fled the scene or summoned the police. But this was London.

We proceeded to complete the package of six biscuits, each in turn, without ever making eye contact. In a flash, he was gone, and I was left to consider the experience. I shrugged and concluded that even lunatics can wear bowler hats.

I crushed my empty coffee container and folded my newspaper in preparation to take leave. Covered by a section of the newspaper but now exposed was my unopened package of Frothman’s biscuits.

Who knows? If the bowlered bloke has an Internet pal equivalent to LewRockwell.com, he may be relating his incredible encounter with a crazed American.

My short tour of London, Berlin, and Rome resulted in the same culture shock as always. A driver in Rome summed up a view that we encountered throughout our brief visit.

“You Americans are okay, but you don’t have any culture.”

He was wrong. His real complaint was that by comparison America has no history. We do have a culture, but it has fallen precipitously.

Now let me tell you about my return flight home . . .

July 28, 2000

REVISITING THE FRIENDLY SKIES

It was like a WWII newsreel: the endless line of defeated people pushing their baggage, inching toward the inevitable checkpoint.

“Achtung! Achtung!” blared the sound system at peak volume. “Do not leave your baggage unattended. It will be confiscated and destroyed.”

The smell of fear was pervasive.

“How long have you been in line?” I asked the weary gent who looked as though he might have slept in his clothes.

“I started my trip two days ago at the Bakersfield airport and last night I slept in my clothes,” he said.

Our attention was suddenly drawn to a ruckus at the front of the line. Two uniformed men were struggling to remove a flowered hat from a little old lady’s head.

“They are looking for her hat pin,” someone whispered. “A hat pin can be a lethal weapon.”

“Remember, hat pins don’t kill. People kill,” I smugly countered.

That remark obviously earned respect as everyone in the line stayed clear of me from that point on.

Finally, two hours and ten minutes later it was my turn at the security checkpoint.

“You’re tickling me,” I giggled as the electronic wand probed from one sensitive area to another.

The young security agent seemed like an animal trainer putting her charges through their paces.

“I hope you’re in good health,” she said. “Earlier today I short circuited an old dude’s pacemaker.”

“Good Lord!” I stammered. “What happened to him?”

“Well, after a few scary moments we finally revived him. It was nice that they gave him a free upgrade to first class.”

Exhausted, those passengers who survive the security checkpoint enter the peaceful, serene world of the corridors leading to the gates.

It was a San Francisco International Airport never seen before. The few passengers seemed dazed and just going through the motions.

The one dramatic change was the attitude of all airport personnel: from the restroom porter to the counter ticket agents to the food servers to the flight crew. All were beaming, polite and conversational. It’s as if they were atoning for years of cruelty and indifference toward the passenger.

The change is so dramatic that the passenger is bewildered. He is actually being treated like—what’s the word?—like a customer.

The passengers on my Delta Airlines Flight 217 were collecting up near the gate. Now that racial profiling is allowable once again—and all government preferential programs have been set aside for the duration of the war—I can comfortably analyze, without fear, the racial, religious, national origin, age, and political persuasion of each traveler.

Here are some partial results of my survey of the 65 passengers: 37 were white, Christian males (easily identified by the vacant look in their eyes). Thirty-two of this group were married (the vacant look had become resignation).

There was one copper-colored woman who upon eye contact said to me: “I am not a Moslem, I’m a Hindu, and although I’m not a political person, I never was too crazy about Moslems. I happily join you, my Christian cousins, in smashing these unworthy Islamic savages.” She ended by humming several bars of “America the Beautiful” and proceeded on to her next eye contact.

The only other non-whites were two young black men magnificently attired in business suits. The other passengers were puzzled why they dribbled basketballs wherever they went, even to the lavs.

One dribbled so poorly I challenged him “one-on one” and easily stole the ball.

“I hate this game,” he admitted. “I just want everyone to know I’m an American Black and that I’m cool.”

Leroy was as nice a lad as you can find.

“In the late 1980s I changed my name to Mustafa Mohammed, but I recently changed it back to Leroy Johnson. Please don’t let on that you beat me ‘one-on-one’.”

Leroy’s secret was safe with me.

According to any statistical survey, there should have been 2.7 Jews on board the flight. There weren’t even any folks that were borderline, and it finally occurred to me, this was Yom Kippur. A serious day. The highest of holy days for the Jews. They don’t play basketball, and they certainly don’t travel.

Even famous baseball player Sandy Koufax needed rabbinical dispensation to pitch in the World Series against the Yankees on Yom Kippur.

