Chairman Rupert; Screwing the Scouts; Tattling on Diana; Imported Labor

Imported Labor The latest nonsense from the business lobby and its flacks in the media is the idea that the United States is suffering from something called a "labor shortage." We are told that the unstoppable American economy threatens to come to a shuddering halt unless the United States immediately fills the gap. Our only recourse is to import workers from abroad. "Educated immigrants are steroids for the new economy," cries Business Week. No less a personage than Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan has said that unless immigration into the United States increased, wage rises could start to get ahead of productivity. This would lead to inflation or to a squeezing of profit margins. "Either outcome," he mumbled darkly, "[is] capable of bringing our growing prosperity to an end." Any utterance by Alan Greenspan is usually accepted as the last word on the matter. It would be nice if one day someone asked him why wage increases always led to inflation, but not soaring profits or booming stock prices. Now, there is something hilarious about champions of the free market wringing their hands about alleged "shortages." For years we had been told that "shortages" occurred only under socialism, not capitalism. A "shortage" occurs when demand exceeds supply. Therefore, the free market will work to curtail demand, chiefly by increasing prices. But increasing the price of labor is the last thing in the world the business lobby wants to do. It much prefers the option of bringing foreign workers into the United States and keeping wages down. This is why the chilling tales of "labor shortages" are so transparently dishonest. If there really were "labor shortages," the clearest evidence would be rising incomes. Yet nothing of the sort has taken place. There has scarcely been any real income growth over the past decade. And what income growth there has been was usually the result of families working more hours. Between 1989 and 1998, the income of the median family grew by just 0.4 percent a year.

Some of the spokesmen for the corporations, aka journalists, are aware of this, and it is fun to watch their contortions. Six months ago, David Brooks was raving away in The New York Times Magazine about a small town in Wisconsin: "Marx would have looked at all the cushy benefits and figured that the dictatorship of the proletariat had finally come to pass. But there's a simpler explanation. Full employment? One company offered free maid service for new employees. No-skill, entry-level jobs carry wages of $8 or $9 an hour, blowing away the federal minimum wage of $5.15." That's wonderful. So how come Americans' take-home pay remains the same? "You get the impression," Brooks muses, "that even in flush times most people are still pretty conservative when it comes to work and job hunting? People don't like to jump around. People like to work at places that are familiar, or where some member of their family already works. Nepotism reigns." But isn't that what is supposed to take place in backward, moribund, sclerotic places like?Europe, not here?

The most forceful proponent of the "labor shortage" thesis is the computer industry. It also happens to be one of the largest campaign contributors around. So it was not surprising that its moaning and groaning about its supposed inability to find skilled American software engineers would fall on sympathetic ears. In 1997 it began to lobby for an increase in the yearly quota of H-1B temporary work visas. Congress, needless to say, had no qualms about passing legislation that interfered with the workings of the labor market. In 1998, it enacted a program to increase the number of H-1B workers allowed into the country from 65,000 to 115,000. Now the computer industry wants that quota lifted to 200,000. Soon it will push Congress to get rid of the quotas altogether.

Temporary workers imported from abroad are ideal for any employer. They are paid considerably less than American nationals. They make very little trouble, for they always face the sanction of deportation. And while they are here on an H-1B visa?for up to six years?no business rival can recruit them. There is, however, something obnoxious about American companies seizing on software engineers, who were educated and trained at great expense by other countries, just in order to boost their profit margins. It is stealing from Russia and India talent they badly need.

Immigrants, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, now account for 12 percent of the nation's workforce. Without question, regardless of who wins the election in November, this number will go up. America's unemployment is at a record low, the hacks will drone. Therefore, we can import any number of foreign workers and still have jobs for everyone. As usual, the statistics are almost completely meaningless. Once you exclude from the "unemployed" anyone who is out of work but not exactly breaking doors down looking for work; the two million behind bars; anyone who is classified as "disabled"; anyone who has been laid off and forced to take early retirement; and anyone who just works "part-time," the only surprise is why the U.S. government does not simply announce that there is no unemployment at all in the United States. The displacement of America's workers can then happily go forward.

