(First in a two-part series)
The great nation of Zimbabwe is in crisis and I am forced to declare a state of emergency. Although my twenty-nine-year reign as the country's leader has been marked by defiance, recent events have brought me to the brink and I appeal to the international community for all the support it can muster.
I share with you the vital information contained in the all-points bulletin released by Radio Zimbabwe: Fortnum Mugabe, a chimpanzee approximately five feet high and weighing 150 pounds, disappeared from the Presidential Pagoda at about 4:30 p.m. Thursday. Fortnum's hair is black, straight and coarse. He has a lumbering, bearlike gait and while formerly able to climb nimbly, he has reached maturity and consequently his arboreal habits have declined.
When last seen, he was wearing yellow Tour de France racing shorts, a lightweight Loro Piana sweater vest, a pair of embroidered magenta Venetian gondolier's slippers known as papusse, and carrying a partially-peeled banana.
Fortnum was last spotted frolicking under the sprinkler system at my pagoda-style palace. The gardener who observed him was taken into custody, questioned throughout the night, and forced to drink diesel fuel. All to no avail: Fortnum remains at large.
There have been reports of Fortnum pedaling his tricycle on Harare's ring road. These sightings have been investigated by the Republic Police with further interrogation and more diesel fuel. A reward is offered for Fortnum's safe return: 1,000,000 U.S. dollars if discovered by a foreign national and 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 Zimbabwean dollars if found locally.
My concerns at this point are twofold: first, that Fortnum may have joined the thousands of my subjects who are illegally fleeing into South Africa each day. It mortifies me that he may find himself without proper shelter, food, or clean drinking water and vulnerable to the nasty cholera outbreak now upon us. Second, because his body build and functions resemble those of man, it is possible Fortnum may be in the clutches of a demented lunatic and subject to dismemberment, vivisection, or worse.
What can you say about a chimpanzee who enlarged the world for all who knew him and now is gone? That he loved long walks on the beach and Chopin? Scrabble and club sandwiches? The Hotel du Cap in Antibes and having the largest cabana?
I am now 85 and the loss of Fortnum has heightened my growing awareness of how precious life is. My young wife Grace notices that I well up at birthday celebrations, romantic films, and while saying goodbyes at the airport. Lately at breakfast, when eating my grapefruit, a tear trickles down my cheek.
On the homefront, we are working around the clock. Fourteen of the least diligent of my 236 houseboys were executed at dawn, with subsequent firing squads scheduled to report for duty every two hours. In the interim, a number of buildings and grounds staff have had their hands and feet amputated and have been burned alive. But the current downward spiral in our economy has been accompanied by a fuel shortage. Supplies are running low, even at the Presidential Pagoda. In out time of need, we turn our eyes to you. Zimbabwe asks for your help. No, we beg you.
Saturday, 29 August 2009
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
At Your Service
Doctors Opt out of Medicare, Offer Concierge Medicine--The Times
My decision not to accept Medicare has proved frustrating to a number of seniors in the Phoenix community. Yet as a private physician operating a private business, I do not want to be subject to the whims of federal authorities. My choice not to participate in Medicare has little to do with low government reimbursement rates and everything to do with cumbersome paperwork which might keep me from my top priority: you.
I will henceforth provide medical attention using the time-tested methods perfected by concierges at boutique hotels. Charging a yearly retainer, I can pledge unrivaled personalized service. Old age can be a stormy time and I will be at the helm of your medical ship.
The Concierge Vice Admiral level of health care entitles you to three office visits every two months, appointments scheduled within five days, and access to a special phone line manned by my most seasoned support staff (no more calling queues). You will be spared the indignity of an hour in the waiting area followed by forty-five minutes in an examining room while I race up and down the corridor raising and lowering a series of red and green flags over each door as nurses reassure you "the doctor will be with you shortly."
With Concierge Vice Admiral, you will no longer be "parked." Instead, as a valued client, you will be whisked from the waiting area (think of priority boarding) to an examination room in which I promise to be present within twenty minutes. And I will remain in this room without glancing at my watch until we have thoroughly discussed your medical problems. If previously I may have seemed rushed, curt, or borderline rude, Concierge Vice Admiral ensures you my eye contact, full attention, and maximum responsiveness. This service has an annual fee of $6,000 per person ($10,000 per couple and, yes, I do recognize civil unions).
Concierge Admiral allows all of the above plus up to two office visits per month, the number of my private pager (I will respond within one hour (two hours if during a weekend or while in Cabo)), and my prompt appearance in an examination room featuring a selection of high-grade reading material and choice teas. In addition, I will personally oversee hospital admissions, helping you complete complex forms and avoid unfamiliar, bureaucratic "hospitalists." Concierge Admiral carries an annual charge of $12,000 ($20,000 per couple) which earns you valuable Starwood Points honored worldwide at fine resorts (including the Phoenician in Scottsdale).
Concierge Fleet Admiral provides service nonpareil. After numerous decades on earth (many of them in the greater Phoenix area), why not treat yourself to something truly special? Concierge Fleet Admiral confers all the privileges of Admiral, plus guaranteed same-day appointments, a bi-monthly comprehensive physical exam similar to that enjoyed by the President of the United States and other heads of state, unlimited office visits, entrance to a V.I.P. examination complex equipped with jacuzzi and caviar bar, my friendship on Facebook, and most importantly, my private cell phone number.
At two o'clock in the morning, when you develop chest pain, you can call me and I will pick up. Blinding headache? Imminent aneurysm? I will pick up. Subdural hematoma? I wil pick up. In your deepest moments of anxious crisis, there will be a reassuring, familiar voice on the phone: mine.
I will personally visit you in the Intensive Care Unit (with fruit basket and fine champagne if dietary restrictions allow), oversee every facet of your medical stay (fully-paid by Medicare), and make any necessary referrals to specialists or rehabilitation facilities. All required follow-up blood work or biopsies will be done in our office for a modest charge and won't be farmed out to busy labs.
Concierge Fleet Admiral costs $35,000 per year ($60,000 per couple) and guarantees my complete availability 24/7, my willingness to consult with you in person anywhere in the state of Arizona (including the floor of the Grand Canyon in late August), to come to your home whenever you desire, and to do anything to or with you or watch you do anything to me or anyone else you may wish.
My decision not to accept Medicare has proved frustrating to a number of seniors in the Phoenix community. Yet as a private physician operating a private business, I do not want to be subject to the whims of federal authorities. My choice not to participate in Medicare has little to do with low government reimbursement rates and everything to do with cumbersome paperwork which might keep me from my top priority: you.
I will henceforth provide medical attention using the time-tested methods perfected by concierges at boutique hotels. Charging a yearly retainer, I can pledge unrivaled personalized service. Old age can be a stormy time and I will be at the helm of your medical ship.
The Concierge Vice Admiral level of health care entitles you to three office visits every two months, appointments scheduled within five days, and access to a special phone line manned by my most seasoned support staff (no more calling queues). You will be spared the indignity of an hour in the waiting area followed by forty-five minutes in an examining room while I race up and down the corridor raising and lowering a series of red and green flags over each door as nurses reassure you "the doctor will be with you shortly."
With Concierge Vice Admiral, you will no longer be "parked." Instead, as a valued client, you will be whisked from the waiting area (think of priority boarding) to an examination room in which I promise to be present within twenty minutes. And I will remain in this room without glancing at my watch until we have thoroughly discussed your medical problems. If previously I may have seemed rushed, curt, or borderline rude, Concierge Vice Admiral ensures you my eye contact, full attention, and maximum responsiveness. This service has an annual fee of $6,000 per person ($10,000 per couple and, yes, I do recognize civil unions).
