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John Cook — W. Aldon James Jr. has been the president of the National Arts Club, a tony and pretentious group of New York City "arts" lovers, for 20 years. Lately he's turned crazy and, according to a former employee, very racist!James' tenure running the club for the past few years has featured a string of high-profile and bizarre embarrassments—from the junk-filled apartments upstairs at the club's high-end Gramercy Park mansion to his apparent involvement in the mysterious deaths of dozens of baby finches in Gramercy Park to his brother's illegal misappropriation of the club's non-profit status to pump up his jewelry business—and yesterday the club's board finally decided that he would take a "leave of absence" and "well-earned vacation" while it sorts through the mess.
According to a former club staffer we talked to, the leave has been a long time coming: "Aldon suffers from serious, serious mental problems that have gone untreated," the staffer said. "He's not just eccentric. He's certifiably crazy."
That craziness manifests itself in part through racism, according to the staffer. "We had a Japanese girl who worked here for a while," the staffer said. "Aldon hated her. He used to call her 'Tokyo Rose' and 'that Jap.' There was an African-American employee that he constantly joked about being a drug dealer—he called her a 'white powder heiress.'"
James was essentially, the staffer said, a crazy old coot given to showing up at the club's hoity-toity black-tie events "in a ragged coat, dirty shirt, smelling terribly and wearing a wool skull cap." He compulsively collected tchochkes and stuffed them into the club's unoccupied upstairs apartments, resulting in unsafe caves full of junk that twice drew the attention of New York City fire marshals. And the club's downstairs office space, which are open to staff and more likely to be seen by the public, was no better (the photo above is of the office).
James had virtually total control over the club's $2.6 million budget, and he wielded it as a crazy old coot would: "He was writing blank checks to vendors at flea markets where he'd buy all his filthy old junk," the staffer said. "There was no accountability, no receipts." According to the New York Post, the club's finances are under investigation by both the city and state of New York.
James is officially just on leave, but it's widely expected that he'll be permanently fired. Trouble is, he has no where else to go. "He's lived at the club for nearly 40 years, and been president for 20," the staffer says.
A call to James was referred to a publicist, who did not respond to an e-mail.
6 comments:
Read it here first at least Gawker gave you credit on their first article about it. Nice job Free Press!
Spring has sprung and with it seemingly sunnier days at the National Arts Club as Gramercy staple O. Aldon James relinquishes presidential duties and prepares to take a "vacation". A breath of fresh air has found its way into the lungs of both membership and staff with a taste of celebratory elation because of the apparent end of the epic mini-series known as the James Brothers reign of terror.(Terrible title, I think it airs on Starz). Casualties of the brothers atrocities have resurfaced; brought back from the dead following the James bros fall from grace. The once Teflon duo still haunt the hallways for the time being, but their presence now only illicit a morbid curiosity similar to surfing comment posts for snarky responses rather than the usual apprehensive doom that followed them around like a stale fart.
The sinister joke is on them... Or is it? Membership which blossomed under O. Aldon is sure to be affected. With the Bernhardt Doctrine of transparency and cooperation already taking effect, will she carry a big enough stick needed to clean up club finances? How much access did James have and how much was squandered at flea markets, pharmacies , and prostitute stores? James could never say no to his own impulses. Crystal meth deprived O.A.J of sleep for weeks at a time. Combined with a insatiable hunger for anal? and serial killer for a brother, his actions have jeopardized the clubs tax exempt status. Now under the careful scrutiny of state and federal agencies, James, Aldon and brother, James, John now face severe penalties that may include fines that could put a serious dent in their only source of income, the trust that daddy, James, Oliver set up for them which itself was likely poorly managed and possibly exhausted. Some are even speculating that both could find themselves behind bars. A jovial stretch of the imagination wonders if this would be a godsend for the Frank and Jesse of the wild west of Gramercy Park. Prison is rife with sex and drugs, and who better than Aldon to learned his fellow inmates on serious cultural hot topics like art history, name dropping 101 and inappropriate innuendo tutorial. John, the consummate deviant, would flourish on the inside , and with access to an endless supply of disposable cameras could possibly come into his own as the preeminent prison photographer. He may even be one day honored at the esteemed National Arts Club with a Gold Medal by the clubs photography committee headed by Stanley Burns. Hopefully, for the sake of humanity, (especially the millions of displaced Japanese whom shouldn't worry so much about radiation sickness but rather be terrified by the next generation of giant monsters that this disaster definitely has spawned and will soon be wreaking havoc on Tokyo) the shaking up at the club will knock some sense into Burns and he will cut that ridiculous pony tail that he courageously sports. Honestly, Stanley, you look like a real dick head.
