It Just Never Took Off

(I’m guessing this is a Falcon 900)

DUKE: I am arriving at JFK from Zurich, Zagreb at 4:00pm today and leaving at 11:00pm for Hong Kong. What are you doing today?

ME: What do you think? I’m at work, silly. Am I going to have to play hooky?

DUKE: I am en route now somewhere over Greenland and landing at the private jetport at JFK (TERMINAL 4) at 14:00. I’ll call you as soon as I can on the satellite phone to see if you might be available AFTER work. How far is it for me to come down to Phillie, or you come here, or we meet half way? Ciao for now.

ME: Philly and NYC are only close on maps! There is a pretty hotel there (a Hyatt or a Hilton, forget which), that I used to go to for brunch. Wouldn’t mind meeting there for dinner; it’s only an hour away from my house.

DUKE: My chauffeur says that the trip from JFK to Princeton, and back to JFK wouldn’t allow us much opportunity to chat. I have to come back here in 2 weeks, with a week on tap, so that would avoid the “interuptus” and quick nature of the visit. Let’s shoot for 2 weeks from now.

ME: Barring the Apocalypse, in which case you can fly me out of the country.

That’s when I remembered why we broke up.  We’d spent a wonderful week in Washington D.C.  I was taking a class in calculating learning curves and he had a series of face-to-face meetings with Wolfowitz and Tobias, trying to get them to release the millions for African aid that they’d promised.  After our whirlwind romance, gassing for hours about mining and geopolitics he told me he was “done looking.” He’d found the woman he wanted.  He wanted to be exclusive.

I was enormously flattered, but we’d only just met!  He wasn’t even a U.S. citizen and he traveled ALL. THE. TIME.  “Let’s date for six months and see how it goes,” I suggested. Well, that was that.  I never saw him again.  He was deeply hurt, wanted to know if he’d done or said something wrong and I felt so awful. “I really want to see how often we actually SEE one another before I stop meeting new people.  If you’re traveling all the time and I never see you, what’s the point?”

And that’s how I lost a perfectly good hyper-billionaire boyfriend.   I think his two ex-wives had told him the exact same thing, and once he heard the same thing to me he just flew away.

Investment Banking, Explained

HAHAHAHAHA!

John Bird and John Fortune (the Long Johns) brilliantly, and accurately, describing the mindset of the investment banking community in this satirical interview.

Intermission: Recap at the Bar

“Live, from Rockefeller Central!”

Mind you: I’m almost never drunk and I’ve never done hard drugs ever, and I would never suspect such of a thing as political blogger Lame Cherry. Still, one can almost imagine Cherry at the bar at Rockefeller Center at intermission, tipsy and flying high on coke, prattling a stream-of-consciousness recap of the grandest show in town titled Who Wants to Rule the World? She might not get every detail right, but she’s getting the gist of it and the end result this Rockefeller/Rothschild drama is, on some level, truthy. I was entertained!

Meet David, or “Gramps”

Once upon a time in America children in the family knew the sun rose and set, the stars twinkled, the seasons came and seasons went, and Grampa David was lord . . .

Meet “Bill”

. . . Bill though just had problems. He was running around getting himself blackmailed by the Chinese and then the bribes, selling weapons technology to Russia, taking all that money into Swiss accounts from the money skimming from Saddam Hussein and all those dead bodies showing up from the outside help. I mean really . . . Then things got a bit out of hand . . .

Meet “Those Bush People”

Those Bush people who Great Gramps had given a helping hand . . I forget which one of our accountants from the old country his Grandfather was working for here, but they had to go and win the election from that daft Al Gore. Of course, the Bush people had to retaliate on Saddam using those communist Jews turned militants in neocons. That is what really got the European family’s attention as it cut off their money in Saddam’s working for everyone. The Europeans and Gramps decided right then that George Bush was going down like Nixon . . .

