Ernst Ludwig Kirchner

Are you a clubman? Have you ever been a member or do you intend to apply for membership to a club? Whether or not you are interested in joining a members club, they are an intriguing subject for amateur and professional sociologists. Clubs illustrate a specific place and period’s character. They offer an amusing peek at human posturing. It’s much like a zoo, only for bipeds.

Once upon a time, clubs were exclusively for gentlemen. They were created by and for the English upper classes. Women did not join. Tradesmen were not invited, and clubs were completely exclusive, such as White’s in London, established in 1693. The clubs were primarily political back then, having grown from 18th century coffee houses, though modern clubs have any number of reasons for being.

Groucho Marx was neither English nor upper class, but he understood the concept best. In a telegram to the Friars Club of Beverly Hills he said famously, “Please accept my resignation. I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept people like me as a member.” After all, he worked for a living.

Nowadays there is a club for everybody. There are business clubs, clubs for women, clubs for Gentiles, clubs for Jewish people, clubs for golfers, clubs for skiers, clubs for tennis, beach clubs, nightclubs, and even yachting clubs in landlocked places such as Switzerland. Evidently, people really like clubs, and the socially insecure go out of their way to seek acceptance. They are usually soporific types if you ask me, which you haven’t, but I’ll bet on it anyway. We all know that special breed. They harass you for a signature and demand rather than request consideration. They are no Groucho Marx, and they would probably fit in better at a “gentlemen’s club” of the Playboy variety.

Fortunately I have only once been in the position to make such requests. For most of my life I have been happily club-free. I never wanted to be a member of any particular club nor had I ever found a club that had many friends with whom I wanted to regularly associate in our own clubhouse. Physical lethargy prevented me from joining any athletic clubs, and perhaps the general lack of youth clubs precluded me from finding a club of my own. Certainly the number of terrific bores who frequent many of the world’s “exclusive” clubs was a disincentive. 

How times change. I joined three clubs this year. I surprised myself to realize that I actually want to spend time in places where I know a lot of people. Why be a stranger in a strange land? It’s as boring as going to a party where you don’t know anybody. But stranger things have happened. Someone recently told me about a rich man who came to town and invited people he didn’t know to his birthday party. Apparently he was surprised when people declined. That’s the thing about clubs: Proximity doesn’t necessarily ensure association, much like befriending members of the English upper class.

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After a lifetime frequenting the Eagle Club in Gstaad as if it was my own, I am finally a legitimate member. I had to do some light lobbying for support, but in spirit I have always felt like a member, having enjoyed the Eagle since I was small. Both my parents are members, my father being the club’s longest-standing life member and certainly one of the most vocal. You can count on him to reprimand someone for sneaking a quick phone call on the terrace or castigating non-skiers who enjoy use of the best tables.

He’s right, but when you have a club as inclusive as say the Eagle, you can’t expect everyone to follow the rules. But they should. Club rules are there for good reasons and members must know what they are and keep their guests informed. Don’t be surprised if someone throws your telephone away next time you dare take a call at a club!

The second club I joined this year is the Andes. The founder members invited me to join, and thus I was spared the embarrassing appeals. For those of you who don’t follow these sorts of things, there is an inter-club ski week every year in St. Moritz. The Corviglia Club hosts the event, which includes such clubs as the Brook from New York and Madrid’s Puerta de Hierro. The Andes has no clubhouse and was only invented recently to include friends of the Corviglia who are not members of any participating clubs. The Eagle Club has been banned for conduct unbecoming, though I intend to remedy this in due course.

Most recently I joined 5 Hertford Street, Robin Birley’s new jewel in London, the mother of clubland. When Richard Caring bought the Birley empire, none of those clubs appealed to me. The gentlemen’s clubs were off-limits, and places such as the Groucho and Soho House never interested me, as I don’t know any of the members. When Hertford Street opened I was thrilled to be invited and even more so to finally have a place to go where I know people, or at least recognize them.

This is what I love about walking into Hertford Street and the Eagle—all the familiar faces. Did you think I’d join a club to network or make new friends? Bah!

I have never voted for a Republican Party candidate despite being a registered member of the GOP. The first time I voted for an American president was in 1996, and I marched down to Hunter College on 68th Street and Lexington Avenue to cast my ballot. For two years I had been a proud and eager Republican and now that I was old enough to vote, I couldn’t wait to exercise my power as an American citizen.

My enthusiasm was short-lived. I remember standing in the voting booth unable to punch the Bob Dole hole. Dole was a fossil, and he said nothing to me on most levels. Clinton wasn’t so bad in retrospect, but I couldn’t bring myself to vote for his thumbs, and that’s about all I remember about him pre-Monica Lewinsky. I voted instead for Harry Browne, whom I knew nothing about, but at least he represented a preferable ideology to the one the Republicans were selling. Plus he was a born-and-raised New Yorker. New Yorkers can sniff each other out in a crowd; it was almost reason enough to vote for him.

The subsequent elections were similarly uninspiring. George W. Bush sounded too dumb to get behind. I don’t even remember what he was selling, but I didn’t much care for how he sold it. Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, et al. were frightening even then, before their bizarre backroom brotherhood became the stuff of conspiracy theorists.

By the time John McCain came around in 2008 everything was different. 9/11 had happened. Back in the 90s McCain was someone I liked: a good guy, a politician one could get behind if ever there was one. But now he was aggressively championing war. I remember listening to him speak on the radio about the Middle East. My toes curled from the sound of his military bravado, which wasn’t so attractive in light of the debacles in Iraq and Afghanistan. He lost my vote on this factor alone.

And here we are again. This time it’s Mitt Romney who has done little to inspire my so-called Republican heart. On the issues, there is little overlap between Mitt and me. Despite his good looks, Romney has zero inspirational value and appears to be just another cog in the neoconservative wheel. Romney is another Bush (minus the dyslexia), and America needs a more articulate Dubya like it needs more welfare recipients.