Petra Dickenson Feature Be Prepared The Boy Scouts' trouble started after they dismissed a New Jersey scoutmaster for being openly homosexual. Naturally, he sued. The New Jersey Supreme Court reinstated him, ruling that the Boy Scouts, like restaurants, are a "public accommodation" and that the forced inclusion of a homosexual activist as a troop leader would not affect the Scouts' ability to carry on their purpose. The Boy Scouts apparently lack a clear message that homosexuality is "immoral." This summer, the U.S. Supreme Court, 5-4, overturned that decision and held that the Boy Scouts do have a First Amendment right to determine their own membership. The Boy Scouts have a don't-ask, don't-tell attitude or, as even the four dissenting Supreme Court justices noted, the Scouts "never took any clear and unequivocal position on homosexuality." The dissenters argued, much like the New Jersey court, that not having been sufficiently vigorous in their dislike of homosexuals, the Scouts were thus not entitled to exclude them. Memo to gay organizations: Unless you are ruthlessly anti-Semitic, you could be forced to hire some religious freak who'd insist on listening to Laura Schlessinger in your presence. Memo: Disregard previous memo?disapproval of homosexuality constitutes hate speech, denies the diversity of the human family and sends a message of intolerance that will not be tolerated.

But so what if the U.S. Supreme Court affirms that the "First Amendment protects expression, be it of the popular variety or not"? America's progressives long ago renounced any infatuation with free speech and people's right to free association. If the court refuses to advance their view that it's the government that determines who may associate with whom, there is always direct action. As one activist put it, the Scouts "need to change their policy, and if we need to get down and dirty with them to change it, then that is what we will do."

Starting with a National Day of Protest on Aug. 21 and organized by the group Scouting for All?Committed to Scouting, Open to Diversity?rallies have been held across the country to "counter the horrific message" the Boy Scouts' exclusion gives to gays and, what the hell, "lesbian, bisexual and transgendered [people]? girls and atheists" too. Scouting for All is nothing if not committed to diversity. It is also committed to the total destruction of the Boy Scouts, if need be. Its goal is to limit the Scouts' access to funding and public facilities.

Corporations are caving in?Knight Ridder, J.P. Morgan, Wells Fargo and Levi Strauss have already ended their sponsorship?and the Marcusian body politic, convinced that America's vaunted tolerance is only a selective tolerance benefiting those in power, is joining in the fight. The ACLU, an ideologically extreme organization historically dedicated to the ends of social justice, not to civil liberties, is sure that allowing the Scouts to use public parks "promotes intolerance" and makes all taxpayers "co-conspirators in this discrimination." It has filed a federal lawsuit to that effect. Otherwise, as in the case of the pedophilic NAMBLA, the ACLU takes "the Supreme Court seriously when it says that the First Amendment is there to protect unpopular speech." Various public school districts, cities and scores of United Way branches have already moved to cut their support of the Boy Scouts. Not to be outdone, three mainline Protestant denominations have sent their own messages of love to the Scouts, asking them to become a model of inclusion and respect.

And so it goes across the fruited plain. Rep. Lynn Woolsey (D-CA) has sponsored a bill to revoke the Boy Scouts' federal charter, while 10 other congressmen have called on the priapic Bill Clinton to resign as the honorary head of the organization dedicated to family values, abstinence, fidelity and traditional marriage. Finally! But, this being an election year, not very likely. The President is standing firm, and, despite some politically clueless diversity experts at the Interior Dept. who'd thought the Scouts could be banned from federal properties, so is his Justice Dept. Al's future is at stake, and Janet Reno calls it as she sees it. The feds won't sever their ties with the Boy Scouts and that's the law.

It does not bother anyone that the effort to cut financial support from the Scouts will hurt mainly poor and minority children. Affluent parents can make up the reduction in funding and keep their children's troops strong, so who cares what happens to the other youngsters? What's important is diversity, and unless the Boy Scouts become as diverse as, say, the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, their viability will be at risk.

Well-meaning people used to think that gay liberation meant respect and equal treatment for all. And that's fine, because we don't give a monkey's bum what others do behind closed doors. But apparently that's an unreconstructed view of the world, which now officially maintains that anyone who does not subscribe to the homosexual groups' double standard is a hate-spewing troglodyte who must be destroyed. The Boy Scouts' predicament is ultimately ours as well: Does a free citizen have the right to associate with whomever he chooses? Sorry, with whomever he or she chooses?

