Today, Mr. Smith meets with the Investment Policy Committee of Wimbledown University's endowment fund. They meet in the stately and quaint building affectionately known as "Old Masters Hall", which was built in 1952 in faux "College Gothic" style.
Mr. Smith is appropriately impressed with the surroundings, which look vaguely what Hollywood imagines Oxford to look like, an impression that is only slightly marred by the presence of a "Fat Marty's Big Boy Burger" outlet on the ground floor. The burgers smell pretty good; Mr. Smith has never eaten at a Fat Marty's, and makes a mental note to try a Fat Marty's Enormous Super-Size Bacon and Cheese Burger, with a side of onion rings, washed down with one of the featured craft ales. (Featured this week: Incredibly Esoteric brand Pumpkin and Smelly Underwear Super-Hop Pale Ale).
The Policy Committee meets in the Bingleton Room, a wood paneled room dominated by a life-size portrait of Benjamin Bingleton, former President of the University and President of the United States. Dr. Bingleton -- affectionately known by those close to him as "Dr. Bingleton" -- is well-known for his idealistic diplomacy, progressive thinking on domestic matters, and dislike of black people. During his Presidency, Bingleton worked tirelessly for peace, national self determination and preservation of white supremacy.
Bingleton's memoirs sold like hotcakes after he left office, and he willed his fortune to the University to endow a Center for the White Man's Burden. Bowing to political correctness, the University renamed the Center in 1958 (the "Colored People Studies Center"), again in 1964 (the "Negro Studies Center") and in 1968 ("Black Studies Center"). In 1970, the name changed again ("African-American Studies Center") and expanded to include more minorities ("African-American, Hispanic and Native American Studies Center"). To settle a lawsuit, the University further expanded the mission of the Center in 1974 "African-American, Hispanic, Native American and Samoan Studies Center). After an extended topless protest in the Quad by University women -- a protest that received the full support of University men living in dorms overlooking the Quad -- Wimbledown University agreed to expand the role of the Center once again in 1978 ("African-American, Hispanic, Native American, Samoan and Women's Studies Center").
With continuing Progressive evolution, the Center is now known as the "Bingleton Center for African-American, Atheist, Bi-Sexual, Gay, Hispanic, Lesbian, Native American, Overweight, Queer, Samoan, Transgendered and Women's Studies". However, the endowment is mostly exhausted and the Center will close later this year.
The meeting is long and rather dull. Mr. Smith contemplates a Fat Marty's Enormous Super-Size Bacon and Cheese Burger. His stomach growls.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Pharmacopia
Mr. Smith has no business in Lake City or Port Truculence this week, but travels instead to Gardenia, home of Wimbledown University, where every admitted student has an International Baccalaureate. Each year, Wimbledown competes with Brahmin University for top ranking in Snoot Magazine's annual list of the world's snootiest colleges. In the most recent issue, Wimbledown ranks tops on the list, evoking a spontanteous outburst of even more snootiness than usual amongst students, faculty and alumni.
Today, Mr. Smith meets with clients at Pharmacopia, a global vendor of prescription drugs. The hallways of Pharmacopia display artwork documenting its rich history of innovation and applied science directed towards medical progress and public health. Pharmacopia's predecessor company (Eli Pusher and Co.) grew rapidly during the Civil War thanks to lucrative contracts as sole purveyor of morphine to the Union armies. After the war, Pusher continued to grow thanks to robust sales of Mrs. Figbottom's Happiness Morphine Tonic to war veterans.
Thanks to scientific progress and well-placed lobbyists, Pusher continued to supply the U.S. Army through World War I. After the war, however, Pusher needed to find a new source of revenue since morphine was a controlled substance after 1914. Fortunately, the Volstead Act prohibiting the distribution and sale of alcoholic beverages led to a surge in demand for medicinal "tonics" consisting largely of alcohol and flavored water. In this new market, Pusher led the way.
Repeal of Prohibition in 1933 led to a temporary downturn in Pusher's revenue. Fortunately, however, World War II brought a massive increase in the number of people suffering excruciating pain and desperate for relief.
Thanks to the March of Progress and corporate acquisitions, Pusher continued to grow and expand into new markets after the war. Rebranding itself as Pharmacopia in the 1960s, the company demonstrated a new model of corporate success based on knowledge, scientific discovery and the ability to market medically useless and addictive products to people with real and invented ailments.