This year will be different in that I won’t vote for Obama again (or for Paul in the primaries). I voted for Obama the first time—even though I didn’t trust him because he smokes butts off-camera—because he was bringing home the troops and because he is an accomplished person, notwithstanding his lack of political experience. Like most men and certainly all politicians, he turned out to be a liar. But I related to him on a philosophical level, despite our differing political viewpoints.

This year I’m going the way of P. J. O’Rourke by abstaining altogether. As he says, “It just encourages the bastards,” and they’re all bastards. What a sad state of affairs.

It makes me wonder: Am I a Republican after all? It stands to reason that perhaps I mislabeled myself back when I first registered. Why else haven’t I ever voted for one?

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What are the issues and do my views correspond with the Wikipedia definitions of Republican ideology and political positions? Free enterprise, check. Fiscal conservatism, check. Classical liberalism, check. Noninterventionist foreign policy, check. Gun ownership, check. Environmental issues, check.

Capital punishment, negative. Instinctively I stand squarely against it. Punishing murderers is necessary, obviously, but capital punishment stinks of barbarism. Don’t get me started on Saddam Hussein’s execution. Regarding more run-of-the-mill criminals, one wonders if it is even a “deterrent”? There are more than 3,000 people on Death Row. Questions like these are certainly very complex. Regardless, this deviation alone shouldn’t preclude me from the Party.

Abortion, negative. Yes, I know I just said “killing is wrong,” but the difference from capital punishment is the life was never yours to take in the first place. On the other hand, if you create the life, the power to take it away is yours, or at least it should be while it is gestating inside you. At the very least, the distinction is great enough to separate the issue of abortion from capital punishment. Furthermore, having a child you are ill equipped to raise is practically criminal, so any preventive measures on that front may be necessary at times.

Abortion should fall under the individual-freedom category along with LGBT issues. I see no reason why the government is involved in the legality or illegality of these choices. Most conservatives are pro-traditional-family, pro-life, and God-fearing, but these are not political issues. They are personal, moral, and religious ones; therefore, I could be a pro-choice, pro-gay-marriage Republican. Or can’t I?

This is where I get confused and where Republican candidates lose me. On one hand they support personal freedom, yet on the other they are incapable of separating their religious beliefs from their political ones. This is all the more infuriating when Republicans bring Christianity into the argument, considering that the Christian spirit loves, accepts, and forgives, something totally antithetical to the belligerent moral outrage that so many conservative voters exhibit.

Don’t get me wrong. I was born from Christians! And I like to prefer a hypocrite to a prig because fallibility is far more appealing than moral superiority. But this moral outrage is too widespread to be categorized so trivially. Both sides have politicized the Christian fury over abortion, stem-cell research, and gay marriage. It is no longer a question of individual hypocrisy but of doublethink.

So what do the experts have to say about our current political labels? People such as Professor Paul Gottfried, who has devoted much of his work to defining terms such as “Republican” and “conservative,” will say I am not a real Republican but a Social Democrat or something similar.

I would give a rat’s hoo-ha about the distinction if I had the choice to vote for policies of which I approve. Unfortunately, the system does not provide me with this option. Instead, I am forced to choose between two unsatisfactory candidates, a wasted vote, or none at all. I’ll choose the latter since the other options have yielded no success as of yet.

Politics has nothing to do with democracy anymore and Big Brotherism is synonymous with Big Business.

There is plainly no place left for the individual.

Perhaps at this point I should be grateful to be resigned to insouciance.

Whether I am a Republican, Democrat, or Libertarian isn’t important to me. I don’t think too much of labels.

Being at the mercy of a person in uniform can drive a reasonable person to madness. But if you’re in a less-than-reasonable mood and you encounter a zealous TSA agent, you might find yourself in jail or on a no-fly list. In extreme cases, contact with a human trafficker in a UN uniform who has diplomatic immunity can get a person raped, tortured, and buried six feet underground. Given the choice, I’d go with the TSA.

After reading about Kathryn Bolkovac and UN involvement in human trafficking in Bosnia alongside recent events involving hookers and Secret Service agents in South America, one wonders how many incidents go unreported. We all know the TSA is a horribly flawed agency loaded with benighted manpower, but it seems like the higher the agency, the more lascivious the corruption becomes. Who or what is to blame?

On the outside one might think the trouble lies with naughty individuals. But institutions such as the United Nations which provide immunity to its officers afford a licentious creature the protection he needs to operate with little fear of reprisal. Without the badge, bad guys are nothing more than gangsters. Give them a badge and human trafficking flourishes because criminals are offered protection by the people who supposedly exist to protect the innocent. Obviously local policing is necessary in civil society, but why bother putting people in uniform if they exacerbate the problem?

Officers tends to infantilize people. Do adults really need a “hall monitor” to make sure no monkey business is underway? People tend to police themselves when left alone. This requires making decisions, which requires using one’s mental faculties, which can be challenging, at least for some people. Managing one’s total lack of power can be difficult as well, particularly when dealing with a person in uniform who is operating under the assumption that everyone is a potential threat rather than the more likely assumption that most are not. TSA agents tend to be the most unqualified individuals when it comes to managing the power bestowed upon them. Climb up the totem pole and you will find border guards, immigration officers, policemen, military officers, and Secret Service agents who are increasingly likely to be the sort of deranged individual you should fear. It makes a person long for the DMV lady.

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There are many honorable and dutiful servicemen. They are not the ones I’m challenging. These guys are. And these guys. And all the guys that protect the guys that protect the guys that are big, strong, horny maniacs who spend too much time with men and guns and not enough time with women that aren’t prostitutes or slaves.

