The Academy of Rot

 

The Smug Patrol

I wasn't making it up. None of it. After screaming into the void for so long, others are seeing the light.

What the hell took them so long?

Whatever. Welcome to the party.

The catalyst, of course, was the evisceration of three university presidents at the hands of Elise Stefanik (Harvard '06). I cannot recall another time when congressional testimony was so self-damaging. (The tobacco companies in the 80s maybe?)

But this, this was incredible, the sight of these three women, self-immolating right in front of us, smirking all the while.

I don't need to add any commentary to what's already been said of the three, other than to point out that Harvard's Gay has now also been accused of plagiarism, academia's mortal sin. If true, will even that be enough to get the highly intersectional Gay fired? 

Harvard's board is run by Penny Pritzker, of the odious Pritzker family, who are much of the hard cash behind the trans rights movement. Don't expect her to put Gay's head on a spike.

Several hundred Harvard faculty have signed a letter supporting Gay, citing how critical the university's "independence" is. Yeah, get back to me when you don't accept $625 million a year of U.S. taxpayer money, not to mention hundreds of millions more from dodgy foreign sources.

My money's on cowardice, always a safe bet when it comes to university boards. The Harvard board meets today.

I have been blogging, writing, and giving speeches about the ideological cesspools that schools have become for, well, decades now. Yale has been my most frequent target. President Peter Salovey, a de facto character in my novel Campusland, must be thanking his lucky stars that he decided to retire this year. Brilliant timing, Pete!

But really, where has everyone been? The evidence has been right there for all to see for years. 

For what it's worth, when I got out of Yale in the 80s, I loved the place, and I still do—that Yale, the one I went to. It was an incredible experience. Was it liberal? Sure, but I never felt like I had to hide what I thought about anything. Plenty of my friends were liberal, and still are. Pretty sure all my professors were liberal, but they didn't punish you for being something else.

Everyone got along. We argued, then we drank beer. Sometimes we did both at the same time. And sometime we just skipped the parts that didn't involve beer.

That Yale is no more. I wrote my last check fifteen years ago, and then actively campaigned to get others to stop, too.

But, but...there were always the kids, your kids, the ones you wanted to go, because you thought they could go to your Yale, or your Harvard. 

You had misgivings, and they increased over the years, but you were still in thrall to the place it was. You kept writing those checks.

What you didn't get was that your kids couldn't go to your Yale or your Harvard or wherever, because it wasn't there. It hadn't been for years. Sure, those campuses were prettier than ever, and those Potemkin Village they set up for you at reunions were always nice, but they hid nothing but rot.

The fantasy dies hard. 

The checks kept getting signed.

The funny part is, few could write checks big enough. You labored under the impression that your $50,000 check was getting Scooter in.

Wrong. The number these days is $20 million, at least at Yale. (It takes a lot to move the needle of a $42 billion endowment.)

So, while I am glad that the likes of Bill Ackman have woken up, I still have to ask: where the f**k have you been? Did it really take murdered Jewish babies to open your eyes?

Apparently.

By the way, there currently exists a HUGE market opportunity for any college that wants to revert to being, well, normal. Eliminate all your "studies" departments, fire your entire DEI and Title IX staffs, enforce free speech and discipline violators. 

This isn't hard. 

You'll probably have to put up with some loud protests, but know that's just a sign you're doing the right thing. You'll also have to stop taking federal money, but think how much you'll save firing all those administrators.

Do these things and you will stand apart from all the rest. There is a significant portion of the population dying for this. Money and applications will flow like a river.

I'm dropping another chapter of my new book here, All the Lovely People. This one feels especially appropriate.

Read on if you're interested.

(Note: All the Lovely People is not out yet. I have just submitted it to St. Martin's Press.)

Yale Could Be a Reach

 

“We’re having trouble with the essay.”

“William means Ginny is having trouble, Ms. Collins,” said Ellie.

“Of course. And please, call me Faith.”

 Faith Collins was Lenox Hill’s longtime college counselor. Padma was also in attendance, which wasn’t typical, but board members were always handled with care. This consideration pleased William.

“Yes, well, they all expect you to write about some terrific adversity you’ve overcome,” continued William. “What’s Ginny supposed to say, that she had trouble skiing the back bowls?”

 “What William is trying to say, Faith, is that while we’re proud we’ve been able to give our daughters a good life, it now seems like a liability we need to apologize for.”

“Oh no, of course not.”

This was an increasingly common source of angst, Faith knew; the challenge of growing up in a life without challenges. Most Lenox girls took for granted the kind of privilege that few in the world could even imagine. Most had second, even third, homes. Private jets were common. 

“I mean look at this,” said William, handing some papers over to Faith. “How are we supposed to deal with this?” 

It was a printout of the Yale application. William had highlighted an essay question which read

 

The lessons we take from obstacles we encounter can be fundamental to later success. Recount a time when you faced a challenge, something that really forced you out of your comfort zone. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?

 

Both Padma and Faith knew this was a question, in one form or another, on almost every college application. In 2023, the Supreme Court outlawed affirmative action in the famous Harvard case, but left the door open a crack by allowing universities to consider candidates’ “life experiences.” This left admissions departments to decide for themselves just what constituted life experiences they were interested in. For many, this meant soliciting personal tales of victimization at the hands of a discriminatory culture. Affluent white applicants gainfully tried what they could, documenting every mildly unpleasant interlude in their own short lives, real or imagined. 

