"Greed is good."
The Ballad of “Do-Re-ME! ME! ME!”
“Radical Chic, after all, is only radical in style; in its heart it is part of society and its traditions. Politics, like Rock, Pop, and Camp, has its uses.”
—Tom Wolfe
Of course, like anyone else, I’ve got my preconceived notions. As I drive across the upper level of the George Washington Bridge, only moderately mired in late-morning traffic, the litany of stereotypes cantillate and clatter across the gray matter of my brain like the lyrics of some bad wannabe Steven Sondheim musical number: Avarice. Greed. Take whatever you need. If you’ve got it, flaunt it! Don’t worry; be happy! Just make sure that your jacket and jeans have got the right label: Member’s Only. Calvin Klein. Liz Claiborn? She’s divine. Everything is big, big, BIG! Egos. Double-digit inflation. Expense accounts. Kobe steaks and contraband Cohibas. Victoria’s Secret. Hostile takeovers. Leveraged buyouts. Monolithic shoulder pads and leviathan coke habits. Sky-high hair. No limits. No morals. No worries. Table’s waiting, right this way—get whatever you want, without delay!
“In point 5 miles, take exit 73 toward Route 67/Fort Lee/US-9W,” my GPS interjects.
“Yes, Jack,” I reply automatically.
“In point 2 miles, take the Hudson Terrace ramp toward Fort Lee…” A few minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of the Red Oak Diner*. I scan the booths and the counter. No sign of him, but I’m early.
A cheerful, faintly mustachioed hostess greets me. I am about to explain that I am meeting someone, but she precipitates me. “You are here to interview our famous friend?” she asks.
“Yes,” I tell her, involuntarily running a finger along the underside of my chin. Damn, I missed one.
The hostess hustles me along the aisle to a choice booth and motions for me to sit, which I do. “This is his table,” she says with gravitas, handing me a menu. “You want some coffee while you’re waiting?”
More than world peace, I think, but I just say, “Yes, please. Don’t bother with milk or cream.” Nodding, she bustles away. By the time a waitress returns, steaming pot in hand, he has arrived. Standing in the doorway, he strikes a pose. Even now, he can’t keep from vogueing.
He is taller than I expected, and, considering the wanton excesses of his hallowed heyday, at first glance at least, he has aged remarkably well. (And yes, for the record, he is indeed wearing a Member’s Only jacket.) His handshake is commanding, with just a hint of power play, dialed back a few well-practiced notches s from being uncomfortably firm. He slides into the booth, lifts the oversize tortoise shell Foster Grants from the bridge of his chiseled nose, and lays them on the table with a precision that speaks of long-held habit. He smiles and apologizes for being late. “This old Swatch has done me great service,” he sighs, lifting his wrist with a gesture that’s almost coy, “but I do miss my Rolex.”
I study his face: A hard yet pleasing mouth; blue eyes the depths of which seem indecipherable, and dark hair, graying in a suspiciously Grecian Formula-esque configuration. His features are a cross between an A-Team era George Peppard and Miami Vice Don Johnson, but closer inspection reveals his skin is more a George Hamilton/Ricardo Montalbán circa Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan vintage.
Perhaps his unexpected humility isn’t feigned. Considering how many pegs he’s come down in the world, it would be well earned. I am reserving judgment, however. He is, after all, the consummate player, and I have the distinct impression that I am being played. Still, it’s time to dance the dance.
“Do you mind?” I ask, laying my digital voice recorder on the table.
He picks it up, examines it, and puts it back in its place. “Wow, that’s totally awesome,” he says. “It’s so…tiny.” He pauses a beat, reflecting. “You know,” he confides, oozing conspiratorial camaraderie, “I still have my old Sony cassette player. Works like a charm.”
I nod and smile. Suddenly I’m starting to feel a bit like a Wade Boggs bobble-head doll on the dashboard of an ’87 Chevy Nova. “Is it all right if I turn this on?” I ask. “I’m a total loss at taking notes, I’m afraid.” (Which happens to be true.)