Concierge Admiral allows all of the above plus up to two office visits per month, the number of my private pager (I will respond within one hour (two hours if during a weekend or while in Cabo)), and my prompt appearance in an examination room featuring a selection of high-grade reading material and choice teas. In addition, I will personally oversee hospital admissions, helping you complete complex forms and avoid unfamiliar, bureaucratic "hospitalists." Concierge Admiral carries an annual charge of $12,000 ($20,000 per couple) which earns you valuable Starwood Points honored worldwide at fine resorts (including the Phoenician in Scottsdale).
Concierge Fleet Admiral provides service nonpareil. After numerous decades on earth (many of them in the greater Phoenix area), why not treat yourself to something truly special? Concierge Fleet Admiral confers all the privileges of Admiral, plus guaranteed same-day appointments, a bi-monthly comprehensive physical exam similar to that enjoyed by the President of the United States and other heads of state, unlimited office visits, entrance to a V.I.P. examination complex equipped with jacuzzi and caviar bar, my friendship on Facebook, and most importantly, my private cell phone number.
At two o'clock in the morning, when you develop chest pain, you can call me and I will pick up. Blinding headache? Imminent aneurysm? I will pick up. Subdural hematoma? I wil pick up. In your deepest moments of anxious crisis, there will be a reassuring, familiar voice on the phone: mine.
I will personally visit you in the Intensive Care Unit (with fruit basket and fine champagne if dietary restrictions allow), oversee every facet of your medical stay (fully-paid by Medicare), and make any necessary referrals to specialists or rehabilitation facilities. All required follow-up blood work or biopsies will be done in our office for a modest charge and won't be farmed out to busy labs.
Concierge Fleet Admiral costs $35,000 per year ($60,000 per couple) and guarantees my complete availability 24/7, my willingness to consult with you in person anywhere in the state of Arizona (including the floor of the Grand Canyon in late August), to come to your home whenever you desire, and to do anything to or with you or watch you do anything to me or anyone else you may wish.
Sunday, 23 August 2009
The Quest
Dear Alumnus:
We hope this letter finds you well. And we hope this letter finds you. Even though several of your classmates have furnished us with your home, business, and e-mail addresses as well as various phone numbers, our attempts to contact you have not met with success and we try now in hopes of mending what has become a somewhat distant relationship between you and the College. Life is indeed, as the Beatles once sang, a "long and winding road," and we wonder if your road could be described thus:
--You graduated 25 years ago and found yourself living in a large city with a number of good friends you'd met at college. Perhaps you roomed in Manhattan at First Avenue and 91st Street with a classmate who worked in publishing, another starting law school, and a third employed by Sotheby's. All of you were grateful to the College for the strong liberal arts education you'd received and for the subsequent inroads you were now making in your respective professions. Occasionally sudents still at the College would pass through town, bunk down with you, and share a pizza. Your conversation revolved around the College, its character, and the bountiful opportunities it had afforded you. The current senior informed you that he or she envied your exciting life in the big city. You told him or her: "You're the truly lucky one; you're still at the most special place on earth: the College."
In any event, you got caught up in the hurlyburly of urban life and failed to contribute to the Alumni Fund in the first few post-collegiate years. You then began to feel sheepish, embarrassed even, that you'd been remiss. You still cherish the College and now want nothing more than to express your appreciation, but the years have slipped by and you mistakenly feel it is "too late" to donate.
[Suggested annual contribution: $500]
--You did not move to a major metropolis after graduation, but instead opted for a focused life of solitude working, let us say, in northern Arizona for the Indian Health Service. You spent many years in a place where people had never even heard of your alma mater. You healed the needy and struggled with substantial medical school debt while avidly reading the "Alumni Monthly" and never forgetting Dick McPherson, your biology professor, mentor, and author of the award-winning text "Biology 1." It has been many years since you've visited, but you still feel the campus is one of the most bucolic spots on the planet, comparable in its heartrending grandeur to your familiar neighbor, the Grand Canyon. You want desperately to reconnect, but you dropped off the College's mailing list decades ago.
[Suggested annual contribution: $250]
--You are someone who always intended to give back, but have simply lacked the wherewithal. You have devoted many fallow seasons to an invention which has now been patented and has borne financial fruit. After so much disappointment, you are unmoored and may have neglected to share your recent good fortune. Or you may irrationally fear that your many non-giving years have "estranged" you from the College. May we hasten to assure you, our sole sentiment is: Congratulations on your invention.
[Suggested annual contribution: $25,000]
--You embody the patriotism which is one of the central tenets of the College's mission. After graduation, you joined the U.S. Armed Forces and, along with your one other classmate who serves in uniform, have been featured frequently in alumni publications, most recently in a special "Stars and Stripes" issue. As a staff sergeant, you define heroism, leading a tactical team in Iraq which defuses improvised explosive devices. In a heavy protective suit, under a burning sun, you are drawn to danger and you risk your life daily as you inspire us all.
Your devotion to the military has led to upheaval in your personal life and you've not had time to settle down and raise a family. Your closest kin is a nephew who last phoned three years ago. You have prudently taken out a $250,000 life insurance policy to guard against the unthinkable and you hope that this sum may ultimately spur a youth (or a community of youths) to meet your standard of personal bravery.
[Suggested donation: $500 yearly and thoughtful inclusion of us in your estate plans]
--You have alays nurtured the dream that one or both of your children would follow in you footsteps. However, as you've noted the steady ascendancy of the College in the "U.S. News and World Report" rankings over the years, you've begun to doubt whether your eldest, now theoretically a sophomore in high school, has the makings of a strong candidate. You have been laboring under the misconception that suddenly donating a substantial sum to the College could be perceived as gaining an unfair advantage for your offspring in the admissions process. You further worry that, having never given in the past, earmarking an extremely generous amount at this point could be awkward. Please know that all alumni children are offered careful consideration and that the Directors of Admissions and Alumni Giving are always available to chat.
[Suggeted annual contribution: $50,000]
--You were struck by a large truck shortly after commencement exercises and have passed the last quarter-century in hospital bed. Your irreparably fractured vertebrae keep you from doing little more than watching television and mentally reliving your halcyon days at the College. Your inability to grasp a pen has prevented you from ever writing a check to the Annual Fund. You learn of a convenient direct deposit option available through the Alumni Office and this offers a glimmer of hope.
[Suggested annual contibution: $10]
We trust your route, no matter how roundabout, will always lead you to the most rewarding of destinations: the College. Think of your journey as coming full circle. We've missed you. Welcome home.
We hope this letter finds you well. And we hope this letter finds you. Even though several of your classmates have furnished us with your home, business, and e-mail addresses as well as various phone numbers, our attempts to contact you have not met with success and we try now in hopes of mending what has become a somewhat distant relationship between you and the College. Life is indeed, as the Beatles once sang, a "long and winding road," and we wonder if your road could be described thus:
--You graduated 25 years ago and found yourself living in a large city with a number of good friends you'd met at college. Perhaps you roomed in Manhattan at First Avenue and 91st Street with a classmate who worked in publishing, another starting law school, and a third employed by Sotheby's. All of you were grateful to the College for the strong liberal arts education you'd received and for the subsequent inroads you were now making in your respective professions. Occasionally sudents still at the College would pass through town, bunk down with you, and share a pizza. Your conversation revolved around the College, its character, and the bountiful opportunities it had afforded you. The current senior informed you that he or she envied your exciting life in the big city. You told him or her: "You're the truly lucky one; you're still at the most special place on earth: the College."
In any event, you got caught up in the hurlyburly of urban life and failed to contribute to the Alumni Fund in the first few post-collegiate years. You then began to feel sheepish, embarrassed even, that you'd been remiss. You still cherish the College and now want nothing more than to express your appreciation, but the years have slipped by and you mistakenly feel it is "too late" to donate.
[Suggested annual contribution: $500]
--You did not move to a major metropolis after graduation, but instead opted for a focused life of solitude working, let us say, in northern Arizona for the Indian Health Service. You spent many years in a place where people had never even heard of your alma mater. You healed the needy and struggled with substantial medical school debt while avidly reading the "Alumni Monthly" and never forgetting Dick McPherson, your biology professor, mentor, and author of the award-winning text "Biology 1." It has been many years since you've visited, but you still feel the campus is one of the most bucolic spots on the planet, comparable in its heartrending grandeur to your familiar neighbor, the Grand Canyon. You want desperately to reconnect, but you dropped off the College's mailing list decades ago.