I must admit I began to experience personal guilt at traveling on the Jewish holy day, but it was Lew Rockwell who requested that I come to Auburn, and that comes close to rabbinical dispensation. Well, doesn’t it?

An hour or so into the flight food odors wafted from the rear of the Boeing 767 through the front cabins.

Was it possible that this new accommodating attitude toward the passenger would mean a superb dining experience at 35,000 feet?

In recent years, airline food disintegrated from being inedible to being unidentifiable. As the passengers started up their meal there was some rumbling.

“My spoon won’t penetrate the jello,” complained one woman.

“My knife just snapped in two when I tried to cut the butter,” added another.

We all knew the truth: the plastic utensils were fashioned so thin and lightweight that they never could be used as weapons.

I respectfully suggest to future travelers that they add to their travel kits a pair of wooden chopsticks, but be certain they have dull ends.

I write this piece from a windowless room in the bowels beneath the Atlanta airport. They have taken my papers—and I am scheduled to be interrogated by the assistant airport commandant.

The humiliation doesn’t matter as long as I know my flight home will be safe.

October 4, 2001

LAUGHING ALL THE WAY TO THE GALLOWS AND THE POORHOUSE

EXCHANGE OF EMAILS

From: Rockwell, Editor, LRC

To: Blumert, Former LRC satirist

Where is the funny article you promised about all the bursting bubbles in San Francisco?

From: Blumert

To: Rockwell

Well, I’ve accumulated a few one-liners like: Did you hear about the former dotcom billionaire who begs in downtown Mountain View with a sign that reads, “I Work For Gigabytes”?

Or, when I called the movie theatre to find out when the feature started, the voice asked, “What time would you like to get here, sir?”

Or, things are so bad in California that my bank returned a check stamped “Insufficient Funds. Us not you.”

I realize this is some of my funniest material ever, Lew, but don’t you think it’s tasteless (this, even more than usual) to jest about people’s suffering, particularly with a bloody war on prime time TV as a backdrop?

From: Rockwell

To: Blumert

If we are supposed to laugh all the way to the gallows, we can certainly laugh all the way to the poorhouse.

In deference to my editor, note the title of this piece.

All we needed in San Francisco is a war. As if the economy wasn’t disastrous enough. Tourism, the number one industry, is a vague memory to most. Cab drivers and hotel doormen are plundering one another just to stay in practice.

Things are so bad for the fast-food restaurants that they even rolled out the red carpet for the antiwar demonstrators and the National Guardsmen who came to town last week.

The antiwar event was hardly mentioned in the media, but police admitted that the crowd was the largest in San Francisco in thirty years. The anti-war kids looked pretty much like their Vietnam War ancestors, and like those ancestors are totally sound on war, but illiterate when it comes to economics.

As for the Guardsmen, I had the impression they were in town to earn their Crowd-Suppression Merit Badges.

To McDonald’s and other one star restaurants, these visitors were as hungry as regular tourists, although not quite as fashionable.

McDonald’s was quick to put several new specials on the griddle:

“The Dissent Burger”—Half-price in case you’re arrested in the middle of eating it.

“The Iraq Burger”—The usual pickle, onion, and special dressing on a poppy seed bun, all covered with a layer of sand.

Just as San Francisco prospered more than other American cities during the “Nostalgic 90s,” it now sinks into an even more profound despair. If there’s “a broken-heart for every light on Broadway,” there has to be a “shattered mother-board for every cybernik in Silicon Valley.” (I haven’t the foggiest idea of the meaning of what I just said.)

I must admit the pervasive gloom hanging over Northern California is almost too much, even for a hardened gold dealer. Our own Jeff Tucker helped me through it all: His guidance in reminding that the collapse of “bubbles” built on excess, corruption and loss of values should be celebrated.

Here follows some of my notes while searching out those bursting bubbles requested by my editor.

As a suburbanite I don’t get to San Francisco often, but last month I made the trip and decided to dine at my favorite restaurant, Stars. In the old days, you had to reserve months in advance, but with things so quiet in the City now, surely I might be able to squeeze in at the counter.

I drove up to the valet, advising the young attendant that we had no reservation and that he could have the car if he thought we would be served.

Puzzled, he turned to his associate: (The following is a translation from the Spanish):

First attendant: Can you believe this gringo asking for a reservation? He must be from another planet. Should I tell him that you haven’t needed a reservation in any restaurant in town for over three years?

Second attendant: What do you expect from someone driving a Saturn?

After exacting a pledge that he would not scratch our 4-wheeled beauty, my wife and I entered the restaurant and there was not one other customer. Not one!