The waitress arrives and places a plate in front of him: Dry whole-wheat toast, a scoop of cottage cheese—low-fat, I’m guessing—and a small bowl of fruit salad. From the orange plastic collar on the carafe, I surmise the coffee she’s pouring him is de-caf. “The usual,” shrugs. “Doctor’s orders. Cholesterol’s through the roof. Go ahead and have whatever you want, though. They do a great breakfast here.”
Although a lox and everything bagel is tempting, the prospect of conducting an entire interview with poppy seeds lodged tragically between my teeth dissuades me from ordering. “I’ll just stick with the coffee,” I say, thumbing the DVR on. “Shall we get started?”
He nods.
“Word has it that you’re making a comeback?”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” he says with a wink.
Great. Two minutes in, and we’ve reached the winking stage. “Well, for better or worse, you do have a reputation that precedes you.”
“Should I plead the Fifth?” he grins. “Kidding. Just Kidding.”
“Some of our demographic skews pretty young,” I explain. “We’re going to need to establish some context for the members of our audience who weren’t around when you were…”
“King of the world?” he offers.
Now I’m not sure if he is, in fact, kidding. “So, is it good to be king of the world?” I ask.
“You bet your ass it is, Honey,” he says, apologizing immediately for the expletive—but not the “Honey.”
“That’s all right,” I assure him, “our audience loves ass—and tits, and pussy and cock.”
“My kind of audience,” he says.
“All right, let’s just start at the beginning and put things in perspective,” I say, trying to regain control of this tennis match. “Jimmy Carter has just been thoroughly trounced in the Presidential elections by Ronald Reagan.”
“Ronald Reagan?” he asks incredulously, his eyes bugging. “The actor?” And then in perfect Christopher Lloyd delivery: “Who’s the Vice President? Jerry Lewis?”
“All right, Professor, you got me on that one,” I concede, realizing I’ve been McFlyed. I can’t help but smile. Damned if I’m not beginning to like this guy.
“Hey,” he says, “I got an idea. Road trip!”
“Road trip?” Uh-oh….
“C’mon, let’s book,” he says, tossing a twenty on the table. One thing I’ll say for the ’80s, he’s a damn good tipper.
—Tom Wolfe
Of course, like anyone else, I’ve got my preconceived notions. As I drive across the upper level of the George Washington Bridge, only moderately mired in late-morning traffic, the litany of stereotypes cantillate and clatter across the gray matter of my brain like the lyrics of some bad wannabe Steven Sondheim musical number: Avarice. Greed. Take whatever you need. If you’ve got it, flaunt it! Don’t worry; be happy! Just make sure that your jacket and jeans have got the right label: Member’s Only. Calvin Klein. Liz Claiborn? She’s divine. Everything is big, big, BIG! Egos. Double-digit inflation. Expense accounts. Kobe steaks and contraband Cohibas. Victoria’s Secret. Hostile takeovers. Leveraged buyouts. Monolithic shoulder pads and leviathan coke habits. Sky-high hair. No limits. No morals. No worries. Table’s waiting, right this way—get whatever you want, without delay!
“In point 5 miles, take exit 73 toward Route 67/Fort Lee/US-9W,” my GPS interjects.
“Yes, Jack,” I reply automatically.
“In point 2 miles, take the Hudson Terrace ramp toward Fort Lee…” A few minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of the Red Oak Diner*. I scan the booths and the counter. No sign of him, but I’m early.
A cheerful, faintly mustachioed hostess greets me. I am about to explain that I am meeting someone, but she precipitates me. “You are here to interview our famous friend?” she asks.
“Yes,” I tell her, involuntarily running a finger along the underside of my chin. Damn, I missed one.
The hostess hustles me along the aisle to a choice booth and motions for me to sit, which I do. “This is his table,” she says with gravitas, handing me a menu. “You want some coffee while you’re waiting?”
More than world peace, I think, but I just say, “Yes, please. Don’t bother with milk or cream.” Nodding, she bustles away. By the time a waitress returns, steaming pot in hand, he has arrived. Standing in the doorway, he strikes a pose. Even now, he can’t keep from vogueing.