This approach was of little use to the Sandersons. 

“Our consultant says to write some nonsense about when Ginny’s aunt died, but Ginny hardly knew her,” said William.

Faith winced at the reference to an outside consultant. College counseling was her job, but increasingly parents were hiring expensive outsiders as well, ones who promised the moon and seldom delivered. 

“We hear they’re going test optional,” said William. “Ginny got a…what was it, Ellie?”

“A 1520.”

 “But now, what? It doesn’t matter?”

“Will, I’m sure it matters,” said Ellie.

“I think I know what’s going on,” continued William. “Get rid of objective standards and it frees schools up to pick kids just on their personal narratives. Am I wrong?”

He was not, thought Padma, but she could hardly say so, nor could she admit she was entirely in favor of the shift in policy. “I think it’s fair to say that colleges are just trying to do what we here at Lenox Hill have done, which is to make opportunities available to a wider set of applicants,” she said.

“And we’re all for that. We all value diversity. But I’d also like my daughter to get into Yale.”

“Well, about that…” said Faith. 

Here it comes, thought Padma. She was perfectly willing to let Faith be the heavy. William Sanderson needed to be managed. Truth be told, she was kind of looking forward to it. 

“We’ve been actively talking to the admissions people up there,” said Faith. “You should know it’s going to be a tough year.”

“Ellie, in case you don’t speak college counselor, that’s code for bend over in the shower and open your wallet.”

“I’m sure Padma and Faith are doing their best,” said Ellie, disquieted by William’s aggressive posture. It wasn’t like him.

“William, Ellie, you are both highly valued members of the Lenox community, and you’ve been quite generous” said Padma. “I should ask, though. Is Yale officially Ginny’s first choice? She hasn’t shared that with us.”

“It…will be,” said William. 

“Honestly,” interjected Ellie, “my own view is that there are lots of places she could be happy. The Ivies aren’t the only schools that offer a good education.” William looked at her like she had two heads. “But Ginny’s our daughter and if she decides on Yale than that’s what I’ll support. It’s her decision.”

“Of…course,” said Padma. “And we’ll do what we can.”

“When did this process become such an ordeal?” said William. “I don’t remember this from my day at all.”

“It’s true, things have evolved,” said Padma, trying to project a warmth she decidedly didn’t feel. “This process can be as stressful for parents as it is for the kids. Sometimes even more so.”

“Ginny’s great-grandfather was Class of ’38. She’s fourth generation.”

“Yes, we know, and Ginny is a wonderful applicant. But these matters of legacy, well, they just don’t carry the weight they used to.”

“So, for the sake of argument, what’s the number?”

Padma, of course, knew what William meant, but decided to play dumb, even though she’d specifically prepared for this moment. The cynicism of the conversation carved tiny pieces out of her soul. “The number?” she asked.

“Yes, the number. What are they looking for in New Haven to make this happen?”

“Ah, I see. Well, they did suggest certain levels of support that would be warmly received.”

“And they are?”

“Five million would—“

“You’re kidding,” said William.

“Five million will get a candidate’s folder a serious second look.”

“A second look? What does that even mean?”

“It’s somewhat ambiguous, deliberately so, but it definitely improves one’s visibility. In our experience it means that an applicant’s folder will get read twice.”

“How nice,” said William. “Five million for an extra five minutes of their time. A million dollars a minute. New York law firms have nothing on the Yale Admissions Department!” 

William now felt decidedly stupid for the apparently meaningless $10,000 gifts he’d been making annually to Yale for years, thinking he was paving the way. Last year, he’d upped it to $25,000. 

“What’s the real number?” he asked.

“Excuse me, but what happened to merit?” asked Ellie. “Shouldn’t Ginny’s record count for itself?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” said Padma. “And remember, we don’t have complete transparency. Yale will do what Yale will do. It’s fair to say that priorities have…evolved.”

But money still talks, thought William. He recalled how one wag called Ivy League universities “hedge funds with schools attached.” They were nothing if not effective fundraising machines. “Which brings me back to my original question. The number. For the sake of argument, what are they actually getting these days?” 

“I don’t know that they like to get too specific about these things, but the number twenty million did come up. If you want to remove as much uncertainty as possible, that’s the number.”

“Those greedy sons of bitches.”

“And usually admittance in those circumstances involves taking a gap year so the applicant doesn’t get counted in the official U.S. News data. They call it the Z-list.”

“William,” said Ellie. “You can’t possibly consider this.”

“Well, there’s always another way to play it, El,” said William. “I think you know what I mean.”

“No,” said Ellie. “We’re not going there, either. This should be based on merit.”

“But you just heard that it’s not. I don’t know why you have to be so stubborn about it.”

“Is there something we should know?” asked Padma.

“It’s nothing,” said Ellie. “I apologize.”

“Then we’re back to money,” said William.

“Or maybe Ginny goes somewhere else?” said Ellie. “There are lots of good schools out there. I’m hearing wonderful things about SMU, and there’s Michigan, or maybe somewhere smaller like Middlebury.”

