Tom Watson

No Lipstick on Lehman's Pig

We may not be yet headed toward a world made by hand - to borrow the title, if not the mood of James Kunstler's dark cinematic novel of our post-energy future - but we may be headed toward a New York without its economic engine. Tonight, Lehman Brothers and its 158 years of Wall Street history teeter on the edge of oblivion, with no bail-out on offer from you and me, the humble taxpayer. Merrill Lynch is in talks with Bank of America to save itself. We - that's you and me, dear reader - have guaranteed the mortgage-backed security nest of vipers at Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae in order to "save" that market. Insurance giant AIG edges toward the edge. The dollar's in the crapper, thanks to Republican policy protecting companies who make beau coup bucks by selling American-made on the cheap. And the polls now favor that failed political party and its former opposition leader, now comfy in the arms of both the K Street lobbyists who sold the economy down the river - and the flunky neocons who send other people's children to die in a failed experiment. Yeah, I don't know what the Bush Doctrine is either, except what I've heard on Fox. But when those thousands of six - and yes, seven-figure jobs - leave New York never to return in the lifetimes of those holding the pink slips and carrying cardboard boxes, it means the pork barrel of Federal emergency aid is empty. And there ain't puttin' no lipstick on that pig.

Ticonderoga's Choke Point

Ticonderoga, originally uploaded by Tom Watson.

Fort Ticonderoga commands the west side of the lower end of Lake Champlain, its cannon covering both the approach from Canada and the St. Lawrence the north to the southern end of the lake - and the critical portage to the top of Lake George, only a mile or so to the east. In 18th century terms, it was a crucial valve in the plumbing that conducted men and material through the resource-laden wilderness between Albany and Quebec. During the French & Indian War, it was the site of a particularly brutal little battle that the French - builders of the fort - won over the British; their victory was, however, short-lived. The English eventually won control over the areas to the north and west of Albany thanks to an influx of troops and superior American officers, from the young George Washington to the trackers and guides immortalized by James Fenimore Cooper several generations later.

Surrendered to Benedict Arnold and Ethan Allen during the early Revolution and its cannon hauled by boat down Lake George and overland along the basic route of the Mass Turnpike to Boston - there to assist Washington in hurling the British from Boston - the fort was a picturesque wreck by the first years of the Republic; Jefferson and Madison, touring upstate New York, strolled its romantic ruins and marveled at the lakes. Rebuilt a hundred years ago - and in stages ever since - Ticonderoga today is the gem of New York's colonial historic sites, perfectly genuine at its stony base and brilliantly simple in its presentation. There is no gaudy visitors center, no audio visuals, no sense of the precious.

Yet, as we read this week in the Times, it's a financial wreck - a ruin of philanthropic ambition and management, and is considering selling its art collection or closing for a year. We visited Ticonderoga - my third visit, my children's second - last week on the way home from Lake George, and spend an hour wandering the battlements and peering at the collection of arms and other archeological wonders in the simple galleries housed in reconstructed barracks. It remains a wild and beautiful spot, its bloody history aside, and the views across the farmlands and up toward Mount Defiance (where the British mule-hauled cannon to eventually force Ticonderoga's surrender from the rebels) are singularly beautiful. Moreover, they tell almost the complete story of New York's importance to the new United States - sitting astride one of the great inland trade routes linking Canada with Albany and the Mohawk, New York and the Hudson.

The Times story quoted Cliff Siegfried, director of the New York State Museum and the State Department of Education’s assistant commissioner for museums, who hinted at state support to save Ticonderoga (run now by a private foundation) from closing.

“Its importance to the economy of that region and the history of New York is obvious,” Siegfried said. “We’re going to work with them to make sure that it doesn’t fail. This is a hiccup in its history.”

I hope so. But I also wonder why this country doesn't have equivalent of the UK's excellent National Trust, some sort of national repository charged with preserving history and heritage; too many important sites are maintained as roadside attractions - or rich people's playthings.

Empire Statehood

Sometimes, you can tell a lot about a guy by his sense of humor - or lack thereof. The incoming Governor of New York, young David Patterson of Harlem, the first African-American to serve in the chair of Clinton and Jay, Hughes and Roosevelt, Smith and FDR, Rockefeller and Carey had the line of the day when asked by a reporter if he'd ever patronized a prostitute.

