Fortune’s Pawn

“Onion forced to cancel entire Michael Jackson parody issue!”

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Across the courtyard I spied her

Her red mane of hair falling

across broad shoulders

She stood before the stove

Her over-sized Tee shirt

slipping off her right shoulder

and riding, enticingly, up her left hip

She was oblivious to any onlooker

as she dipped her fingers into the pot

she pulled up a big bundle

of “straw and hay” as the

Italians would have it.

A great fistful of pasta,

and then threw her head back;

that great red mane of hers

flowing down

She dropped the pasta

into her mouth

I longed, in that moment,

to be that pasta

to have that final moment

to know where I would go

to go into her throat

I still miss that

now

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As I strolled into Petticoat Lane Market today I was approached by a well dressed man wearing a cobalt blue turban and a dark brown suit.  He wore a full, thick, lush beard, and had penetrating brown eyes.  He bore them into mine, and said:

You are a very lucky man
Next month will be very good for you
You will become famous in your field
You are a mastermind
You have one story in your head
Write the book.

I thanked him and walked on, a little bewildered but feeling generally compliant.

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Pawn must adjust his opinions to match reality. Cuisine can conquer. Appearances may deceive. Strangers can be trusted. Sunday is for Sunday roast. And sometimes a pot is just a pot.

On any normal day, starting out with a cheese toastie may well mean that you are starting at the top and things can only go down from there. This, my friends, was no normal day. I awoke at about 6:15 and after giving up on returning to sleep, got up, made some tea, and then a cheese toastie, using up the Buffalo cheddar and a goodly portion of the Edam. It was cheese-toastie-licious! While I worked and wrote, X slept in for a change (not).

Part of my exercise this morning was to determine the proper disposition of our recyclables. Once X arose, I loaded up our largest carry-bag, the one with the reinforced shoulder strap and rip-proof nylon, and made my way, clanking like the tin woodsman, tottering up Tottenham Court Road the three blocks to the recycling point. Thankfully the only other people out on the streets at that hour were still out, rather than on their way to church, likely as not.

That properly sorted, we set about planning the day. I purchased a vase for £68 ($100) on Ebay a few weeks back, and as luck would have it the seller is located in Hemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire, just about 25 minutes north-west of London, not far from North Harrow, Pawn’s birthplace.

Today we had planned to go fetch it.  We had debated whether or not X would join me on the quest.  There are still some things (like Picasso at the National Galleries) which she wants to see, and it was just an errand.  “Maybe they’ll invite us in for tea,” X offered.  “I wouldn’t count on it,” I replied, “You know the Brits, polite to a fault, but not very friendly.”  On the train I rang up Jayne, the seller, to let her know we were on our way and that we planned to stop for lunch first, as we were quite early. She said not to worry, recommended the Fishery Inn, and said to feel free to pop in either before or after dining.

The Fishery Inn is across the road from the train station, over a moor and a canal. We enjoyed the brief stroll there, and were really looking forward to taking a sit-down overlooking the canal while dining on Sunday Roast, or some other item from their tempting menu. When I approached the bar to order, however, I was informed by the flustered barmaid that the tills (cash registers) were down, and they couldn’t take any orders. “It’ll take 5 minutes to sort, and I’ll come and take your order then,” she said.

Fifteen minutes later, we finally went and got some wine, at least, and continued waiting…

Okay, even we have our limits, and 45 minutes was it. We were expected at Jayne’s at 2:00, and it was already 1:45 when we finally gave up, settled with the staff for our wine, and trudged off still starving and with a little buzz from the wine on an empty stomach.

We strolled along the footpath between the moor and canal and marvelled at the bucolic beauty of it all. There are several permanent residents on the canal, their house boats moored along the banks. Cooking out on barbecues and playing with their dogs.

After a short stroll down the canal we crossed over to the other side of the moor and the rail tracks. We walked through a lovely old tunnel, again on a footpath,

and when back out on the main road proceeded another couple hundred yards down the road, up a short walkway, and then rang up again to tell Jayne we had arrived. Tony, her husband greeted us in the forecourt and lead us into the house, an assortment of dogs (Roy, the Shepherd/Rottweiller mix, Blossom, a little mutt, and Lilly, a chihuahua) all barking and sniffing, tails wagging merrily.

