Dear Betsy,
Mother and I were sorry to learn from your academic advisor that your apprenticeship to a maker of fine Swiss chocolates has come to naught. As you know, failure to complete this Independent Study Project jeopardizes your graduation from Hampshire next spring. We hope you have not paid January rent on your apartment in Zug and that you will join us here in Charlottesville for Christmas.
Let me hazard a guess as to how you may have passed this morning in Switzerland and then allow me to tell you how I spent mine. I presume you awakened late and obviously did not report to chocolatier Herr Zimmer, though he is your primary reason for being in Europe. (I don't need to remind you that your difficulties with authority stretch back to ninth-grade summer when you put Mrs. Cuthbertson's goldfish in a blender after she commented negatively on your weeding prowess.)
Perhaps you then made your way to an Internet cafe at around noon, smoked a pack of cigarettes (we've asked you to stop), did not email Mother and me (we've asked you to start), and did email Willy Duffy (we've asked you to stop). We saw Willy dining the other evening at Chez Robert with his parents while wearing a baseball cap.
We've eagerly awaited details of exciting journeys you may have undertaken since beginning your adventure abroad. After all, we purchased you a 60-day Eurail Pass only to receive upon your arrival a request for funds to buy an Interail Pass since "Eurail doesn't cover Romania." Mother imprudently wired this money, but as of this writing I have no reason to believe you've set foot in that nation. (Your intention to spend a five-day break in early November in "France, Italy, Spain, and Sweden" left us baffled. Unless, of course, you were travelling with Bruce Springsteen and his band).
So I assume you did not use either of your rail passes today. You did, however, use all three of your credit cards yesterday (I received an alarming call from Visa this morning alerting me to "unusually heavy activity in the Zug region").
Maybe you treated yourself to the same sort of meal you apparently enjoyed Tuesday (Thai Brasserie: 165 Swiss francs). Must you eat Asian food in Zug? The amount also seems exorbitant for lunch for one (Mother hopes you're making friends; I don't if it means you're buying them lunch).
I devoted my morning to hunching over a yellow legal pad, endeavoring to calculate how much we've spent on you since the first of this year. The amount is staggering (at least to me and others who dwell on planet Earth): $184,362.
I once heard you comment to Jacob Simonton, "Since Hampshire costs more than Princeton, it must be better." That remark rankled at the time, but I kept my silence. Betsy, Hampshire costs more than Princeton not because it is better, but because it has a substantially smaller endowment.
One out of every 2.4 dollars I earn currently subsidizes you. The school taxes in Charlottesville are crippling but your inability to gain access to magnet programs for the gifted meant that you never attended public school. Your interest in riding was heartwarming; your insistence on buying a pony in Ireland was not. I must put it plain: raising you has been occasionally rewarding, often challenging, sometimes exasperating, but above all, it has been expensive.
In your last email (which we received some time ago), you mentioned that you "do not like Virginia." This is a very broad statement and I'd like you to elaborate. I realize that John Grisham resides in Charlottesville and Mother informs me that you've never taken to the author or the town. Apparently, you don't consider him a "real writer." Approximately 400 Americans earn a decent living writing books each year; John Grisham has sold more than 60 million copies of his work. He is as real a writer as exists, Betsy. Furthermore, as he's never had any contact withour family save for a book-signing two years ago, I'm not sure his presence in the area is justification for not spending Christmas with us. So, please, indulge me, and tell me if John Grisham is keeping you from us. I doubt whether he or we would consider moving, but it would be nice to know.
I now must ask: What are your plans for the next semester? You mentioned a possible internship at a "Rangoon lunatic asylum" under the auspices of a program run through the Women's Studies/Psychology joint major at Bard. For your information, Rangoon is now known as Yangon, lunatics are currently referred to as "mental patients," and asylums are these days called "institutions." I don't imagine you know the proper terms for any of these in Burmese, but am sure you will become familiar with them over time.
I assume your accommodation costs in Yangon will be considerably lower than those in Zug. Food may be a problem: most subsist on rice. For someone accustomed to a bowl of fresh macadamia nuts on her bureau, this may come as a shock.
A further shock: contrary to your wishes, you will not occupy a "one-bedroom in Greenwich Village with a garden" after graduation. Mrs. Cuthbertson was right: you're a crappy gardener. You will live north of 86th street and east of Second Avenue with four other girls of my choosing (not Willy Duffy) in a two-bedroom apartment with paper-thin walls and poor light. If someone has to sleep on the living-room sofa, it will be you.
I strongly urge you to return home for Christmas. Bring Mother a box of Herr Zimmer's truffles and make sure it is gift-wrapped. I don't care how you obtain this, but if I see a charge on my card, so help me God.
Love,
Dad
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Consolation
Dear Motorola:
I am writing to tell you what a central role your company has played in my family's life during the past 60 years and to express my gratitude. I am nearly as old as Motorola (you came into existence in 1928; I in 1946) and still remember when my father brought home our first television. We lived in a modest home in a modest town and modest state (284 Maple Lane, Akron, Ohio), so I do not exaggerate when I say that seeing Dad come through the door with that set was the highlight of a 13-year-old boy's life. It's difficult to describe what those flickering images in your "wonder box" meant to my friends and me. We inhabited a small corner of the world and led limited lives, which Motorola enlarged. Thank you.