Today, three products dominate Pharmacopia's revenues: Tumescia, for men suffering Erectile Disfunction (ED); Orgazmia, for women suffering from the tragedy of Hard-to-Find G-Spot (HFG); and Drowsia, a sleep-enducing treatment for hard-to-control children.
In the Board Room, beneath a portrait of Eli Pusher, Mr. Smith meets with the Pension Committee to discuss investment strategy. The sandwiches, he notes, are excellent.
Today, Mr. Smith meets with clients at Pharmacopia, a global vendor of prescription drugs. The hallways of Pharmacopia display artwork documenting its rich history of innovation and applied science directed towards medical progress and public health. Pharmacopia's predecessor company (Eli Pusher and Co.) grew rapidly during the Civil War thanks to lucrative contracts as sole purveyor of morphine to the Union armies. After the war, Pusher continued to grow thanks to robust sales of Mrs. Figbottom's Happiness Morphine Tonic to war veterans.
Thanks to scientific progress and well-placed lobbyists, Pusher continued to supply the U.S. Army through World War I. After the war, however, Pusher needed to find a new source of revenue since morphine was a controlled substance after 1914. Fortunately, the Volstead Act prohibiting the distribution and sale of alcoholic beverages led to a surge in demand for medicinal "tonics" consisting largely of alcohol and flavored water. In this new market, Pusher led the way.
Repeal of Prohibition in 1933 led to a temporary downturn in Pusher's revenue. Fortunately, however, World War II brought a massive increase in the number of people suffering excruciating pain and desperate for relief.
Thanks to the March of Progress and corporate acquisitions, Pusher continued to grow and expand into new markets after the war. Rebranding itself as Pharmacopia in the 1960s, the company demonstrated a new model of corporate success based on knowledge, scientific discovery and the ability to market medically useless and addictive products to people with real and invented ailments.
Today, three products dominate Pharmacopia's revenues: Tumescia, for men suffering Erectile Disfunction (ED); Orgazmia, for women suffering from the tragedy of Hard-to-Find G-Spot (HFG); and Drowsia, a sleep-enducing treatment for hard-to-control children.
In the Board Room, beneath a portrait of Eli Pusher, Mr. Smith meets with the Pension Committee to discuss investment strategy. The sandwiches, he notes, are excellent.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Nude Figaro
It is a hot and humid Wednesday evening in Beauneville. In the Smith's parlor, Molly Bloom sits on the rug naked, her skin gleaming with sweat; Roderick sits nearby in his shorts.
It's time for another intense game of "Figaro".
They play under modified rules based on a recent ruling of the International Figaro Gaming Convention, Rules Committee, which consists of Molly Bloom, Roderick Smith and Megan Cupcake, but since Megan never attends the meetings it's really just Molly and Roderick. There are several changes under the new rules:
(1) Players take turns presenting each item on the list. Based on a coin flip, Roderick presents his solo, then Molly presents her solo, then Roderick presents his duo, and so forth.
(2) Works qualify for positions on the list based on the number of required musicians, but the count of instruments is based on the number of unique instruments called for in the score. Hence, Schoenberg's Pierrot Lunaire qualifies as a sextet, as it requires six performers, but counts for nine instruments since the flute doubles on piccolo, the clarinet on bass clarinet and the violin on viola.
Roderick goes first tonight.
"Well, I'm going to lead with Johann Kaspar Mertz' Divertissement über Motive der Oper: Der Prophet (Meyerbeer), Op. 32, for solo guitar", he says, with a slight smirk. The rules forbid checking Wikipedia during play, but there is nothing wrong with doing a little research ahead of time.
"Hmph", says Molly. "That's esoteric. I counter with Cesar Franck's l'Organiste for Harmonium, she says, with an equally large smirk.
"Didn't he write that for pipe organ?", queries Roderick.
"Are you challenging me, Mr. Smarty Pants?", laughs Molly. Under the rules, if you challenge the other player you can look it up in Groves Dictionary of Music and Musicians for final authority.
"No, no", says Roderick. "Just asking. I bid Carl Stamitz' Sonata in D major for viola d'amore and violin."
"Oh!" says Molly, slightly flummoxed. "I don't think we've played a viola d'amore before.
Roderick thinks Molly looks gorgeous clothed in nothing but sweat, so he kisses her.