When at the mercy of a man or woman in uniform, compliance is the easiest way to be rid of them. Put your ego aside, do what they tell you, and soon enough you will be on your way. If you think you know better and have a righteous cause against them, think again. Going up against a supposedly friendly institution such the United Nations is not going to win you many friends—and frankly, who has the energy to fight widespread corruption and injustice? The sad truth is you can’t play with the big boys unless you are a big boy. The real world is just like the sandbox; if getting your ass kicked is your idea of fun, lead the way. Kathryn Bolkovac can probably tell you a thing or two about what you’re up against and how hard it is to make something wrong right when you’re dealing with a supposedly legitimate entity.

Uniforms often represent corruption rather than fight it. So where does that leave us? Admitting individuals have no real power is a vague option. Fearing the fact we have no power and donning a badge to pretend we do is a popular option. I find the former more appealing, because who wants to be a pussy with a badge? I’d rather be a bona fide badass even if that means breaking the law and suffering the consequences. On the other hand, wearing a uniform and sporting a badge really adds an air of legitimacy to a person’s life, especially if they like sex, drugs, alcohol, and role-play—and who doesn’t? Never mind the gross malfeasance.

People like to say we are all equal even though we all know that’s a pile of fantasy talk. About the only place we are all equal is on an existential level. In other words, we are all equal in that we are born and we die. Everything in between is categorically askew. If you are too dense to accept this concept, let me make it easier for you to understand: Some people wear uniforms and some people do not. Those that do not wear uniforms have less power than those that do. If we were all truly equal, there would be no need to distinguish between officers and civilians. If we were all truly equal, there would be no difference between Barack Obama and his whoremongering protectors.

Fortunately I am not one of the newly unemployed. But if I found myself jobless and needing to earn a few bucks, there are lots of ways to get back in the game. If one is really desperate, offering to volunteer in the sort of establishment one would like to work is a good way to let the boss know you are a solid worker and a decent soul. Solid workers and decent souls seem to be dying breeds.

One must remember that there is no job too small. I am not a maid, but I like to serve others and to clean. If I had to start over and move downstairs so to speak, I’d aim to one day become the head maid. I am serious. If I had to choose another profession I would be a maid or a personal assistant. I have the skills, and I like to think I have the humility. Surely some of you will think this is rubbish and that I have been spoiled all my life. In part, this is true. But every now and then I get down on my hands and knees to clean one toilet or another. Sometimes the bowl is my own. Other times it belongs to someone else. I do this because I prefer a clean loo to a filthy one. I also do it out of respect for the owner and the next visitor. Most importantly, I do it to remind myself that despite the fact that a nice Polish lady cleans my john once a week, I am not above the task.

Lately I find people prancing around as though they were above any sort of occupation that serves others. I find this odd given the state of the world economy, particularly in places such as Greece. Several sources tell me that Greeks are refusing to work in the service industry as waiters and suchlike. They leave it to Eastern Europeans. In America, Mexicans usually fill such jobs.

People with this kind of attitude are brats. How can you have your own business without starting at the bottom?

I have friends in completely different industries who are just as lazy. Sure, it’s tough to take an entry-level position over age 30, but if you haven’t paid your dues, sooner or later you must. And if you’re “overqualified,” don’t forget everyone needs to eat a little doo-doo to get wherever they would prefer to be. 

A good sign of maturity is when someone is willing to submit to annoying rules imposed by those who have something we want. If that means answering phones, picking up dry cleaning, and scrubbing a bloody loo to prove you are there to stay, that’s what you do. If you’re too good for that or any kind of manual labor, grow up!

For the most part, I dislike Italians. But to their credit, they make very good waiters and servers when they embrace it as a lifelong career. The ones I know are gentlemen of the highest order—the only Italians worth their weight, in my view. All across the world in the best hotels one will find the head waiters, bartenders, and cooks are Italian. They are the only ones you remember if you are lucky enough to spend any time in one of these places. Their jobs are not beneath them, so why should such jobs be beneath you? Unless you have what it takes, you simply aren’t qualified.

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Once upon a time, being in the service industry was seen as a noble life choice. Service is still a decent career path for some people. But now everybody thinks they are entitled to free money and a footman. The idea of waiting tables for the rest of one’s life is unheard of. But it shouldn’t be. Not everyone is equally competent for the role of prince.

I can understand not wanting to work at McDonald’s or in some disgusting, out-of-the-way dump. No one should have to do that. I know because I’ve done it. Customers can be awful, even in high-end places. Nevertheless, patience is never a bad thing. A little humility goes a long way. Perhaps if more people worked in restaurants, customers on the whole would be much nicer.

The Italians are onto something, and we should take note even though they are…well, Italian. They know a thing or two about good food and good restaurants. Their version of fast food is called Autogrill and it is a delicious roadside pizza joint run by the Benetton family. The food is as good as home-cooked. Beyond that, there is no such thing as fast food in Italy unless you count the Burger King by the train station. 

So many fortunes have been started with love and good, simple food. Even McDonald’s. Why do people scoff at waiting tables when it could lead to owning your own restaurant or having your own business? Is the answer simply that nowadays everyone wants to be an actor and is hoping for a big payday? Being the boss or having your own business is incredibly hard work. It’s a hell of a lot easier to merely be an employee. So why are so many folks reluctant to serve at all? Where has this attitude of entitlement come from, and how can we get people back to work and singing for their supper? 

Whatever position you are in, the answer to all these questions and many others is simple. Get on your hands and knees once in a while and clean your own can. If you can do this with care and pride, you can do almost anything. If you do, I’ll bet sooner or later you might be the one in charge, too.

During the summer of 2008 I spent several days on the Greek island of Patmos. Every morning on my way to the beach I would stop for breakfast in the port to meet my friends. We would sit in a little café next to the police station. Eventually we noticed the island’s sole jail cell, which was adjacent to the café.