Meet “That Absolute Dolt”

No one was of course concerned about prison, but it would have cost a great deal of money covering it up and the Rothschilds were in no mood to spend more money then as Putin just kicked them out of the Russian oil fields stealing their oil. So they baited Bush, but he wasn’t like Nixon at all . . . Two years and all they got was Bush elected again over that absolute dolt John Kerry . . .

Meet “The Daft Rothschild Family Operative”

It was sort of a drama that had been worked out in all the Democrats who were going to run for 2008 would be all so worthless that when the convention came in Denver they would beg Al Gore to save them. I have no idea who signed off on that Richard III play, but Al promised to deliver for the family so deliver a drama it would be for his ego.

Meet “That Woman”

It was though suddenly not that amusing as even though that woman was married in and an employee, watching her be informed she either tossed the nomination or the Europeans would have her in prison on money fraud and ruin them with all the sex tapes in the library reminded all that Grampa David was only in service here. The entire situation just got out of hand after that. . . it prolonged Hillary’s humiliation and then after Iowa they found out Edwards was copulating with some bizarre woman so someone blackmailed him to the ruin of Al Gore . . .

Meet “The Exotic Help,” shown here meeting Jay Rockefeller

Now though this is a situation of epic proportions. That woman was redeemed after Bill was sent into exile in Africa, but . . . Those Europeans are even more concerned on minorities in power . . . It is one thing to humiliate the Clintons and have Gramps deal with it in having the Chicago syndicate trying to supplant the family, but . . .

Let me guess: The Rothschilds win, right? They always win, because they have the most money, they play both sides and they cheat. Does this mean Diebold will elect John McCain this time ’round? Senator John McCain’s recent visit to London to attend a fundraiser for his presidential candidacy hosted by kingmaker Lord Jacob Rothschild may have been a case of McCain reporting for his marching orders. The Rothschild family is among Israel’s chief patrons, to the point that an earlier Rothschild, Edmond, of the Paris-based arm of the banking family, is honored on Israel’s currency today.

Wow, the plot couldn’t get any thicker, could it? Now: Ready to go back into the theater and find out how it ends? The climax is in only a few minutes!

(Radio City Music Hall)

Kittyprint Tuesday: Phone Fear Redux

(Man Repellent: The girly phone)

I’d forgotten about the “down side” of dating strangers: The awkward phone calls. The last time I put my dating profile online the barrage panicked me into hibernation. I was going through a lot of shit back then, so I probably wasn’t in the best shape to date in any case. But here I go again: Giving out my goddamn cell phone number to a bunch of goddamn strangers. I just changed my phone number to get rid of the last batch! Gah!

Sigh. All this awkwardness, just to have a place to wear my sexy shoes on Saturday nights and maybe fall in love. Or lust. My girlfriends don’t wear heels, and the other women I know who do wear heels don’t want me standing next to them in a bar.

I’ve mentioned it before: I hate my phone. I don’t even know my home phone number; it came with my Comcast package and I think I’ve given the number out to two people: My sister, and my dad because he swore to her that I’d moved away without leaving a forwarding address. Scorpio doesn’t have my home number. My mom doesn’t even have my home number; she calls my cell or sends me emails. Perhaps I ought to give her a call.

Cell phones are so much better for dating, as I can see at a glance if I want to answer. Usually I don’t. Don’t get me wrong: I LOVE dating! I adore going out and dancing and eating and being frisky and exhibitionistic with a guy who makes me happy! I just don’t like dating strangers. I like people who I feel as though I’ve known forever, even if we just met (it happens).

I can tell when I’m really into a man by the way I react when I see his name pop up on my cell: If I grab it excitedly and answer right away it’s a good sign. But If I wince and groan? If the thought of talking to him makes me feel tired? Well, maybe it’s PMS, but if it’s not, then, phhbltt. I’m drained enough as it is, I don’t need a feeder entity. I’ve already got a job and a long commute a kid and three cats and a house and night school and a garden and . . . bah. Why did I buy six months on Match, again?