Over the years, we owned dozens of the Quasar products manufactured by Motorola and parting with one of your television sets was like saying goodbye to a family pet. The only thing that consoled (no pun intended) us was the thought that another shiny TV made by you, bigger and better than ever, would arrive to take its place.
When my Dad got back from Korea and my older brother, Brian, from Vietnam, the first thing they did after greeting relatives was to plop down in front of the television and relax. Veterans certainly do love television; at least those in our family.
Which is why it was so disappointing when our remote control stopped working last Tuesday. The remote's a Panasonic but since they bought up your TV and radio business more than 30 years ago, we've still felt close to you each time we hold the device in our hand. Dad's long gone and Brian (who purchased (and loved!) numerous Motorola gadgets for his own home over the decades) now lives with me. He's bed-ridden and spends most of his time watching television. Or used to, before the remote failed.
"Failure" is too harsh a word. Certainly for Motorola. Your compnay's like America itself: dependable, innovative, and the best thing going on God's earth. If you happen to have a spare remote (details attached), I've got two new, triple-A batteries just raring to go. Ordinarily, I'd ask a company to replace a faulty product, but in my eyes, Motorola's like my child: it has no faults! So I'd be more than happy to pay for the new remote as I'm sure Brian probably wore ours out with his darned channel surfing.
I don't know if the person reading this letter has ever been bed-ridden or had a loved one bed-ridden or even witnessed someone bed-ridden without a working remote. But that's probably the definition of frustration. At least it is for Brian. Put that together with the fact that his hospital bed in the living room is no longer adequately functioning (head rest doesn't elevate). The warantee's expired, but when I discovered that the electronic sensors under Brian's mattress were made by Motorola, I leapt for joy. No one stands behind their goods like you. That's what I told Brian the other day when he was fussing about the remote.
I said, "Don't fret, Brian. Companies like Motorola (and there aren't many left) are the bedrock of this nation. A family like ours, which has made some sacrifices over the years and continues to serve with honor (our nephew's currently in Iraq where I believe he has a Motorola cordless phone and camera (model #HMVC3050) in his tent) will never be let down by such a grand firm. You'll get your remote, Brian."
I didn't want to burden him with the cost of a new hospital-bed motor ($830) or power windows, doors, and locks for our Chrysler (buy American!), which the dealership says will run to more than $1,150 (estimate enclosed). Thank God Motorola manufactured those parts or I'd really be up the creek. Or in the creek if I were to sail through an open, inoperational car window into a small body of water or possibly even a lake, river, or ocean. Brian would be home in bed, unelevated and without his remote. Or unelevated and with his remote if you send it quickly.
In the meantime, heating bills are mounting ($3,263 currently overdue), but as long as they don't repossess the house ($14,914 behind in mortgage payments) and I can obtain an extra blanket ($26), we should be able to carry on and continue, as we always have, to purchase your fine products.
God bless,
Eugene Banks
I am writing to tell you what a central role your company has played in my family's life during the past 60 years and to express my gratitude. I am nearly as old as Motorola (you came into existence in 1928; I in 1946) and still remember when my father brought home our first television. We lived in a modest home in a modest town and modest state (284 Maple Lane, Akron, Ohio), so I do not exaggerate when I say that seeing Dad come through the door with that set was the highlight of a 13-year-old boy's life. It's difficult to describe what those flickering images in your "wonder box" meant to my friends and me. We inhabited a small corner of the world and led limited lives, which Motorola enlarged. Thank you.
Over the years, we owned dozens of the Quasar products manufactured by Motorola and parting with one of your television sets was like saying goodbye to a family pet. The only thing that consoled (no pun intended) us was the thought that another shiny TV made by you, bigger and better than ever, would arrive to take its place.
When my Dad got back from Korea and my older brother, Brian, from Vietnam, the first thing they did after greeting relatives was to plop down in front of the television and relax. Veterans certainly do love television; at least those in our family.
Which is why it was so disappointing when our remote control stopped working last Tuesday. The remote's a Panasonic but since they bought up your TV and radio business more than 30 years ago, we've still felt close to you each time we hold the device in our hand. Dad's long gone and Brian (who purchased (and loved!) numerous Motorola gadgets for his own home over the decades) now lives with me. He's bed-ridden and spends most of his time watching television. Or used to, before the remote failed.
"Failure" is too harsh a word. Certainly for Motorola. Your compnay's like America itself: dependable, innovative, and the best thing going on God's earth. If you happen to have a spare remote (details attached), I've got two new, triple-A batteries just raring to go. Ordinarily, I'd ask a company to replace a faulty product, but in my eyes, Motorola's like my child: it has no faults! So I'd be more than happy to pay for the new remote as I'm sure Brian probably wore ours out with his darned channel surfing.
I don't know if the person reading this letter has ever been bed-ridden or had a loved one bed-ridden or even witnessed someone bed-ridden without a working remote. But that's probably the definition of frustration. At least it is for Brian. Put that together with the fact that his hospital bed in the living room is no longer adequately functioning (head rest doesn't elevate). The warantee's expired, but when I discovered that the electronic sensors under Brian's mattress were made by Motorola, I leapt for joy. No one stands behind their goods like you. That's what I told Brian the other day when he was fussing about the remote.