The cell was small—maybe three by five meters—and packed. Arms were hanging out of the two windows that faced the main square. Eventually one of my friends went over to see what was going on inside. There were about 15 people—men, women, and children—locked up. They often pled for cigarettes, which we happily provided. We got to know some of them. The men who spoke English were educated. One was a scientist. They had come from Iraq. War refugees. They were being held indefinitely. No one knew what to do with them. Fortunately, Patmos isn’t a bad place to be locked up. But Greece isn’t exactly where one wants to be at the bureaucracy’s mercy.

The hot-button issue in Switzerland these days seems to be asylum and immigration. Switzerland currently hosts nearly 62,000 refugees and asylum-seekers. Cantons are struggling to absorb the influx. Permanent shelters are full, and additional accommodations are in demand.

The increase is attributed to changes in North Africa. Asylum-seekers are mostly from Eritrea, Nigeria, and Tunisia, comprising roughly 2% of Switzerland’s total number of foreigners. Some locals worry that they’re a safety threat. Others are more concerned with humanitarian principles.

So how responsible are the people from stable countries for refugees from unstable countries?

If we lived in a world without borders, the burden of responsibility would fall on everyone, no matter how distant our points of origin. But as we do not live in such a world, there is only a moral responsibility to one’s immediate community. Any further responsibility is an individual’s choice—in theory, anyway.

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The system is flawed. But which system? Is the Dublin agreement causing problems, or is it the Geneva Convention itself? The latter was drafted in WWII’s aftermath and set an international standard for dealing with war victims. Sixty years on, the face of war has changed, and so too its victims. But war itself seems unlikely to disappear anytime soon.

War’s victims shall exist in perpetuity, or at least it looks that way. This is bad news for stable European communities. Eventually, the burden of instability will spring up from within, especially if immigrants fail to adopt European conventions and culture. We see this happening already in England and France.

Big alarm bells are not yet sounding off, but with an ever-growing population and ever-expanding wars, these issues will become more critical. Instability in Africa, the Middle East, and parts of Asia is often the result of Western efforts such as “nation-building” and the selling of “democracy.”

Does this mean the West is responsible? Are Americans and Europeans responsible for Iraqi refugees since the invasion? Absolutely.

But are Europeans responsible for Tunisian refugees since the Arab Spring? Definitely not.

Switzerland has absolutely no direct responsibility for asylum-seekers because it is not a member of NATO or the EU and has not invaded a foreign country in over 700 years.

The collateral effects of promulgating democracy are far greater than politicians seem to realize. A peace-loving country such as Switzerland should not have to carry the burden for aggressive nations such as England and America, though they do so willingly and despite its impact.

Asylum-seeking is a political problem. But the moral issue is greater. Who is ultimately responsible—the countries at war or the countries at peace?

The only humane way to solve this problem would be a widespread and permanent cease-fire.

I wouldn’t hold my breath banking on this, though. So in the meantime, I say ship ’em back!

Long before a well-known French shoe designer immortalized women’s feet with red soles, the red Valentino dress had deified the women who wore them for several decades. 

Renowned couture designer Valentino Garavani practically had “red” named after him. “Valentino Red” is a source of reference among those in the know. According to the designer, the inspiration came to him when he was 18 at a Barcelona theater. The opera was La Traviata and everything he saw was red, from the theater’s interior to the flowers to the dresses. He decided it would be his signature color.

For roughly five decades, Valentino has been creating some of the world’s most exquisite clothes. A serious wardrobe, the likes of which women such as Jackie Onassis or Elizabeth Taylor possessed, always has one of his dresses among the heap. All the most glamorous celebrities, socialites, and grande dames have worn him. He is up there among the greats with Dior, Saint Laurent, Chanel, Balenciaga, and Schiaparelli.

Four years ago the Italian designer announced his retirement. His company had already been sold for almost a billion dollars. But his work continues online. Garavani and his longtime collaborator Giancarlo Giammetti launched the Valentino Virtual Museum late last year. While the concept might not mean much for people who don’t care about clothes or for whom women’s fashion holds little meaning, Valentino’s Virtual Museum is as worthy of admiration as any other exhibition room. It is the first of its kind, and like Valentino himself, rather exceptional.

Unlike a traditional museum, the VVM is not a traveling exhibit or a museum one must travel to visit or queue up to buy a ticket. The VVM is an easily downloadable show with free access for all. The museum has the added benefit of feeling like a private tour where one can languish on any piece uninterrupted. Valentino’s Virtual Museum provides a sweeping glimpse not only into the designer’s style and his most innovative achievements, but more importantly into the evolution of style between the 1960s and the 21st century.

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Much like a film can be placed in time by its visual feel, so too can fashion, providing a winsome record of the world at large. In the 60s, we see the greater political outlook reflected in bohemian blouses and floral patterns. The 80s, with big shoulders and garish colors, evoked the revival of laissez-faire capitalism and political grandstanding. According to Garavani, fashion reflects the time in which we live. He says “it must also, like a movie or music, inspire and make people dream.” The museum is in this sense not only a source of inspiration but a visual tool for studying fashion and the last half-century’s social events. In a British Vogue article, Valentino refers to his museum’s concept as “future memory”—a glimpse of the past in an ultramodern medium. He says it is a way to “review the fashion that has shaped our lives.” 

Fashion and clothing are often considered superficially extravagant, but we all know the value of appearances. We live in a time when slobs are far too prevalent. The great hordes’ overall lack of finesse can be jarring. It is an unfortunate time for appearances, which is a shame because as Valentino points out, “today ready-to-wear has achieved a quality and sophistication that once belonged just to couture.” He says the only thing he would change about high street fashion would be to make things simpler: “Less va-va-voom…and more like an old American way to dress, a shirt…jeans…flat shoes.” If only more people took their cues from Mr. Valentino.

Valentino says he is most proud of the style and identity he created. Giammetti, ever the businessman, looks to the present. He is most pleased that retirement can include projects such as this museum. 