[Suggested annual contribution: $250]
--You are someone who always intended to give back, but have simply lacked the wherewithal. You have devoted many fallow seasons to an invention which has now been patented and has borne financial fruit. After so much disappointment, you are unmoored and may have neglected to share your recent good fortune. Or you may irrationally fear that your many non-giving years have "estranged" you from the College. May we hasten to assure you, our sole sentiment is: Congratulations on your invention.
[Suggested annual contribution: $25,000]
--You embody the patriotism which is one of the central tenets of the College's mission. After graduation, you joined the U.S. Armed Forces and, along with your one other classmate who serves in uniform, have been featured frequently in alumni publications, most recently in a special "Stars and Stripes" issue. As a staff sergeant, you define heroism, leading a tactical team in Iraq which defuses improvised explosive devices. In a heavy protective suit, under a burning sun, you are drawn to danger and you risk your life daily as you inspire us all.
Your devotion to the military has led to upheaval in your personal life and you've not had time to settle down and raise a family. Your closest kin is a nephew who last phoned three years ago. You have prudently taken out a $250,000 life insurance policy to guard against the unthinkable and you hope that this sum may ultimately spur a youth (or a community of youths) to meet your standard of personal bravery.
[Suggested donation: $500 yearly and thoughtful inclusion of us in your estate plans]
--You have alays nurtured the dream that one or both of your children would follow in you footsteps. However, as you've noted the steady ascendancy of the College in the "U.S. News and World Report" rankings over the years, you've begun to doubt whether your eldest, now theoretically a sophomore in high school, has the makings of a strong candidate. You have been laboring under the misconception that suddenly donating a substantial sum to the College could be perceived as gaining an unfair advantage for your offspring in the admissions process. You further worry that, having never given in the past, earmarking an extremely generous amount at this point could be awkward. Please know that all alumni children are offered careful consideration and that the Directors of Admissions and Alumni Giving are always available to chat.
[Suggeted annual contribution: $50,000]
--You were struck by a large truck shortly after commencement exercises and have passed the last quarter-century in hospital bed. Your irreparably fractured vertebrae keep you from doing little more than watching television and mentally reliving your halcyon days at the College. Your inability to grasp a pen has prevented you from ever writing a check to the Annual Fund. You learn of a convenient direct deposit option available through the Alumni Office and this offers a glimmer of hope.
[Suggested annual contibution: $10]
We trust your route, no matter how roundabout, will always lead you to the most rewarding of destinations: the College. Think of your journey as coming full circle. We've missed you. Welcome home.
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Dogmentation
I go through dogs like a newborn through diapers. I'm not the best-looking guy and find most of my companionship with man's best friend. But I'm the furthest thing from a one-canine man: I like to play the field. My first was a bull terrier. Like many products of Great Britain, he was a nasty piece of work: an attitude of feisty superiority capped off with a mouth of rotting teeth. Still, like a lot of the British (Eddie Izzard, John Cleese), the guy had character. I loved taking him to the park and watching him scare the bejesus out of other dogs and their owners. With wide-set eyes and a compact but vaguely offputting muscularity, Zeus reminded me of myself. Except for his ears.
I'd bought the scariest, most frothing beast I could find and still some people refused to be intimidated. "You really should have his ears pinned," one woman told me. "He's a bull terrier," I said, "his ears are supposed to jut out." She stared at him: "Not like that." It's surprisingly affordable to have a dog's ears pinned. Not that Zeus was that keen on the procedure, but he did look a lot better until he was mauled to death by two Presa Canarios and a Dobermann.
Next I tried a Tibetan Spaniel and discovered the joy of being seen with the cutest dog in the park. Parents would lay down their newspapers and kids their water pistols to gawk at Electra. Like all things Tibetan, she was diminutive and adorable. Pretty much perfect, actually, except for her nose. Electra had a little bump. "Nothing I can't iron out," said my veterinary plastic surgeon, Bruce. "What will you do?" "Same thing I'd do to your wife and daughters if you had either and I were qualified to work on humans: I'll break Electra's nose and re-set it." "Cool," I said. The thing was, though, looking at Electra post-op, I started to miss Zeus. It hadn't gone all that well: Bruce had given her a new nose but also a wounded look in her eyes that drove me crazy. At least Zeus was too dense to know he'd had his ears pinned.
I couldn't afford a German car, so I bought a schnauzer. They're a robust dog: courageous and notably intelligent. The trouble with Hercules was his eyes: I couldn't understand why they were almond-shaped. "You're Teutonic," I barked at him, "with an agressively masculine posture, bushy eyebrows, and a beard. But your eyes are like something out of 'The Mikado.'"
"Bruce," I demanded, "give me oval eyes." "You have oval eyes." "Not me: Hercules." "We may be going a bit beyond my purview," he told me. "Don't sell yourself short, Bruce, just make an incision or whatever." He sighed, "I should have done something less competitive like become a doctor."
Bruce and I grew close over the years. Each breed I brought him cemented our friendship. I pushed him to the limits of his medical expertise as he expanded my options of ways in which it is possible to alter a dog. I dropped off my mastiff (face-lift), German shepherd (mole removal), Saint Bernard (tummy tuck), Chihuahua (collagen injections), and West Highland white terrier (buttock implants).
But Bruce seemed peevish the day I showed up with my pair of pugs. He glared at them: "What now?" "We're here for a little liposuction" I announced. "If you could just remove a bit of tissue from Orpheus and place it in Eurydice..." "If I take fat from A and cram it in B, then B will look like A and you will have spent thousands and a considerble amount of my time." "First off, Bruce, no one's asking you to 'cram' anything. Second, the pugs have names." "Then why dress them in matching tracksuits and deprive them of their individualty?" I decided then that I valued Bruce more as a surgeon than as a philosopher.
Bringing him Neptune was a mistake "Look at that face," I instructed. "I see a perfectly normal Sha-Pei," Bruce retorted. "Well, I see folds, wrinkles, furrows, crow's-eyes, a quintuple chin..." He cut me off: "As I said: a Shar-Pei. "You're telling me you can't fill in a few frown lines?" "I wonder why he's frowning," Bruce said cryptically.
His greatest challenge was Hera, my basset hound. "Her teats hang too low," I explained. "They're supposed to. "Not like that," I told him. "You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, nothing I haven't done," he said, "but I'm asking you now, as a board-certified vet and as a fellow human being, do not ask me to perform breast-reduction surgery on a basset hound." "Even if Hera will be less self-conscious? Even if she'll look better in the lavender sweater she wears to the park?" I asked. "Is it Hera who'll be less self-conscious or you?" "How should I know, Bruce? It's not as though she can speak." "I'm sorry," he said, "but no. This I cannot do." "Her breasts graze the ground, Bruce: she gets dirty." He shook his head no. Then I had a thought. "Hey listen," I said, "do you think maybe you could lengthen her legs?" He reflected. "Yeah, O.K. Anything within reason."
I'd bought the scariest, most frothing beast I could find and still some people refused to be intimidated. "You really should have his ears pinned," one woman told me. "He's a bull terrier," I said, "his ears are supposed to jut out." She stared at him: "Not like that." It's surprisingly affordable to have a dog's ears pinned. Not that Zeus was that keen on the procedure, but he did look a lot better until he was mauled to death by two Presa Canarios and a Dobermann.
