Rich Sport

Written by Taki on . Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts.

Last weekend
I had to skip Rufus Albemarle’s wedding in Havana Vieja in favor of a cold
boardroom in Geneva. Although an unforgiving foe of Fidel’s and everything
he stands for, I was actually looking forward to visiting Havana, if only for
the fact that the nearest McDonald’s is 90 miles away.

Lord Albemarle
is a hell of a fellow. Straight out of Papa Hemingway in looks, he got married
to a very pretty half-Danish, half-Iranian artist, Sally Tadayon. Typically,
and very Hemingwayesque, the young couple asked that instead of presents, a
contribution–no matter how small–be made to a school for children
with Down syndrome being built in Cuba.

This is the
way it should be. The fortunate–and being born the Earl of Albemarle means
fortune has smiled on one–should try to help the unlucky ones. It doesn’t
always work out that way, needless to say. Big-time so-called leftists like
Christopher Hitchens, for example, have as many poor close friends as I had
lesbians on the Greek national karate team I captained for close to 20 years.
When the great Tom Wolfe wrote about radical chic in his famous 1970 essay I
was among the few who wasn’t surprised at the hypocrisy of it all. His
demolition job on those phonies singlehandedly made them the laughingstock of
everyone without an ax to grind for money, as is the case with Christopher Hitchens
and his ilk.

Two men in
that Wolfe piece stuck in my mind, and, surprisingly, I came into contact with
them both in 1972. The first was "Field Marshal" Donald Coxe, as one
of the Black Panthers called himself; the other, Manhattan art dealer Richard
Feigen, the man in Tom’s essay who desperately asked the throng at Leonard
Bernstein’s Panthers cocktail party how to go about giving a party for
the cop-killers.

In the winter
of ’72, I went to Algiers for the National Review and did a cover
story about the political exiles from America. It was a send-up of those miserable
souls who found out too late that being hunted by the police in America is still
better than being free in Algeria. Donald Coxe, whom I interviewed while over
there–surprisingly, the nicest of the lot turned out to be Eldridge Cleaver–was
the worst of them all. A braggart and a pathetic sort of tough guy, he tried
to intimidate me into giving him some money. I was young back then, and also
took myself as a tough guy of sorts. When I told him I only had South African
rands on me, he got all happy and ready to receive. It was a joke, but very
indicative of the times.

That summer,
I was in the Hotel du Cap in Antibes, and whom did I find occupying the next
cabana but Richard Feigen. As luck would have it, on the very first day three
of Europe’s richest men stopped by my cabana to say hello. Feigen, watching
these incredibly rich cats coming and going, probably thought that he had died
and gone to heaven. Here was this Greek to whose cabana the fat ones were drawn
like moths. Shamelessly, he came up, introduced himself and made me an offer
he didn’t think I could refuse. It had to do with my selling his art to
my friends. Refuse it I did, however, although I now regret I was very polite
about it. When it comes to the root of all envy, politics go flying out the
proverbial window. Coxe, Feigen, Hitchens are one of a kind. They’re talented
and great bullshitters, and all for the common man, unless–and it’s
a big unless–money gets in the way.

Mind you, easier
said than done. I, too, like money, but prefer spending it rather than earning
it. I am among the lucky ones, although I’d hate to think how much better
a tennis player and writer I might have turned out to be if Daddy hadn’t
swung for it. Happiness, as they say, has nothing to do with money, and I agree,
but unhappiness also has nothing to do with it.

Sid the Scumbag
Blumenthal should be a very happy man right now because, having done the dirty
work for Bonnie and Clyde Clinton, he’s landed a large book contract in
order to continue the lies he’s been telling most of his adult life. But
is the Scumbag happy? He just dropped the mother of all libel suits with the
pathetic excuse that he needed to move on. I wonder where he got that one from?
But yes, Sid the Scumbag is happy, because he’s only had to pay 2500 greenbacks
to the great Matt Drudge. Having harassed Matt with dirty Clinton money, Sid
should have paid at least one million, but that’s how it crumbles, cookiewise.

One of the
reasons I’ve always laughed at liberals is because of money. They worship
it, and to hell with what they say in public about right-wingers and haters.
The biggest haters and most intolerant people I’ve met–and I’ve
met a hell of a lot–are radical shit, sorry, chic types, and that’s
why when phonies like Hitchens and Blumenthal have a catfight, it’s
like waking up in bed with Ava Gardner on one side and Betty Grable on the other.