Garavani and Giammetti live privileged lives surrounded by exceptional beauty. Their houses in Italy, France, England, and Switzerland betray the fact that they are true aesthetes. While it might be easy to envy the grandeur with which Valentino and Giammetti are surrounded, they deserve it more than anything because they earned it. Valentino has been a true creator of beauty, which is its own reward. Unlike some modern designers, Valentino has always behaved like a gentleman of the old school. Aspiring designers and creative individuals starting out will do well to take inspiration from Garavani and Giammetti.

Ho Ho Ho…Merry Christmas! At least it’s usually merry for those of us who love Christmas, notwithstanding the Scrooge in every family who tries to make the holiday miserable because they can’t enjoy it themselves. It can be a volatile time, and most families get together only to find themselves on the verge of a family meltdown. 

It’s pathetically infantile that we can’t gather once a year for joy and merriment to celebrate Jesus and exchange gifts without pushing each other’s buttons. Yet it happens to almost all of us, particularly when we come together under one roof as adults. Those who say Christmas is for children are right, but children come in all sizes.

I still love Christmas—despite the fact that almost every year there is a major family drama where doors are slammed, insults are exchanged, and tears are wept. I love the gleeful spirit, listening to Christmas music by the fire, wrapping presents, stuffing stockings, choosing and decorating the tree, setting up the crèche, watching snow fall, and all the glorious holiday food.

Once the tree is erected, the men in the family begin the eye-rolling and teasing, acting as if all this Christmas business is ridiculous. Actually, they simply don’t like Christmas and prefer to be in a bad mood for several days—instead of pretending, as my mother and I do, that Santa is coming and we must set the scene and put on faces of good cheer. 

Humbuggery, you say! Certainly. And why not? I can think of nothing more appealing than a false veneer. Appearances are not necessarily bad, and keeping them up—especially when one pretends things are better than they really are—is the essence of civilization. I didn’t always think this way, and I can see why for some, truth above all else is necessary. Fighting against tyranny, hypocrisy, or suffering is a perfectly noble endeavor, especially if it brings the truth to light. 

But when it comes to Christmas, most of us know Santa doesn’t exist and that the world and our families are not perfect. What’s the harm in a little cheer and make-believe? So you had a miserable childhood and your early Christmas memories are fraught with mirthless images? All the more reason to relish the occasion now and treat each other like we would treat a child who still believes Santa Claus wears a red suit and rides a sleigh pulled by red-nosed reindeer. At the very least, indulging the Christmas fantasy is the polite thing to do—particularly since life can be painful. Fanning the flames of misery at the end of every year is antagonistic and selfish—the precise opposite of what Christmas is about.

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Peace and a generous spirit are qualities we should all seek, particularly now when emotions are running high. Give a gift, write a card, send a cookie. Offer a smile to your unpleasant neighbor or hold your temper when the service is terrible and you are forced to wait. Better yet, when your relative says something infuriating and idiotic, smile and say OK. If that’s too much to manage, invite a lonely bore to dinner or give a compliment where a compliment is almost due. Make something. Save something. Do something that takes you out of your comfort zone. Lend a hand. Go to church. Find your patience. Do whatever it is you might not normally do for someone else’s benefit and not necessarily your own. 

Perhaps this means giving Hanukkah and Kwanzaa equal billing. So be it. Happy Holidays to you and Merry Christmas to us!

But it’s not over yet…there is that damned New Year only a few days ahead, and it will bring out as many curmudgeons as Christmas. Find a humorous way to indulge one of them. Maybe a plastic cockroach in their bed or a fake turd in their shoe. If nothing will put a smile on their face, tuck them in, kiss them goodnight, and have fun with someone new. If what they say is true, the end is near and you have nothing to lose, anyway.

Southampton Beach

When I was growing up we used to go to Southampton on Long Island during the summer. We also spent time in Italy, Greece, and Switzerland. Of the four, no place stands out as the best, but they are all special in different ways. Most places are wonderful in summer. Even the swelter of an August day in Manhattan has its appeal. When it’s really hot and the masses leave town, the city feels like it belongs to no one but you, particularly on weekends when the streets are wide-open and free for one to walk unescorted and unhampered by the usual bustle. Finding respite from the heat in an empty and over-cooled cinema for a matinee show or stepping into the air-conditioned subway car from the stifling platform is a little bit of bliss. All but a few tourists remain. The others have escaped to cooler and more beautiful shores.

In no particular order, my favorite getaways sound like some sort of fancy jet-set list, though they are only places I love and usually go back to midyear. I hope this list’s hoity-toityness will somehow dissuade you from going to these ports of call; the last thing they need are more tourists!

SOUTHAMPTON

I try to remember Southampton as it was before Puff Daddy and his ilk popularized The Hamptons. Rich folk probably ruined it long before him, but it was back in the late 90s when I felt some of its soul was lost because of all the money and PR that came to the South Fork. Before that we rode around on bicycles without a worry because people drove slowly and the place was safe. We’d go to the beach club and play tennis, ride horses in the afternoon, or just swim at home in the pool or play baseball in the garden. We’d eat at Paul’s Pizza or Driver’s Seat and hang out at Long Island Sound, where we bought cassette tapes and records. Some of these local favorites remain, while others have been replaced by big chains. Despite everything that has changed, my fond memories remain. I haven’t been back in almost a decade, but when I think of Southampton I remember the musty stink of the sand dunes and the smell of freshly cut grass in the late-afternoon sun. Long Island’s South Fork is a very pretty place, colored by the landscape, architecture, and history. Now it is overrun by city slickers, but I like to think its true nature is kept alive by the wild, roaring, rumbling Atlantic Ocean.

