"It's time to go home", says Mr. Bloom to nobody in particular as he sits in the Executive Lounge on the fortieth floor of the Santa Margherita Hilton and gazes out over the sprawling city. Several observations prompt his thinking. First, what was once a stack of neatly folded socks, underwear and shirts is now a pile of rumpled and smelly laundry. Second, today's attire: wheras on Monday Mr. Bloom wore a suit and tie, his couture has gradually evolved to open-collared shirt sans tie and slacks. Third, his manner: in his first few days, Mr. Bloom was almost obsequiously courteous to all he met; now, he just wants his coffee, black, and pronto. Did I say make that a double? You bet I said double, and let's make it double-fast, Pedro.
Negotiations with Mindy Megan Africa Clausewitz du Monde went swimmingly well, "swimmingly" being a particularly apt description of said bargaining as the transaction closed in the pool of Miss du Monde's villa, in which Miss du Monde paddled the backstroke langorously while wearing the bottom half of a Wicketts WTF bikini - one of the smaller ones -- and nothing else. Mr. Bloom, wearing boxer trunks in a tropical print (kindly supplied courtesy of Wicketts) tred water lazily a dozen feet away, and found himself wondering if she preferred her ladyparts bejazzled or unbejazzled.
Miss du Monde rolled and dove beneath the surface and disappeared for a few minutes, then suddenly surfaced a few feet away from Mr. Bloom. "Deal!" she said, wiping water from her eyes, and with that closed a handshake agreement to provide a year's worth of digital media placements for condoms.com and Wicketts. In Santa Margherita, handshake agreements rule, but it pays to pay off one or two senior officials in the Ministry of the Interior, who can manage your counterparty risk by breaking the legs of counterparties who renege on an agreement, or who otherwise displease you.
Mr. Bloom declined the opportunity to initiate sexual relations with Miss du Monde, out of a sense of loyalty to June and fear of the consequences, but mostly fear of the consequences.
Life in Santa Margherita has its pleasures, but Mr. Bloom yearns for home. He dials the number. Molly picks up. "Hello?"
"Hi Honey, it's your Dad". Mr. Bloom has learned that "Hi Honey, still a virgin?" doesn't cut it as a greeting for his eldest.
"Hi".
"How's the Busoni coming?"
Molly perks up. "Oh, it's going well. I've read through the Preludio and first three Fuga and was just starting the Intermezzo when the phone rang. I knew it was you".
Mr. Bloom is flattered. Ordinarily, Molly wouldn't answer the phone if Ferruccio Busoni himself called to tell her that the tempi are a little too quick and to cut the slophouse with the left hand in the Variazioni.
"Well, I can't wait to hear it when I get home". Actually, Mr. Bloom doesn't mean this. Personally, he thinks Busoni is something of a nutcase who wrote music best suited for other nutcases, and he would much rather listen to Die Kunst der Fuge than to some fey Socialist's riffs thereupon; but he is resigned to the reality that for the next month or so he will hear little but Busoni banged out on the Bosendorfer, little sections repeated endlessly as Molly searches for that elusive perfect performance. He sighs.
It turns out that Molly only answered because nobody else is home, the Blooms eschew answering machines, and Molly knows that Mr. Bloom will persist in letting it ring until she answers. June Bloom is out seeking to purchase Christmas presents; Margaret is in the library; Catherine and Mr. Fuzzums seek Miss Kitty (the annoying cat next door), who is up to no good; and Mary is on her knees before Misstress Rene earning her second semester Science grade. A few whacks on the fanny, she figures, and she is well on the road to earning another bumper sticker for her Dad -- the one that says "My Child is an Honor Student at Beauneville Latin".
Friday, December 16, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Voom!
After breakfast Wednesday morning, Mr. Bloom ventures to meet with the publisher of Voom!, the hottest celebrity fashion website in Santa Margherita.
Traffic in Santa Margherita is notorious; between the booming population, collapsing infrastructure and random acts of violence perpetrated by drug kingpins, driving anywhere is an adventure. Today is no exception; the journey across town takes three hours. Mr. Bloom considered walking, but the heat and humidity are not for the faint-hearted; the car is air-conditioned, and the driver is a buxom blonde with an imperfect command of English, but Mr. Bloom doesn't mind since she's buxom and blonde.