I said, "Don't fret, Brian. Companies like Motorola (and there aren't many left) are the bedrock of this nation. A family like ours, which has made some sacrifices over the years and continues to serve with honor (our nephew's currently in Iraq where I believe he has a Motorola cordless phone and camera (model #HMVC3050) in his tent) will never be let down by such a grand firm. You'll get your remote, Brian."
I didn't want to burden him with the cost of a new hospital-bed motor ($830) or power windows, doors, and locks for our Chrysler (buy American!), which the dealership says will run to more than $1,150 (estimate enclosed). Thank God Motorola manufactured those parts or I'd really be up the creek. Or in the creek if I were to sail through an open, inoperational car window into a small body of water or possibly even a lake, river, or ocean. Brian would be home in bed, unelevated and without his remote. Or unelevated and with his remote if you send it quickly.
In the meantime, heating bills are mounting ($3,263 currently overdue), but as long as they don't repossess the house ($14,914 behind in mortgage payments) and I can obtain an extra blanket ($26), we should be able to carry on and continue, as we always have, to purchase your fine products.
God bless,
Eugene Banks
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
How to Get into Brown
Getting into Brown is tough these days: fewer than one in nine made the cut last year. It obviously makes little sense to dispense advice along the lines of "ensure that the previous four generations of your family attended Brown," "be the child of a famous parent," "captain three varsity sports," "have your parents build Brown an arts center," or "change your skin color." Nonetheless, there are time-tested strategies that have proved surprisingly successful.
#1) Join an expedition to the Galapagos and discover a new plant or insect. While others are enjoying a naturalist's lecture aboard your "floating classroom," hop out with an empty mayonnaise jar, capture the freakiest-looking specimen you can, and upon returning to upstate New York, tell your local vet or florist you found it in nearby woods while "exploring" and get him or her to inform Brown. Failing that, order something exotic through the mail and follow the same procedure.
#2) Find a new bird. The larger the thing you discover, the more impressive. If you're handy with scissors and surgical thread, or know someone who is, you can attach the head of one bird to the body of another and then "scan" the resulting creature so that a vet who has seen the image can testify to your powers of detection.
#3) Write a book. Brown long ago ceased caring about students who read books; they're now interested in those who write them. A girl who collected stories from women about their first menstrual periods will enroll at Yale this fall. So that one's taken, but what about "First Spankings," "First Wet Dreams," "First Divorces," "Second Divorces," etc.? Remember, you simply require an English teacher or other adult not related to you to verify that you've written a book. It doesn't have to be any good or actually make it to market (just list a publication date beyond April).
#4) Have a teacher claim that you're "the most outstanding college candidate I've seen in all my years of teaching." This phrase has become almost mandatory. It will obviously be easier to meet the criterion if you approach a first-year teacher, but if necessary, you can always become extremely close to or sleep with a veteran teacher so that they'll lie.
#5) Be yourself in your essays. But first ensure that "yourself" is someone else. Find a peer who's a more talented writer, has more varied interests, and is not also applying to Brown and ask him or her to pen your essays. You may have to sleep with this person as well, but if your board scores are high enough and he or she's not too unattractive, it's probably worth a shot.
#6) Become a hero. Remember that movie "The Contender" starring Joan Allen in which a politician stages an auto crash and attempts to "save" a drowning woman in order to enhance his reputation? Do something similar. Even if you don't have ready access to a bridge, a car which can be submerged in a river, or a willing victim, you can be heroic on a smaller scale. If you inhabit a house that's not too valuable or doesn't contain objects of beauty, set a small fire which escalates into a dramatic conflagration which you then single-handedly extinguish. An infant or toddler sleeping upstairs and media coverage are a must on this one. Don't screw up.
#7) Submit an art portfolio or musical tape compiled by a lavishly gifted cousin. How's Brown to know you can't hold a crayon when they're looking at intricate silhouettes depicting the downside of globalization? For aspiring musicians, it's better to claim you play a stringed instrument than a woodwind (it indicates more practice). Drums are a no-no.
#8) Do something at "the state or national level." Telling Brown you won a local diving competition is like announcing that you breathe. Participate in a regional or national contest even if the thing you're doing is idiotic or borderline offensive. "I was one of 16 selected from 3,400 nationally given the privilege of recently journeying to Atlantic City, N.J." catches Brown's eyes because these are numbers they can relate to. It doesn't really matter if your achievement concludes "to take part in the rapid doughnut-eating contest." It's merely important you appear well-rounded (i.e., good at something not having to do with school).
#9) Identify others erroneously accepted by Brown. As Gore Vidal famously wrote, "It's not enough to succeed: others must fail." Here's a way to mesh the two: trawl Facebook, MySpace, the Internet, and even back issues of your local newspaper to see if you can nab anyone who's currently undeservedly on the Brown campus. (Think Prince Harry in Nazi regalia.) Someone who's committed murder or manslaughter, flashed their breasts at a party, vomited on someone else, written an obscene slogan on an intimate part of their body with a Sharpie, or been to Cuba in contravention of U.S. travel regulations does not deserve your place at Brown.
#1) Join an expedition to the Galapagos and discover a new plant or insect. While others are enjoying a naturalist's lecture aboard your "floating classroom," hop out with an empty mayonnaise jar, capture the freakiest-looking specimen you can, and upon returning to upstate New York, tell your local vet or florist you found it in nearby woods while "exploring" and get him or her to inform Brown. Failing that, order something exotic through the mail and follow the same procedure.