Next I tried a Tibetan Spaniel and discovered the joy of being seen with the cutest dog in the park. Parents would lay down their newspapers and kids their water pistols to gawk at Electra. Like all things Tibetan, she was diminutive and adorable. Pretty much perfect, actually, except for her nose. Electra had a little bump. "Nothing I can't iron out," said my veterinary plastic surgeon, Bruce. "What will you do?" "Same thing I'd do to your wife and daughters if you had either and I were qualified to work on humans: I'll break Electra's nose and re-set it." "Cool," I said. The thing was, though, looking at Electra post-op, I started to miss Zeus. It hadn't gone all that well: Bruce had given her a new nose but also a wounded look in her eyes that drove me crazy. At least Zeus was too dense to know he'd had his ears pinned.
I couldn't afford a German car, so I bought a schnauzer. They're a robust dog: courageous and notably intelligent. The trouble with Hercules was his eyes: I couldn't understand why they were almond-shaped. "You're Teutonic," I barked at him, "with an agressively masculine posture, bushy eyebrows, and a beard. But your eyes are like something out of 'The Mikado.'"
"Bruce," I demanded, "give me oval eyes." "You have oval eyes." "Not me: Hercules." "We may be going a bit beyond my purview," he told me. "Don't sell yourself short, Bruce, just make an incision or whatever." He sighed, "I should have done something less competitive like become a doctor."
Bruce and I grew close over the years. Each breed I brought him cemented our friendship. I pushed him to the limits of his medical expertise as he expanded my options of ways in which it is possible to alter a dog. I dropped off my mastiff (face-lift), German shepherd (mole removal), Saint Bernard (tummy tuck), Chihuahua (collagen injections), and West Highland white terrier (buttock implants).
But Bruce seemed peevish the day I showed up with my pair of pugs. He glared at them: "What now?" "We're here for a little liposuction" I announced. "If you could just remove a bit of tissue from Orpheus and place it in Eurydice..." "If I take fat from A and cram it in B, then B will look like A and you will have spent thousands and a considerble amount of my time." "First off, Bruce, no one's asking you to 'cram' anything. Second, the pugs have names." "Then why dress them in matching tracksuits and deprive them of their individualty?" I decided then that I valued Bruce more as a surgeon than as a philosopher.
Bringing him Neptune was a mistake "Look at that face," I instructed. "I see a perfectly normal Sha-Pei," Bruce retorted. "Well, I see folds, wrinkles, furrows, crow's-eyes, a quintuple chin..." He cut me off: "As I said: a Shar-Pei. "You're telling me you can't fill in a few frown lines?" "I wonder why he's frowning," Bruce said cryptically.
His greatest challenge was Hera, my basset hound. "Her teats hang too low," I explained. "They're supposed to. "Not like that," I told him. "You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, nothing I haven't done," he said, "but I'm asking you now, as a board-certified vet and as a fellow human being, do not ask me to perform breast-reduction surgery on a basset hound." "Even if Hera will be less self-conscious? Even if she'll look better in the lavender sweater she wears to the park?" I asked. "Is it Hera who'll be less self-conscious or you?" "How should I know, Bruce? It's not as though she can speak." "I'm sorry," he said, "but no. This I cannot do." "Her breasts graze the ground, Bruce: she gets dirty." He shook his head no. Then I had a thought. "Hey listen," I said, "do you think maybe you could lengthen her legs?" He reflected. "Yeah, O.K. Anything within reason."
Friday, 14 August 2009
The Power of O
Hi, everybody, welcome to today's show. I just got back from Italy. (Applause from the studio audience.) Italia. (More applause.) I love it. (Additional applause.) Look at my new sneakers. (Applause.) Aren't they great? (More applause.) I wear them everywhere now. They're made by Superga, but they're hard to find in the Chicago area. Maybe that'll change in the near future. Who knows? (Winks at the audience. Applause.)
People ask me, "Oprah, did you miss Chicago?" Did I miss Chicago with its 98° heat and 98% humidity? Of course. Because you're here. (Wild applause.) I was in a small town in Italy, a place no one's ever heard of on the Tuscan coast: Forte dei Marmi. F-O-R-T-E D-E-I M-A-R-M-I. (Applause.) I love everything Italian but it was great to fly back on good old USAir. They go non-stop from Venice to Philly, where I visited my cousin. (Applause.) Let's hear it for family. (Wild applause.) You're my family. (Wilder, uncontrolled, frightening applause.) My cousin Lillian owns a fruit shop in Philadelphia: Lillian's Exotic Fruit. Look her up next time you're there. On Chestnut Street. She's in the book. She's also selling a DVD player and a set of unchipped Spode china. (Applause.)
Now, we've got a great show for you today. You know my favorite thing to do besides flying USAir and wearing my pink Superga sneakers? This. (Sits in an uncomfortable cross-legged position as the audience gasps.) It's an ayurvedic yoga technique. Yes, I can still get down on the floor. (Wild cheers.) I'm just not sure I can get up. (Applause as she rises.) When I was reading The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold the other summer, I was under acute stress. What a book! That one blew me away. (Applause.) It was then that I met Dr. Arvind Patel in Germantown, Pennsylvania, while I was staying with my cousin Lillian who owns Lillian's Exotic Fruit on Chestnut Street. Dr. Patel has a Ph.D. in nutritional ethnomedicine from the University of California at Berkeley. (Fervent, sustained applause.) I don't know if you folks are applauding his doctorate, U.C. Berkeley, the state of California, or Dr. Patel. (Explosive applause.) He taught me this technique. And he's here today. (Applause.) Your lives will never be the same. (Applause.)
And who else do we have? Senator Charles Schumer. (Silence.) From the great state of New York. (Deafening silence.) We're going to learn about politics. (Applause.) He's going to learn about politics. (Uproarious laughter and applause.) You know it. (Shouting and thunderous foot-stomping.) And we have Amy Adams. She's in a movie (applause) about Julia Child (applause) and France (polite applause) and the art of French cooking (applause). She'll tell us what it was like to play opposite the world's greatest actress, Meryl Streep. (Deafening applause.)
Some people tell me I'm the world's greatest actress. (Soaring ovation.) But I tell them, "Honey, Meryl Streep is for real." (Cacophonous laughter and cheering.) Guess what's in this little bowl here. Salted nuts. (Applause.) Golden Eagle salted cashews. (Holds up the can to applause.) They're tasty. I suggest you try them. (Applause.) That's a command. (Laughter and applause.) How I love salted nuts! But then I get thirsty. (Applause.) Who knows my favorite thing in the world to drink? (Unanimous chorus of "Welch's Grape Juice.") That was my old favorite thing in the world to drink. My new favorite thing in the world is pastis. (Silence.) It's a drink. (Applause.) Served in France. (Polite applause.) It's a licorice-flavored liqueur. I'm addicted. (Concerned silence.) In a good way. (Relieved applause.) So we'll be right back with Dr. Patel, Senator Charles Schumer, Amy Adams, a bowl of Golden Eagle salted cashews, and a nice tall glass of pastis. (Delirious applause.)
People ask me, "Oprah, did you miss Chicago?" Did I miss Chicago with its 98° heat and 98% humidity? Of course. Because you're here. (Wild applause.) I was in a small town in Italy, a place no one's ever heard of on the Tuscan coast: Forte dei Marmi. F-O-R-T-E D-E-I M-A-R-M-I. (Applause.) I love everything Italian but it was great to fly back on good old USAir. They go non-stop from Venice to Philly, where I visited my cousin. (Applause.) Let's hear it for family. (Wild applause.) You're my family. (Wilder, uncontrolled, frightening applause.) My cousin Lillian owns a fruit shop in Philadelphia: Lillian's Exotic Fruit. Look her up next time you're there. On Chestnut Street. She's in the book. She's also selling a DVD player and a set of unchipped Spode china. (Applause.)