He is taller than I expected, and, considering the wanton excesses of his hallowed heyday, at first glance at least, he has aged remarkably well. (And yes, for the record, he is indeed wearing a Member’s Only jacket.) His handshake is commanding, with just a hint of power play, dialed back a few well-practiced notches s from being uncomfortably firm. He slides into the booth, lifts the oversize tortoise shell Foster Grants from the bridge of his chiseled nose, and lays them on the table with a precision that speaks of long-held habit. He smiles and apologizes for being late. “This old Swatch has done me great service,” he sighs, lifting his wrist with a gesture that’s almost coy, “but I do miss my Rolex.”
I study his face: A hard yet pleasing mouth; blue eyes the depths of which seem indecipherable, and dark hair, graying in a suspiciously Grecian Formula-esque configuration. His features are a cross between an A-Team era George Peppard and Miami Vice Don Johnson, but closer inspection reveals his skin is more a George Hamilton/Ricardo Montalbán circa Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan vintage.
Perhaps his unexpected humility isn’t feigned. Considering how many pegs he’s come down in the world, it would be well earned. I am reserving judgment, however. He is, after all, the consummate player, and I have the distinct impression that I am being played. Still, it’s time to dance the dance.
“Do you mind?” I ask, laying my digital voice recorder on the table.
He picks it up, examines it, and puts it back in its place. “Wow, that’s totally awesome,” he says. “It’s so…tiny.” He pauses a beat, reflecting. “You know,” he confides, oozing conspiratorial camaraderie, “I still have my old Sony cassette player. Works like a charm.”
I nod and smile. Suddenly I’m starting to feel a bit like a Wade Boggs bobble-head doll on the dashboard of an ’87 Chevy Nova. “Is it all right if I turn this on?” I ask. “I’m a total loss at taking notes, I’m afraid.” (Which happens to be true.)
The waitress arrives and places a plate in front of him: Dry whole-wheat toast, a scoop of cottage cheese—low-fat, I’m guessing—and a small bowl of fruit salad. From the orange plastic collar on the carafe, I surmise the coffee she’s pouring him is de-caf. “The usual,” shrugs. “Doctor’s orders. Cholesterol’s through the roof. Go ahead and have whatever you want, though. They do a great breakfast here.”
Although a lox and everything bagel is tempting, the prospect of conducting an entire interview with poppy seeds lodged tragically between my teeth dissuades me from ordering. “I’ll just stick with the coffee,” I say, thumbing the DVR on. “Shall we get started?”
He nods.
“Word has it that you’re making a comeback?”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” he says with a wink.
Great. Two minutes in, and we’ve reached the winking stage. “Well, for better or worse, you do have a reputation that precedes you.”
“Should I plead the Fifth?” he grins. “Kidding. Just Kidding.”
“Some of our demographic skews pretty young,” I explain. “We’re going to need to establish some context for the members of our audience who weren’t around when you were…”
“King of the world?” he offers.
Now I’m not sure if he is, in fact, kidding. “So, is it good to be king of the world?” I ask.
“You bet your ass it is, Honey,” he says, apologizing immediately for the expletive—but not the “Honey.”
“That’s all right,” I assure him, “our audience loves ass—and tits, and pussy and cock.”
“My kind of audience,” he says.
“All right, let’s just start at the beginning and put things in perspective,” I say, trying to regain control of this tennis match. “Jimmy Carter has just been thoroughly trounced in the Presidential elections by Ronald Reagan.”
“Ronald Reagan?” he asks incredulously, his eyes bugging. “The actor?” And then in perfect Christopher Lloyd delivery: “Who’s the Vice President? Jerry Lewis?”
“All right, Professor, you got me on that one,” I concede, realizing I’ve been McFlyed. I can’t help but smile. Damned if I’m not beginning to like this guy.
“Hey,” he says, “I got an idea. Road trip!”
“Road trip?” Uh-oh….
“C’mon, let’s book,” he says, tossing a twenty on the table. One thing I’ll say for the ’80s, he’s a damn good tipper.
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