When I had corresponded and spoken with Jayne I had envisioned a right proper British matron. The woman was selling me a Victorian vase, and her voice was all Upstairs/Downstairs proper and all. Well, was I in for a surprise. Jayne stepped out of the back lounge in a flowing black floor length skirt and tight black bodice, bare armed, slender and well muscled. She looked more like an extra in a Tori Amos video than the right proper country lady I had imagined. Next to Tony, himself a svelte man, they made quiet the striking couple.

We settled in the lounge, and I couldn’t help but notice the lovely pottery all around the place, and the stunning Art Nouveau cabinet in the corner. As I complimented her collection, Jayne asked if we would like some wine. We had already explained that we had tried to stop for a meal a the Fishery Inn, as she had suggested, and that we still hadn’t eaten. This did not deter them, and we soon each had a nice glass of white wine, and were chatting like old friends and examining their entire collection of vintage pottery, glass, majolica, etc. as well as some lovely furniture.

Well, before you know it we were getting along famously, the wine flowed, the pottery was shown, and we were invited to join them for their traditional Sunday Roast. “Dinner won’t be for a couple of hours,” said Jayne, at about 2:30, “but I can assure you it will be worth the wait.” She explained that as hectic as their lives get, they always sit down to dinner together; her, Tony and her three adult kids.

Over the next several hours we got to know these people, but it seemed we had always known them. We discussed politics and immigration, art and pottery, Ebay and Internet culture, Libraries and motor cars. Frequently throughout the afternoon and evening Tony or Jayne would pop out to the kitchen to tend to the dinner and retrieve another bottle of wine.

And

Time

Passed

It was 7:30 when we finally sat down for dinner, five bottles of wine later, and good friends to be sure. Oh, and what a dinner! We had:

• Roast chicken, pulled from the bone
• Home made gravy
• Cranberry sauce
• Yorkshire pudding
• Onion and rosemary English stuffing
• Sweet peas
• Green beans
• Asparagus
• Broccoli
• Roast potatoes
• Roast Parsnips

Oh, and for desert? Fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate!

It. Was. To. Die. For!

Then came the coffee and some spectacular port wine.

By now it was after 9:00 and we had to beg our leave. The last train would be through at 10:00 or so, and we dare not risk missing it. It was hard to say goodbye to our new friends. We exchanged vows to stay in touch. I will come to visit them again, for certain. One doesn’t easily make friends in England, they are a very private people, but Tony and Jayne had truly welcomed us with open arms. I am sure that had we missed our train, they wouldn’t have batted an eyelash at putting us up for the night, either.

More photos here.

Ta!

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I have been called many things in my life, but this latest is different, “Patron.”

Last evening I attended the final hours of a silent auction for the benefit of the Riverwest Artist Association.  As the auctioneer read off the list of winners, my name came up a few times.  After the second, “Looks like we have a patron here,” was the comment.  I consulted, via text, my friend J, “True. You most certainly are.”

“I just never was called that until U so dubbed me just 2 weeks ago.  Still getting used 2 the title,” I replied.  “Enjoy it.  It’s a good one.  And ur efforts are very appreciated.  Particularly these days.”

I suppose some background is in order.  My firm has recently moved into new offices.  Large offices.  Offices with lots of empty walls, high ceilings, and the sort of vibe which just calls out for art.  I have an extensive art collection, but have not purchased much in the past few years because I have run out of places to put it.  Walking through the new office space I commented, “We’ll need more artwork.” “That’s your job,” my boss fired back.  Okay then, I took him at his word and begun an acquisition binge which has only now, with last night’s auction, reached its end.

I am not a wealthy man, but I am well off enough to invest some money in art.  In these troubled times I consider it to be my own personal economic stimulus plan.  Art is a good investment, it appreciates in almost all market conditions and has more intrinsic value to its owner than any paper investment does.  Stocks may offer more upside potential (and risk) and bonds may offer more reliable earnings, but they’re not much to look at.  Art; art is a joy to be around, it betters our lives, improves our surroundings, adds to the human experience, and it appreciates.  You can’t beat that.

So, I am now a patron.  “Everyone’s happy when the collector shows up,” I quipped at a recent benefit art sale.  Oh, those were the innocent days, when I was merely a collector, before I undertook this patronizing behavior.  Well, if I have to be something, I guess being a patron of the arts isn’t so bad.

