August 7, 2008 Issue                                       

©2007 The Chestnut Hill Local

Opinion

Petri Dish Pond?

When credit is due

I’ve often been quick to criticize the board of the Chestnut Hill Community Association for missteps, so it is only fair to applaud measures the body is taking to increase transparency and address its credibility problems.

At last week’s board meeting, signs of reform took center stage. CHCA president Tolis Vardakis presented a new, comprehensive policy to guard the association against conflicts of interest, a plan drawn up by board member Ed Berg who credited Chestnut Hill Community Fund president Jean Hemphill for its thoroughness (Berg said he had really followed Hemphill’s policy for the fund).

Furthermore, many on the CHCA board agreed with past president Ron Recko’s assertion that the board should receive regular written reports from the Chestnut Hill Community Fund. There were disagreements about particulars, but no one spoke in opposition to Recko’s contention that written reports were necessary.

There was also a report by board member Pat Moran that the committee to review and repair election procedures has met several times and recognizes how poorly this past election was conducted, particularly noting that when the Local and other board members filed complaints and challenged the results, there was no mechanism to clean up the mess. Instead, the election ballots were destroyed, amplifying suspicions that the election was tampered with.

In addition to these moves, Vardakis was quick to quell one board member’s appeal to keep letters about the pending attorney general’s investigation of the association and fund out of the paper. “We can’t muzzle people,” Vardakis said. He deserves credit for making sure that the association works to improve its image and that it does so in public.

Tapan Patel, who admitted in a letter that he had purchased “some memberships” prior to the recent board election but repeatedly declined to answer questions about those purchases — including a set of new ones sent to him three weeks ago— resigned. It’s too bad he blamed “innuendo” in the paper and “unnecessary controversy” instead of owning up to his part in that controversy. If it really was easier for Patel to quit than answer straightforward questions, then his resignation, too, should help the association get back to the business of giving Chestnut Hill residents a voice.

Pete Mazzaccaro

Further adventures of a poster boy
by HUGH GILMORE

Last week’s column described how I “discovered” the bookstore chain, Renaud-Bray, while I was walking Rue St. Denis in Montreal. The store’s charms were considerably enhanced by my belief that women are nowhere so beautiful as when browsing books. There were many chic women in the store, both as customers and browsers. This wondrous sight was like “Fahrenheit 451” meets “The Whore of Mensa.”

You remember “The Whore of Mensa,” don’t you? — Woody Allen’s short story about a brothel for intellectuals? For $50 a skinny woman with pale skin and long dark hair, wearing a black turtleneck, would come over and sit on the edge of one’s bed and discuss Melville.   “Symbolism’s extra,” she says. He says he’d like to have Noam Chomksy explained by two girls at once. Too costly, she says. How about: “For a hundred, a girl would lend you her Bartok records, have dinner, and then let you watch while she had an anxiety attack.” Oh my, then the truth comes out: The Hunter College Bookstore is a front for this seedy business.

I laugh every time I read that story. (It’s easily available by Googling the title.)

After my visit to Reynaud-Bray I returned to my hotel, The Auberge de la Parc Fontaine. Natalie, the hostess, graciously set me up in the conference room so I’d have a quiet place to write my Local column. Before starting, I Googled Reynuad-Bray for some background and, lo and behold! Their home page opens with a great photo of three chic women doing what I have always fantasized women do when men are not around.

Yes, reading. What a great picture they created. I had to have a copy. I tried every way I knew to download the image from the web, but none worked. I e-mailed my column to the Local on Sunday night without that photo.

On Tuesday I went back to Reynaud-Bray. I browsed in fiction for a while, then it was time for lunch. I started for the escalator.        

Alors! There was a poster version of the same three pretty girls sitting and reading! It was affixed to a pillar. I had to have it. I walked quickly to a saleswoman.

“I want to buy that poster, please.”

“Ah, sorry, monsieur, it is not for sale. It is for promotion only.”

“But I love that poster. I must have it. It says all that is glorious to me about the pleasures of reading.”

“It is a nice poster, Monsieur.”

I tried another tack: “Je suis un journaliste. I am writing about your wonderful store. I need that picture.”

“Ooh,” she said, not without sympathy; then she offered helpfully, “Sometimes people want the posters, so we write their names on the back and when the advertising campaign is over, we call them to come get them. Let’s see if there is a name on this one.”

She lifted the corner. There was no name. Meant for me, maybe. I gave her my name and phone number.

I added, “But I live in the States and I leave tomorrow. I’m writing my story this week.” I then saw a second poster taped to the information desk. I was tempted to remove one and roll it up and walk out and then write the story of my being arrested in a foreign country, all because of my love of books.

In truth I selfishly wanted this poster of three lovely young women reading books in order to put over my desk as I write. Brittany, Paris & Angelina combined were not equal to even one mademoiselle dressed in black and holding a book.

“Well, maybe,” she said, “I could ask my manager.” and she phoned him.

What followed was French spoken in a chipper and enthusiastic way at first, but which then slowed down, became monosyllabic, started to include the word “non,” and concluded with the saleswoman’s shoulders in a slump. Alas.