“Sandersons always—“

“Go to Yale, I know, but, for God’s sake, William.”

“There’s an easier way, Ellie, and you know it.”

“No,” said Ellie.

Padma wondered what William could possibly mean.

“If it’s helpful,” said Faith, chiming in, “the Yale pledge can be paid in installments.”

“How nice of them,” said William. 

 

Of all the facets of her job, dealing with parents like William Sanderson was the one Padma hated the most. She had seen his type many times, men who think things should be given to them by the simple fact of their existence. Men who drifted upward by virtue of their birth. 

When Sanderson’s name was floated for the board, she had done some research. His firm, Bedrock, loudly trumpeted its “values,” but many on the left felt it was a cynical ploy, and that their commitment was skin deep. Sanderson dutifully parroted those values in the media, appearing frequently on Bloomberg and CNBC, but Padma’s instincts told her that Sanderson’s own commitment to those values was entirely situational.

She had quietly lobbied to keep him off the board, but Sanderson’s half million dollar pledge to the capital campaign secured his spot. His saving grace, though, was that he was a coward. That was Padma’s take having watched him the last year or so. This made him pliant, at least on matters that didn’t concern fucking Yale. 

Sandersons go to Yale. My God, was it possible to be any more entitled? Spending precious political capital to get Ginny Sanderson into Yale was not on Padma’s list of professional priorities. The path had been cleared for the Ginnys of the world for far too long. 

But Sanderson was on the board, a board she had to occasionally placate. Or act like it, anyway.

The thought amused her. The board really had nothing to do with running the school. For the most part, all she had to do was attend quarterly meetings and tell them how well everything was going and what a special place Lenox was and how special the girls were. If there were aspects that weren’t special—and there always were—they really didn’t want to hear about it anyway. People like William Sanderson didn’t serve on school boards to solve problems or do any actual work.

So, for the most part, the Lenox board served Padma’s purposes. Sanderson and the others gave her a wide latitude to run things as she saw fit, assuming they were any paying attention at all. And Padma knew why, too. The school held the ultimate trump card, the one William Sanderson was pushing so hard on: college recommendations. 

Parents never saw the final letters. They were enormously important because they couldn’t be gamed or fabricated or bought like so much else in the college process. And at Lenox, all recommendations had to be personally approved by her. She had seen to that. A simple tweak of an adjective or two could sink an Ivy applicant. “Brilliant” became “intelligent,” or “outstanding” became “above average.”

Padma had also tightened up the language in the parent contract, giving her the power to banish problematic families like the Ellisons. That got approved in a single email to Duncan with the proposed contract attached. She doubted he even opened it. No doubt the fate of the Ellisons had sent shivers through the community.

And so, they all danced to her tune.

But her meeting with Sanderson really stuck in her craw. Sure, board members expected preferential treatment, and they usually got it. That’s the way things had worked for generations. But Padma didn’t like William Sanderson, not one bit. If ever there was an embodiment of the WASP old boy network, it was he. There were others out there, others like Barbara Selkirk, who would do more than just warm a board seat and look the other way. They would join her in the fight.

She would bide her time. Barbara had already recommended a few names and Padma was smart, certainly smarter than Sanderson. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself to put things right. What kind of opportunity? She wasn’t sure, but she’d know it when she saw it.

The Sandersons had taken up enough of her time, so Padma went online to check the Sentinel. Padma almost never read the Sentinel, considering the paper to be a reckless purveyor of alt-right propaganda. But right now, it served her purposes. 

And there it was, Dina’s article.

New Chapter

 You've probably noticed I haven't posted anything lately. That's because I've been hard at work on my new novel,  All the Lovely People.

I'm almost done!

For grins, here's another sample chapter:

Dina Campbell stared at her laptop, willing the ideas to come. A weekly deadline didn’t seem too onerous to an outsider, but it crept up on you like a silent cat. 

Her specialty was longer-form features, mostly on city culture, which the Daily Sentinel ran every Sunday in its expanded edition. She was expected to come up with something fresh each week. God, it was so much harder than people thought.

Perhaps another glass of chardonnay. 

She walked to her refrigerator, which was mostly empty. Some leftover condiments, and several bottles of budget wine, and some leftover Chinese takeout; the cliched refrigerator items of any single New Yorker. Home was a small one bedroom on the Upper West Side, so it wasn’t a long walk. Filling her glass two-thirds of the way she then returned to her desk, now occupied by her rescue cat, Ruth, named for one of her personal icons. She shooed her off. Why she got the thing, she still didn’t know. She didn’t even like cats.

Dina was working on a piece about climate-conscious food choices, but knew it was journalistic piffle. (Vegan, basically.) It lacked edge. Staring out the window didn’t help much either. Once, she could just make out part of the Hudson River between two other buildings. Now, she looked about twenty feet into a brick wall. Somehow a developer bought the air rights, and her view was now of the backside of a condo tower. Her apartment was rent controlled, though, and she could never leave, even if she could afford to.

The wine made her maudlin. 

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Once, she’d been a rising star, a wunderkind fresh from the Crimson, her ticket stamped for journalistic glory. She got hired by the Times and sent to their Paris desk, a plum post. There, while covering other assignments, she met some Muslims, the North African ones who lived in the notorious estates. She painstakingly cultivated the relationships, earning their trust, sensing it would pay off. 