Anyway, I noticed a difference in the interest level of “men who text” vs. “men who call.” Men who call get first dibs, because they’re more interested, more motivated, more interested in what I actually have to say. So! The executive chef moves ahead of the line in front of whotshisname. To bad Frenchy is a Libra, and flies a plane, because it means he has a woman in every port. Maybe his luscious accent will make up for it?

The Girls are BAAAAAAAAAAACK . . .

Of course I’m wearing my Manolos to the premiere! But wait . . . I have to watch these two go at it again? Oh for God’s sake Carrie eat a sandwich. Scorpio, we’re going to need to watch this one together . . . some other time. This is Girls’ Night Out!

The Ritual

A man has this ritual he goes through when he’s trying to hook up again with an old girlfriend. He’s like a dog that way, sniffing up her shorts trying to pick up the smell of availability before making a move. The line he drops is always the same: “Soooooo . . . you seeing anyone?”Every old boyfriend of mine has tried once he realized he’d taken me for granted. Very few have succeeded, especially since now I know all the signs and cut him off at the pass, unless, of course, I want to give it a shot.

While blogging late at night a pop up box with an instant message appeared on my screen. It was Andrew: “Are you there?”

We hadn’t chatted in a while, so I typed back “Hello! How are things?”

“Can I call you?”

“OK.” This would be interesting. He’d been emailing me more often than usual.

The phone rang almost immediately. “Hello Angelface.”

“Well hello, Angelface.” We call each other Angelface.

“I miss my Angelface,” he pouted.

Andrew is Israeli and English isn’t his first language. Our conversations tend to be short and a little disjointed, but overall we seem to do all right. As for visuals he’s on the shorter side, wiry with long grey hair, very artsy and Californian. I don’t think the man even owns a suit, so unfortunately my fancy dresses and stiletto heels are wasted on him.

These days Andrew is having both his home and his studio outfitted with enough solar panels to get 100% of his electricity and heat from the sun. In addition to his Save the Animals hobby he’s apparently plunged headfirst into Save the Environment, because his companies just sponsored a big eco-something convention and got to drive the model car from the “Who Killed the Electric Car?” movie. His intensity regarding these subjects is perfectly OK with me, except I can’t say anything about my furs, and I can’t really eat meat when I visit because it upsets him. He’s in the production side of show business, owns a few companies and hugely successful but for a CEO he’s awfully sensitive.

“We have fun together yes? We did lots of things together: Spago, Rodeo Drive, Venice Beach, Malibu, the Grammy’s . . . ?”

I smiled. What a time that was. “It was all wonderful; I always have a good time when I’m out there.” I kind of knew where this conversation was going, but I thought he’d found a girlfriend so . . . Okay I’d ask. “Are you still dating that . . . woman you were seeing last time we emailed?”

“I ended it with her. She was mean to my birds.”

“Oh no, that’s awful.”

“She was always telling me I don’t spend enough money. You know, to look good. Suits and things, my hair . . . I tell her I don’t like spending money on those things. She wanted me to buy all new cars. You know, be like the other men. Show off and stuff. But I like my cars. She was pain in my ass.”

Andrew has twelve cars in storage, all vintage, and he likes tinkering with them. That, and designing/decorating his company offices because he’s really good at it. He’s spent millions on those projects so cheap he is not. “Aw, that’s too bad; I’m sorry that didn’t turn out. It was probably for the best.”

“You’re not a pain in the ass. We had good times, yes?”

OK now I knew for sure where this conversation was going.

“So . . . you seeing anybody?”

Cow Tippin’

I’m off again for our yearly Sisterhood is Powerful Holiday Conclave in New England. It’s a small group, only two of us, but oh! The things we do! Such as read and drink coffee and nap.

What, no Christmas carols? No big family reunion? No fancy feast? No church? You’re kidding, right?