SAINT-TROPEZ

The first time I went to Saint-Tropez was in late September. It was still warm, and the sun was shining. The tourists had gone, and it was simply perfect. Just a few sailboats bobbed in the charming little harbor, and I walked around the local streets looking for the best Tarte Tropézienne I could find. I thought I might have seen an old Brigitte Bardot walking along the back streets, but it was just an anonymous French beauty. I discovered many wonderful shops like the vintage cotton place across from La Ponche, my favorite little hotel. I watched old men play pétanque on the Place des Lices, and it was then that I decided the cemetery that looks out from town onto the sea was the most divine place to be buried. Getting to know such a famous place the way I did seems better than getting to know it during the high season when its essence can be obscured. There are plenty of hidden secrets in Saint-Tropez, but even the famous ones are terrific. With the right group of friends, Le Club 55, Les Caves du Roy, and the scene at the Byblos are good fun. But since spending extended periods of time in Saint-Tropez in the summer requires the bank account of a Russian billionaire, I kept on my search for the perfect island getaway.

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IBIZA

I love Ibiza. I love it for so many reasons I can hardly think of another place I would prefer to own a summer house. Actually, I am writing to you from here now. This time I am staying in Sant Miquel in the north. This area is said to be the more spiritual part of the island. I’m not sure the whole place isn’t downright spiritual. Ibiza even has its own god (Bes) and goddess (Tanit). The nearby Balearics and Pitiüses are totally magical. I feel excited and happy the moment my plane’s wheels touch down on the tarmac at Ibiza Airport. The thing about Ibiza, though, is you have to love to drive. The island is relatively small, but the drives are long. It is always a new discovery to come here. No two trips are ever alike. They are always revelatory in some way: full of laughter, dancing, eating, and sun. In Ibiza, the night sky seems especially vibrant, and the frequent shooting stars are easy to see. The beauty of the Ibicenco night can only be compared to its fertile landscape. The red earth is teeming with animals and splendid Mediterranean vegetation. With so much to see, it can be hard to sleep in Ibiza. Every hour of the day invites one to observe its beauty, and from dawn until dusk, when a purple glow rests above the greenery, one hopes the holiday will go on forever. From the nearby island of Formentera to Es Vedra, Atlantis, and the variety of coves and beaches to discover, I often wonder if I will ever fully know the island’s magnificence. Even its history is grand. It was discovered by the Phoenicians, and being a valuable point of commerce, it has been fought over by the Moors, Vandals, Romans, and the Carthaginians, among others. Ibiza is home to many myths. Some say Hannibal was born here. The stories go on and on, and so too the myriad marvels waiting to be found by those who truly love and understand the island’s hippie spirit.

PATMOS

The only other clime I have been to where the place’s energy made me want to stay up all night is the Greek island of Patmos. It is quite a small island and impossible to get to quickly. St. John is said to have written the Apocalypse there, and so a sort of religious quality suffuses the place. High above John’s cave, which lies between the harbor and the main village, a giant stone monastery prevails despite being shrouded by mysterious rumors and tales of quarreling monks. Patmos was “discovered” in the 60s and 70s by well-to-do bohemians and homosexuals and has since been rediscovered by similar people from Greece and around the world.

When I went to Patmos, I fell in love—not only with a person, but with the gossip, the architecture, the light, the bad food, the views, and the cold, brilliant blue sea. Like every great seaside destination, it is overrun with Italians. During late summer they take over the platea, the main square in the Chora, though they prefer calling it the piazzetta. Every evening, beautiful young things gather to drink and make merry with friends and strangers alike. The island is small enough where after only a few days one has seen almost everyone who is ashore. The atmosphere is infectious and intense, like the heat. My favorite moments there are always around the Panagia (one of the titles of Mary), an Orthodox celebration on August 15th.

And just as the warm season comes to a close, Gstaad is my favorite place. The mountains in summer are almost more beautiful than in winter. One can’t help but be outside to enjoy the endless greenery, cool lakes, and flowing rivers. And if that’s not enough, you have the music, tennis, polo, and my personal favorite, skeet shooting!

Liberace

In Part One of this guide, I encouraged the newly rich not to wear white. Many people, possibly some of them newly rich, objected. They were right in one sense: You can wear white, but only if you know how to wear white. When you don’t, it is simply easier to avoid it altogether.

Herewith I elaborate on that point, as well as some other general etiquette rules and how to break them.

WHITE DOS AND DON’TS

• Men may not wear stiff white cotton jackets with black shirts unless they want to look like a cunt.

• Under no circumstances should you wear white patent-leather shoes—except if you are Elvis or Liberace, and then only in the casket. Pat Boone will be permitted to wear them again once he’s dead.

• Drive a white car only if it’s old, beaten up, or cheap. You may not roll in a white Rolls unless you are in Vegas or Monaco and you are being ridiculous on purpose. Diddy and Ay-rabs are exempt.

• You may decorate your house in all white, but for Pete’s sake, make sure it doesn’t look like an Ian Schrager hotel.

HOW TO EAT WITH YOUR HANDS

• You may eat ribs or baby lambchops with your hands, but only if you can do it without looking like a beast. Children should eat chicken legs with their hands, but adults must refrain unless they are at a BBQ wearing socks with sandals and a Hawaiian shirt. Lobster can be eaten by hand, but try to keep the sucking sounds and greasy-finger look to a minimum, especially if you are overweight.

• Don’t eat anything else with your hands except asparagus. If you are attractive, a French fry can be picked by hand with a delicate gesture. A salad leaf too. It’s quite chic ... tres de rigeuer… it is a matter of know how. If you come from a country where eating with your hands is normal, I’m sorry for you. Learn to use a fork and knife unless you are at home.

• Plump girls should not be seen in public eating bread, candy bars, or desserts ravenously. If you want to stuff a dozen Twinkies in your piehole when you’re home, that’s OK, but don’t buy them in a shop—order them over the Internet.

• Never lick your fingers, unless you need to lubricate.