She saw they were a community adrift, allowed to live in France, but never be allowed to be French. France bitterly held on to its cultural self-image and American notions of a “melting pot” were not welcomed there. Post 9-11, she could feel tensions rising as the police turned a sharp eye towards the Muslim populace, or in some cases, did the opposite, and allowed estates to virtually self-govern, looking the other way as they adopted Sharia law.

In the sweltering summer of 2005, things boiled over. Police, responding to a theft report, arrived to arrest several Muslim boys who may or may not have been responsible. Two of the boys tried to hide in a nearby power substation and were electrocuted. The electrocution caused a wide power outage which, combined with the news of the boys’ deaths, sparked widespread rioting. One group attacked a police station, forcing an evacuation. The subsequent occupation of the station lasted over two weeks.

The occupiers decided they wanted someone to tell their side of the story, and, through their network, they reached out to Dina. She was invited to the station and ended up embedded there for the duration. Her daily dispatches were dictated over her phone as all power to the station remained shut. It made her feel like a war correspondent.

The series, appearing under her byline, won wide notice for its compassionate portrayal of a desperate generation of young Muslims who saw no future for themselves. It scored her a Front Page Award, awarded to achievement by women in journalism.

If she was giving an honest account of things, it was that moment, that exact moment, when she flew to New York and rose to the podium to accept her award, that was a high water mark after which began a slow, almost imperceptible slide to her current station, writing for a tabloid from a cramped one bedroom. The Times, cutting back like everyone else on international coverage, let her go in a year after the award. Americans were too insular, and frankly too stupid, her editor told her, to care about what happens in France or Yemen or Indonesia.

After Paris, Dina moved around the globe with the wire services, accepting diminished assignments in different posts. It had the patina of glamour, but also made it impossible to keep relationships. She had dated a series of men over the years, most from her own profession. They tended to be rakes and far too impressed with themselves. There was an Al Jezeera correspondent with a fetish for mild bondage and later a CNN anchor whose amorous attentions could only be consummated while watching tapes of himself. That one had lasted a few months. 

Perhaps more than anything, the pay was a source of resentment. This was not a journalistic phenomenon limited to Dina, of course. The rise of the internet also gave rise to thousands of news sources, most of them free. This led to a steady decline in compensation for the entire industry, at least relative to other professions. That there was still a constant supply of over-educated Ivy League trust fund brats willing to work for next-to-nothing didn’t help.

The worst part, for Dina, was tracking the careers of her Harvard classmates, particularly the ones she considered idiots, those eating club swells. Many had pursued investment banking or private equity and were making millions, and for what? Moving money around? Others had gone into law. She’d once respected that cadre somewhat more; they’d gone to law school with high ideals. But then they ended up at Skadden or Cravath or Simpson Thatcher just doing the bidding of the bankers—and still making millions, although perhaps a few less.

Many had houses in the Hamptons and Dina burned with resentment that she would never be more than a weekend guest, deposited there on an overcrowded Jitney because she didn’t own a car.

Dina’s salary from the Sentinel was $90,000. $91,250, to be exact. She’d gone to Harvard, and here she was, the wrong side of forty, making ninety-one thousand and two hundred and fifty goddamn dollars. Surviving in New York on that was next to impossible. Her banker classmates could take that free market bullshit they spouted and shove it out their asses because it clearly wasn’t rewarding intelligence the way it should.

Dina looked down from the brick wall and noticed her wine glass was empty. She got up to take the six steps necessary to get back to the kitchenette. Perhaps inspiration would be found there. At age forty-eight, it felt like it was all just slipping by. She needed something to rescue her from the bitterness that was becoming all-consuming.

She needed a story.

A big one.

"You Died Three Times Last Night"

 

I have just had both the privilege and the pain of a unique experience. Well, maybe not unique, but really, really, unusual. And I’d like something good to come out of it.

A couple of weeks ago, I died three times.

You heard correctly. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

On April 30th I was playing pickleball with a group of friends (no jokes, please—it really is a great sport). In between games, I suddenly felt very lightheaded and knew I had to sit. I got to a chair and then—lights out.

 

The next thing I remember was a bunch of out-of-focus people hovering over me trying, oddly, to hurt me. I thought it was just an unpleasant dream, but as I gained lucidity I recognized some to be my friends—but also EMTs. The question was, why were they here and why was everyone just standing around? They carried me off to their van. Okay, fine, I guess that's the protocol if you faint. But why were people clapping? This was embarrassing. No applause for fainting, please. 

 

Little did I know.

 

This is what happened during my "interlude," as told to me later...

 

I sat down while my friend Daryl continued to talk. I then turned my head away and appeared to be snoring. Daryl thought I was not-so-subtly indicating my lack of interest in the conversation. While that certainly may have been the case under other circumstances, he and others were alert enough to know something was wrong, and they got me on the ground.

 

Our pickle group had about twenty people. Incredibly, three knew CPR. They went to work, giving compressions and mouth-to-mouth. Also incredibly, there was a defibrillator (AED) nearby and someone knew where to find it.

 

They got it quickly and used it. It worked. My heart and lungs started functioning again. I owe a lifetime of thanks to those friends.