Now, we've got a great show for you today. You know my favorite thing to do besides flying USAir and wearing my pink Superga sneakers? This. (Sits in an uncomfortable cross-legged position as the audience gasps.) It's an ayurvedic yoga technique. Yes, I can still get down on the floor. (Wild cheers.) I'm just not sure I can get up. (Applause as she rises.) When I was reading The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold the other summer, I was under acute stress. What a book! That one blew me away. (Applause.) It was then that I met Dr. Arvind Patel in Germantown, Pennsylvania, while I was staying with my cousin Lillian who owns Lillian's Exotic Fruit on Chestnut Street. Dr. Patel has a Ph.D. in nutritional ethnomedicine from the University of California at Berkeley. (Fervent, sustained applause.) I don't know if you folks are applauding his doctorate, U.C. Berkeley, the state of California, or Dr. Patel. (Explosive applause.) He taught me this technique. And he's here today. (Applause.) Your lives will never be the same. (Applause.)
And who else do we have? Senator Charles Schumer. (Silence.) From the great state of New York. (Deafening silence.) We're going to learn about politics. (Applause.) He's going to learn about politics. (Uproarious laughter and applause.) You know it. (Shouting and thunderous foot-stomping.) And we have Amy Adams. She's in a movie (applause) about Julia Child (applause) and France (polite applause) and the art of French cooking (applause). She'll tell us what it was like to play opposite the world's greatest actress, Meryl Streep. (Deafening applause.)
Some people tell me I'm the world's greatest actress. (Soaring ovation.) But I tell them, "Honey, Meryl Streep is for real." (Cacophonous laughter and cheering.) Guess what's in this little bowl here. Salted nuts. (Applause.) Golden Eagle salted cashews. (Holds up the can to applause.) They're tasty. I suggest you try them. (Applause.) That's a command. (Laughter and applause.) How I love salted nuts! But then I get thirsty. (Applause.) Who knows my favorite thing in the world to drink? (Unanimous chorus of "Welch's Grape Juice.") That was my old favorite thing in the world to drink. My new favorite thing in the world is pastis. (Silence.) It's a drink. (Applause.) Served in France. (Polite applause.) It's a licorice-flavored liqueur. I'm addicted. (Concerned silence.) In a good way. (Relieved applause.) So we'll be right back with Dr. Patel, Senator Charles Schumer, Amy Adams, a bowl of Golden Eagle salted cashews, and a nice tall glass of pastis. (Delirious applause.)
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Are You A Good Host?
When asked to peel shrimp, shuck oysters, or slice salmon for a party, do you find an inordinate percentage of chore time is spent gobbling these delicacies while your wife is out of the kitchen? Having been caught with your mouth full and relieved of seafood duty with a curt "Thanks anyway," and given the task of washing and drying endive, do you then tear off a few exterior leaves and determine that those beneath are "plenty white enough" and place them directly on the serving platter?
While, parked in your place of exile (the living room sofa furthest from the Camembert), you hear an unusually frenetic slamming of pots and pans, culminating in the sound of a collander hurled against the wall and the words "Jesus Christ," do you rush to the kitchen and offer to help? Or do you draw a link between your unwillingness to buy a costly non-stick pan the previous day and a mass of troublesome rice glued to the bottom of the lesser model you did purchase? Confronted with a batch of burned paella, do you find the soothing words, "Don't worry, babe, you can't wreck Spanish food," are met with "I just did" and an overly theatrical dumping of paella into the trash?
Asked to "see to the bar," do you briefly note that everything appears to be in order before pouring yourself a drink and settling down with a back issue of "Harper's" featuring an article by William Gass on the unknown Kafka? Do you find your reading almost immediately interrupted by the intrusive query, "What about lemons and limes?" and, as you carry a lemon and lime to the bar, followed by the equally terse "sliced"?
Do you find learning about Kafka makes you unusually ravenous, that the raw bar across the room looks particularly inviting, and that your wife's plucking shrimp from burned paella provides ample opportunity for your own shrimp-plucking until you tiptoe toward the breakfront and hear the following word hissed: "Don't"?
When peremptorily summoned, do you cast aside your magazine with great bravado and resolutely enter the kitchen with the air of a martyr willing to sacrifice his very essence for the commonweal? Do you heed brusque instructions to "make yourself useful" and begin beating egg whites with tremendous solemnity as if performing cosmetic surgery on a major Hollywood talent? Are you distracted from this labor by the sight of an enormous shrimp perched atop the refuse in the trash bin and do you further note that said refuse is actually a bed of perfectly pristine rice, seemingly arranged by an elf or other helpful creature to make the plump shrimp comfortable?
Are you cognizant that you are staring at a centerfold from "Gourmet" and that the shrimp is practically begging to be eaten? Do you thereby reason that if you slide your mixing bowl across the counter in the direction of the trash bin and lower the speed on the mixer that you can safely procure the shrimp while simultaneously doing your wife's bidding? In your eagerness to grasp the shrimp do you inadvertently press the button which ejects the beaters and sprays your egg whites into an alarming aerial display which descends like snowfall to the floor?
Do you then hear the patter of Marc Jacobs-clad feet approaching the kitchen with an urgency you realize is rapidly escalating in volume and intensity as though the tiny feet themselves wanted to do you harm? As you begin to gather your indignation into what you hope will be a convincing tirade on the building's fickle electrical system, do you feel a blast of pain to your midsection so acute that you find yourself writhing in agony and egg whites on the kitchen floor?
As nausea reduces you to the fetal position and you recall a day on a soccer field early in the courtship of your then girlfriend/now wife when you specifically told her that there was one type of male pain nearly unendurable, do you see her peering over you with what is clearly concern? Are you then aware that her attention is focused not on you but on the shrimp clutched in your fist and that she has raised her foot to stomp on your hand and snap your wrist when you are saved by the least welcome sound on earth: the doorbell?
While, parked in your place of exile (the living room sofa furthest from the Camembert), you hear an unusually frenetic slamming of pots and pans, culminating in the sound of a collander hurled against the wall and the words "Jesus Christ," do you rush to the kitchen and offer to help? Or do you draw a link between your unwillingness to buy a costly non-stick pan the previous day and a mass of troublesome rice glued to the bottom of the lesser model you did purchase? Confronted with a batch of burned paella, do you find the soothing words, "Don't worry, babe, you can't wreck Spanish food," are met with "I just did" and an overly theatrical dumping of paella into the trash?
Asked to "see to the bar," do you briefly note that everything appears to be in order before pouring yourself a drink and settling down with a back issue of "Harper's" featuring an article by William Gass on the unknown Kafka? Do you find your reading almost immediately interrupted by the intrusive query, "What about lemons and limes?" and, as you carry a lemon and lime to the bar, followed by the equally terse "sliced"?
Do you find learning about Kafka makes you unusually ravenous, that the raw bar across the room looks particularly inviting, and that your wife's plucking shrimp from burned paella provides ample opportunity for your own shrimp-plucking until you tiptoe toward the breakfront and hear the following word hissed: "Don't"?
When peremptorily summoned, do you cast aside your magazine with great bravado and resolutely enter the kitchen with the air of a martyr willing to sacrifice his very essence for the commonweal? Do you heed brusque instructions to "make yourself useful" and begin beating egg whites with tremendous solemnity as if performing cosmetic surgery on a major Hollywood talent? Are you distracted from this labor by the sight of an enormous shrimp perched atop the refuse in the trash bin and do you further note that said refuse is actually a bed of perfectly pristine rice, seemingly arranged by an elf or other helpful creature to make the plump shrimp comfortable?
Are you cognizant that you are staring at a centerfold from "Gourmet" and that the shrimp is practically begging to be eaten? Do you thereby reason that if you slide your mixing bowl across the counter in the direction of the trash bin and lower the speed on the mixer that you can safely procure the shrimp while simultaneously doing your wife's bidding? In your eagerness to grasp the shrimp do you inadvertently press the button which ejects the beaters and sprays your egg whites into an alarming aerial display which descends like snowfall to the floor?