"Oh!" says Molly. She is intrigued.
At this moment, Mr. Smith arrives home from Lake City and, seeing Molly and Roderick naked and half-naked, respectively, gives a cheery wave. "Hi, Roderick! Molly, nice to see you...how's the Busoni coming?" Mr. Smith knows that Molly is working hard on Ferruccio Busoni's Sonata in f-minor Op. 20 -- the one that closes with the fiendishly difficult Allegro Fugato Nella guesa d'un'improvvisazione.
"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Smith" says Molly, coyly hugging her knees. "And I'm almost done with the Busoni".
Mr. Smith lingers a moment, then bids adieu. "Well, kids, I'm going to bed."
Roderick and Molly decide to finish their game another day and retire upstairs. But just for nude sleeping, as they are not quite ready for the other thing just yet.
It's time for another intense game of "Figaro".
They play under modified rules based on a recent ruling of the International Figaro Gaming Convention, Rules Committee, which consists of Molly Bloom, Roderick Smith and Megan Cupcake, but since Megan never attends the meetings it's really just Molly and Roderick. There are several changes under the new rules:
(1) Players take turns presenting each item on the list. Based on a coin flip, Roderick presents his solo, then Molly presents her solo, then Roderick presents his duo, and so forth.
(2) Works qualify for positions on the list based on the number of required musicians, but the count of instruments is based on the number of unique instruments called for in the score. Hence, Schoenberg's Pierrot Lunaire qualifies as a sextet, as it requires six performers, but counts for nine instruments since the flute doubles on piccolo, the clarinet on bass clarinet and the violin on viola.
Roderick goes first tonight.
"Well, I'm going to lead with Johann Kaspar Mertz' Divertissement über Motive der Oper: Der Prophet (Meyerbeer), Op. 32, for solo guitar", he says, with a slight smirk. The rules forbid checking Wikipedia during play, but there is nothing wrong with doing a little research ahead of time.
"Hmph", says Molly. "That's esoteric. I counter with Cesar Franck's l'Organiste for Harmonium, she says, with an equally large smirk.
"Didn't he write that for pipe organ?", queries Roderick.
"Are you challenging me, Mr. Smarty Pants?", laughs Molly. Under the rules, if you challenge the other player you can look it up in Groves Dictionary of Music and Musicians for final authority.
"No, no", says Roderick. "Just asking. I bid Carl Stamitz' Sonata in D major for viola d'amore and violin."
"Oh!" says Molly, slightly flummoxed. "I don't think we've played a viola d'amore before.
Roderick thinks Molly looks gorgeous clothed in nothing but sweat, so he kisses her.
"Oh!" says Molly. She is intrigued.
At this moment, Mr. Smith arrives home from Lake City and, seeing Molly and Roderick naked and half-naked, respectively, gives a cheery wave. "Hi, Roderick! Molly, nice to see you...how's the Busoni coming?" Mr. Smith knows that Molly is working hard on Ferruccio Busoni's Sonata in f-minor Op. 20 -- the one that closes with the fiendishly difficult Allegro Fugato Nella guesa d'un'improvvisazione.
"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Smith" says Molly, coyly hugging her knees. "And I'm almost done with the Busoni".
Mr. Smith lingers a moment, then bids adieu. "Well, kids, I'm going to bed."
Roderick and Molly decide to finish their game another day and retire upstairs. But just for nude sleeping, as they are not quite ready for the other thing just yet.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
The Pickle Building
Mr. Smith has no business in Port Truculence today, but travels instead to Lake City, where he meets with clients in the Pickle Building.
Designed in 1930 to house the world headquarters of the Lake City Pickle Company, the Pickle Building is supposed to look like a pickle -- to the extent that it is possible to represent a pickle in steel and stone. Due to the use of reddish sandstone for the facade, however, denizens of Lake City immediately noted upon completion that the Pickle Building looks more like a penis than a pickle. This so mortified the proprietor of Lake City Pickle -- a Mr. Prezbylowski -- that he jumped to his death from the fortieth floor.
To pay estate taxes, Mr. Prezbylowski's heirs sold the building to an insurance company. Lake City Pickle went bankrupt during the Great Depression; pickles were just as popular as before the Depression, but folks tended to make them at home.
The Pickle Factory in West Lake City now houses loft apartments.
The Pickle Building itself now houses law offices and investment companies.