 

It wasn't a heart attack; it was full cardiac arrest. I don't know how long I flatlined, perhaps a minute or two. (Sad to report no tunnels of light or dead relatives—I suspect they were dismissive of me arriving so soon.) It took the EMTs fifteen minutes to arrive and my pickleball buddies kept me alive until they did.

 

There were others kind enough to ride with me to the hospital or to grab stuff from my house. By the time I was in the ambulance I was completely coherent. The team at UVA Hospital said they'd never seen anyone's numbers look so good after an “external arrest” like that.

 

My wife was on a girls' trip to Jordan. I knew that just then she was boarding a twelve-hour flight home. I didn't want her to be miserable and helpless for all that, but someone, someone perhaps thinking more clearly than I, let the cat out of the bag.

 

But this was far from over. Always inclined towards overachievement (many would differ), and in spite my awesome oxygen numbers, etc., I decided to flatline twice more at the hospital. CPR was administered, twice more. The image at the top is from one of those episodes, not sure which.

 

The thing about CPR is, if you're doing it right, you're likely to break ribs. If you're doing it three times, you're really breaking ribs. That has turned out to be the most painful part of this for me but I'm grateful for each and every one of them. Thirteen, to be precise.

 

In between flatlines 2 and 3, a nurse told me that out-of-hospital cardiac arrests have a one percent survival rate. My wife thinks this should freak me out and, sure, if you'd told me at the beginning of the day that I had a one percent chance of making it to midnight, I'd lay some full Rick James on you. But I was on the far side of the gauntlet.

 

A doctor the next day said, "You know, you died three times last night." 

 

Funny guy. You can catch him evenings at the Paramount. He'll be there all week.

 

On May 3rd, I had a triple bypass, in which I added a sawed-open sternum to my skeletal travails, but I didn't know that till the 4th, when I finally woke up. Surely, the date on my white board was wrong! This fact, combined with a vague memory of fighting off the surgeons and being restrained, left me lying there thinking something had gone terribly wrong.

 

In fact, the surgery had gone off without a hitch. I guess they'd been intubating me, I sort of woke up, and I wasn't pleased. Seems like they could have left a sticky, though. Went well, get some sleep.

 

The 4th was my birthday, and despite the fact it was bereft of margaritas, or even those waiters at Appleby's that come out and sing, I can unequivocally say it was my best birthday ever.

 

The days following were not awesome. There were the pharmaceuticals: oxy, ketamine, fentanyl, even an epidural. All the bad boys. While this might seem like a potentially fun ride through Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, it wasn't. It felt like Honey Boo Boo had taken up residence squarely on my chest. With every breath my ribs clicked like a broken marimba. I ate nothing but gained 20 pounds of IV fluid. Sometimes I would stare at the wall, hoping that the ICU cacophony of beeps and buzzers would meld into a susurrus of white noise that might bring sleep. Other times I’d stare at the inside of my eyelids as pain would come and go. My wife was there all the time and a rock. Pretty sure I wasn’t great company.

 

One thing to know if you spend some time in an ICU is that you will climb a long ladder of indignities. Icky stuff. (We will now pause to acknowledge your gratitude for sparing you these details, however tempting that might be.)

….

 

The staff was amazing, particularly the nurses. It's amazing what percentage of your healthcare they deliver. It's a tough job with the worst customers in the world. I am awed how they go about their work with such grace and cheer.

 

A permanent defibrillator was implanted in my chest. It's an amazing device, about the size of a half dollar. It can sit there for ten years, doing nothing, and then go off when needed. I'm also feeling better, better enough to write.

 

So, to the main point: I was saved by friends who knew CPR. Go take a CPR class. Seriously, GO TAKE A CPR CLASS. You don't want to be fumbling around like an idiot if you face a situation like this. 

 

Coincidentally, my wife and I took one less than a month ago. 

 

One last thing, and I debated whether to share this as maybe it’s a bit macabre, but I think some will find reassurance in it. While there are many painful things that can lead up to one’s death, the actual act itself is painless, a whisper.

 

I speak from experience.

New Novel

Been asked why the Naked Dollar hasn't been posting lately. The reason is I've been busy working on novel #2. (Campusland, incidentally, is being made into a TV series.) 

The new novel will be called All the Lovely People. Here's a sample chapter, if you're interested:

740 Park

There are many wealthy neighborhoods in New York City. In recent decades, neighborhoods once unknown and untraveled by the monied classes, neighborhoods like Tribeca and Nolita, were now the province of internet barons and oligarchs alike. Even Brooklyn, its vast neighborhoods once home to New York’s aspiring immigrant classes, was now beyond the financial reach of the vast majority of Americans. 

But, for a certain sort, the Upper East Side of Manhattan was still the ne plus ultra of discerning domicilia. No, not those soulless canyons of young professionals near the river, but rather the stately neighborhoods adjacent to Central Park, the ones home to pre-war cooperatives, their scalloped awnings having protected generations of wealthy from the elements while alighting from their cabs.

The East Side was home to more “dilatory domiciles” than any other—this, of course, being the phrase long used by the Social Register to describe the homes of the “right sort” within its pages.

Fifth Avenue was stunning, certainly, with its views over the park, the apartments of West Side strivers visible in the distance. But nothing quite had the resonance of “Park Avenue,” did it? For at least a century it had been synonymous with genteel wealth.