Speaking anonymously, a sport notoriously finding it's own niche on comment pages like this, there has to be concern for the future of the club, staff side. Rumors are already afloat since the toppling of Uday and Qusay James regarding health benefits, a staff locker room that would replace the current stairwell doubling as a changing room, and a general improvement of working conditions. However, these smell like the old ball of cheese that gets picked over nightly and has a bit of every staff and member DNA deeply ingrained at the core. Bernhardt and her heir apparent? are shrewd business people who recognize the value of the clubs dining concession. Why wouldn't they clean house starting with the executive chef, Joe Frappaolo, himself now back under fire for his past legal transgressions at the club(back to that later), and put the position on the market and accept the highest bidder. Or if the free market and capitalistic approach doesn't suit her, Bernhardt can always revert to nepotism and award the concession to her daughters restaurateur husband.
PAUSE. Big picture break. Is Bernhardt the cavalier altruist, riding in and taking the reigns of the Club during these tumultuous times because she considers cleaning up its good name and restoring its reputation more important than her own health that wouldn't at all effected by the stress of the position, even if only temporary? There is no greater good. No Loyalty but to your own best interests. This is the same Diane Bernhardt that when hosting her daughters wedding at the club used an outside caterer and a staff of male models to replace the ungainly plain, uninteresting, and for lack of a better word, utterly replaceable cast of characters on staff now. Starting with the lowly busboy that just dropped your spoon in your lap while he cleared your over, under, but never properly cooked salmon plate to the top of the dining room hierarchy Frappaolo,himself. Not without his own shady club history, Joe is the tragic figure in this human comedy. The dining room operation is like a child to the man, whom for 32 years has nurtured it to solvency and profitability for the Club. It's facade as a member dining room is a loose guise for a respectable catering hall that routinely serves 100+ meals daily and offers drinks and refreshments for multiple parties nightly. Frappaolo has come under fire for a sales tax conviction that was paid back in full and because of his quarter of a million dollar salary that has been circulated around various news outlets. Frappaolo is hamstrung with a staff of retards, drunks, philanderers, midgets, paranoid schizophrenics, junkies and retards. For the product, Joe is grossly underpaid. He not only provides above average services, the man is quite malleable to the demands of overzealous party hosts while managing a staff of misfit toys whom under another regime may be drooling over your shoulder or losing their penis in your food.
Summation time. Yes!! These are some exciting times at the National Arts Club. For members, I foresee some rough patches but possibly greener pastures. The future of the staff however, is unwritten leaving some to wonder if the future staff will feature the fresh faces of a Wilhemina catalog. I, for one, will miss Luke and Leia James and hope they return for a sequel possibly featuring Billy Dee Williams as a ruthless space pirate and giant dog that could beat you to death with your freshly dismembered arm.
The food at the club is beyond awful! I can't believe you like the dreck that is served. It gets really bad when they do a specialty night like Southern Night or whatever they call it.. Greasy and sloppy is the best description of the food..Joe is a nice guy but that doesn't mean he should cook my dinner...He needs to be replaced.. But what a gorgeous dining room!!!
xlpharmacy indeed this club is very suspicious!
Beware the Wite Witch of the West!
Dianne Bernhard ain't no savior, not by a long shot. Indeed it looked that way in the beginning but now that she's spread her leathery wings, we see that she is loading the club schedule with commercial programs (liquor distributors, et al) to fill the ghastly turquoise chairs she placed in the diningroom and she has poor, loyal, hard working Joe Frap' serving "sliders" to late night revelers. She is packing the Board of Governors with nouveau-riche farm folk like herself and has spent, by her own admission, over $900,000 in legal fees as she desperately (and so far unsuccessfully) tries to defenestrate Aldon James. I think I'd rather have $900,000 worth of flea market junk!
Face it! The National Arts Club is a haven for nut bags, misfits and eccentrics. In the final analysis, the membership will have no more than traded one maniacal egotist for another.
Long live the White Witch! . . until, that is, the next pretender hacks off her head . . .
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