|
|
Tarnished trappings of wealth
|
March 19, 2009 | 01:13 PM
In our new recession-induced age of propriety, owning a personal jet is under a storm of disfavor. Though they represent the ultimate in conspicuous consumption, at least one good thing can be said about these super-expensive planes — compared to their big brothers the commercial airliners, they are relatively quiet. I know, because the seaside apartment I am renting in Florida lies in the approach path to the small airstrip at Boca Raton favored by jet-setting multi-millionaires. Their personal jets fly in and out all day long, announcing themselves with a thrilling whine of power and rumble of engines. The brethren of these planes, the big eardrum-pounding heavies, must use either West Palm Beach to the north or Fort Lauderdale to the south.
The little jets are sleek and beautiful to watch. The sight of them approaching to land or climbing for altitude after departing suggests an intriguing air of mystery. Their silver fuselages carry no markings, no recognizable airline logos or colors. They arrive as early as dawn, and fly out way after dark. So to whom do they belong?
One can only guess, but one thing is sure — the ranks of the wealthy have been thinned by Bernie Madoff. One assumes that prior to his depredations, the airways in and out of Boca Raton were even more crowded.
Still, this remains a rich country, and though he appeared to have tried very hard Bernie did not manage to steal everybody's money. The East Coast of South Florida is still a haven of extravagant wealth. The town where I am staying, Highland Beach, is lined with an odd juxtaposition of high-rise condominiums and co-ops with modest apartments, and gargantuan ornate mansions in the $20 million price range.
(For perspective, though it is right on the ocean, my own apartment is in a 50-year-old co-op whose windows and sliding glass doors don't work very well. Yesterday one of the two elevators failed, trapping for a while a fellow snowbird from Stony Brook.)
Madoff is much in the public awareness here. Fifteen miles to the north, in his winter retreat of Palm Beach, he ruined large numbers of friends and acquaintances. In Delray Beach, a mile from here, there's an old-fashioned newsstand much like the late, lamented Darling's in Port Jefferson. I go there often for my Racing Form and Wall Street Journal, and fall into conversations with old-time locals who congregate to complain about snowbirds like me. One morning the proprietor had on display a 168-page reprint of the list of Madoff's victims, which was eagerly perused for local names.
The Palm Beach Post reported this morning on what wealthy society matrons are doing to show empathy with the less fortunate during the recession. Among other things, they're digging into the back of their closets and wearing last year's gowns to charity balls. In December, a group of women pledged they would insist their rich husbands not buy them expensive jewelry for Christmas. (Though this may have made them feel good, it might have cost the jobs of a couple of gold miners in South Africa and diamond cutters on 47th Street. Oh, the law of unintended consequences).
As this grim recession drags on, I think more and more of the lost wisdom of small town America. It was Wall Street, not Main Street, that plunged us into the abyss. Had the sharks on Wall Street not been demonically clever at concealing what they were doing, the little fish on Main Street would have refused to take the bait. I think of the brief single term of Mike Lee as mayor of Port Jefferson, when he doubled taxes to diminish the debt hanging over the Village Center. Said Mr. Lee, "I was raised not to buy things until I could afford to pay for them."
Mike, you should have been chairman of the Securities and Exchange Commission.
| |
|
|
|
| |
Copyright 2010
(631) 751-7744 | news@tbrnewspapers.com | www.northshoreoflongisland.com | About |
|
| |
|