Do you then hear the patter of Marc Jacobs-clad feet approaching the kitchen with an urgency you realize is rapidly escalating in volume and intensity as though the tiny feet themselves wanted to do you harm? As you begin to gather your indignation into what you hope will be a convincing tirade on the building's fickle electrical system, do you feel a blast of pain to your midsection so acute that you find yourself writhing in agony and egg whites on the kitchen floor?
As nausea reduces you to the fetal position and you recall a day on a soccer field early in the courtship of your then girlfriend/now wife when you specifically told her that there was one type of male pain nearly unendurable, do you see her peering over you with what is clearly concern? Are you then aware that her attention is focused not on you but on the shrimp clutched in your fist and that she has raised her foot to stomp on your hand and snap your wrist when you are saved by the least welcome sound on earth: the doorbell?
Friday, 7 August 2009
A Word On Walking
Since walking is something most of us often engage in, I'd like to express a few thoughts on the subject. I'm not talking about power walking or that competition in the Olympics where skinny Finnish people wave off proffered water bottles while ensuring their heel and toe touch the ground every step for twenty kilometers.
I'm talking about grabbing your car keys off the dresser, calling to your wife, "I'm ready," then pacing in the front hall for nine minutes until Suzy descends the stairs, opens the door, and beats you to the car by sixteen feet. That's right: I said "beat." Because although it's not a race (sorry, Finland), I can't help but feel I've come in second. Unless we're with a friend, in which case I'm third.
What most people fail to grasp about walking is that humans have different leg lengths. Not "my left leg is shorter than my right," but "my legs are a different length than Suzy's." I'm not married to Lynda Carter (star of the TV series "Wonder Woman" and now a successful cabaret singer) or similar statuesque creature. But Suzy has lengthy legs. I myself am 5'4" tall, average height (for a male of Southern European descent), and I believe my legs are of a correspondingly normal length.
Yet the prospect of heading to the car (never mind a proper walk) has, over the years, become demoralizing. Walking with someone doesn't merely involve moving your legs up and down for a given period of time, but checking periodically to see if your walking buddy is still with you.
Think of walking as making love. Obviously, you do a lot more of the former each day than the latter, but if you do it with someone, don't be selfish. Striding way ahead, then turning impatiently and noting, "There you are," is the equivalent of calling out an ex-lover's name in bed. Losing sight of your walking partner and then querying, "Where were you?" is the same as firmly clamping your eyes shut, satisfying your own desires, and then rolling over to read a book that's not even good. Would you ask a sexual companion why parts of his or her body are a certain size? Then don't ask someone trailing eight stores behind you in a pedestrian mall, "What happened to you?" Because you know what happened to that person? He or she was born with short legs. Or possibly not even short legs, but shorter legs. Not everyone's Wilt Chamberlain.
The level of societal insensitivity on this issue is astonishing. We've installed enough wheelchair ramps, squash-court-sized bathroom cubicles, and sturdy aluminum handrails in the past twenty years to make a visiting Martian think every inhabitant of America is "differently abled," but no one gives a fig about leg length.
Here are things I no longer do even when cajoled by well-educated friends who earn healthy incomes and promise to buy me lavish meals afterwards: climb mountains, frequent Six Flags, Busch Gardens, or either Disney, attend professional sporting events, county fairs, or shop at Wal-Mart.
A day at the shore last summer was particularly traumatic despite my taking numerous precautions. I selected a beach with a hefty entrance fee in hopes of reducing the number of cars in the lot. I further insisted that Suzy and I meet our three friends (6'4", 6'2", and 6'1") early in the day to minimize the walk from car to water. Nonetheless, upon arrival we must have seen a good 700 automobiles. We then spotted our tall trio waving wildly at the edge of the lot closest to the ocean.
"They've already found a space," said Suzy, "why don't you drop me, park, and we'll wait for you." "Maybe there's a free place near them," I ventured. My wife stared at me as if I had suggested a third term for Bush. "Who leaves the beach at 10 a.m.?" she scoffed. "All available parking spaces are far away." "Right," I nodded grimly, "I know." I dutifully left her with our friends, parked, and reached them as quickly as I could. "What took you so long?" asked the tallest when I showed up. Suzy eyed my sweaty, reddened face: "Have you been running?" "No, no, I'm fine," I replied, doubling over and wheezing. "Good," came a hateful male voice, "You can take the cooler."
We set off together on a sandy path, but by the first dune, the four of them were a bobbing burble of laughter a football field ahead of me. At the snack stand, they appeared as a joshing, heartless cluster of humanity on the horizon. When I saw the first beach umbrella, they'd vanished. Like Ralph Fiennes carrying Kristin Scott Thomas through the desert in "The English Patient," I strode under that merciless sun, panting and toting the cooler. When I finally caught sight of them amidst the crowds at the water's edge, they looked up from their sand castle. "There you are," they blurted in unison. "What happened to you?"
I'm talking about grabbing your car keys off the dresser, calling to your wife, "I'm ready," then pacing in the front hall for nine minutes until Suzy descends the stairs, opens the door, and beats you to the car by sixteen feet. That's right: I said "beat." Because although it's not a race (sorry, Finland), I can't help but feel I've come in second. Unless we're with a friend, in which case I'm third.
What most people fail to grasp about walking is that humans have different leg lengths. Not "my left leg is shorter than my right," but "my legs are a different length than Suzy's." I'm not married to Lynda Carter (star of the TV series "Wonder Woman" and now a successful cabaret singer) or similar statuesque creature. But Suzy has lengthy legs. I myself am 5'4" tall, average height (for a male of Southern European descent), and I believe my legs are of a correspondingly normal length.
Yet the prospect of heading to the car (never mind a proper walk) has, over the years, become demoralizing. Walking with someone doesn't merely involve moving your legs up and down for a given period of time, but checking periodically to see if your walking buddy is still with you.
Think of walking as making love. Obviously, you do a lot more of the former each day than the latter, but if you do it with someone, don't be selfish. Striding way ahead, then turning impatiently and noting, "There you are," is the equivalent of calling out an ex-lover's name in bed. Losing sight of your walking partner and then querying, "Where were you?" is the same as firmly clamping your eyes shut, satisfying your own desires, and then rolling over to read a book that's not even good. Would you ask a sexual companion why parts of his or her body are a certain size? Then don't ask someone trailing eight stores behind you in a pedestrian mall, "What happened to you?" Because you know what happened to that person? He or she was born with short legs. Or possibly not even short legs, but shorter legs. Not everyone's Wilt Chamberlain.
The level of societal insensitivity on this issue is astonishing. We've installed enough wheelchair ramps, squash-court-sized bathroom cubicles, and sturdy aluminum handrails in the past twenty years to make a visiting Martian think every inhabitant of America is "differently abled," but no one gives a fig about leg length.
Here are things I no longer do even when cajoled by well-educated friends who earn healthy incomes and promise to buy me lavish meals afterwards: climb mountains, frequent Six Flags, Busch Gardens, or either Disney, attend professional sporting events, county fairs, or shop at Wal-Mart.
A day at the shore last summer was particularly traumatic despite my taking numerous precautions. I selected a beach with a hefty entrance fee in hopes of reducing the number of cars in the lot. I further insisted that Suzy and I meet our three friends (6'4", 6'2", and 6'1") early in the day to minimize the walk from car to water. Nonetheless, upon arrival we must have seen a good 700 automobiles. We then spotted our tall trio waving wildly at the edge of the lot closest to the ocean.
"They've already found a space," said Suzy, "why don't you drop me, park, and we'll wait for you." "Maybe there's a free place near them," I ventured. My wife stared at me as if I had suggested a third term for Bush. "Who leaves the beach at 10 a.m.?" she scoffed. "All available parking spaces are far away." "Right," I nodded grimly, "I know." I dutifully left her with our friends, parked, and reached them as quickly as I could. "What took you so long?" asked the tallest when I showed up. Suzy eyed my sweaty, reddened face: "Have you been running?" "No, no, I'm fine," I replied, doubling over and wheezing. "Good," came a hateful male voice, "You can take the cooler."