"You like-a ze Santa Margherita, ja?" she asks, glancing in the rear-view mirror.
"Why, yes", says Mr. Bloom. "It's lovely". He can see from the taxi license that her name is Sofia Marie-Therese Alvarez von Zickboom, that she is twenty one years old, and that complaints about her driving should be directed to the Ministry of the Interior, Secretariat of Hackney Inspections, where they will be filed and forgotten.
"You stay long-a time, non?" she inquires.
"Well, um, yes, I mean no, just five days". Mr. Bloom wonders if she wants to supplement her income.
"You worka for ze Amerikaner beezness, ja?"
"Yes, I'm in advertising. I represent condoms.com and Wicketts Bazaar".
Sofia blushes red as a cherry. "Ohhh, zee condoms, zey are illeegal, we like-a zeebeaucoup!", she says, secretively. "And zee Weeketts, zey sell ze bikini, eez ferry zeeenful, I like-a", she says, gesturing and posturing her ample cleavage. Mr. Bloom agrees with Sofia that condoms are useful and bikinis are nice, and he definitely thinks that if she wants to supplement her income she could do so, amply.
At this moment, they arrive at the Voom! building. Mr. Bloom pays the fare in local currency -- forty-seven billion zblini -- and steps out of the car. "Ciao!", purrs Sofia, lingeringly, as if she can't bear to part. Mr. Bloom waves, as he gingerly strolls through the plaza, taking care not to step on homeless people, Occupy Santa Margherita protestors or the many piles of dog poop that litter the sidewalk.
The offices of Voom! are exactly what you would expect of the leading fashion and celebrity website in a country obsessed with fashion and celebrity. Staid and magisterial, the Voom! building served originally as the Bank of Santa Margherita before the Revolution of 1926, after which the National Republo-Democratic People's Party of National Unity (PNRDZNPU, known locally as "PinRidZinPoo") occupied the place and used it as headquarters. For sixty years, Santa Margherita was largely a one-party state -- I say "largely" because while other parties were technically legal, adherents thereto tended to disappear.
Happily, those days are long gone -- voters threw out PinRidZinPoo in the elections of 1986 in a great victory for capitalism, beaches and loose morals, and what's good for capitalism is good for Voom! Starting out as a glossy weekly mag, Voom! beat the other celebrity and fashion rags to the digital media party, so now Voom! owns the clicks and eyeballs of Santa Margheritans,and they are sticky eyeballs to boot -- or so says Mindy Megan Africa Clausewitz du Monde, publisher of Voom!, who now stands statuesquely in the center of Voom!'s reception area in a skin-tight Juan Carlos Obando original, her hand extended to Mr. Bloom.
Mr. Bloom decides to drop the pretense of knowing how to say anything in Santa Margheritesque. "Hi", he says, eyeballing Miss du Monde's lovely curvy figure, which is amply revealed by her sleeveless dress.
"Pleasure to meet you", murmurs Miss du Monde. "I'm sure we will do wonderful business together".
Mr. Bloom is impressed by how nice Miss du Monde is, and all of the people in Santa Margherita, all of whom seem to want to supplement their income.
Traffic in Santa Margherita is notorious; between the booming population, collapsing infrastructure and random acts of violence perpetrated by drug kingpins, driving anywhere is an adventure. Today is no exception; the journey across town takes three hours. Mr. Bloom considered walking, but the heat and humidity are not for the faint-hearted; the car is air-conditioned, and the driver is a buxom blonde with an imperfect command of English, but Mr. Bloom doesn't mind since she's buxom and blonde.
"You like-a ze Santa Margherita, ja?" she asks, glancing in the rear-view mirror.
"Why, yes", says Mr. Bloom. "It's lovely". He can see from the taxi license that her name is Sofia Marie-Therese Alvarez von Zickboom, that she is twenty one years old, and that complaints about her driving should be directed to the Ministry of the Interior, Secretariat of Hackney Inspections, where they will be filed and forgotten.
"You stay long-a time, non?" she inquires.
"Well, um, yes, I mean no, just five days". Mr. Bloom wonders if she wants to supplement her income.
"You worka for ze Amerikaner beezness, ja?"
"Yes, I'm in advertising. I represent condoms.com and Wicketts Bazaar".