It wasn’t always. Prior to the 1870s, the avenue was a filthy place, with the soot-spewing cars of the New York and Harlem Railroad traveling up and down its length. In a stroke of genius, Cornelius Vanderbilt proposed lowering the tracks into a cut, which would then be covered by a park and pedestrian traffic. This new development was an immediate draw for Gilded Age money, which lined the avenue with mansions. Later, room was made for a new invention, the automobile, and a narrower, be-flowered median remained up the center. 

In the Roaring Twenties, the elevator changed urban living, and mansions yielded to apartment buildings. Park Avenue became lined with classical-style apartments, virtually all fifteen stories tall. Period fire codes limited all residential buildings to 150 feet, owning to the difficulty of fighting an elevated blaze. Thus every building was exactly 150 feet, or fifteen stories. 

In 1927, the Municipal Dwelling Act allowed new structures to exceed 150 feet, but only if the higher stories were set back. A few new apartments, designed with graceful setbacks, were built to take advantage of the new law. 

One of these was 740, which, of all the apartment dwellings on Park, surely had the grandest reputation. 740 lay on the avenue's west side, stretching from 71^st to 72^nd streets. One of its first residents was John D. Rockefeller Jr., who lived in a duplex there until his death in 1960. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, nee Bouvier, lived there as a child. More recently, billionaires like David Koch, Woody Johnson, and Ron Perelman have called 740 home. 

None of this history was known to the Sandersons, and nor did they live in 740. They lived at 580, a few blocks south, in a “classic six.” It was more entry-level Park Avenue, something they bought when William first made junior partner. A well-respected building, to be sure, but they’d been pondering an upgrade for several years, and now, with the news of Williams promotion, it seemed all but obligatory. Despite William’s prodigious earnings, 740 was not in reach, even if something had been available. They had an accepted bid on a four bedroom at 895, an excellent address. At $12 million, it was a serious upgrade.  

As an added bonus, 895 was much closer to the Lenox Hill School, the kids’ sixty-thousand dollar a year school. Close enough that the kids could walk.

The Sandersons took a cab. It was only eight blocks, but it was slightly humid out and it wouldn’t do to arrive sweaty. They announced themselves to the doorman who discreetly checked a list and then pointed them to an elevator, one of the last in Manhattan that had its own elevator men, dressed improbably, as if British field officers ready to lead the men once more into the breach. 

The apartment that they were heading up to, one where the elevator opened right up into the foyer because it was the only one on the floor, belonged to Casper Stein, the founder and CEO of Bedrock Capital, the largest money manger in the world. The Sandersons were the guests of honor, because William had just been appointed head of Sustainable Investing, Bedrock’s fastest growing division. Could a spot on the Executive Committee and Board be far behind?

The money at this level was breathtaking. William’s base was now $1.2 million, but that was an afterthought, really. Bonuses and profit sharing would typically be in low the tens of millions in a good year, plus there were options that might be worth a fortune in a few years. Bedrock’s stock price had been on a one-way trajectory for years.

Just before the elevator opened, Edie elbowed William in the ribs. “Yabba dabba do!” she whispered, giggling. She liked to kid William about the name of his firm, particularly when he got too self-serious.

“Not now,” he said, under his breath, just as the elevator door opened.

It was the Sandersons' first time in the Stein apartment, a vast duplex. They knew better than to to gape at the exquisite furnishings, the art, and, more than anything, at 13,000 square feet, the sheer scale. An understated compliment or two would be all that was expected, less one appear arriviste.

“Here they are!” cried Missy Stein in a sing song voice. She glided down the staircase from the second floor and gave both Sandersons three kisses, alternating cheeks in the European style. “So good of you to come,” she cooed, as if the Sandersons might have done anything else. 

Casper Stein followed his wife and settled for one cheek and then shook William’s hand. Stein had the imposing presence of that anyone seemed to have who was worth $8 billion. Tonight he wore a double-breasted blazer over a Paul Stewart shirt, open at the neck. William always had to force himself not to stare at Casper’s hair, which stood, immovable, on top of his head like a shrub. He knew the junior people at Bedrock would joke about what it might take to move Casper Stein’s hair. An earthquake? A tropical storm? It also had a perfectly uniform color, clearly the result of outside agents. Auburn? No, not quite. Burnt umber, perhaps. It was not, all agreed, a good look, but Missy Stein was the only person on the planet who could conceivably tell him that, and if she had, it hadn’t worked. 

“So good to see you both,” he said. “Come in and meet everybody.”

Casper Stein suggested they all go see their latest art acquisition, a Basquiat. “Bring your drinks,” he said.

“Oh, Casper, I’m sure people don’t care!”

“Well, I’d love to see it,” said Edie.

“You know,” continued Missy, “Casper jokes he’s made more money on his collection than on Wall Street!”

“It just might be true,” said Casper, laughing.

Following the Steins, the group walked through the living room and into a study. It was a darker, masculine room with textured chocolate brown lacquered paint that looked like it had been applied with sponges rather than brushes, a technique, William knew, was time consuming and expensive. The fireplace was stoked and burning, despite the relatively warm fall weather outside. Its flames danced and the wood snapped pleasingly. The bookshelves, stretching high enough to require a ladder, were lined with biographies and historical non-fiction. William removed a random volume and pretended to study it. It was “Understanding the British Empire,” by Ronald Hyam. It looked unread. 