"Only the lobbyists," he said.

And thus, got off to a very good start indeed.

Tunnel Exit Street

My favorite couple of blocks in all of New York (from the existential perspective, I mean) has no doorways, no stoops, no storefronts, and barely any sidewalk to speak of. Indeed, by rights it shouldn't have a name. But it does.

Tunnel Exit Street.

There was no famous denizen of Murray Hill named Tunnel Exit whom the City Council saw fit to honor with a sign. No legendary saloon keeper or actor or civil rights lion. Though as a name, come to think of it, Tunnel Exit has certain cinematic quality that I like.

No, Tunnel Exit Street is the barren stretch of roadway running north between East 37th Street and East 41st Street. It begins outside the west-bound exit of the Queens Midtown Tunnel and is essentially a conduit between Second and Third Avenues with the sole purpose of diffusing rumbling trucks onto less-congested side streets rather than a single, already grid-locked avenue.

There are no addresses on Tunnel Exit Street, yet there is a thin sidewalk on the east side and pedestrians - oh, say those making a quick trip to the Frontier Coffee Shop from the old News Building, just for argument's sake - often use it as a shortcut.

And the city, in its wisdom, has seen the justice of placing formal green street signs on every corner. They hang there each day on their bleak couple of blocks where no mailman needs to tread, no delivery trucks pull up, and they speak their simple message with some strange, civic pride.

Mister, every street in this town has a name even if it has no addresses. No dwellings. No places of business.

And you, sir, are on Tunnel Exit Street.

Taconic Style

Franklin Delano Roosevelt still matters in New York State, as anyone who hits the road on an Indian Summer weekend north of the city certainly knows. Yesterday, we took the Taconic State Parkway, created by a commission chaired by FDR as his first foray back into politics after his paralyzing illness and a clear sign of the big shoulders government Roosevelt was to later create.

The Taconic was an extension of the Bronx River Parkway, built by Robert Moses to connect the city to Bear Mountain, and that's where we ended up yesterday, with the temperature in the mid-80s. We hiked down to the zoo and the historic sites by the Bear Mountain Bridge, and on the way back stopped at the surviving redoubt of Fort Clinton, where the British put American soldiers to the bayonet in the hundreds in 1777.

You can see the four-pointed star formation, some the stones laid as walls, and the mounded grass. The mid-Hudson actions of 1777 were a series of failed land battles by the Americans, but they held up the British long enough to prevent the reinforcement of Burgoyne's men at Saratoga and the Crown's effort to split the mutinous colonies along the line of the Hudson failed.

Later, we climbed Perkins Drive (via Honda, not foot) to the summit and once again marveled at the views, and at the hawks circling below us. Bear Mountain is one of those incredible New York State parks - like Jones Beach - that amaze in their very existence as public accommodations. Only liberals create what  lower New York State has in public beauty.

Driving up the Taconic, slicing over toward the Hudson at Peekskill and up and over the Bear Mountain Bridge to the park - then on to West Point or back over to Cold Spring (or in our case, down the Palisades Parkway to the mall, dinner at Johnny Rockets and an hour in the Lego Store with the two boys) is a brilliant reminder of the existence of what I call Taconic Style, that blend of rustic architecture, roadways and parkland that is unique to the Hudson Valley.

The artist and I had our wedding reception on old ferry chugging through the highlands two decades ago, and we sipped champagne will watching the lights twinkle above us at West Point. We return to the highlands at least once a year, and always bring out-of-town visitors to the peaks and vistas of those hills. Today, we were once again the in the Taconic region, but east on Lake Mahopac. For the boys, it was still warm enough to swim and I took a turn in the kayak. Tomorrow's an early one, so we didn't stay late - just long enough for the day to wane, and the lights to glimmer across the lake.

Waldorf Salad

Yesterday, I was honored to be a speaker at the 2007 Conrad N. Hilton Humanitarian Prize Symposium in New York. I'll wrote about it for onPhilanthropy, but I've been mostly offline for more than a day. It was worth it: the Symposium drew a crowd of more than 300 leaders in philanthropy and provided a rare global perspective on the confluence of development work, government policy, and the world economy. The keynote address was delivered by United Nations Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon, who saw the need for greater cooperation between philanthropic organizations and the world body - “Civilians continue to bear the intolerable brunt of crises not of their own making….and life-saving assistance cannot wait for the next round of peace talks.”