#2) Find a new bird. The larger the thing you discover, the more impressive. If you're handy with scissors and surgical thread, or know someone who is, you can attach the head of one bird to the body of another and then "scan" the resulting creature so that a vet who has seen the image can testify to your powers of detection.
#3) Write a book. Brown long ago ceased caring about students who read books; they're now interested in those who write them. A girl who collected stories from women about their first menstrual periods will enroll at Yale this fall. So that one's taken, but what about "First Spankings," "First Wet Dreams," "First Divorces," "Second Divorces," etc.? Remember, you simply require an English teacher or other adult not related to you to verify that you've written a book. It doesn't have to be any good or actually make it to market (just list a publication date beyond April).
#4) Have a teacher claim that you're "the most outstanding college candidate I've seen in all my years of teaching." This phrase has become almost mandatory. It will obviously be easier to meet the criterion if you approach a first-year teacher, but if necessary, you can always become extremely close to or sleep with a veteran teacher so that they'll lie.
#5) Be yourself in your essays. But first ensure that "yourself" is someone else. Find a peer who's a more talented writer, has more varied interests, and is not also applying to Brown and ask him or her to pen your essays. You may have to sleep with this person as well, but if your board scores are high enough and he or she's not too unattractive, it's probably worth a shot.
#6) Become a hero. Remember that movie "The Contender" starring Joan Allen in which a politician stages an auto crash and attempts to "save" a drowning woman in order to enhance his reputation? Do something similar. Even if you don't have ready access to a bridge, a car which can be submerged in a river, or a willing victim, you can be heroic on a smaller scale. If you inhabit a house that's not too valuable or doesn't contain objects of beauty, set a small fire which escalates into a dramatic conflagration which you then single-handedly extinguish. An infant or toddler sleeping upstairs and media coverage are a must on this one. Don't screw up.
#7) Submit an art portfolio or musical tape compiled by a lavishly gifted cousin. How's Brown to know you can't hold a crayon when they're looking at intricate silhouettes depicting the downside of globalization? For aspiring musicians, it's better to claim you play a stringed instrument than a woodwind (it indicates more practice). Drums are a no-no.
#8) Do something at "the state or national level." Telling Brown you won a local diving competition is like announcing that you breathe. Participate in a regional or national contest even if the thing you're doing is idiotic or borderline offensive. "I was one of 16 selected from 3,400 nationally given the privilege of recently journeying to Atlantic City, N.J." catches Brown's eyes because these are numbers they can relate to. It doesn't really matter if your achievement concludes "to take part in the rapid doughnut-eating contest." It's merely important you appear well-rounded (i.e., good at something not having to do with school).
#9) Identify others erroneously accepted by Brown. As Gore Vidal famously wrote, "It's not enough to succeed: others must fail." Here's a way to mesh the two: trawl Facebook, MySpace, the Internet, and even back issues of your local newspaper to see if you can nab anyone who's currently undeservedly on the Brown campus. (Think Prince Harry in Nazi regalia.) Someone who's committed murder or manslaughter, flashed their breasts at a party, vomited on someone else, written an obscene slogan on an intimate part of their body with a Sharpie, or been to Cuba in contravention of U.S. travel regulations does not deserve your place at Brown.
Friday, 26 February 2010
My B.F.F.
Having published fifteen posts of stunning originality, I believe I have fair claim to being the most compelling presence in the blogosphere in this new decade. Despite my fearsome intelligence, hunger for truth, and unflinching political commentary, I actively seek the company of others. In fact, I'm currently searching for a Best Friend Forever.
Sixteen fortunate preliminary B.F.F.s will be identified and whisked to the tip of Cape Cod, where they will spend the month of March in an unheated cottage. Each potential B.F.F. will receive a cubic-zirconium-encrusted cellphone with my personal coodinates entered into its memory.
All 16 contestants will be blond, extremely attractive, and younger than 23. I warn those of you educated (even privately) in the United States that some among your number will be products of British state schools and may, therefore, prove intimidating or at least more verbally adept. You will be evenly divided between men and women as I do not intend (at least initially) to bed my new B.F.F.
I plan to call each of you at random with a series of ever-escalating demands. I may ask you to run naked down a wind-swept beach with your mouth full of sand, to plunge into the Atlantic's icy depths, and then to grind sea glass or sharp, splintered driftwood into your sex parts. Why? As a test of loyalty and to determine if you are entitled to the moniker "B.F.F."
During your try-out or apprenticeship, you will use whichever bath products, consume whatever foods (even sea glass and sharp, splintered driftwood), and sleep wherever I decree (expect to spend several nights in an abandoned vehicle or tree). Your cohort of sixteen will be winnowed to four. The other dozen will be asked to return their cellphones promptly and to arrandge their own transport home (N.B. Provincetown airport operates on a vastly reduced schedule in winter and does not service the U.K.).
Finalists will then make their way to New York for a series of costly lunches with me on the Upper East Side (also at Savoy on Crosby Street). A few conversational guidelines: I am not particularly introspective and do not welcome intrusive, "psychologically acute" observations about my character. Don't inform me that I'm "parsimonious," "feel owed," or "have profound issues." Also, don't stare at me while I eat. Just keep your trap shut, allow me to discern if you can handle a fork in public, and when I tactfully excuse myself to "visit the gents'" at the conclusion of the meal, pick up the check.