Over the mantle was the Basquiat. It was a face, or perhaps an African mask, rendered abstractly in vivid colors.

“Missy thought the reds and browns picked up the walls of the study, so she said we had to have it,” said Casper.

William knew enough about art to know the painting probably cost in the many tens of millions, but he had to admit, it was striking, if a bit angry looking. Perhaps that was the point.

“You know,” continued Casper, “Basquiat sold his first painting to Deborah Harry—Blondie, remember? Two hundred dollars. If she still has it it’s worth a hundred times whatever she made selling records. They say artists of color are the best investment right now, but I just buy what I like. If it goes down in value, I can still enjoy it on my wall.”

William wondered if Casper Stein had ever bought anything that had gone down in value.

The group moved closer to the prized Basquiat, leaning in and squinting their eyes ever-so-slightly, making sure that the Steins knew their new acquisition was properly appreciated. Casper took the opportunity to touch William by the elbow. “Might I have a quick word in the other room?”

They repaired to an empty bedroom, which William thought was exceedingly odd, and put him on edge. Casper took out two cigars and offered one to William.

“No thanks, Edie would kill me.”

“This is the only room in which Missy allows me to indulge,” said Casper, putting one cigar back in his blazer and and then lighting his own. He puffed a few times to draw the match’s flame, clearly enjoying the ritual. 

“This is a spectacular apartment, Casper,” William said, looking to fill the silence. “And what a building. You must be very happy here.”

“Yes, well, it’s been a good home, but none of the new money wants to live in a co-op anymore. Too many restrictions, no one wants the hassle of going through a board. It’s all LLCs now.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it. The layouts don’t work for people, either. The sequestered kitchens and maids quarters—it’s just not how people live anymore. They want lofts downtown somewhere, ones with private gyms and Pilates trainers.”

The conversation paused as Casper took another long draw on his cigar. William wished he had something to occupy his hands, having left his cocktail glass back in study. He thought about asking for that cigar after all, but finally Casper broke the silence.

“You’re close with Cy Birdwell, aren’t you?” he asked. 

Birdwell was one of Bedrock’s outside board members.

“Yes, very. We went to school together.”

“Yale.”

“And boarding school,” William added.

“Ah, I didn’t realize. Good good. But you’re close”

“Yes, Cy’s a great guy. What’s this about, Casper?”

“Well, it’s a bit awkward, and I thought, given your long relationship, you might be able to help with something, something that happens to be very relevant to you.”

“Of course,” replied William, now burning with curiosity.

“As you know,” continued Casper, “we like to think of ourselves as a firm which embraces the right values. That’s why we call them Bedrock Values. We don’t shy away from doing the right thing—ever. Happily for us, doing the right thing also happens to be quite profitable.”

“I came to Bedrock for those values, Casper. I had a lot of options.”

“I know you did, William. You’ve always been one to stand up for what’s right, which is why I need a favor.”

“Of course. Name it.”

“We just got an RFP.” Casper let it hang there.

“We get those all the time.”

 “This one’s from CalPERS. It will be on your desk Monday.”

CalPERS stood for the California Public Employee Retirement System. They managed the retirement money for 1.5 million state employees. With half a trillion in assets, they represented one of the biggest pots of of money in the world. An RFP was a “Request for Proposal,” meaning Bedrock was being invited to compete for some portion of that half trillion.

“It’s a $5 billion ESG mandate,” added Casper.

ESG stood for “Environmental, Social, and Governance.” It was type of investing that weighed societal factors like the climate crisis when making investment decisions. It was something Bedrock fully embraced and fell under William’s new area of responsibility, Sustainable Investing. The mandate would be a huge coup for both the firm and himself.

“As you know,” continued Casper, “CalPERS is one of the few big pension funds that has eluded our grasp. Our institutions are both progressively-minded, so I believe our values are aligned, but we’ve never quite crossed the finish line. I want this.”

“What does this have to do with Cy?” asked William.

“So here’s the thing…the RFP. There are diversity questions.”

“That should be good for us!” said William.

“Yes, normally, one would think,” said Casper.

Indeed, Bedrock had the first Wall Street firm to have a full-time Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion director and had aggressively hired African-Americans and women for years. Their board had four women members, two of whom were black, and one other black male member as well. One of the women came to board meetings in a Kente cloth. They even had a Muslim, who flew in from Qatar once a quarter.

“But this one asks specifically about LGBTQ board members,” said Casper.

It was dawning on William why they were having this clandestine conversation. “This is why you wanted to talk about Cy…” he said.

“Yes. Cy is gay, is he not? I mean, we all just assumed…”

Cy Birdwell was the founder and CEO of Birdwell Apparel, a multi-billion dollar clothing company, and it was widely understood that he was gay. But Cy never talked about it. If he had relationships with other men, it wasn’t public. Nor, thought William, did Cy “act” gay, a thought for which he immediately admonished himself. Of course there was no one way for a gay man to act! Although, he did dress awfully well…

“Honestly,” replied William, “I’m the same as you. I’ve known Cy since sophomore year at Andover, and I’ve never known him to date a woman, but I can’t say I’ve seen him with a man, either. Wonderful guy, though.”