The Symposium was at the Waldorf. I figure I've spent several weeks of my life in that building over the years, from political dinners in my reporting days to the endless round of fundraising galas. The name comes from William Waldorf Astor, who built the original where the Empire State Building stands. The "new" Waldorf has been on Park Avenue since 1931 and it's as New York as it gets, even though it fairly crawls with tourists. The ballroom is essentially New York's parish hall, where the dances and fundraisers and more upscale, star-studded type of bingo night are held near-nightly.

The Waldorf's been a home for visiting movies stars and Presidents, as any walk down one of the back hallways will tell you in black and white photography, but my favorite Waldorf movie is The Out-Of-Towners with Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis as the Ohio couple who barely survive muggings, various strikes, and some bad 1970 New York attitude on the way to discovering that middle America is more aligned with their true selves. So okay, I hate the stupid ending. But I love the 1970 New York and the collection of character actors that inhabit it.

Would that AMC's Mad Men had gone a similar casting route. (Yes, that was a long way to get to what is essentially a reminder that I'll be live-blogging Mad Men tonight at 10 PM EDT over at newcritics.com). Outside of Robert Morse as Bert Cooper, there's more essential New York in almost any episode of Sesame Street (or any classic Bugs Bunny cartoon, for that matter). Still, last week's was the best episode to date and thanks to the fab MA Peel, well-blogged as well. I'll try to keep up my end tonight. Please show up.

Been There, Done That?

I'll admit it: the new Silicon Alley Insider slipped beneath my vacationing, blogging, media-obsessed radar since its beta launch a month ago. And I have to be honest. I don't think in terms of "Silicon Alley" any more, and don't know too many people who do. There's an archaic, historic quality to the term and it goes nicely mixed with two full jiggers of "back in the day" around the better media watering holes.

Silicon Alley Insider. That was me about a decade ago. I was described as exactly that many a time, and I remember it all moderately well.

Feverishly tracking mezzanine rounds while swilling free booze and picking at  massive sushi boat centerpieces while girls danced in cages to the sounds of third-rate Moby knock-offs and hungry headhunters, pr guys, and investment bankers circled the silicon slam dance just waiting for the moment when a bunch of money-sucking startups led by guys who kept their dogs in the office started to throw off cash.

In other words, that was then. That ain't now. Web 2.0 and the ever-churning media circus of New York does nothing to capture that scene, which was powered by art as much as money, by driven  free-wheeling invention and the knowing waste of overcapitalization by leering, good-time trust-funders and hungry bridge and tunnel kids.

Still, Kevin Ryan's new venture proceeds from a feeling that New York's wired and entrepreneurial community is under-represented in a world that makes Michael Arrington relevant. He may be right. And he's got some interesting partners: investor Dwight Merriman,and  former Forbes scribes Dan Frommer and  Peter Kafka. And who better to report on the post-Henry Blodget era in technology than Henry Blodget himself - he of former cheerleading Prudential analyst days, more lately a quieter, more thoughtful analyst.

I have some advice, fellas - having co-created the original Silicon Alley insider with Jason Chervokas in 1995. A wire service of deals and hirings involving New York new media companies large and small won't cut it. Nobody needs TechCrunch East. We don't have the deal-flow, to be honest about it. But we do have the brains, and we do have the advertising. Go for personality, go for analysis, go for the jugular. Or people won't care.

Poke a few holes in business plans. Question a few financings. Rattle some cages in midtown and find some under-capitalized talent out in Brooklyn or the South Bronx or Hoboken. Tell me what the kids are doing, what the artists think. Tell me something new. I want a reason to get exited about new media in this town. Give it me, and I'll keep you guys around the feed reader forever.

That Old Familiar Feeling

We heard the rumble and thought it was thunder. Then it went on for a while and I said to Phil Li: "Wow, I hope that's thunder." The we looked out onto Second Avenue and saw people running ... very clearly running away from something big and bad and rumbling to the west. Then we all ran, just as the alarms began to go off.

Down seven flights, out onto Second Avenue, down to 41st where we looked west and saw a massive rolling plume of smoke and steam just two blocks away, blotting out the public library. And the never-ending thunder rattled off the limestone facades and glass curtain walls.