“He says he can not do that. It is needed for the advertising campaign for two more weeks. He said perhaps you could go to a smaller store that does not care so much.”

I thought, Why are middle managers always so tedious in their one-way devotion to the company?

“That is him there, in the green shirt,” she said, nodding at a man walking past.

I bounded across the floor and accosted him. “Excusez-moi, Monsieur,” I said, “Je suis le journaliste who is writing a story about your bookstore. I want that poster for illustration, but I am leaving on Wednesday.”

He was tall and bony-faced and looked at me as though I were a bug that had crawled across his pince-nez. Non, he needed it for promotion. Non, he could not part with it. Non, he could not promise to send it to me, people are busy. Non, they might forget to send it. Non. And in case you did not hear me the first, second, third, and fourth times: non.

But then, a wonderful thing happened. Non, he did not give me the poster, but he did give me two other, wonderful, things.

First, he gave me an advertising flyer that had a high-quality reproduction of the Reading Femmes poster. I could scan it when I got home. 

Better yet: he told me something that nearly put me in the Delerium Ward for Terminally Happy People.

He said, proudly, “And these three young ladies in the picture are not professional models. They work right here, in the store. This one works in jeunesse. This one is not here today. And this girl in the middle works at the checkout downstairs.”

Sacre bleu! I had to meet this girl, so impishly cute as she peeks to see what the one next to her is reading. I hurried downstairs, spotted her and approached.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle …,” I said, showing her the picture, “C’est vous?”

“Oui,” and she dropped her eyes, a bit shy, but also pretending to be shy a bit too, which made her seem even more charming.

Out from me poured a torrent of words about my being un journaliste … who writes about books … who wrote about this wonderful book store, and how I wanted to use this picture and the manager said no, but I didn’t care now that I had this flyer … and now that I had met her. And so on.

She was charming and friendly and curious and daring, all those wonderful traits of the French woman. She said, “You will send me a copy of what you write?”

“Oui, certainement.”

She wrote out her e-mail address without my having asked. I took two photos of her. I left on Cloud Nine. Because I had known the poster before I met her, and because it was a piece of international publicity, I felt that I had met a famous person. One who had actually smiled and said hello to me and given me an address to get in touch with her. It was better than meeting a supermodel or actress because she was real and worked in a bookstore.

 And also because she held a book in her hands when I first laid eyes on her.

To contact Hugh, e-mail him at hughmore@yahoo.com.

Long distance dispatch and an appreciation
by ED FELDMAN

The fog drifts through the valley like a rumor, a red-tailed hawk spirals into a sapphire sky and, on a hilltop under trees that always seem to be in bloom, fragrant and bearing fruit, I write to you, dear readers.

From this vantage point I can see many things: the mountains across the bay, blindingly ecstatic sunsets over water, two tacos for $2.50. But I can still remember all the way back to a little place called Chestnut Hill. That sleepy little town the Robber Barons built to be among their own kind, far from the rabble and all those reformers who were always making trouble, asking questions, always so negative. The garden district with the sweet smell of forgetfulness and the impenetrable keep — “Draw up the bridge and flood the moat!”

Not this time kids. And guess who helped? The most unreasonable member of the from-its-term-untimely-ripped Oversight Committee, who gauged every proposed stratagem save one as ineffective, that’s who. My reasoning was simple: when dealing with reasonable people, one can afford to be reasonable; when dealing with types to whom power is a license to be fraudulent, secretive and cruel, go for the kill shot.

They don’t hesitate, and if you do, you’re through. The tire tracks down Ann Spaeth’s back were enough for me.

“Call the cops,” I said. ”Let’s give them a chance to reform,” I heard. “Let’s get Lloyd to pay for the audit,” I heard. “Let’s get Lloyd to hire lawyers to paper these sociopaths,” I said, “and then call the cops.” But as the board refused, month-by-month, to audit, to comply with requests to divulge information, to admit or even discuss Oversight Committee findings, the more reasonable members of the committee came to agree with this most unreasonable member.  And so the story will now be told — to the authorities.

For you see, dear reader, the attorney general’s office not only sees merit in the Oversight Committee’s report, as did the law firm that represented us, but apparently it reads the Local too! Just like the federal attorney that prosecuted Chip Butler, who head trusteed our money whilst under federal investigation for tax shenanigans (and for whom the board had absolutely no questions about said confluence). So my stories and jokes not only have tickled and/or angered, they’ve informed as well. 

At the trial, my T-shirt will read, “It’s All of a Piece.” From the influence peddling for liquor licenses, to the ignorance of the zoning committee of its own rules, to a comically inept fixed election which has yet to be overturned, even though everyone who hasn’t benefited from it knows it should be. A small circle of friends now surrounded by law enforcement agencies.

Who will rat first? Or will there be a rush? Who will crack under questioning? Who will cry on the witness stand? Who will blow town? — besides me, I mean. I am available for interviews via telephone or video conferencing. My stories will amaze the investigators, yet they’re all true. And now that the newspapers are interested, I can talk to them too. Just like when Li’l Quacky roamed free. All to climax in the book, “Escape from Chestnut Hill: How I fought fraud, arrogance and corruption in one of America’s most exclusive neighborhoods” by — guess who?