“The best!” agreed Casper. “And a valued member of the board.” Casper drained the last bit of his drink. “So, you see there’s a box we need to check if we’re going to win this mandate.”

“You need to confirm that Cy is gay,” said William.

“Yes, or at least one of those letters. I believe the RFP says LGBTQ plus, so there’s a lot of room in there. Maybe he’s just asexual. That falls under ‘plus,’ doesn’t it?”

“I confess I’m a little hazy on the ‘plus’ part,” said William. “Maybe we could Google it.”

 “Yes, but regardless, since this RFP falls to your group, and since you have a long history with Cy…”

William swallowed. “I need to confirm Cy is gay. Or…plus.”

“Precisely.”

William paused, considering the implications. “But what if Cy is staying in the closet for a reason? I think some people still do that, don't they?”

Casper took another draw of his cigar. Exhaling, the air filled with purple smoke. “We think you’re Executive Committee material, as you know. After all, you’re now running our fastest growing department.”

Careful not to let his expression change, William let the words flow through him like manna. By we, William knew Casper meant I. Casper was king of all he surveyed at Bedrock. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to wonder what units in 740 might become available in a few years time. To hell with Pilates.

But there had to be some other way to get this done. He was about to say as much when Casper pointed his cigar at William and took a decidedly firmer tone. “But people at that level, they get things done, William. I want that business, and I won’t let some goddamn box we have to check on some goddamn form screw things up. If they want to know who we’re fucking, we’re going to tell them who we’re fucking. Is that understood?”

William was taken aback, and maybe a little upset, but made sure to not let it show. “Yes, of course.”

“Get it done,” said Casper Stein.

Insanity at the Trinity School

 

Note: In this piece, I mistakenly reported the Cos Cob Elementary School in Greenwich as the Greenwich Country Day School. This has been corrected.

A year ago, having obtained some internal communications, I wrote about Trinity's full embrace of CRT and "anti-racism" (which is nothing more than reverse racism). The school had recently created an anti-racism task force with, get this, 188 members and 11 working groups.

Is anyone now surprised at what has transpired over the last few days?

Just in case you weren't paying attention, the folks at Project Veritas, who work under cover, exposed the rampant biases of an administrator at Trinity named Jennifer Norris.

Sporting a nose ring, Norris openly bragged about promoting a left-wing agenda to her elementary-level students, vowed to never let Republican speakers on campus, and railed against all those "horrible" white boys.

My favorite part was where she fantasized about a "Dexter-like" character coming along and dealing with those wretched white boys once and for all.

Dexter is a serial killer on a television show.

Dexter

All this comes on the heals of the revelations about the Cos Cob Elementary School in Greenwich, where an administrator crowed about never hiring "Republicans or Catholics."

If you're interested, Trinity sent out a letter to its community, which is reprinted at the bottom. They seem more upset about how the revelations came about more than the revelations themselves.

Here's the thing: none of this is a surprise. 

Have you ever looked at Libs of Tik Tok on Twitter? They all seem to be teachers. The kind of rampant bias and hatred of conservatives displayed at Trinity and Cos Cob are everywhere in our schools, private and public. 

Progressives have always been disproportionately drawn to education, perhaps because education represents the opportunity for maximum cultural leverage. Brainwashing countless kids advances the revolution faster than, say, being an accountant at Price Waterhouse.

On an unfortunate note, the Naked Dollar can also reveal that Trinity has received an anonymous threat from someone to show up and "shoot any teacher they may find." This is highly disturbing, and nothing justifies even a threat of violence.

I hope the threat is a hoax and they find the person behind it.

Dear Members of the Trinity School Community,

Regrettably, Trinity School and Upper School Director of Student Activities Ginn Norris have become the focus of media attention as the result of video recordings of Ms. Norris that were made without her knowledge or permission by someone who misrepresented himself. While the circumstances surrounding the recordings are deeply disturbing, and we are profoundly troubled by the reprehensible way Ms. Norris and our school community were targeted, we are treating this matter with the utmost seriousness. Importantly, the sentiments expressed in the video do not reflect the mission or values of Trinity School.

Accordingly, the School is retaining outside counsel to conduct an independent investigation. Ms. Norris will be placed on paid leave while this investigation is underway. As part of this process, in conjunction with the work of our outside advisors, we will also review school protocols and practices that are in place to ensure that we are living up to our determination to build a more inclusive community.

This is a profoundly difficult moment, but we remain determined to model our conduct on our inspiring mission and the ideals of respect, belonging, and open inquiry that are embedded in it. Most recently, a letter sent to families just this Wednesday offered fresh language to express our core values: We care for one another. We listen and learn. We seek and speak the truth. We serve the common good. Every member of the Trinity School community knows these words speak straight to the heart of our daily efforts and aspirations, and it is important to remind ourselves, over and over again, that our community stands for and strives to live up to higher ideals — love, respect, and inclusion.

When the investigation is completed, we will communicate further with our community. We appreciate your patience and support while this work is underway.

Sincerely,

John Allman, Head of School
David Perez, President of the Board of Trustees