Don’t worry about us; we have our own special Christmas traditions, like getting drunk and cow-tipping at the neighboring farms.

What? You’ve never heard of cow tipping? It’s where you sneak up on a dozing cow and tip him over. You have to be really, really drunk, as it’s the only way to approach a huge bull minding his own business in the middle of a field. The bull needs to be nodding off, almost asleep or it won’t work.

Oh. You know cow tipping is an urban myth? There are articles all over the web explaining how cow tipping breaks the laws of physics?

Damn internet. It used to be so funny, watching those drunk city boys being chased by the neighbor’s enraged bull. Priceless.

But my dad and his buddies did put the neighbor’s bull on a roof once. Really; that story is true. When Grandpa told him and his friends never to do it again they put the car on the roof instead.

Don’t believe it?It’s done with scaffolding and ramps. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a REAL cow being hoisted to a high roof with a crane. That’s just mean.

Don’t Bank on It

They were letting us down a little bit at a time so as to avoid the bank runs: Eight billion here, eleven billion there. A week or so would pass and they’d “adjust” it to a few more billions. It’s the subprime disaster, they explained, but they had a “plan.”

Meanwhile Wall Street knew better: This was bigger than what mortgage default rates could do to them. No, this was HUGE. Something else was going on but they couldn’t figure out what it was and no one was talking. Only a few knew that the chickens had finally come home to roost: The “Enronization” of the U.S. economy was taking its toll, and the Basel II accords, along with some major bills coming due, had left certain U.S. Treasury and Federal Reserve executives with their pants down.

The white-haired man was not amused, and neither were his royal friends.

From: The White-Haired Man

To: The Honorable, George W Bush, Jr. ; First Lady Laura Bush ; Mr Dick Cheney; The Honorable Dick Cheney ; Mr John DUGAN ; Attorney General Michael B. Mukasey ; The Honorable Henry M Paulson

Cc: Thomas E Henry, Esq. ; Thomas Eugene Henry, Esquire ; First Lady Laura Bush ; Mrs Lynne Cheney ; GOPUSA - Friends ; Mark Stephens NRSC Executive Directeur ; Officer in Charge ; Officer in Charge ; Officer in Charge ; Messr David Rexrode RNC Directeur ; Executive Directeur Mark L. Stephens

Sent: Wednesday, December 12, 2007 1:44 PM

Subject: Special Prayer to our US President George W Bush, Jr.

SEVERAL MINUTES AGO, I WAS INFORMED BY RELIABLE SOURCES THAT THE 2am [12 December 2007] US Treasury Direct - Citibank - CitiGroup Directeurs agreed upon Financial Settlement was estopped by your White House personnel. Why is it so difficult to release said monetary funds . . .

And so it goes, on, and on, and on.

When I read the news of the United Bank of Switzerland (UBS) taking a big hit by writing off ten billion dollars of bad debt and deciding to sell a part of itself I was shocked. Et tu, UBS? I thought the Duke’s bank was the only in the world who for sure had it all together. I guess not.

My Duke keeps all his hundreds of millions at UBS AG. He counts the entire Board of Directors among his personal friends: He used to share his jet with them when they needed it. Suffice it to say he has a very big interest in what goes on there.

I remember the guided tour of the UBS financial transaction process Duke gave me a few years ago. The security protocol was unbelievable: His bank card had a hologram and his fingerprints on it, and it came with its own little computer! He had to type in his codes, and then after a few minutes UBS would send him a different code, which he would then use to access his money. It was all very complicated, but Duke said UBS was the safest bank in the world.

Then he asked if I wanted his help opening an account there, which made me laugh. With what? As if a single mom eking out a living in New Jersey would have anything to show besides a house, a car, and an untouchable 401K. Very cute: As brilliant as this man was he really had no clue about what it was like to be, well, normal. I suppose given my family background and career he just presumed certain things, but I don’t take money from my parents unless it’s an absolute emergency, I don’t get child support, and this high rent town takes a lot of my money: We have the highest property taxes and insurance rates in the country.