Don't utter things you think make you sound interesting. Announcing "heliskiing is better than sex" won't make me want to try the sport, but will force me to wonder what sort of sex you've had (and possibly even to picture it).
If your parents or other relations own unoccupied properties in locales that conceivably could be considered desirable, by all means say so. Don't fail to inform me about a vacant flat because you blithely assume I "don't like London." I do like London. Especially South Kensington.
What I don't like is human selfishness. B.F.F.s share. Everything: popcorn at the movies, secrets, stock tips, and, above all, a sense that we're there for each other. Why else have I loaned you an encrusted cellphone? But if, let's say, you're worried about a promotion at work, ask yourself if I, as a matter of course, would be interested in this facet of your life. (If you labor in the financial services industry at a (pre-promotion) salary below $125,000, probably not. If, however, you work with people I went to high school or college with and happen to know their salaries (regardless of size), do give me a ring.)
The same applies to your personal life. Having trouble with a girl- or boyfriend? If you're gay (particularly lesbian), I'm all ears to any details you may wish to furnish. If you're straight, think things through before phoning me (particularly after 6 PM). Is the one with whom you're intimately involved "just a person," or does he or she have some allure that makes him or her worth discussing with me? (Examples: he or she is on the masthead of the "New York Times" (editorial; not business); owns more than three successful restaurants in Manhattan (museum cafes excluded); earned more than $3.6 million in each of the last five fiscal years or possesses a house in Amagansett or better (neither heavily mortgaged nor north of the highway); currently serves or has more than a passing acquaintance with someone who currently serves on the board of the Brearley School.)
After our series of lunches has ended, the two remaining finalists will accompany me to Central Park for a gantlet of sack races, tug-o'-war, bark-and-insect munching, and finally to a bed of hot coals on which each will be expected to tread for a minimum of 20 minutes. At the conclusion of this day, the most worthy will have been selected and my new B.F.F. and I can go out for a celebratory dinner. Probably to Savoy.
Sixteen fortunate preliminary B.F.F.s will be identified and whisked to the tip of Cape Cod, where they will spend the month of March in an unheated cottage. Each potential B.F.F. will receive a cubic-zirconium-encrusted cellphone with my personal coodinates entered into its memory.
All 16 contestants will be blond, extremely attractive, and younger than 23. I warn those of you educated (even privately) in the United States that some among your number will be products of British state schools and may, therefore, prove intimidating or at least more verbally adept. You will be evenly divided between men and women as I do not intend (at least initially) to bed my new B.F.F.
I plan to call each of you at random with a series of ever-escalating demands. I may ask you to run naked down a wind-swept beach with your mouth full of sand, to plunge into the Atlantic's icy depths, and then to grind sea glass or sharp, splintered driftwood into your sex parts. Why? As a test of loyalty and to determine if you are entitled to the moniker "B.F.F."
During your try-out or apprenticeship, you will use whichever bath products, consume whatever foods (even sea glass and sharp, splintered driftwood), and sleep wherever I decree (expect to spend several nights in an abandoned vehicle or tree). Your cohort of sixteen will be winnowed to four. The other dozen will be asked to return their cellphones promptly and to arrandge their own transport home (N.B. Provincetown airport operates on a vastly reduced schedule in winter and does not service the U.K.).
Finalists will then make their way to New York for a series of costly lunches with me on the Upper East Side (also at Savoy on Crosby Street). A few conversational guidelines: I am not particularly introspective and do not welcome intrusive, "psychologically acute" observations about my character. Don't inform me that I'm "parsimonious," "feel owed," or "have profound issues." Also, don't stare at me while I eat. Just keep your trap shut, allow me to discern if you can handle a fork in public, and when I tactfully excuse myself to "visit the gents'" at the conclusion of the meal, pick up the check.
Don't utter things you think make you sound interesting. Announcing "heliskiing is better than sex" won't make me want to try the sport, but will force me to wonder what sort of sex you've had (and possibly even to picture it).
If your parents or other relations own unoccupied properties in locales that conceivably could be considered desirable, by all means say so. Don't fail to inform me about a vacant flat because you blithely assume I "don't like London." I do like London. Especially South Kensington.
What I don't like is human selfishness. B.F.F.s share. Everything: popcorn at the movies, secrets, stock tips, and, above all, a sense that we're there for each other. Why else have I loaned you an encrusted cellphone? But if, let's say, you're worried about a promotion at work, ask yourself if I, as a matter of course, would be interested in this facet of your life. (If you labor in the financial services industry at a (pre-promotion) salary below $125,000, probably not. If, however, you work with people I went to high school or college with and happen to know their salaries (regardless of size), do give me a ring.)
The same applies to your personal life. Having trouble with a girl- or boyfriend? If you're gay (particularly lesbian), I'm all ears to any details you may wish to furnish. If you're straight, think things through before phoning me (particularly after 6 PM). Is the one with whom you're intimately involved "just a person," or does he or she have some allure that makes him or her worth discussing with me? (Examples: he or she is on the masthead of the "New York Times" (editorial; not business); owns more than three successful restaurants in Manhattan (museum cafes excluded); earned more than $3.6 million in each of the last five fiscal years or possesses a house in Amagansett or better (neither heavily mortgaged nor north of the highway); currently serves or has more than a passing acquaintance with someone who currently serves on the board of the Brearley School.)
