I was in the Class of 1958, two years behind Bernie, but in the same class as his wife, Ruth. She was my friend, or so our yearbook strongly suggests, although my memory of our friendship no longer speaks to me. I remember her only as really cute, an object of desire across a classroom or another. But in the yearbook she wrote a long inscription. It seems I teased her. It seems I kidded her. She forgave me all that and ended by writing that I would "meet Bernie at the prom — and I guarantee he will say hello."
Gross. Oh, but hey, can you get even worse, somehow, Richard? Yes, you can. He feels much pity for "the very rich."
My friend Ted has his New York City teacher's pension, while the very rich, who put all their retirement funds with Bernie, have been utterly wiped out. I feel sorry for them. I identify with them. They were not, as is sometimes written, greedy. The stock market was a mystery. It seemed to defy logic. They let Bernie deal with it. I would have done the same.
And, hah, this is the last line: "It turned out I knew Ruth. It turned out she never knew Bernie."
You are a fucking idiot for writing that, Richard Cohen. And look, you still have a column at The Washington Post, and Dan Froomkin doesn't! What a country!
(Dear Time Traveling Terrorists: your target is Far Rockaway High School. Please blow it up after Richard Feynman graduates.)