From: The Duke [mailto: theduke@ubsag.com]

Sent: Monday, December 10, 2007 17:38

To: HPS USNUNK NAVAIR

Subject: Re: OW . . .

Importance: High

My Lady,

I am in Geneva now and spent the whole day at the UBS office. They didn’t even flinch over the 10B. There is a lot more gold under the Bahnhofstrasse.

Duke

Sigh. I wish I had some gold under MY Bahnhofstrasse . . .

A Royal Mess, Part 3: Medicine Man

The Duke called this morning with good news: He just accepted a CEO position with a biotech company out West. Croatian medical researchers who work for this company may have found an affordable (herb based! cheap!) way to treat AIDS, and have asked Duke to be their CEO to help them through the formal trials.

Duke is SO excited, as he has been funding independent research on the virus in the hopes of coming up with a vaccine. The idea of finding a CURE for AIDS is even more exciting to him, so he accepted this position in favor of the job that would have taken him back to the Congo to implement the development plan he wrote for President Kabila (the one who was assassinated) many years ago. Now Kabila’s son is in charge, and Duke likes the guy,  but the task would be so enormous that Duke would be well into his 80’s before he finished. So he picked the company with a 5 - 10 year plan instead. He said didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in an African jungle anyway. I guess I don’t blame him.

It’s been too long since I’ve written about the Duke. Since he’s moving the headquarters of this new biotech company to Geneva (Switzerland) there may not be much left to write beyond our back story. Then again, he’ll be in town in a few weeks, so who knows?

(to be continued . . .)

Jetset Bunny Hops to Oahu

(Rabbit Island, Oahu, Hawaii)

Yesterday Bunny left me and I pouted. She joined her father and climbed aboard a 747 for yet another 9+ hour flight to Hawaii. Again I am jealous! I’ve never been to Hawaii (snif!), or a cruise, or a lot of the fancy things Bunny has done. She’s more of a jet setter than I am!

Bunny’s father Ken has periodically treated her to week-long vacations in Oahu since she was a little girl; since her uncle lives there technically these are family visits. This time Ken’s girlfriend and her son will be joining them.

Bunny and I have promised to text or call each other every day that she’s away. In the mean time I putter around the house and anxiously check Weather.com every day to track Hurricane Flossie’s path toward the Hawaiian Islands. Right now it looks as though it will hit just south of the islands right about the time they are due to leave, so my fingers are crossed.

The weather in Oahu is glorious today so I bet my waterbunny is swimming!

My Miami Vice Part 4: The Letdown

Doc and I spent a beautiful day together. We enjoyed a late lunch with his attorney, who apparently wanted to hire me for Doc’s new company. “When can you start?” he asked, grinning. I told him I had parenting responsibilities and couldn’t relocate and he spent more time than was necessary trying to convince me I could bring Bunny if I fought hard enough. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I’d already been down that road and knew better.

Several glasses of wine and a few appetizers later we bid adieu to the attorney and rolled into Doc’s house. We chatted for awhile in his kitchen until darkness fell. “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

I’m glad he suggested it; the last time I’d made love to a man was last year: To Scorpio, of course. Doc and I settled in to his room for what I hoped would be a long night.

“We’ll need condoms,” I advised.

Doc groaned. “God I hate them,” he said.

“I know, but we have to do it,” I said gently. “It’s the only way I’ll have sex.”

“I don’t have anything. I’m clean.”

I shrugged. “Oh well.”

He sighed. “I think I have one or two over there,” he reached into his night stand. “God I can’t wait until I never have to wear one of these again.”

I took over the job of putting it on him and smiled. Finally! I hopped on him greedily. And then . . .