So we went east through Tudor City, took a breath, and I suggested the plaza at 43rd and First across from the UN - I knew from my lunchtime walks that it was a full story below where we stood and was encased in a sheath of concrete and granite. "Let's stay together," said Susan. So we hustled over there, not quite as panicked as before. I was thinking about that rolling plume, and I as pretty sure it was going up and not out. A transformer, or a big pipe.

Con Ed and not al Qaeda. Pretty sure. Like 80 percent sure. But we waited a while just to be sure. The rumble quieted, the cell phones began to work again, and news drifted in. An underground fire, an explosion, a huge steam pipe. Injuries and closed streets.

Now 99 percent sure, we walked back to work through the crowds and flashing lights and barricades and put on the television. A hell of an explosion. A miracle that no one was killed at rush hour.

The subway is closed but the trains are running. I'm sitting in an air-conditioned car right now in Grand Central, waiting to head home. Cool and calm. But also reminded, quite clearly, of what went on before.

You could feel the panic; it was an instantaneously communicable disease that swept the stairwells and streets. We sucked it in like air. People screamed. "It's coming! Run! Oh my God!" There were tears and prayers and then some embarrassment after - better that, better a few laughs really.

The city felt brittle in a flash-frozen instant. Very brittle.

UPDATE: One dead, 11 hurt. And I'm realizing listening to the passengers around me that if you were close enough to feel that roar, to link it to the sound of collapsing buildings and that rolling, boiling cloud, you were scared. You were one of thousands who fled, either in panic or some form of semi-controlled flight. Farther away, you were just concerned. It works like that.

The Met Blocks American Art (Again)

Can't See This: Martin Johnson Heade's Approaching Thunder Storm

Well, another blogger has run smack into the pathetic blocking action the Metropolitan Museum of Art puts up around its superb collection of American paintings. You may recall that my Memorial Day trip to the Met was ruined by the museum's insane decision to close off American works on a national holiday:

On Memorial Day, we were prevented from viewing Washington Crossing the Delaware, by Emanuel Gottlieb Leutze. Sure it's a work of nationalistic myth, an idealized view of a founding military moment. But if not today, when? Same goes for the collection of Gilbert Stuarts, the Charles Wilson Peales, the John Singleton Copleys, the John Trumbulls.

Less patriotic but more interesting in the artistic if not the historical sense are the 19th century works: the brilliantly-lighted landscapes of Thomas Cole and Frederic Church, the visual stories of George Caleb Bingham and Martin Johnson Heade, the deeply human paintings of Winslow Homer and Thomas Eakins, and the telling portraits of Mary Cassatt, James Whistler, and  John Singer Sargent.

David Parmet had a similar experience recently. The author of the Marketing Begins at Home blog took his son to the Met and found the blue suits shutting down the American wing - and all those brilliant paintings. Writes David:

Unfortunately, if you did try and see everything, make sure you don’t catch any of the staff when their lunchtime is approaching. Because when we finally found our way up to the American painting galleries (make a left at Dendur and go up the stairs) we were informed by at least 15 guards who were ushering the visitors out, that they were short-staffed and closing down the gallery. So no Washington Crossing the Delaware. Or no lingering - I did manage to force my way into a few moments to point out this important bit of American Iconography to the Boy. They weren’t going to deny me that.

By the by, my written complaint to the Met's executive staff? No answer.

I will point out that one of the Met's greatest patrons is now considering a third party run for President.

Of the United States. Whose more talented citizens produced the fine work on view (but not very often) in the American Wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. To which he donates millions of bucks. Just a thought, Mr. Bloomberg.

UPDATE: Another blogger complains about the American Wing's constant closure.

Crisis at the Met: Failing the Crowds of Memorial Day

The irony firmly in place this warm Memorial Day places the philanthropist Mayor of New York in the supporting league of a major arts institution that is clearly in crisis. Michael Bloomberg and the company he founded are major patrons of the Metropolitan Museum of Art - and the Met is letting them down, wasting their money, and giving the city itself a cultural black eye.