The food was OK, but it was like the final meal before an execution. At one point, I slurped my soup and the sound bounced from wall to wall, resonating for a full 30 seconds.

Stars closed for good last month. We may have been one of the last to pay final respects.

The landlord at my office building is a gentle fellow from Taiwan, and I was surprised to receive a luncheon invitation from him. It was clear he had important matters on his mind.

We dined at his favorite restaurant, the Tokyo House. (Dennis is proud to demonstrate that he has overcome the prejudices of his ancestors.) After we finished the last of the sliced, dead, cold fish, he announced the purpose of our meeting.

Landlord: Mr. B, he calls me. (He can’t say Blumert; it comes out “Bwumert”.) Your lease is up for renewal in a few months and I have a pleasant surprise. I’m building you a sauna and a wet bar. Also, my wife will be bringing tea everyday at 3 o’clock and one of the building’s elevators will be for your use only.

Blumert: Dennis, that’s all very nice, but you don’t have to do all that.

I’m not about to move. And I’m happy to renew.

When I signed the new lease, Dennis hosted a party that lasted 4 days and the ambassador from Taiwan presented me with honorary citizenship to that energetic little country.

(Dennis owns several office buildings and they are 70 percent vacant.)

When I got home that night I remembered having saved a transcript from my last lease negotiations with him. Things were very different in those days.

Dotcommers were renting every available foot of office space in return for stock in their companies. Everybody was getting richer by the minute. Old-fashioned businesses, like mine, were not the most desirable tenants.

TRANSCRIPT OF LEASE NEGOTIATIONS 1999

(He had me wait for 2 hours in a room with no windows.)

Landlord: Bwumert, you have ten minutes to convince me to renew your lease with only a 50-percent increase in rent.

Blumert: Dennis, I’ve been a loyal tenant for 15 years. Frankly, I don’t even understand this new lease. For example, why are clauses 7-11 in Chinese?

And you can’t be serious in Par. 1: “All building tenants must attend daily Tai Chi exercises at 7 a.m. in the building parking lot”?

Well, I guess I can live with everything, Dennis, but I draw the line at changing our name from Camino Coin to Chiang Kaishek Coin Company.

If there’s a plus to San Francisco’s economic woes, it’s that all those traffic jams are a memory. You can now drive from San Francisco to San Jose without even slowing down. Unfortunately, the price of a gallon of gas in the Bay Area is $2.60. I find myself looking at the fuel indicator as I drive along.

Which reminds me of my very first date: It was the Junior Prom and I picked her up in a taxi. (Limos were reserved for funerals in those days.) As we were driving along, the pretty young thing asked me what the time was. Clearly distracted, with eyes glued to the taxi-meter, I responded, “It’s $1.25.”

March 29, 2003

LET THEM EAT BAGELS

Congratulations to Nancy Keates and the Wall Street Journal for “Mail-Order Bagels Gain Popularity With New York On Minds of Many.” Ms. Keates provides the valuable results of a “taste-test” among New York City’s five leading bagel producers. But, more important, this is an exposé confirming the nationwide epidemic of phony bagels.

In a way, the loss of quality of the bagel is a metaphor for our national loss of value and purpose.

We have sunk so low that there are some Americans who actually prefer something as profane as a raisin bagel. (I will not even mention our esteemed editor’s name, and besides, that was in his pre-anti-carbohydrate days.)

As usual, however, the Wall Street Journal conceals the real issue. By concentrating on the perversion of mass-produced, frozen bagels, the warmongering daily diverts attention from a cabal that has existed for almost 100 years.

Focus the debate on the bagel. Does today’s bagel measure up to the standards of the last century? Is it possible to export the art of bagel baking beyond the confines of NYC? Finally—setting aside the raisin bagel—should those who promote such bastardizations as “blueberry,” “hot-pepper,” and “sun-dried tomato” bagels be shot?

Folks, let me reveal the truth: it’s a scam. Keep the goyim busy with the bagel debate. Let them conduct contests and have the winning formula taken over by Sara Lee. Keep them distracted to make sure they never discover the real “manna from above,” the Bialy.

I can say with certainty that no genuine bialy has ever been baked outside the Boroughs. Even Jews outside NYC know nothing of the bialy.

Mysteriously, there is something in the bialy that causes its total erasure from the memory banks if you allow 18 months to pass without eating one. This explains why even ex-New York Jews look blank when the bialy is mentioned.

By secret agreement, Jewish comedians pledge never to joke about the bialy. Waiters are quick to discourage any out-oftowner in NYC who might inadvertently select a bialy. “Eat the bagel—it’s better.”