We set off together on a sandy path, but by the first dune, the four of them were a bobbing burble of laughter a football field ahead of me. At the snack stand, they appeared as a joshing, heartless cluster of humanity on the horizon. When I saw the first beach umbrella, they'd vanished. Like Ralph Fiennes carrying Kristin Scott Thomas through the desert in "The English Patient," I strode under that merciless sun, panting and toting the cooler. When I finally caught sight of them amidst the crowds at the water's edge, they looked up from their sand castle. "There you are," they blurted in unison. "What happened to you?"
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Open House
"Look at the houses, not their prices," advised my wife as we strolled through Nantucket this summer. Quaint as the island's historic dwellings are, I was distracted by realtors' come-ons. The recent implosion on Wall Street appeared to have planted a "For Sale" sign in front of every third house. In olden times on Nantucket, ascertaining the price of a house was akin to practicing scrimshaw on a live whale. One had to brave an agent's scrutiny in person or even on the phone:
One: Hello, I'm calling about 245 Spinnaker Lane.
They: Yes. How may I be of assistance?
One: By telling me its price.
They: That property is handled by Tug Morris. If you leave your name and number, I'll have her ring back.
One: Are there not materials in the office you could refer to?
They: I'm sorry. The listing is Ms. Morris's. An exclusive, I'm afraid.
One: (Unintelligible oath rhyming with "Nantucket.")
Now, with 600 homes currently for sale on the island, it's a whole new ballgame. The listings these days are a bit less exclusive. One could posit that while in the past Tug Morris was a not overly friendly matron in floral skirt, pearls, and espadrilles who had a reserve bordering on hostility, this summer she is a strumpet clad in black leather pole-dancing on Main Street with asking prices tattooed across her torso, fliers clamped between her teeth, and a newfound willingness to sprint after cars and roll naked in their exhaust fumes in hopes of rustling up interest in an open house.
Yesterday's discretion has given way to wanton desperation. Witness the realtor's post box. Stationed outside available properties, this contraption (unlike its namesake, which is traditionally used to receive information) imparts valuable details about the house's occupants. Removing a helpfully supplied cheat sheet, one learns the square footage of their home, how many bedrooms they possess, the taxes they pay, and, best of all, the asking price (these days followed by the pitiful troika "o.b.o." (or best offer)).
Imagine the distress of someone who purchased an 18th Century whaler's cottage in 2004, razed it, constructed an 8,300-square-foot getaway replete with turrets, moat, state-of-the-art alarm system and helipad only to learn that his vacation home is now worth half what he plowed into it (or, to put this in perspective, precisely what it would fetch today in Tennessee (if within commuting range of the flagship FedEx facility)).
This summer, I swaggered into a realtor's office like Jack Nicholson at the Cafe Carlyle. I wasn't outfitted in Nantucket reds, topsiders, an old St. Mark's sweatshirt, or a faded sun hat purchased out of the "New Yorker" 20 years ago. I wore a T-shirt featuring an egg frying in a pan ("This is your brain on drugs"), a pair of brown Payless sneakers, and a wide smirk. When I entered, every single employee (four this summer; 11 in the past) rose to their feet with tears in their eyes. "May I get you some mineral water, sir? A cappuccino?" asked some obsequious office manager/factotum/greeter.
"No, you may not," I said imperiously. "I'm here to buy a home." Their collective sharp intake of breath informed me that my wish was their command. "What I want is not to view actual properties, nor to take some fancy-pants virtual tour on a computer screen. Nor do I want to see photographs, artist's renderings, or pen and ink sketches by the seller's nephew. I want to see numbers."
"As in 'three bedrooms'?" asked a silver-haired fellow who looked peaked, as though he'd recently lost a great deal of weight and no longer slept more than two hours per night. "As in $849,000," I responded. "Please bring the distinguished gentleman in the anti-drug T-shirt all listings in that price range," instructed the wraith.
"No, no," I said. "I want to see the prices of everything for sale on the island. No details. Just the prices." The staff looked at each other in bewilderment. "He's serious," my wife told them. "Others thirst to know how the rich live; my husband is obsessed with how much it costs them." The minions came forth toting cobwebbed ledgers. I pored over the glorious figures for hours: $4,249,999; $2,119,999; $969,999; and most deliciously, $1,249,999 crossed out to read $489,999. Despite having a net worth of $38,216 (including household appliances), I found these bargains were making me salivate. "On second thought," I said, looking up, "I will have that cappuccino."
One: Hello, I'm calling about 245 Spinnaker Lane.
They: Yes. How may I be of assistance?
One: By telling me its price.
They: That property is handled by Tug Morris. If you leave your name and number, I'll have her ring back.
One: Are there not materials in the office you could refer to?
They: I'm sorry. The listing is Ms. Morris's. An exclusive, I'm afraid.
One: (Unintelligible oath rhyming with "Nantucket.")
Now, with 600 homes currently for sale on the island, it's a whole new ballgame. The listings these days are a bit less exclusive. One could posit that while in the past Tug Morris was a not overly friendly matron in floral skirt, pearls, and espadrilles who had a reserve bordering on hostility, this summer she is a strumpet clad in black leather pole-dancing on Main Street with asking prices tattooed across her torso, fliers clamped between her teeth, and a newfound willingness to sprint after cars and roll naked in their exhaust fumes in hopes of rustling up interest in an open house.
Yesterday's discretion has given way to wanton desperation. Witness the realtor's post box. Stationed outside available properties, this contraption (unlike its namesake, which is traditionally used to receive information) imparts valuable details about the house's occupants. Removing a helpfully supplied cheat sheet, one learns the square footage of their home, how many bedrooms they possess, the taxes they pay, and, best of all, the asking price (these days followed by the pitiful troika "o.b.o." (or best offer)).
Imagine the distress of someone who purchased an 18th Century whaler's cottage in 2004, razed it, constructed an 8,300-square-foot getaway replete with turrets, moat, state-of-the-art alarm system and helipad only to learn that his vacation home is now worth half what he plowed into it (or, to put this in perspective, precisely what it would fetch today in Tennessee (if within commuting range of the flagship FedEx facility)).
This summer, I swaggered into a realtor's office like Jack Nicholson at the Cafe Carlyle. I wasn't outfitted in Nantucket reds, topsiders, an old St. Mark's sweatshirt, or a faded sun hat purchased out of the "New Yorker" 20 years ago. I wore a T-shirt featuring an egg frying in a pan ("This is your brain on drugs"), a pair of brown Payless sneakers, and a wide smirk. When I entered, every single employee (four this summer; 11 in the past) rose to their feet with tears in their eyes. "May I get you some mineral water, sir? A cappuccino?" asked some obsequious office manager/factotum/greeter.
"No, you may not," I said imperiously. "I'm here to buy a home." Their collective sharp intake of breath informed me that my wish was their command. "What I want is not to view actual properties, nor to take some fancy-pants virtual tour on a computer screen. Nor do I want to see photographs, artist's renderings, or pen and ink sketches by the seller's nephew. I want to see numbers."
"As in 'three bedrooms'?" asked a silver-haired fellow who looked peaked, as though he'd recently lost a great deal of weight and no longer slept more than two hours per night. "As in $849,000," I responded. "Please bring the distinguished gentleman in the anti-drug T-shirt all listings in that price range," instructed the wraith.
"No, no," I said. "I want to see the prices of everything for sale on the island. No details. Just the prices." The staff looked at each other in bewilderment. "He's serious," my wife told them. "Others thirst to know how the rich live; my husband is obsessed with how much it costs them." The minions came forth toting cobwebbed ledgers. I pored over the glorious figures for hours: $4,249,999; $2,119,999; $969,999; and most deliciously, $1,249,999 crossed out to read $489,999. Despite having a net worth of $38,216 (including household appliances), I found these bargains were making me salivate. "On second thought," I said, looking up, "I will have that cappuccino."