Sofia blushes red as a cherry. "Ohhh, zee condoms, zey are illeegal, we like-a zeebeaucoup!", she says, secretively. "And zee Weeketts, zey sell ze bikini, eez ferry zeeenful, I like-a", she says, gesturing and posturing her ample cleavage. Mr. Bloom agrees with Sofia that condoms are useful and bikinis are nice, and he definitely thinks that if she wants to supplement her income she could do so, amply.
At this moment, they arrive at the Voom! building. Mr. Bloom pays the fare in local currency -- forty-seven billion zblini -- and steps out of the car. "Ciao!", purrs Sofia, lingeringly, as if she can't bear to part. Mr. Bloom waves, as he gingerly strolls through the plaza, taking care not to step on homeless people, Occupy Santa Margherita protestors or the many piles of dog poop that litter the sidewalk.
The offices of Voom! are exactly what you would expect of the leading fashion and celebrity website in a country obsessed with fashion and celebrity. Staid and magisterial, the Voom! building served originally as the Bank of Santa Margherita before the Revolution of 1926, after which the National Republo-Democratic People's Party of National Unity (PNRDZNPU, known locally as "PinRidZinPoo") occupied the place and used it as headquarters. For sixty years, Santa Margherita was largely a one-party state -- I say "largely" because while other parties were technically legal, adherents thereto tended to disappear.
Happily, those days are long gone -- voters threw out PinRidZinPoo in the elections of 1986 in a great victory for capitalism, beaches and loose morals, and what's good for capitalism is good for Voom! Starting out as a glossy weekly mag, Voom! beat the other celebrity and fashion rags to the digital media party, so now Voom! owns the clicks and eyeballs of Santa Margheritans,and they are sticky eyeballs to boot -- or so says Mindy Megan Africa Clausewitz du Monde, publisher of Voom!, who now stands statuesquely in the center of Voom!'s reception area in a skin-tight Juan Carlos Obando original, her hand extended to Mr. Bloom.
Mr. Bloom decides to drop the pretense of knowing how to say anything in Santa Margheritesque. "Hi", he says, eyeballing Miss du Monde's lovely curvy figure, which is amply revealed by her sleeveless dress.
"Pleasure to meet you", murmurs Miss du Monde. "I'm sure we will do wonderful business together".
Mr. Bloom is impressed by how nice Miss du Monde is, and all of the people in Santa Margherita, all of whom seem to want to supplement their income.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Tuesday in Santa Margherita
Tuesday morning in Santa Margherita: Mr. Bloom approaches the hotel receptionist, a stunning buxom blonde in a pert uniform, complete with exposed cleavage.
"Um...mi pardonnez por excusa...onde está la stanza di Frühstückraum?". Mr. Bloom is quite proud of his mastery of a phrase in Santa Margheritesque.
The receptionist stares at him blankly, then smiles. "Good morning, Mr. Bloom", she says, gesturing. "How are you this morning? Breakfast is served right over there", she points, a lacquered fingernail directing Mr. Bloom thataway. She says this with a lilting, "come-hither" manner that makes Mr. Bloom wonder if she wants to supplement her income.
"Merci obrigado gesundheit" murmurs Mr. Bloom as he slithers away. The receptionist stares uncomprehendingly.
The loose morals of Santa Margherita citizens make them a perfect target market for the new Wickets WTF? campaign, which promotes thongs and other garments whose price is indirectly related to the quantity of fabric contained therein. Santa Margheritans are known everywhere for their fashion awareness, and willing to spend well beyond their means for highly au courant togs to shed at a moments notice. (This makes Santa Margherita an ideal market for fashion merchandisers, but less attractive for banks offering credit cards).
For similar reasons, Santa Margherita is an ideal market for condoms.com. Business prospects for condoms.com in Santa Margherita are enhanced by the local ban on retail sale of birth control devices of any kind. This law is based on Santa Margherita's strong commitment to family values, under which promiscuity is perfectly acceptable as long as it is sinful.
Attractive prospects for business in Santa Margherita are even more compelling for Beauneville businesses due to the trade subsidies written into the American Motherhood and Apple Pie Act (an act authorizing Federal defense spending for 1954) by Congressman Elmore Bigelow Butts and not since repealed.
Over breakfast -- which he ordered by pointing to items on the menu -- Mr. Bloom ponders how best to position Wicketts in the local market. A literal translation of WTF in Santa Margheritesque -- ?ce qué baisser cogida fucky-fuck? -- lacks a certain ring. Mr. Bloom continues to ponder this as he contemplates the waitress' buttocks and wonders if she has a nice personality.