In NYC, a small group of gentiles knows the truth. It is rumored that they have undergone some mysterious conversion—more rigorous than ultra-orthodox-that allows them access to the bialy.

Note: If you call one of the five NYC leading bagel vendors listed in the WSJ article, and make an effort to order bialys, your chances are “iffy.” I am convinced there is a secret password, but I am no help. I’ve been away too long.

November 19, 2001

BAGELS AND GAS MASKS

Being an ex-New Yorker is worse than being an ex-Marine. You’re branded for life. Diction lessons, joining the Southern League, and marrying a girl from Idaho can camouflage the beast and it may lay dormant in the chest cavity for decades like the “Alien” in that scary movie.

But, it’s only a matter of time, when, due to stress or elevated blood-alcohol levels, the brash, “know it all” Nooo Yawker worms its way out for all to see. It’s not a pretty sight, but those who witness the event are invariably discreet (they are never New Yorkers), and the incident passes without mention.

However successful the ex-New Yorker might be in burying those roots, there remains a compelling need to stay connected with the “Rancid Apple.” It’s a form of masochism, I suppose, and remains unexplainable.

For many years the weekly Village Voice magnificently covered New York City’s internal struggles and more than satisfied my need for linkage. Although, I despised every position the rag represented, I couldn’t wait for the next edition. People like Alexander Cockburn, James Ridgeway, and Joe Conason often drove me crazy, but they were outstanding writers often critical of US foreign policy.

Unfortunately, “The Voice” became consumed with the plight of the under-classes. The paper was mired in a style more suited to the 1960s and what once passed for irreverence became tiresome. When some of their best writers moved on, “The Voice” lost its cutting edge and it was time for me to find a better link.

New York magazine panders to the prosperous and sophisticated Gothamite. Rather than bleating about police brutality in Brooklyn like “The Voice,” New York readers are more interested in locating the best bagel in town, or learning which Park Avenue surgeon performs the ultimate in face-lifts.

New York kept me plugged in to “hot” restaurants I would never visit and supreme live theatre a non- or ex-New Yorker can only see taped on the “Bravo” channel.

It’s not that I’m embarrassed about subscribing to New York magazine, but having it mailed in an unmarked brown envelope is simply exercising prudence. My postman once questioned my sexuality when I received a sample copy of Architectural Digest. (I’ll save for another time the neighborhood’s reaction to my “Buchanan For President” lawn sign.)

Ok, you’ve got the message and can see why there’s not much to say about New York magazine. It’s slick, the writing is first-rate, and it’s a good place to visit if you want to know the prevailing neocon views. But things have changed at the magazine.

Last year’s horrible events have smothered the confident swagger at New York magazine, but, I was not prepared for the August 12th edition. The front cover is usually reserved for photos of the beautiful people playing in The Hamptons, or celebrating the opening of a new bistro in the SoHo. Not this time.

The large box in the center of the front cover announces the lead story: “THE SURVIVALIST’S GUIDE TO LIVING WITH TERRORISM.”

The box is surrounded with photographs of a gas mask, a solar-powered/wind-up radio, a radiation meter, and other essentials like “Radiation Blocking Tablets.”

It was like reading an upscale version of Soldier of Fortune magazine.

The reader is asked, “Should you plan for the unthinkable?” It continues, “Some call it paranoia. Others call it preparedness.”

Although the article seriously deals with some subjects like the vulnerability of the water supply and what to do if exposed to a “dirty-bomb,” the overall tone seems like cocktail party chatter.

Finally, the article details their recommended “72-Hour Survival Kit.” It contains, the gas mask ($170—children’s mask $200), the radio ($95), Katayn water filters ($200 ea.), and dozens of other items totaling about $5,500.

It wouldn’t be a New York magazine article if they did not ask, “Want to rough it in style?” Among the items in their Deluxe Survival Kit are; a HOPE (High office parachute escape—$899), and a Sea Eagle 14SR sport boat—for evacuation by the Hudson or East River—($3,200).

As an expert on the subject of Survival Kits (see Blumert’s credentials below), I suggest that the following items be added to the New York list.

1.A white flag to surrender;

2.An English/Arabic dictionary;

3.An English/Hebrew dictionary;

4.A letter from a Rabbi complimenting the bearer for his good works;

5.A letter from a Mullah complimenting the bearer for his good works;

6.A poison pill should the quality of life in Manhattan plummet and become unbearable (e.g., the good restaurants are all over-booked).

MAY 28, 2002