"Faded Furnishings as old as Mr. Madoff's epic fraud"

The NY Times is off again on Madoff's "modest" beach home in Montauk, Long Island, New York. "Only 3 014 square feet," they say. Not palatial.

So Madoff was not nouveau riche. He's been in the fraud business for years, not some fly-by-night dot com millionaire. Here today, gone tomorrow. Nope.

The new style gazillion square feet houses in East Hampton are obscenities. The people who write these articles haven't lived the good life in the Hampton's in the summer. It's not about the size of the bedroom or whether it has a walk-in closet. It's not about the kitchen. It's about the beach, and the pool. It's about taking your nap on the terrace, not in your too-small bedroom. Reading your book or the New York Times on the terrace with that second or third cup of coffee. Making the scene at Citarella or the farmer's market.

It's about grilling or going out to dinner with friends, lingering over lunch in town. It's about hanging out, not living the celebrity lifestyle with your plane and the nanny and the 70,000 square foot house whose furnishings I shudder to think about.

It's not about living the lah-di-dah life in Palm Beach or Newport with the priceless antiques and the uncomfortable rooms and furniture.

It's the beach, dummy. The view. The sand. The water. The privacy. It's not about impressive your so-called friends with the size of your walk-in closets.

I'd take Bernie's place in a heartbeat over the mansions of the cocaine conquistadors and all the funny money that built those big ugly monstrosities on the beach. Bigger than the Maidstone. Yuck!

What Bernie Madoff and I have in common

Would you believe Formica counters? Bernie's beach house on the eastern tip of Long Island is for sale. Fab ocean views from everyroom, a big dramatic living room with a fireplace. Zowie, looked pretty good to me, but the web article was kind of snarky.



Apparently the Madoff's didn't update often enough. The bedrooms were "rather small" and the kitchen had (Hannah bar the door!) formica counters. Oh my god. How could anyone live with formica counters? I mean, if it's not granite or Corian it has to be marble, slate, or some upscale material.



Formica for God's sake! How plebian, how low. Shouldn't a beach house be absolutely fabulous with bountiful bedrooms and total, glitz? Glitz up the ying-yang. Antiques, bric-a-brac, fancy, schmancy. What did they expect guests to do? Go to the beach? Admire the view? Cook gourmet meals in the formica kitchen? OMG.



Bernie, how could you? So the interior is dated. So what?



I think the realtors were complaining. They might have got a few more mil if old Bernie has anted up for a modern kitchen. Granite, mind you, none of this formica sh_.



A confession. We have a 20 year old kitchen with only a new fridge and a new dishwasher. Yup, 20 year old formica. A modest, 4-burner stove. Euro-style cabinents. To me, it looks pretty good. Nice window over the sink, room to eat, plenty of shelves for the cookbooks, an antique icebox we use as a bar. Where's the glitz? What? Only one dishwasher? How can I cook with only 4 burners and one oven. Actually, make that 3 burners.



I am so deprived that I'm depraved. I hang my head in shame. Formica counters! Ye gods.

What is she thinking?

Donald Westlake

Otto Penzler has a great remembrance of Donale E. Westlake in today's weekend section (Leisure & Arts) of the Wall Street Journal. I came to the MWA Edgar Awards too late to see or meet Westlake, but he must have been a delightful raconteur as well as a great mystery writer. I didn't know he had written the screen play for The Grifters, an exellent movie that I may put onto my Netflix queue and view again.

Speaking of Netflix, we saw The Visitor this week, another great movie. I find these small indy films much more entertaining and even gratifying than the big blockbuster films. Give me a cinematic experience with no blood, no explosions and no cars driving through plate glass. Yes!

Except for novels by Joseph Finder, Stephen Frey and Brad Meltzer, so-called business or financial thrillers are a rare breed. This puzzles me, because so many of us work or worked in offices, for businesses, and caught glimpses of the power struggles, the weird corporate cultures, the sleaze, the grasping and greediness, shoot, all the stuff that makes books work. At least television has tuned into this with The Office and 30 Rock.

Maybe these books aren't escapist enough. We want romance and dust blowing across the Khyber Pass. Finances require attention to detail, due diligence, and all those things requiring mental effort. Guess that's why Madoff got away with his schemes for so long. Nobody (well, hardly anyone) bothered with due diligence.

I can't read enough about the Madoff thing, and expect that writers are churning out international and financial intrigue fiction by the ream these days. The Journal today wrote that only BLACK PENS were permitted at Madoff HQ. No blue, no green, and red ink must have really been anathema. All good stuff. The secrecy, the conflicts. Just screams to be written about.

And how about the woman in Vienna who had that bank and had sold Madoff's stuff to the Russian Mafiosi and is now in hiding? There's a plot for you. Yes!

Hie ye to your keyboards and write. Good story lines, great conflict, all on a world stage with the most revolting people and sleaze and Palm Beach and big houses and the Hamptons! Jeeminy Criminy maybe I should write it myself.

Naw. But my drug dealer will have been burned in a similar Ponzi scheme. Hoo boy is he mad. I love Lotto.

Grapeshot, besotted with her own sleazy characters