"Um...mi pardonnez por excusa...onde está la stanza di Frühstückraum?". Mr. Bloom is quite proud of his mastery of a phrase in Santa Margheritesque.
The receptionist stares at him blankly, then smiles. "Good morning, Mr. Bloom", she says, gesturing. "How are you this morning? Breakfast is served right over there", she points, a lacquered fingernail directing Mr. Bloom thataway. She says this with a lilting, "come-hither" manner that makes Mr. Bloom wonder if she wants to supplement her income.
"Merci obrigado gesundheit" murmurs Mr. Bloom as he slithers away. The receptionist stares uncomprehendingly.
The loose morals of Santa Margherita citizens make them a perfect target market for the new Wickets WTF? campaign, which promotes thongs and other garments whose price is indirectly related to the quantity of fabric contained therein. Santa Margheritans are known everywhere for their fashion awareness, and willing to spend well beyond their means for highly au courant togs to shed at a moments notice. (This makes Santa Margherita an ideal market for fashion merchandisers, but less attractive for banks offering credit cards).
For similar reasons, Santa Margherita is an ideal market for condoms.com. Business prospects for condoms.com in Santa Margherita are enhanced by the local ban on retail sale of birth control devices of any kind. This law is based on Santa Margherita's strong commitment to family values, under which promiscuity is perfectly acceptable as long as it is sinful.
Attractive prospects for business in Santa Margherita are even more compelling for Beauneville businesses due to the trade subsidies written into the American Motherhood and Apple Pie Act (an act authorizing Federal defense spending for 1954) by Congressman Elmore Bigelow Butts and not since repealed.
Over breakfast -- which he ordered by pointing to items on the menu -- Mr. Bloom ponders how best to position Wicketts in the local market. A literal translation of WTF in Santa Margheritesque -- ?ce qué baisser cogida fucky-fuck? -- lacks a certain ring. Mr. Bloom continues to ponder this as he contemplates the waitress' buttocks and wonders if she has a nice personality.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Santa Margherita
In his hotel room at the Hilton Santa Margherita, Henry Bloom browses his travel guide:
He read on:
Meanwhile, in Beauneville, Roderick reviews the list of gifts he's giving this year:
The people of Santa Margherita speak a polyglot mixture of French, English, Spanish, Portuguese and German mixed with Creole which is virtually incomprehensible to outsiders.Hmmm. Henry pondered that. This trip could be challenging.
He read on:
The spoken language is so complex that even native speakers find it incomprehensible. Fortunately, the natives gesture a lot and are quite good at reading body language.Henry sipped his beer. That sounds better. If you want something in a restaurant, just point.
Official records are recorded in Latin.Henry smacked his forehead. Damn, he thought. I've always wondered why we should learn Latin.
Santa Margherita natives are known for their loose morals and promiscuity...Wow, thought Henry -- great country.
...but that friendly woman in the hotel will expect payment for services.Of course, Henry would never consider cheating on June
Meanwhile, in Beauneville, Roderick reviews the list of gifts he's giving this year:
Mr. Smith: book on investingRoderick figures Molly thinks very highly of her vijayjay -- she's constantly offering it to him, an offer he has not yet accepted as he and Molly have sworn to be each others' "first", though Molly doesn't seem to be in any hurry. Roderick isn't either, but the situation with Megan is getting slightly awkward. Hopefully, the matter will resolve itself next year, when he and Molly will attend Old Ivy. Megan strikes Roderick as more of a Lake City type of student, or even Enormous State University.
Mrs. Smith: cookbook
Molly: complete Beethoven piano sonatas recorded by William Kempff
Mary: not sure
Natasha: not sure -- maybe something by Felix Mendelssohn
Bibi: not sure
Megan: easy -- gift certificate for "Bejazzle Your Vijayjay" at Lady Gaia's Beauneville Salon
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Sunday Before Christmas
Sunday, two weeks before Christmas. The Reverend Mr. Smiley, Bishop of Smiley sits at his desk in the Rectory, an oddly-shaped and brightly-colored home attached to the Great Cathedral of the Holy Santa, a vast oddly-shaped and brightly-colored house of worship. The Cathedral stands by the Duck Pond (which is populated by happy and well-informed ducks) near the Rose Garden -- fertilized daily with the cremains of recently departed Smileys.