Taki LE MAÎTRE Chairman Rupert My long-time friend Rupert Pilkington-Boreham Wood is an English gentleman of the old school. In other words, he has never been employed, always walks two paces in front of his wife and refers to himself in the plural, as in, "Get us a drink, dear." Rupert was a very self-confident young man 30 years ago, and continues to be one now that he is in his mid-50s. He has never been known to touch his necktie the way self-conscious people do when entering a room full of strangers. Nor does he ever cross his arms in front of his body in a defensive stance. Because of his aplomb Rupert is known among his friends as "the Chairman." He is of medium height and fair complexion. The pinstripes he wears are as thick as the frames of his glasses. The Chairman has been married to the same pretty girl for 30 years, a lady whom he treats with benign neglect at all times, like a gentleman should. (None of those toe-curling, sick-makingly contrived displays of affection as practiced by the plebeian Clintons, Blairs and Gores.) I first met Rupert when he stopped by my Paris flat with a friend on his way to a Swiss finishing school, where he planned to pay court to his future wife. Alas, we went gambling, Rupert lost all his readies (walking-around money) and I had to bail him out. Love was in the air, and who was I to stand in the way of romance? Then an incredible thing happened. Rupert paid me back, an unheard-of thing to do among upper-class Englishmen. Soon after he joined the pantheon of heroes I reserve for people like Gens. Patton and MacArthur, von Manteuffel, Napoleon, Frederick and Alexander the Great. All of them now unfashionable in a world that falsely believes that fashion is the tide of history.

The reason the Chairman joined the pantheon was not because he paid me back. Not by a long shot. It was because of his ignorance of things fashionable at the time. It was around 1977, Studio 54 was the rage, and people like Andy Warhol and Halston, the couturier, were kings?actually, queens. It was about that time that another friend, John Bowes-Lyon?Bosie to his friends?was called upon by Halston (now long gone) to organize and act as host to a public relations party at the London Savoy. Being a cousin to the Queen Mother, Bosie made a perfect front, but turned out to be a disastrous choice. Instead of inviting only people who read Vogue, he extended invitations to many Hooray Henrys (people who remain sophomoric long after college), of whom the Chairman must uncharitably be considered one. Rupert was pleasantly surprised to receive an invitation. "The canapes are pretty good at the Savoy," he told his wife, in a rare monologue.

The evening of the party it was raining as usual. Rupert, walking five feet ahead of his wife, advanced fearlessly into the grand ballroom and immediately headed for the buffet. That is when he ran across a tall, pale-faced figure with an imperious if rather effete manner. Bosie was standing next to him. The Chairman greeted Bosie and then, remembering his wife's coat, he turned, took it from her and thrust it in the imperious figure's outstretched hand. "I am Halston," said the tall man, raising both eyebrows and turning whiter than usual. "Thank you, Halston," boomed the Chairman, leaving the guest of honor holding the coat as he headed toward the caviar and canapes with the kind of relish exhibited by upper-class Englishmen for anything free.

Later on Rupert was seen flanked by his friends imbibing great quantities of champagne. When I remonstrated to him about handing the coat to Halston, I realized he had no idea who or what a Halston was. "Only ancient Greeks and butlers have one name," was his excuse. Halston, needless to say, was the hottest gossip item of the time, holding nightly court in his New York brownstone for rock stars and Hollywood types. Mind you, there was an even funnier conclusion to the party. Halston was seated next to Princess Margaret when his friend Steve Rubell, also long gone, asked him for some coke. Halston refused, afraid that Rubell might act with lese-majeste in front of Margaret. Steve then ducked underneath the table and bit Halston's leg as hard as he could. Halston jumped, dumping his dinner plate all over the Princess. "Look what you've done, it was my finest ball gown," said a furious Margaret. After apologizing profusely, Halston promised to deliver two original Halstons the next day. Arriving at Kensington Palace in a limo and accompanied by Bianca Jagger (back then a groupie), he was told that only he was expected. Giving Bianca some readies, he told her to go shopping and to be back with the limo in a couple of hours. But as soon as he was ushered in, Princess Margaret thanked him, took the dresses and left. He was then ushered out. I never did find out what he said to the driver and la Jagger, but I'm sure it wasn't anything nice.

Why am I telling you these rather old and stale stories? Well, for one, Rupert was staying with me last week. To my delight he professed total ignorance about Graydon and Cynthia Carter's divorce, confusing Graydon with Carter Burden, also gone. But he expressed amazement at the docility of New Yorkers in allowing "all those foreigners and UN poofters" to disrupt our lives for one week while showing off at the Millennium Summit. "We wouldn't stand for it one minute..." Well, I think they would, but it was nice to hear Rupert's clipped, laconic, understated, all-fraught-pause speeches against the modern world. Hear, hear.