Saturday, 1 August 2009
Storage Facility
For some time now, I've been buying Basmati rice in bulk. As I live in Berkeley, a city with a sizable Indian population, I'm able to obtain substantial quantities. I began with five-kilo bags, graduated to 20- and 50-kilo sacks, and now find that if I purchase 1,500 kilos at a go (packaged in a rust-resistant steel container dropped off at the foot of my driveway on the sixth of each month), my price point falls considerably. In fact, it nearly vanishes.
I was raised in England, where everything is small: cars, refrigerators, houses, salaries, restroom cubicles, and condiments. There's no Grand Canyon in England. There's Kew Gardens, Hampton Court, and now, finally, Legoland. The only thing big in England is the prices. Which is why I appreciate America. If you buy enough of anything, it's virtually free. In fact, strolling through Costco, I feel as though I'm making money just looking. Once I actually begin buying Raisin Bran, I'm on Easy Street.
Like an increasing number of people in Northern California, I don't have a job. Which gives me plenty of time to shop. And plenty of company when I break open my steel container of rice. The unemployed men in my neighborhood stream out of their dwellings (think 1979 Yorkshire miners' strike but eveyone with a Ph.D. and Frisbee) bearing bushel baskets, wheelbarrows, etc. The container is soldered shut to prevent stowaways (though we have discovered people on occasion; they'll never eat rice again, believe you me!) and Keith, an out-of-work astrophysicist who has a Sri Lankan wife and welds, burns it open. Then comes the monsoon, with rice instead of rain. I used to monitor who took how much but now it's like, "Who gives a shit?" as long as the container's empty and ready for pick-up (included in the price of the rice) before my girlfriend Beth gets home at five.
She finds much of what I do repugnant: eating Marmite, wearing singlets, washing my underarms and genitals at the sink, visiting the dentist every fourth year, and driving a stick shift in the Berkeley Hills. So having an industrial-sized container of rice delivered to the house on a monthly basis is the least of my problems. Nonetheless, it's a source of tension.
Despite the fact that others in the neighborhood (some far more enterprising than I) have started to order their own containers and now share their spoils with us. In the past month, our road has received massive shipments of flour, sugar, pasta, a brownish-grey breakfast cereal, and pork. All but the last worked out wonderfully and as I mentioned to Beth the other night, a spaghetti dinner for two now sets us back less than eleven cents (excluding sauce and wine).
In truth, a snide suggestion of Beth's (that I use our empty container to ship Mary Swenson (who broke a costly wine glass at a party of ours) to India) has resulted in additional neighborhood savings. Given the discomfort people endure on transatlantic flights these days, most are happy to reduce their carbon footprints by travelling the oceans in shipping containers (though we didn't have any takers for the one that previously held pork).
We've found a shipping agent who's willing to turn a blind eye, fares are extremely reasonable, and once on board ship, passengers are allowed out to exercise and meet others. We've even had a few "shipping container" marriages (as well as one regrettable sexual assault).
Growing up in Sheffield in the 1960s, hoarding was considered bad. Not because the English had abandoned their wartime mentality (a bunker filled with Heinz baked beans), but because no one really had disposable income. To hoard was to show off.
Here in America, there's no such thing as showing off. You invented it. Everyone has a swimming pool, even if it's an aluminum, above-ground number with a rat floating on its surface. Hell, someone two streets over made a pool out of his empty container (molding some of the marshmallows it previously stored into a waterslide), when he realized it was less hassle to forfeit his $285 security deposit than to buy and transport the genuine article.
One thing we did do in Sheffield was leave butter in the open, finding no need to refrigerate it. I've followed this practice here (possible given Berkeley's temperate climate and vital given the volume of rice Beth and I consume) and have also begun to keep large vats of soy sauce on the premises.
The basic rule with hoarding is the same as that adhered to in storage spaces: use every available inch. That means boxes. And for those of you adopting these methods in cities like Boston, L.A., D.C., New York, and San Francisco (where closets count as "bedrooms"), that means planned pyramidal stacking of boxes with weight evenly distributed by product: a stratum of canned goods at the bottom, an array of layered grains in the middle, then cookies and snacks prone to crumble, with rolls of toilet paper and loose fruit thrown at random to the sides and over the top.
I was raised in England, where everything is small: cars, refrigerators, houses, salaries, restroom cubicles, and condiments. There's no Grand Canyon in England. There's Kew Gardens, Hampton Court, and now, finally, Legoland. The only thing big in England is the prices. Which is why I appreciate America. If you buy enough of anything, it's virtually free. In fact, strolling through Costco, I feel as though I'm making money just looking. Once I actually begin buying Raisin Bran, I'm on Easy Street.
Like an increasing number of people in Northern California, I don't have a job. Which gives me plenty of time to shop. And plenty of company when I break open my steel container of rice. The unemployed men in my neighborhood stream out of their dwellings (think 1979 Yorkshire miners' strike but eveyone with a Ph.D. and Frisbee) bearing bushel baskets, wheelbarrows, etc. The container is soldered shut to prevent stowaways (though we have discovered people on occasion; they'll never eat rice again, believe you me!) and Keith, an out-of-work astrophysicist who has a Sri Lankan wife and welds, burns it open. Then comes the monsoon, with rice instead of rain. I used to monitor who took how much but now it's like, "Who gives a shit?" as long as the container's empty and ready for pick-up (included in the price of the rice) before my girlfriend Beth gets home at five.
She finds much of what I do repugnant: eating Marmite, wearing singlets, washing my underarms and genitals at the sink, visiting the dentist every fourth year, and driving a stick shift in the Berkeley Hills. So having an industrial-sized container of rice delivered to the house on a monthly basis is the least of my problems. Nonetheless, it's a source of tension.
Despite the fact that others in the neighborhood (some far more enterprising than I) have started to order their own containers and now share their spoils with us. In the past month, our road has received massive shipments of flour, sugar, pasta, a brownish-grey breakfast cereal, and pork. All but the last worked out wonderfully and as I mentioned to Beth the other night, a spaghetti dinner for two now sets us back less than eleven cents (excluding sauce and wine).
In truth, a snide suggestion of Beth's (that I use our empty container to ship Mary Swenson (who broke a costly wine glass at a party of ours) to India) has resulted in additional neighborhood savings. Given the discomfort people endure on transatlantic flights these days, most are happy to reduce their carbon footprints by travelling the oceans in shipping containers (though we didn't have any takers for the one that previously held pork).
We've found a shipping agent who's willing to turn a blind eye, fares are extremely reasonable, and once on board ship, passengers are allowed out to exercise and meet others. We've even had a few "shipping container" marriages (as well as one regrettable sexual assault).
Growing up in Sheffield in the 1960s, hoarding was considered bad. Not because the English had abandoned their wartime mentality (a bunker filled with Heinz baked beans), but because no one really had disposable income. To hoard was to show off.
Here in America, there's no such thing as showing off. You invented it. Everyone has a swimming pool, even if it's an aluminum, above-ground number with a rat floating on its surface. Hell, someone two streets over made a pool out of his empty container (molding some of the marshmallows it previously stored into a waterslide), when he realized it was less hassle to forfeit his $285 security deposit than to buy and transport the genuine article.
One thing we did do in Sheffield was leave butter in the open, finding no need to refrigerate it. I've followed this practice here (possible given Berkeley's temperate climate and vital given the volume of rice Beth and I consume) and have also begun to keep large vats of soy sauce on the premises.
The basic rule with hoarding is the same as that adhered to in storage spaces: use every available inch. That means boxes. And for those of you adopting these methods in cities like Boston, L.A., D.C., New York, and San Francisco (where closets count as "bedrooms"), that means planned pyramidal stacking of boxes with weight evenly distributed by product: a stratum of canned goods at the bottom, an array of layered grains in the middle, then cookies and snacks prone to crumble, with rolls of toilet paper and loose fruit thrown at random to the sides and over the top.
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