Mr. Smith likes traveling to Lake City, as it reminds him of his youth. Also, the sandwiches are pretty good.
Designed in 1930 to house the world headquarters of the Lake City Pickle Company, the Pickle Building is supposed to look like a pickle -- to the extent that it is possible to represent a pickle in steel and stone. Due to the use of reddish sandstone for the facade, however, denizens of Lake City immediately noted upon completion that the Pickle Building looks more like a penis than a pickle. This so mortified the proprietor of Lake City Pickle -- a Mr. Prezbylowski -- that he jumped to his death from the fortieth floor.
To pay estate taxes, Mr. Prezbylowski's heirs sold the building to an insurance company. Lake City Pickle went bankrupt during the Great Depression; pickles were just as popular as before the Depression, but folks tended to make them at home.
The Pickle Factory in West Lake City now houses loft apartments.
The Pickle Building itself now houses law offices and investment companies.
Mr. Smith likes traveling to Lake City, as it reminds him of his youth. Also, the sandwiches are pretty good.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Bank of Port Truculence
Mr. Smith sleeps overnight at the local franchise of the Unique Hotel chain, where "you are Unique, and so is everyone else". One of the distinguishing characteristics of Unique hotels is that each one is exactly the same as all of the others.
An "All-American City" banner hangs across Main Street in Port Truculence, near the Toyota dealership. Across the street from the Toyota dealership there is an old four-story building built with reddish-brown stone. Engraved above the arch is the inscription "Bank of Port Truculence"; a sign just below that reads "Islamic Worship Center". The bank itself is long defunct, having been acquired some time ago by a now forgotten acquirer, who was itself acquired and acquired again thrice over. If you need cash, there's a Bank of America ATM at the Port Truculence Outlet Mall.
Some towns in Middle America evoke faded grandeur -- grand Victorian homes on the boulevard now hosting nail salons, adult bookstores and the like. Port Truculence, on the other hand, gives the impression that there never was much here to begin with. Located on a loop of the great Minniwickamookamac River -- "Adopted Nephew of Waters" to the local Native Americans -- settlers to Port Truculence soon discovered that the Minniwickamookamac had moved on and left the town stranded with an oxbow lake. This was less than useful as a port, upon which the local farmers depended to sell stuff down river.
Mammoth Tractor Company -- "if you need a small tractor, buy a Mammoth" -- settled here in the 1880s and expanded rapidly thanks to the American entrepreneurial spirit, ingenuity and generous defense contracts. Port Truculence is a company town through and through -- from the vintage Mammoth tractor on display before City Hall, to the omnipresent "I Work for Mammoth" bumper stickers, denizens of Port Truculence wear their love of all things Mammoth on their sleeves.
Port Truculence is also a hash town, as Mr. Smith discovers at the local diner. It's a busy morning at Harry's Hash House -- most of the booths are full of people wearing bright red "I work for Mammoth" tee-shirts, so Mr. Smith sits at the counter.
He peruses the menu, then asks the waitress "Can I have some scrapple and applesauce?"
Instantly, the room is silent. Mr. Smith looks around. Everyone in the room is staring at him.
The waitress leans on the counter and looms. "Honey", she says menacingly. "This is a Hash House. You want that stuff you go and eat somewhere else."
The guy sitting next to him at the counter chimes in. "And we don't like no scapple-loving out-of-towners around here, neither".
"OK, OK!", says Mr. Smith. "I was just asking".
Meanwhile, back in Beauneville, Mary Bloom admires herself and her new outfit in the mirror. She thinks "Sexy Maid" will appeal more than "Schoolgirl". At least to some customers.
An "All-American City" banner hangs across Main Street in Port Truculence, near the Toyota dealership. Across the street from the Toyota dealership there is an old four-story building built with reddish-brown stone. Engraved above the arch is the inscription "Bank of Port Truculence"; a sign just below that reads "Islamic Worship Center". The bank itself is long defunct, having been acquired some time ago by a now forgotten acquirer, who was itself acquired and acquired again thrice over. If you need cash, there's a Bank of America ATM at the Port Truculence Outlet Mall.