After our series of lunches has ended, the two remaining finalists will accompany me to Central Park for a gantlet of sack races, tug-o'-war, bark-and-insect munching, and finally to a bed of hot coals on which each will be expected to tread for a minimum of 20 minutes. At the conclusion of this day, the most worthy will have been selected and my new B.F.F. and I can go out for a celebratory dinner. Probably to Savoy.
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
The Game
The Princeton Football Association committed to a special fundraising effort that improved the...experience of attending a Princeton Football game. The PFA raised $500,000 to reimburse the University for the state-of-the-art scoreboard; which is unmatched in the league--December 2009 letter from Anthony P. DiTommaso, Jr. '86, President of the Princeton Football Association
It's been a difficult year for America and particularly for our Tigers. Just as many in our nation are hurting, our team also suffered some tremendous setbacks with numerous injured players and tough losses on the field. When a restaurant has problems, it seeks a new chef; rest assured, we have begun the search for a new head coach.
This is our final solicitation of the year and I would like to take this opportunity to remind you why supporting football at Princeton should be your highest priority. How often has someone remarked in a tone of astonished delight, "You went to Princeton?" (Particularly if that person is also an alum.) Some of the highlights of my life have been spent in the elevator at the Princeton Club on West 43rd Street reminiscing about all that makes our alma mater such a distinctive place: eating clubs and the bickering process by which prospective candidates are excluded from them, old Nassau Hall, and of course, football.
Show me a young man who can kick a pig's bladder between two uprights from a distance of 45 yards and I'll show you a future senator. Show me a running back who can carry for 37 yards on 4th and eight and I'll show you a future president. Show me a quarterback who can thread the needle and find an open man in the end zone amidst a swarm of Dartmouth defenders and I'll show you someone who will someday put this entire planet in his back pocket and sit so firmly upon it that the noise released from this collective human whoopie cuishion will blow the biggest of holes through the ozone layer.
Hunger is important; health care is important; housing is important. But what's truly important? Princeton Football! Who bleeds black and orange? We do! Who wants a new coach pronto? We do! We're going to provide our coaches with the enhancements necessary to compete for student-athletes and get the Tigers back to the top. We're going to fund spring recruiting and opponent scouting. We're going to furnish program enhancements for players and coaches. We're going to enhance the Bejesus out of all seven other teams in the Ivy League.
The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. And that's just a high school! The CEO of an average S&P 500 company earns 319 times more than a production worker. The mean compensation for a Princeton grad in such a position is 412 times greater and the amount earned by a Princeton-educated CEO who played football on campus is 586 times greater. Are we building leaders or are we building leaders?
You're at the Game: Princeton vs. Yale. You care more about its outcome than any future verdict you'll help render while serving on the Supreme Court, any inoculation you'll patent, any museum you'll design. It's pouring rain; the field is a pit of mud. The distant stands are a sea of blue and white umbrellas held by the wimps from New Haven. We wear our black and orange raingear but we do not protect our heads. We show solidarity with our warriors on the field: men with noble Princeton names from the heart of Pennsylvania coal country: Maliszewski, Iacavazzi, Vuono, and Avallone.
Our soldiers are on their own 16. All odds are against us when a slow roar begins to build, a deafening chant of commitment and determination: Tigers! Tigers! Tigers! A completed pass. You squeeze the arm of the gorgeous woman next to you: raven-haired, dark-eyed, from a prominent Houston family. You will someday marry this woman and inherit one of the leading liquor distributorships in the Southwest. All made possible by a chance encounter during Freshman Orientation at Princeton! But you do not care: all is dross. Another completed pass, quarterback sneak, out of bounds, the clock is stopped.
The clock is stopped because Princeton players are agile, swift, and tough, but above all, Princeton players are smart. When we're behind by two points and there are 34 seconds left in regulation time, we stop the clock. (Of course, we are playing Yale so they're intent on our not stopping the clock.)
Your chest is pounding. There are 2,783 institutions of higher learning in America, four of which are any good. You're at one of them! You are at (given the high incidence of TAs at Harvard) the best! But it doesn't matter: if we lose today, we're doomed.
You glance at the raven-haired creature beside you, at the woman you adore and you cannot remember her name. You're in a trance. Pick-up of six. Lateral pass: gain of eleven. Your face is wet: rain, tears, sweat. This is your Waterloo. Nine seconds left. We're on their 24. Out comes Blaschewski. First name or last? You're not sure.
Then your eyes turn to the most beatific sight on God's earth: Princeton's new state-of-the-art scoreboard. They ain't got one of them in Cambridge. Through the pelting rain, you note the nostril-width of the Yale fans. They actually resemble bulldogs.
The name flashes on our glamorous new scoreboard: Czeslaw Blaschewski. Go Czeslaw! Make us proud! Boot that pig's bladder through the goal posts and ensure your future in global arbitrage at one of the three remaining Manhattan investment banks. The ball is snapped, the bladder is booted, and like the perfect ending to a much-loved fairy tale, the ending is oh, so very happy. You kiss Daphne (you've remembered: Daphne Huntington) and wrap your arms around her. Christ Almighty, life is good.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
Missing Missing Me
My main regret about the fact that I must die some day is that I won't be present to hear the posthumous praise others will have for me. I truly will be missed in my small community in Missouri, where I have been a fixture for the past sixty years.