So I encourage everyone to go out there and buy some art.  You cannot find a better way to inject money directly into the economy than spending it on something created by people with no economic sense of their own (artists) who will immediately take that money and spend it on the essentials of their life.  Go find a student art show, of which there are always plenty this time of year, and buy buy buy!  In Milwaukee, go to MIAD, whose senior thesis show is on display until May 9th, or check out any one of the UWM School of Art thesis shows, such as “expose(d)” at the Kunnzelmann Esser lofts, or the Union Art Gallery, or Innova gallery.

Or, check out one of the numerous benefit auctions.  I have attended two of these in the past week, and gotten wonderful pieces of art at ridiculously low prices, all while benefiting good causes.  You see, not only do artists, as a breed, have no economic sense, but they also tend to be outragiously generous, and give away their work to worthy causes much like a drunken lout dispenses his opinion.

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Is it just me, or is anyone else getting just a little tired of hearing “Toxic Asset” as though the term were something we should all just accept, like “Home Improvement” or “Nightly News”?  I mean, come on, “Toxic Asset”?!?  What is that, a pseudo-ironic rock band name, like Iron Butterfly, Led Zeppelin, Grateful Dead or Velvet Revolver?

Who coined this phrase?  Toxic Assets… How about “The Scattered Shards of Countless Shattered American Dreams”  At least that would reflect the actual basis of these stakes.

What is the flip side to a Toxic Asset; Healthful Liability?  Invigorating Death?  Happy Foreclosure?  Gleeful Depression?

Count me out.  I want to call these what they are — Bad Bets.

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Hell Dear
I am Dr. Chuma Wills, a Director with the Department Of Minerals and Energy Affairs R.S.A. I need your co-operation in an urgent Fund transfer. Please kindly open the attach to read the full detail of my Business proposal to you. Thanks.

chuma@chumawilson.com

Regards,

Dr. Chuma Wills. (+27 71 263 5167, personal No.).

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Following President Bush’s announcement regarding an auto industry rescue plan, this morning, Cerberus Capital Management (the owner of Chrysler) issued a press release which says, in part:

In connection with the loan to be provided by Treasury, Cerberus has agreed to utilize the first $2 billion of proceeds from Chrysler Financial to backstop the loan allocated to Chrysler automotive. In addition to this, Cerberus believes that concessions by all relevant constituencies will be required to facilitate a full restructuring and recapitalization of Chrysler. In order to achieve that goal Cerberus has advised the Treasury that it would contribute its equity in Chrysler automotive to labor and creditors as currency to facilitate the accommodations necessary to affect the restructuring. Unless Chrysler’s labor costs can achieve parity with the foreign transplants, and without the restructuring of Chrysler’s debt, Chrysler cannot be restored to long-term health and the government loan will be unlikely to be fully repaid.

In other words, Cerberus will essentially sell the automaker (”contribute its equity”) to the unions and it’s creditors. This is really no surprise, and echoes the frustrations expressed by several lawmakers in the past two weeks. The firm had taken Chrysler private with the intent of splitting off the profitable Chrysler Financial and then dumping the Chrysler Automotive. The recent economic upheaval has soured those plans, until now. With the intervention of the government, Cerberus now feels it is in a position to simply walk away from Chrysler Automotive by essentially dumping it on the unions and creditors.

Cerberus, which for those of you not familiar with mythology, is the name in Greek and Roman myths of a three headed dog which guards the gates of Hades, to prevent those have crossed the River Styx from escaping back to the land of the living, seems to be living up to that name. They have led their unions and creditors across a financial River Styx, and is now taking steps to ensue that they will never return to the land of the living.

Only we risk being dragged along…

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I just was shopping at Target, late night, getting those last minute gifts for the out-of-town crowd. There was a mostly happy and deliberate group of shoppers, carefully going over shopping lists in the toy isle, looking confused in the small electronics isle.

Speaking for myself, after a few false starts I did pretty well. A few kids and a couple adults will most likely be pleased when they dig into their stockings, or look under the tree, or whatever. It was in that somewhat buoyant spirit of the successful warrior, then, that I approached the checkout lanes. I sidled past the woman with the overflowing cart and moved towards the next register, there was only one person in line and she had only a few things.

As I reached over to grab the little red plastic bar to separate my stuff from hers, I saw that this young woman, who didn’t look more than 19 years old, had only three items: two sizes of Pampers and a pregnancy test multi-pack. A shiver ran through me; I suddenly felt very frivolous and a little smaller.

I watched her go as I asked for gift receipts for the niece’s MP3 players. That young woman had paid her bill in singles and change. She asked for no gift receipts.

I assume she was hoping for some sort of Christmas miracle, I wonder which?

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