HOW TO DRINK AND TAKE DRUGS

• Women should never appear drunk in public. You may be tipsy, but never pushy. You look cheap enough as it is.

• Men can drink as much as they like as long as they remain joyful à la Robert Benchley and never show a hint of aggression.

• If you must do drugs, never speak about them and don’t do them with your very young grandchildren. Remember, keep it in the family, noseleak—but only adults in the family.

HOW TO SHOW OFF

• Fancy cars are for rappers.

• If you have a chauffeur, don’t allow him to drive your Maserati or Porsche; keep him in your wife’s bedroom instead.

• Bodyguards are not the new black. They’re out. To lunch.

• Collect art and wine, but don’t hire someone to choose it for you, upstart.

STYLE AND BEAUTY

• Men should never, never, never dye their hair. Women can, but stick to your roots. If you’re Saudi, chestnut at best, no blonde. Red, pink, or blue-black should be avoided unless you are a rock star.

• Rattails and hockey haircuts or mullets are not a good look. Real rednecks are allowed to rock this look and any other, but not if they become famous.

• No Hamiltans. Valentino Garavani, just a bit less orange, please, but we love you anyway. Lindsay Lohan spray tans are stupid like Lindsay Lohan. Fair is fairer.

• Plastic surgery should only be for brave young men and women who have been disfigured in an accident or wounded in war. If you must fix a bad nose or get a breast lift, fine. But lip injections and too much Botox make you the Bride of Wildenstein. Period.

• Don’t get tattooed after 25 unless you’re doing time.

• Unless you worship Il Duce, don’t wear a black shirt.

• Badly wrinkled linen suits can be very attractive, but you have to be very fat or very thin to carry it off.

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VACATIONING

• Stay in your ethnic region. There is nothing more ludicrous than seeing thick-set, peasant-like Russians shopping in St. Moritz or Sardinia. WASPs should stay in Newport and Russkis in Crimea.

• If you must leave your country, don’t wear a fanny pack and rubber sandals. Remember, when in Rome…

FOOD AND WINE

• Don’t eat food out of season. According to my brother, eating oysters in July and August is like eating pussy after it has been on a 100-mile bike ride.

• There is nothing that guarantees inclusion to the world’s most disgusting people like drinking expensive wine and champagne when it isn’t a special occasion.

FOREIGNERS

• When referring to Hellenes never call them “Grecians” like Dubya did; they’re called “Greeks,” dimwit.

• Never leer, unless you are a rich Saudi or Pakistani and are therefore genetically incapable of controlling it.

• If you’ve grown up in the desert and you’ve never seen a modern bathroom before, don’t drop one behind the curtain. That’s a big no-no over here.

• When an obese member of an ethnic minority begs for food, respond by suggesting they could do with a diet.

• If you see a large contingent of blue-suited Chinamen near the UN in Manhattan, don’t hand them your laundry.

SINE QUA NON

• Stay in your ethnic area.

• A lady or a gentleman never raises his or her voice unless there is a fire in a crowded movie theater. And even if there is, he or she always screams politely.

• If your mother’s rich and no one knows who your father is, don’t use your mother’s last name like Amanda Hearst, Brandon Davis, or Paris Latsis. If you must change your name, downgrade.

• Always be extremely gracious toward people less fortunate than yourself; you’ll be on your way down soon enough.

• Don’t use the “F” word unless you are begging for one.

• Never floss in public.

• Never treat a woman like anything but a lady.

• Never use the word “partner” unless you are planning to rob a bank.

• Don’t carry a gun unless you are a professional athlete in the NFL or NBA.

• If you want a pet, get a homeless Indian from the subcontinent. Don’t buy a pit bull; you might lose a boob one day.

• No matter how ripped you are, no one wants to see your hirsute body at the table. Wear a shirt for lunch even if you’re on the beach.

• American women: STOP walking around with a bottle of water in your hand or a cup from Starbucks! You’re killing the white race.

• Muscles are medium class. Body building is O-U-T.

• No PDA, unless you are a fused lesbian.

• Finally, if you have to leave, don’t go until you come back.

When bad guys are taken out in real life like they are in the movies, I am reminded that despite our technological and artistic exploits, we are collectively brutish creatures with antediluvian predilections.

Never have I been more ashamed to be American than I was that day in December 2006 when my country, a so-called legitimate entity, allowed the interim Iraqi government to hang Saddam Hussein. The subsequent transmission of the event via cell-phone camera was equally disgraceful and did not befit a head of state—not even a barbarous one such as Saddam.

Recent reports from Libya suggest NATO bombs are killing Gaddafi’s children and grandchildren. Supposing this is more than mere propaganda, where is the justice? How are Libyans better off now? There will be no glory from our intervention, only a greater absence of grace and decency.

With the news of Osama bin Laden’s execution, many proclaim it is a proud day for America. On New York’s streets and in front of Obama’s White House, patriots wave flags and unite in celebrating would-be justice. According to the president, the firing squad acted on his direction. I am not assured by the president—or any other figure who is certainly more knowledgeable, more accomplished, and more important than I am—of the righteousness of this killing or any other.

Many people support capital punishment. They say that the world is no place for despicable individuals who rape and murder the innocent. For the truly horrible, they believe, only death can redeem mankind and balance the scales of justice. Even the blathering prigs among us sanctify capital punishment. But they are all mad.

Those who endorse violence and assassination don’t merely impede those who prefer a nonviolent existence—they are also fundamentally mistaken. There is no good fight. There is no right war, and there is no just cause for world domination. True strength has nothing to do with being number one, and therefore the current paradigm will not provide us with the outcome we seek. The idea that we must continuously defend ourselves against someone or something is as far-gone as the Enlightenment.