On Memorial Day, we took the family to the Met with several agendas: everyone wanted to see the wonderful collection of American art, the boys eagerly awaited the George Washington paintings, our daughter looked forward to Grant Wood, my wife wanted to see the Japanese scrolls and bask in the quiet of the Astor Court, my older son anticipated the arms and armor collection, and the little guy just wanted to see "William," the ancient Egyptian hippo that has become so symbolic (and marketable) to children.

All were closed. Every one of the exhibits. Closed. Roped off. Shut tight.

And today was one of those special holiday Mondays, during which the Met, normally closed on Mondays, is opened with funds from Bloomberg LP.

They shouldn't have bothered. We trudged around, looking for our favorites, only to encounter ropes and locked doors and grim-faced guards in blue suits. Yet here's what you read if you look up the "Met Holiday Mondays" on the museum's site:

"More than 200,000 people have visited the Museum on a Met Holiday Monday in the three years since the program was inaugurated, and we have been gratified by their positive and enthusiastic response," commented Emily K. Rafferty, President of the Metropolitan Museum. "Met Holiday Mondays add seven extra viewing days to the year and, in turn, these represent seven additional opportunities to visit the Met and enjoy our outstanding permanent collection as well as our roster of superb special exhibitions. We look forward to another year of welcoming the public to experience great art."

I'm sure Emily Rafferty was nowhere near Fifth Avenue today, or surely she would have taken the situation in hand and moved the appropriate employees to open those crucial galleries. I'm sure that the famed director of the Met, Guy Philippe Henri Lannes de Montebello, wasn't on Fifth today, either. He certainly would have understood the horrific symbolism of closing the American wing's historic paintings - on Memorial Day! He would have moved personnel from the museum's shops (fully-staffed with employees, we noticed) to the museum's galleries.

Surely, Emily Rafferty wouldn't have allowed her museum to be such terrible and public failure on a major American holiday - and with money provided by one of her most important benefactors.

Surely, she wouldn't have kept me from some of my favorite paintings. Not that American art is particularly important to the Metropolitan Museum. It's an also-ran, over in the corner, despite its phenomenal collection. And its American paintings galleries are often the quickest to close when there aren't enough security personnel to go around. Yes, this is a personal complaint - I love many of the paintings in the American wing; they represent the kind of cultural synthesis in the visual arts that blues and jazz and rock and roll represent to musical history. They're vitally important the progression of the visual arts, and they take a second row to no other culture. I'll admit it's galling to find, say, the Rockefeller galleries on primitive art wide open and well-staffed while the American paintings are shuttered away.

No art museum in any other major world capital would be as dismissive of its own culture.

On Memorial Day, we were prevented from viewing Washington Crossing the Delaware, by Emanuel Gottlieb Leutze. Sure it's a work of nationalistic myth, an idealized view of a founding military moment. But if not today, when? Same goes for the collection of Gilbert Stuarts, the Charles Wilson Peales, the John Singleton Copleys, the John Trumbulls.

Less patriotic but more interesting in the artistic if not the historical sense are the 19th century works: the brilliantly-lighted landscapes of Thomas Cole and Frederic Church, the visual stories of George Caleb Bingham and Martin Johnson Heade, the deeply human paintings of Winslow Homer and Thomas Eakins, and the telling portraits of Mary Cassatt, James Whistler, and  John Singer Sargent.

They were to have made up our own American "Memorial Day Parade," as I'd planned it. No. I filed a complaint with a polite docent at the information desk, who agreed that closing off the finest in American art was a shame and directed me to the modern wing, where he assured me that some fine 20th century American works were on view. If only he'd been right. The European paintings were open, but the singular galleries centered around American paintings from 1900-1945 - an incredibly fertile period in American art - were closed. Not enough security personnel, I was told. So we only got a glimpse across a long and empty room at an Edward Hopper. And we were barred from the Grant Woods.

Yes, the Frank Stella retrospective was open (I'm not a fan, though some of the constructions were interesting) and we did see the Warhols - where we did finally see a massive, nationalistic icon. Sure, it was Chairman Mao, but it's a memorable work indeed.

My question now is for the corporate philanthropy staff at Bloomberg LP: do you know your company's brand is being damaged by the incredibly poor experience you're funding at the Met?

My other question is for Philippe de Montebello and Emily Rafferty: what kind of museum are you running?

Oh, and where did you spend Memorial Day?