An Appreciation 

It was 40 years ago. It was as if America might end. Dr. King, another Kennedy, a war we were losing — a war we should be losing. And on several like-breathing-under-water-hot nights, I saw police beating people like me until they were more blood than flesh.

It was the year that changed me. It was the year I realized that they could be wrong. The they that had always been right before, just because they had their name on the office door, or because they stood in front of the classroom, or behind the big desk, or on the altar, or on the bench with the gavel, or in the house behind the gates, or on top of the hill, or surrounded by guards, or police, or secret service, or waved the flag, or the cross, or had a single beauty spot on their face like Joan Crawford. 

It was the year I began to see that all the makeup in the world couldn’t make you pretty and all the power in the world couldn’t make you right. It was the year that I became unafraid to say what I felt because I discovered that courage was free and existed in unlimited quantities inside of me.

I have lived my life unafraid to speak out ever since, and while I had occasion to do so before relocating, I moved to Chestnut Hill unaware of the opportunity that would present itself. For after a few years of the mutually shared ignorance as to the workings of the community we were all accustomed to, I became aware of the magnitude of official and accepted practices described above, plus bigotry, press censorship and bribery. All perpetrated by a bunch of amateurs, possessing neither the wit to counter my scrawlings nor the physical courage to confront me personally.

And to face off against my overmatched opponents, all I had to do was cross the street from my house to any executive or board meeting. It’s too late to save you now, but had you had these meetings at the bottom of the Hill I wouldn’t have attended. You made it too easy for me! All this corruption right in front of me, perpetrated by the unremarkable on the overprivileged. If I failed who would be hurt? No one I cared about. If I succeeded who would be punished? People who deserve it. Win-Win! It was like shooting dead fish in a barrel with a 12-gauge shotgun. Thanks CHCA.

 Now the attorney general has the weapon. I hope I can help him finish the job.

Ed Feldman, a regular op-ed contributor, now lives in California. A former Chestnut Hill Community Association board member, he was one of a group of current and former board members who recently challenged the financial practices of the CHCA and the Chestnut Hill Community Fund and referred them to the Pennsylvania attorney general’s office.

Drill campaign reaches new lows
by GORDON CHASE

As a former oil man myself, it is sad to see that the silly season we all associate with election campaigns and the misinformation that so often accompanies them, has reached new lows with the “drill, drill, drill” campaign put out by the right wing media and adopted so recklessly by the McCain campaign. Unfortunately John McCain himself appears to be not only going along with this mantra but is adopting it as a central plank of his election bid. Surely he is smart enough to know the basic parameters of the situation.

Even the most cursory of evaluations of the current state of the oil industry in the USA reveals that this drill, drill, drill slogan being drilled into us on a daily basis is shallower than the shallowest of oil wells. If all we have to do is drill our way out of the problem, why is it that millions of acres of existing oil leases in the USA lie currently undrilled? Even if the moratorium on off shore drilling were lifted there is a severe shortage of offshore rigs available as evidenced by the years of back orders on oil rig manufacturer’s books.

And even if we could start drilling and pumping oil next week instead of next decade, which is what it would take before any new oil would come ashore, there is insufficient refining capacity to convert the useless crude oil into something useful such as gasoline. Net result is that it would lie dormant in the ground until new refining capacity and pipeline infrastructure was brought on stream to handle it. More likely these offshore leases would merely sit in the hands of oil companies ad infinitum in much the same way that De Beers sits on diamonds in closed vaults and releases the supply as and when prices suit them.

 It would be naive to think that oil companies would welcome a flood of new oil on the market driving down prices and lowering margins. The existing administration has hardly been active in the past eight years in pushing for new refining capacity or offshore drilling. Only now at election silly season, when votes are so easily bought with sound bites, do we see this revelation of bringing cheap gasoline to the people if only the Democrats would allow offshore drilling. The sad reality is that such simple tactics of slogan repetition tend to work in election silly season, and for that we only have ourselves to blame.

Finally, and totally forgotten in this whole argument about drilling, is the fact that, much like cigarettes, the burning of hydrocarbons is dangerous to our health. Every gallon of gasoline we burn adds further pollutants to our atmosphere, changing the composition of our air and the climate of our planet. The logic that we should want to make this pollutant cheaper so that we can burn more of it and pollute our planet at an even faster rate seems to be lost in the election silly season. Perhaps the heroin addict should campaign for cheaper heroin as it would surely help him feel better for less. Such a path leads only to the dark side. If we had spent as much time on developing clean energy sources as we have on trying to poison ourselves, we would not now be in the position we are, namely being the junky crying out for another fix at a cheaper price and willing to lie, cheat and steal to do so.

Gordon Chase worked for Shell International in London for 12 years. He is currently writing a book on how 20th Century economics and politics appear to be at odds on many fronts with 21st century earth sciences, the working title of which is The Tyranny of Growth in an Environmental Age. He lives in Upper Dublin.