Smileyville Rose Garden is well known to devotees of the Rosaceae family for the abundance of its blooms. Smileyville Duck Pond is well known to waterfowl everywhere, since Smileys are noted for their kindness to animals. A migrating mallard can rest assured that a stopover at Smileyville Duck Pond will not end on the business end of a barbecue spit, and may be good for a fine meal, for the resident ducks secretly practice the culinary arts at a high level.
Mr. Smiley scans his sermon for the day -- the part of the service Smileys refer to as "nice words":
He frowns, and wonders if his sermon is too long, but decides the message is important, and the congregation can tolerate a little extra length this time of year, especially if he reminds them of the extra snacks.
Meanwhile, in Beauneville, Mr. Bloom packs his suitcase. He's off to Santa Margherita to support the international rollout of the "Wicketts WTF?" campaign. (It turns out that "WTF" does not translate well). Second daughter Mary Bloom watches him pack, and wishes for the day when she, too can travel -- perhaps as an international call girl. The thought makes her shiver.
Molly, the eldest daughter, who at the moment is engaged with Busoni on the Bosendorfer, is indifferent to Mr. Bloom's departure. Their relationship is a little strained lately: you know how it is with older teens who decline to accept their parents' values. Mr. Bloom, for his part, thinks Molly is a little slow. Oh, sure, she gets perfect grades in school, is a second-degree black belt in karate and a pianist of considerable accomplishment. And yes, she shows great promise in nude modeling; but exactly when does she plan to lose her virginity? Mr. Bloom has stopped asking.
Mary, on the other hand, is the apple of his eye, an expression not widely used in Beauneville due to the pervasiveness of Malus Domestica in the life of the town.
Mr. Vanderbilt, CEO and sole proprietor of Beauneville Taxi, arrives out front in his shiny Checker Marathon. With a cheery wave, Mr. Bloom is off for Santa Margherita, land of endless sun and loose morals.
Smileyville Rose Garden is well known to devotees of the Rosaceae family for the abundance of its blooms. Smileyville Duck Pond is well known to waterfowl everywhere, since Smileys are noted for their kindness to animals. A migrating mallard can rest assured that a stopover at Smileyville Duck Pond will not end on the business end of a barbecue spit, and may be good for a fine meal, for the resident ducks secretly practice the culinary arts at a high level.
Mr. Smiley scans his sermon for the day -- the part of the service Smileys refer to as "nice words":
Christmas is almost here. (Pause. Look up from paper. Eye contact. Smile. Wait for Smileys to smile back and wave). Some say that Christmas is not all about Santa. (Pause. Look up from paper. Frown. Wait for uncomfortable reaction from Smileys. Frown some more). We like Santa. (Pause. Wait for applause.) Because He brings us presents. (Grin. Wait for ovation. Segue to rhythmic clapping).
He frowns, and wonders if his sermon is too long, but decides the message is important, and the congregation can tolerate a little extra length this time of year, especially if he reminds them of the extra snacks.
Meanwhile, in Beauneville, Mr. Bloom packs his suitcase. He's off to Santa Margherita to support the international rollout of the "Wicketts WTF?" campaign. (It turns out that "WTF" does not translate well). Second daughter Mary Bloom watches him pack, and wishes for the day when she, too can travel -- perhaps as an international call girl. The thought makes her shiver.
Molly, the eldest daughter, who at the moment is engaged with Busoni on the Bosendorfer, is indifferent to Mr. Bloom's departure. Their relationship is a little strained lately: you know how it is with older teens who decline to accept their parents' values. Mr. Bloom, for his part, thinks Molly is a little slow. Oh, sure, she gets perfect grades in school, is a second-degree black belt in karate and a pianist of considerable accomplishment. And yes, she shows great promise in nude modeling; but exactly when does she plan to lose her virginity? Mr. Bloom has stopped asking.
Mary, on the other hand, is the apple of his eye, an expression not widely used in Beauneville due to the pervasiveness of Malus Domestica in the life of the town.
Mr. Vanderbilt, CEO and sole proprietor of Beauneville Taxi, arrives out front in his shiny Checker Marathon. With a cheery wave, Mr. Bloom is off for Santa Margherita, land of endless sun and loose morals.
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