What is so special about me? Many things. I'm tall, athletic, an avid lover of art and literature, and possess a wicked wit. Truth be told, I often prefer my own company to that of friends and neighbors. My daughter says that's because I live in the Midwest ("broad lawns and narrow minds"), but I think Gary Boone at the post office put it best when he told me, "You're always thinking about something."
Am I more interesting than other people? Probably so. Of course, with the flood of computers, hand-held contraptions, and what-not, the populace has become increasingly dull, but, nonetheless, even when compared with members of my own generation, I do hold a certain fascination.
I think of myself as a baby who enjoys having sex with grown women. This image is jarring, but bear with me. Despite considerable success as a businessman due to undeniable savvy, I have retained a sweet innocence (what the Italians call dolcezza) and naivete which makes me all the more appealing to the opposite sex.
My son once brought me up short when we were walking down Main Street, our arms loaded with packages. "Dad, look at all this stuff you've bought me," Robert said. "Do you even know what today is?" I shook my head no. "It's your birthday, Dad. And you've spent it buying me gifts." True story.
I suppose kindness is simply second nature to me. While I can't claim to have invented the $10 SMS for aid to Haiti, I can tell you I was the first one to reach for my cell phone when this method of donation first flashed across the screen during an NFL broadcast. "You exert so much energy thinking of others that you have none left over for yourself," is a comment that could well be uttered with reference to me.
I don't know how many of you are familiar with the riad. Some may confuse this word with foreign currencies (South Africa's rand or Iran's rial), but it is actually a sort of Moroccan townhouse built around an interior garden.
In Marrakech several years ago, I was with my family at Les Jardins de la Koutoubia (The Gardens of the Koutoubia), an upscale hotel with two swimming pools. My brother Henry (a mid-level employee for the State of Arizona) had joined us with his brood. Unfortunately, they were staying not at Les Jardins de la Koutoubia, but at a riad in the medina (a confusing and somewhat frightening warren of lanes thronged with Arabs selling almonds, dates, and pounded brass).
I could see that Henry's children were terrified to be in the midst of the medina and also knew that a bothersome problem with the plumbing meant that their riad stank of fetid sewage. I therefore took it upon myself to arrange for my brother and his children to spend the day with us around the smaller of the two pools at Les Jardins and to partake in a traditional Moroccan luncheon buffet (delicious!) entirely at my expense.
Bountiful, beneficent, open-hearted, magnanimous: these adjectives will see heavy use at my funeral. V.S. Naipaul was once told something of immense importance by a cab driver: "Always pleasure the woman first." Before I die, let me say, "Thank you, V.S. And please extend my gratitude to the cab driver if you are still in touch." Thank you from me and the numerous women in this area who have found fulfillment in the bedroom of this humble widower.
There are two ways to do things in life: in a brusque, brutal manner (the firing of Jimmy the Greek from network television many seasons ago), or with charm and dignity (the gracious tour of the White House George and Laura Bush provided to the incoming Obamas after the 2008 election).
Once my wife and I decided to rent a small outbuilding on our property with unusually low ceilings (5'4") to a young, unusually short family from El Salvador. We preferred, however, that they not trespass on our lawn on their way to and from work, school, etc. Margaret wanted to post a "Keep Off The Grass" sign on their fridge. I counseled restraint and penned the following: "While you are free to view our lovely garden, we ask that you and your offspring kindly restrict your movements to the driveway. In this way, you will have the best of both worlds: you may enjoy the splendor of the lawn while not troubling yourselves with its maintenance."
That family was with us 14 months and I like to think I still have a place in their hearts. For others who've known me longer, my absence will be a grave blow. Something in my character is so extraordinary that many have felt compelled to share their feelings about me in poerson. But as for those more tight-lipped, I just can't help wishing I could hear what they say when I'm gone.
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Camp Bad Ass
Generally, the more money you have, the less time you're forced to spend with your adolescent children: there's boarding school throughout the academic year with ski instructors lightening your load during winter holidays. Students at independent day or strong suburban schools have a battery of athletic coaches, psychotherapists, SAT tutors, and private college counselors to keep them out of your hair. For some of you, however, the recent economic downturn has put a crimp in your plans to offload the kids this summer. Meet Camp Bad Ass.
You've all had the experience of chastising your child for low grades or shoplifting only to see him or her press the remote and channel surf in the midst of your lecture. And you've watched your offspring lose six retainers in four months and lie on the bed with their finger up their nose for hours at a time. Treat yourself this summer: let Camp Bad Ass do the heavy lifting.
For a fraction of the cost of traditional camps, we at Bad Ass entertain your teenagers from the minute school lets out until it begins again in the fall. We're far and away the most popular camp on the East Coast and are oversubscribed each summer.
Our counselors don't have years of classroom experience, lifesaving badges, CPR training, rock climbing certification, or Outward Bound qualifications. But they, unlike you, love hanging with teens. And they also realize your daughter's going to get a tattoo on her lower back, smoke dope, and date people from lower socioeconomic groups and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.