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People who insist on justifying war and murder provide little in the way of an original point of view. Actually, they have only served to regress mankind into oblivion. Our current way of thinking, personified by George W. Bush and Osama bin Laden, has an unfortunately authoritative place in today’s world. And despite all we know about war and fighting, it seems we still know very little. The old standard is passé, but it proudly persists as though a happy Hollywood ending were in sight.

Brutality can only be primitive. It is a mindless act that has brought about dozens of holocausts, two World Wars, Pearl Harbor, the Cold War, 9/11 and the subsequent War on Terror, in addition to the ongoing jihad and endless other monstrosities.

There is no great civilization to defend anymore. The savages have taken over. They will succeed. We must let them. Defending against this or any other perceived injustice through brute force is a losing game. We will sooner lose what is left of our great Western Civilization and be no better for it.

But too many people would rather hang onto what they know than surrender to something new. They are bound by measly ideas such as war, justice, and a superior race, political system, or religion. To righteously defend one’s own against one’s enemies is certainly natural, but in theory rather than in practice. The use of force over reason subverts history’s course and has destroyed innumerable lives. Yet the killing continues with no hope for justice or fair play.

While capital punishment has been practiced in almost every culture throughout history, today it is only legal in 58 countries. The other 95 have abolished the death penalty. In 2008, the UN General Assembly adopted a non-binding global moratorium on it, but nearly two-thirds of the world’s citizens still live under threat of capital punishment.

I am not suggesting criminals roam free or that the rule of law is somehow superfluous. I would simply prefer to see a future for my children that looks more like Woodstock than World War III. For that, I would rather die by a barbarian’s hand than ascend by force. To believe that somehow we are fighting the good fight in Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Israel, or anywhere else is to live in a pipe dream. And no, I am not the crazy idealist—you are.

Queen Elizabeth II

The Queen of England announced she was “absolutely delighted.” The Prince of Wales issued a statement saying he, too, was “delighted.” Prime Minister David Cameron said the engagement marked “a great day” for England. 

Excuse me? Hello! What are they talking about? These folks are all either stark raving mad or big fat liars. 

Sure, Kate Middleton may be the best thing that ever happened to Prince William. She might become a fine wife and mother. Waity Katie may even perform her duties better than any princess before her. But Kate Middleton—we’ll have to call her Catherine from now on—is not to the manner born. The Windsors could not have hoped William would marry outside his class. They don’t. Even if they say they do. 

The trouble is, Diana almost brought down the monarchy. The Queen and Prince Charles probably figure a young woman such as Catherine will be concerned with appearances. She will do what she’s told rather than what she desires. Apparently she does already. Catherine certainly won’t embarrass the Windsors the way Diana did. Only someone secure with her background or as headstrong as Diana was would break with royal protocol.

On the bright side, their children might not be too ugly. Years of inbreeding does little for appearances. Kate comes from a good-looking family. Both her parents and siblings are quite attractive. They seem like solid stock, too. But are the Middletons happy about the union? Unless they are big social climbers, the marriage will actually make their lives unpleasant. They’ll have a lot of new friends hoping to get some sort of fancy invitation. Their privacy will be limited and their actions scrutinized. Just for that, I hope William is grateful to have Catherine in his life. In addition to everything else, I imagine being his wife could be a wee bit dull. I’m sure he still gets a good laugh pushing his pals into swimming pools and the like. The poor boy, bless him, was probably broken by his upbringing. He can’t be completely normal. His father, while very nice, seems totally unemotional. His mother, as we all know by now, was a bit bonkers. And her tragic death must have been hard on William. He comes off like a typical English bore: a bit damaged and emotionally awkward.

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Nevertheless, it is also a question of personality. William doesn’t appear to have what it takes to pick up a hot little number such as Charlotte Casiraghi. It’s too bad, because she has at least an ounce of blue blood running through her veins. Harry seems to be the one with the moxie. We’ll see whom he brings home. Will it be a Charlotte or a Charlene? For William—and while we’re on the subject, Albert of Monaco—there were more appropriate choices. The Windsors were likely resistant to an arranged marriage after the last debacle, but there is no reason they couldn’t have found an aristocratic bride for William that he actually liked. There are numerous English girls with the right references. Maybe no one else wanted the role that Catherine Middleton is destined for, though I doubt that. 

Only a rare bird wouldn’t be intoxicated by the title and the inevitable ass-licking that goes with the position. Surely Catherine is beside herself with excitement. At this point, she is willing to carry the impending burden. If she plays her cards right, which she probably will, Miss Middleton won’t end up a casualty like Diana. She will lead a privileged life. She will not have to worry about money or getting a job. Her children won’t want for much, and she will have access to almost anything she desires. Catherine will find her charitable endeavors enriching and will be rewarded by the renewed image and vitality she affords the Royal Family.  

The question is—will it last? The monarchy, that is; Catherine and William will surely stick it out to the bitter end. Only last week, people were shouting “Off with their heads!” in London’s streets. Not a good sign for the monarchy, even if the words came from a few lousy anarchists. Accepting Catherine into the fray might be an attempt to manage the family’s image. And if public relations are really at play, allowing William to marry Catherine was a simple move that won’t put them in a more favorable light with the people. If “Off with their heads!” is to be taken seriously, they are well beyond that. Furthermore, opening the circle means the Royal Family is penetrable. The juggernaut appears to be diminished. 

Crowned heads are first-rate nevertheless. There is no good reason the system should be abolished now, if only because royals symbolize what’s left of our great Western civilization. Unfortunately, titles don’t mean much anymore. It is a shame, because given the current economic and geopolitical situation, a benevolent Queen would probably better lead a nation than the gaggle of lousy, corrupt politicians who set an inferior example. At the very least, royals are a terrific amusement. In this day and age, they permit us to indulge our ideals of perfection. Like martyrs and movie stars, we love to watch them ascend and fall. Europe’s monarchs should stick together while they still can. I say we should keep their heads as well as their crowns.