Some towns in Middle America evoke faded grandeur -- grand Victorian homes on the boulevard now hosting nail salons, adult bookstores and the like. Port Truculence, on the other hand, gives the impression that there never was much here to begin with. Located on a loop of the great Minniwickamookamac River -- "Adopted Nephew of Waters" to the local Native Americans -- settlers to Port Truculence soon discovered that the Minniwickamookamac had moved on and left the town stranded with an oxbow lake. This was less than useful as a port, upon which the local farmers depended to sell stuff down river.
Mammoth Tractor Company -- "if you need a small tractor, buy a Mammoth" -- settled here in the 1880s and expanded rapidly thanks to the American entrepreneurial spirit, ingenuity and generous defense contracts. Port Truculence is a company town through and through -- from the vintage Mammoth tractor on display before City Hall, to the omnipresent "I Work for Mammoth" bumper stickers, denizens of Port Truculence wear their love of all things Mammoth on their sleeves.
Port Truculence is also a hash town, as Mr. Smith discovers at the local diner. It's a busy morning at Harry's Hash House -- most of the booths are full of people wearing bright red "I work for Mammoth" tee-shirts, so Mr. Smith sits at the counter.
He peruses the menu, then asks the waitress "Can I have some scrapple and applesauce?"
Instantly, the room is silent. Mr. Smith looks around. Everyone in the room is staring at him.
The waitress leans on the counter and looms. "Honey", she says menacingly. "This is a Hash House. You want that stuff you go and eat somewhere else."
The guy sitting next to him at the counter chimes in. "And we don't like no scapple-loving out-of-towners around here, neither".
"OK, OK!", says Mr. Smith. "I was just asking".
Meanwhile, back in Beauneville, Mary Bloom admires herself and her new outfit in the mirror. She thinks "Sexy Maid" will appeal more than "Schoolgirl". At least to some customers.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Port Truculence
To reach his client in Port Truculence -- home of Mammoth Tractor Company -- Mr. Smith drives West from Lake City across the prairie in his rented Belchfire sedan.
For the first hour or so out of Lake City, the Interstate is lined with corporate office buildings once occupied by sub-prime mortgage lenders, and now occupied by government subsidized "green energy" firms. Beyond the corporate offices, there are vast tracts of speculative subdivisions, at least some of which appear to be occupied.
There is an outlet mall at Pipsqueak, plus a Big Box store and a selection of one each of every restaurant franchise currently on the market. Mr. Smith drives on.
About ten miles past Pipsqueak, the commercial development fades and there are fields of corn, rye and sorghum as far as the eye can see. Mr. Smith remembers seeing pictures of America's farm country in fourth grade Geography class -- brightly painted Mammoth brand tractors towing plows across fields of grain, barns and silos in the background. Oddly, those pictures omitted the XXX Adults Only Superstore and the Off-Track Betting Facility in West Bilirubin.
Arriving in Port Truculence after a three-hour drive, Mr. Smith sets out for Harry's Hash House, the famous eatery where you can have anything you like as long as it's hash.
A brief phone call home to say hello to Mrs. Smith, and to Roderick -- who is once again playing Figaro with Molly. Mr. Smiley, Clothilde and little Alexander are visiting with Mrs. Smith.
Meanwhile, Mary Bloom looks at herself in the mirror. She's considering a new look.
For the first hour or so out of Lake City, the Interstate is lined with corporate office buildings once occupied by sub-prime mortgage lenders, and now occupied by government subsidized "green energy" firms. Beyond the corporate offices, there are vast tracts of speculative subdivisions, at least some of which appear to be occupied.
There is an outlet mall at Pipsqueak, plus a Big Box store and a selection of one each of every restaurant franchise currently on the market. Mr. Smith drives on.
About ten miles past Pipsqueak, the commercial development fades and there are fields of corn, rye and sorghum as far as the eye can see. Mr. Smith remembers seeing pictures of America's farm country in fourth grade Geography class -- brightly painted Mammoth brand tractors towing plows across fields of grain, barns and silos in the background. Oddly, those pictures omitted the XXX Adults Only Superstore and the Off-Track Betting Facility in West Bilirubin.
Arriving in Port Truculence after a three-hour drive, Mr. Smith sets out for Harry's Hash House, the famous eatery where you can have anything you like as long as it's hash.
A brief phone call home to say hello to Mrs. Smith, and to Roderick -- who is once again playing Figaro with Molly. Mr. Smiley, Clothilde and little Alexander are visiting with Mrs. Smith.
Meanwhile, Mary Bloom looks at herself in the mirror. She's considering a new look.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)