09 March 2009

Sold the Richard Serra for a David Hockney. We said cheers to the pharmaceutical Gods of Wyeth, domestic honey bees and shared a bottle of Mouton-Rothschild. That wine sure would have went well with that corporate mozzarella di bufala a few years prior. She was head to toe in Greenwich Benetton's best with Tenleytown white hair. I'd spent most of the day toiling in the family bog outside Biddeford. Shut the laptop down and drove North. Cut my losses. Joked we'd be forced to name our next son, Pfizer. It was a good week. Built a bonfire and breathed deep. Sweet saltwater air and sand. The distinct smell of bittersweet bog soil on my old Red Wings. In the old garage there were still Bankers Boxes piled high. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon and I was trying to find my old Cal Ripken collection. Namely his 1982 Topps Traded rookie card. # 98T. Forgot how much I loved and collected Carlton Fisk. Came across his 1972 rookie. It was him, Cecil Cooper and Mike Garman. They all shared a rookie card. Coop manages the Houston Astros now. Not sure what Garman is up to these days. Carlton plays a whole mess of golf and still hates the Yankees. But she and I met at a panel discussion. A real tear-jerker on the four-millionth floor of the Junius Pierpont building. I think it was during the 11:35 "Identifying Risk and Opportunity in the Middle East Geo-Political Landscape" when we first met mutual rolling eyes. We shared a complementary mozzarella di bufala sandwich on a Midtown ciabatta with a Diet Coke in the breakout area at half-time and then we ditched. Felt like we were back in High School cutting class. Such a rush. Jumped in her idling Lincoln and went downtown. Stopped at Balthazar for a Kasteel Cru and then on to Lombardi's for a pie topped with fresh Ricotta flowers from a piping bag. Then over ice water we decided to sell the David Hockney and bought a Richard Serra.

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