. . . nothing. He went flaccid. Well, this is a new development, I thought; he’d been fine with the condoms the last time I came down to see him. Was it his age?

“I can’t wear these,” he complained, “Get it off me.”

I reached down, slipped off the condom and tossed it on the floor. “I suppose we’ll just have to do other things,” I said sweetly.

“MMMMMM . . . I like those other things you do.”

I enjoyed those “other things.” I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I can lay a man flat in fifteen seconds with those other things I can do. Unfortunately, Doc’s body was having none of them tonight. “Let’s just go to sleep,” he said. “This happens sometimes.”

We slept a lot that weekend. I still have not had sex yet this year.

Miami Vice Part 4: Hawt Showdawg

(Westminster Dog Show award-winning Vivi, reportedly worth between $20,000 and $35,000 bust loose from her cage at JFK airport and disappeared last February. A year later she’s still on the lam. To this day her royal hawt dawginess is still making the news and there are still search teams and prayer vigils dedicated to her safe return. This should be proof to all, just in case there were any question, that whether human or canine so long as you are hawt you matter! If you disappear, you will make the news! You are high-value because you are hawt! So unless you’re very rich, or a very white woman, the rest of y’all are screwed should YOU disappear, cause you’re not hawt. No 24-7 news coverage for y’all cause you’re all just folks. Just sayin.’)

All flights to Florida may be termed the Romper Room Flight, because the hulls are always teeming with screaming children. One of them kicked the back of my seat the whole way to West Palm Beach! I flipped through my issuse of the Economist, figuring all was just par for the course. It was a bumpy flight, also par for the course.

Doc Johnson was waiting for me in the same place he did before. “Look at you!” he exclaimed, as we embraced each other excitedly.

“No, look at you!” I countered. He was a little bit older and heavier, but then again so was I so no matter. He looked well. “You look good!”

“You look great! Look at you!!! Miss D.A.R.!!!!!”

Some little spring went boi-oi-oing in my head. DAR????? Daughters of the American Revolution? “I can’t believe that of all the things about me THAT’s the thing you remember.”

“Are you kidding?” That’s the FIRST thing I remember about you! Miss little ladylike DAR! You’re half southern! I love that about you! Your mother’s side, right? Descended from French royalty and George Washington’s family! So girly and feminine, yes suh, no suh, ooooh sexy!” He started to pinch my fleshy bits. “Look at you!”

I cringed from his tickles. “So what you’re saying is that what you like most about me is that I’m pedigreed, like a dog.”

“Definitely. That and you’re very feminine. I love it. Love it!”

This would probably have been the right time for me to make him carry my fancy Louis Vuitton suitcase, since I was such a Southern Layday. But they gave these things wheels for a reason, non? So I kept walking, wheeling my bag behind me. I let him load it into the Jag. I was hungry.

“Let me take you to Luigi’s to meet my attorney,” he said. “You like the food at Luigi’s right? He’s waiting for us. He’s gonna love you. Look at you!”

Miami Vice, Part 3: She’s BAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!!!

 

It’s still a MONTH OF CHOCOLATE!

more to come!

My Miami Vice, Part 2: On Location

(Scene from Miami Vice, the movie)

What started out as a long weekend on a yacht in Key West just turned into a commercial film shoot in Miami. That’s the thing about adventure: You never know where it will take you . . .

Bottom line: Until I fall in love again I’ll give my time to the people who can give me the best stories. Let the games begin! See you next week!

It’s a Wrap!

(Paul McCartney at the 2006 Grammy’s. I touched his shirt that day and was healed!)

I’ve been corresponding with Andrew; he’s met a nice local woman and he seems happy! Unfortunately this means I won’t be going to the Grammy’s this year. Oh well! They say if you’ve been to one awards show you’ve been to them all, right? Actually, I’m very happy for him, and more than willing to close this chapter of my life.  Hollyweird is well . . . weird.  Not my style at all, but it was fun while it lasted!