We don't bake bread, press olives, or savor our homemade bread in hand-pressed oil. We don't lead nature walks, visit animals in their natural habitat, or identify moose droppings. Nor do we pick up litter on stretches of Maine highway as some sort of penance for living in Tribeca. We don't take kids out on a three-masted schooner, construct wigwams, or explore acquatic life in tidepools. The word "service" (eco-, community, or otherwise) is absent from our mission statement. We don't foster, share, or nurture anything. And above all, we never, ever try to "teach" your child, having conceded long ago the futility of such an endeavor. What is our ethos? Fun.
We have no dormitories, playing fields, or facilities whatsoever. We group kids by musical tastes, then pile them into brightly-colored buses tricked out with water beds, laptops, HDTVs, and killer stereo systems. We drive around for eleven weeks goofing off and getting to know each other. Think Partridge Family without shared chromosomes. And better tunes.
We have longstanding relationships with all major theme parks which allow us to enter the grounds an hour prior to other groups. Before the sun begins baking and just as others are starting to queue for their first ride on Ragin' Cajun, we've already been twice, exhausted Superman Tower of Power, and are on our fourth jaunt down the Xcelerator. In a given week, we'll visit Six Flags three times (twice at night), view four first-run movies (60% of which star Will Smith), and squeeze in a couple of Acqua Parks.
A typical day might be music, a breakfast Grand Slamwich at Denny's, a three-hour nap, a leisurely lunch at KFC, a flick, and maybe some late-night bowling followed by pizza. If we drive by a lake and people feel like a dip, fine, we'll stop, but there are no icy early morning swims, no archery, relay races, ghost stories, or other lame stuff.
We don't piously collect all cellphones the first day and keep them in a painted wicker hamper until "call home day." If our kids want to phone home, they phone home. (Don't worry, they won't: they'll be having too much fun.) Our campers are online, on Twitter, on their cells, or planted in front of some sort of screen most of the summer. We distribute BlackBerries to whoever needs one.
As for food, most of what we eat is fried. New England is fried clams. We're an all-steak camp, heavy on the breakfast meats, and all our meals are consumed in restaurants. We don't gather wood, build fires, cook together cooperatively as a unit, or do dishes.
In our 28 years' experience, we've learned one thing: hog the good times while you're young because they slip away real fast. No one wants to spend his or her summer "learning." That's why there's school.
You've all had the experience of chastising your child for low grades or shoplifting only to see him or her press the remote and channel surf in the midst of your lecture. And you've watched your offspring lose six retainers in four months and lie on the bed with their finger up their nose for hours at a time. Treat yourself this summer: let Camp Bad Ass do the heavy lifting.
For a fraction of the cost of traditional camps, we at Bad Ass entertain your teenagers from the minute school lets out until it begins again in the fall. We're far and away the most popular camp on the East Coast and are oversubscribed each summer.
Our counselors don't have years of classroom experience, lifesaving badges, CPR training, rock climbing certification, or Outward Bound qualifications. But they, unlike you, love hanging with teens. And they also realize your daughter's going to get a tattoo on her lower back, smoke dope, and date people from lower socioeconomic groups and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.
We don't bake bread, press olives, or savor our homemade bread in hand-pressed oil. We don't lead nature walks, visit animals in their natural habitat, or identify moose droppings. Nor do we pick up litter on stretches of Maine highway as some sort of penance for living in Tribeca. We don't take kids out on a three-masted schooner, construct wigwams, or explore acquatic life in tidepools. The word "service" (eco-, community, or otherwise) is absent from our mission statement. We don't foster, share, or nurture anything. And above all, we never, ever try to "teach" your child, having conceded long ago the futility of such an endeavor. What is our ethos? Fun.
We have no dormitories, playing fields, or facilities whatsoever. We group kids by musical tastes, then pile them into brightly-colored buses tricked out with water beds, laptops, HDTVs, and killer stereo systems. We drive around for eleven weeks goofing off and getting to know each other. Think Partridge Family without shared chromosomes. And better tunes.
We have longstanding relationships with all major theme parks which allow us to enter the grounds an hour prior to other groups. Before the sun begins baking and just as others are starting to queue for their first ride on Ragin' Cajun, we've already been twice, exhausted Superman Tower of Power, and are on our fourth jaunt down the Xcelerator. In a given week, we'll visit Six Flags three times (twice at night), view four first-run movies (60% of which star Will Smith), and squeeze in a couple of Acqua Parks.
A typical day might be music, a breakfast Grand Slamwich at Denny's, a three-hour nap, a leisurely lunch at KFC, a flick, and maybe some late-night bowling followed by pizza. If we drive by a lake and people feel like a dip, fine, we'll stop, but there are no icy early morning swims, no archery, relay races, ghost stories, or other lame stuff.
We don't piously collect all cellphones the first day and keep them in a painted wicker hamper until "call home day." If our kids want to phone home, they phone home. (Don't worry, they won't: they'll be having too much fun.) Our campers are online, on Twitter, on their cells, or planted in front of some sort of screen most of the summer. We distribute BlackBerries to whoever needs one.
As for food, most of what we eat is fried. New England is fried clams. We're an all-steak camp, heavy on the breakfast meats, and all our meals are consumed in restaurants. We don't gather wood, build fires, cook together cooperatively as a unit, or do dishes.
In our 28 years' experience, we've learned one thing: hog the good times while you're young because they slip away real fast. No one wants to spend his or her summer "learning." That's why there's school.
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