Melik Kaylan The Spy Diana Not that anyone cares these days but there does exist a strict code of discretion in dealings with royalty. The rule, by now about as functional an evolutionary mechanism as the appendix, requires that personal conversations not be repeated, nor off-duty encounters publicly aired. Now that Princess Diana has entered that great lamination parlor in the sky along with Eva Peron, I suppose I can tell my tales with a neutral conscience. I kept mum during the years of Dianamania. What it did to our profession in the UK, indeed what it did to British common sense as a whole, the Nazis would have envied. I like to call it "The Glitzkrieg," and it certainly killed Princess Di. My longest exchange with her occurred at a smallish dinner party in the house of a Kensington grandee, a refined collector of Islamic antiques, particularly of Mogul and Ottoman artifacts. Fewer than a dozen people attended, as I recall. In the immediate aftermath of her separation, it wasn't so unusual to run into Diana in London at unexpected moments. She needed new friends and she took a fairly open-minded and scattershot approach to finding them. The Sloanie world abounded with friends of friends of Diana.

She arrived late, having attended a function, said a shy hello to everyone and proceeded to talk only to her own friends. Every so often she'd flash a look from under her fringe at the others. It was awkward-ish because one couldn't get up and walk over, but it was equally obvious she welcomed new introductions.

At that time, Tatler had just published a mildly nauseating feature offering a roll-call of the squires she might consider eligible, with their photos underwritten by captions and ratings. I remember that the list included Taki and Graydon Carter. She'd had the gall to dance with them publicly at a ball or two. So one of our number boldly asked her if she'd seen the issue. She rolled her eyes and smiled ambiguously. Yes, she had, but not in great detail. So what did she think? She smiled again and said, "About what?" Someone went off and fished out the issue and slowly read out loud the various entries. Sorry, but I can't remember specific responses?indeed, she didn't intend us to. We all began to laugh, as she mutely mimed different faces in response to each name and rating. But then the questions got perceptibly more pointed, as in "But what's wrong with him?" or "He's just not tall enough, is he?" or "You like him though, don't you?" It turned into a kind of charades where we had to guess what she meant by nods or grimaces or groans.

As we pressed her, the mood shifted from good-natured hilarity to something riskier, more public?more quotable, in effect. Each response could, at a pinch, be parlayed into hard tabloid headlines. By that sudden change in room temperature, one sensed what it was like to tread a daily minefield of risk. One also realized that she half-flirted with the danger zone, like a saucy high-wire act, and invited smiles of complicity and applause, and even sympathy for the way she outfaced her predicament.

Then someone else interrupted loudly, an art dealer I think he was. He said, "Wait, wait, don't tell us." He had a splendid idea, he said, and suggested that we all look at the issue and mark up our own favorites, giving them all ratings, and she'd tell us her reactions. The whole thing called to mind Castiglione's Book of the Courtier from the Italian Renaissance. Castiglione asserted that a courtier's role required that he invent and perform pleasing games to amuse royalty at court. The grace he brought to that dicey business measured his true mettle as a courtier. That was "grace under pressure," or sprezzatura.

That evening, we all suddenly felt like courtiers of old. Diana mimed shock and surprise at the journalist's suggestion. I remember thinking out loud how much it'd be worth to the tabloids. We tried to total up the amount, each quote worth some 10 grand. Someone offered to share the proceeds with her. Then we fell to calculating who'd be worth more; a famous footballer might fetch 20, a graying Brit socialite merely five.

The evening broke up in a fine mood, with a flurry of parting jokes. "Your highness, could I have a clip of your hair? It might be worth something. You'd get 10 percent, of course. How much would each strand of hair fetch?" Remarkably, she managed the whole occasion without once trespassing into the quote zone. That was a grand talent.

But it was hardly enough. What differentiated Diana from the average mega-celebrity were the stakes and the very necessary prestige of British royalty. We'd all had fun at dinner, but fun bordering on hysteria derived from relief. She had survived the evening unscathed and that was great. But who could live that way, daily? Unlike their European counterparts, British royalty incorporates the legitimacy of the British state and its continuity. We had all, in a way, played with fire?an ominous feeling. We didn't even know who among us could be trusted to be discreet. In the end, we didn't know how dangerous was the danger zone for her. Nor did she. No updated "Civil Defense Code" or "Duck and Cover" manual existed on surviving the Glitzkrieg. No doubt someone could have made a million drafting one: "How to Survive as a Brit Princess." She could have shared the proceeds.