Kismet, Karma and Google Maps

I recently pointed out to David that he has been falling down on the Flog.  Just because he spent the last few months traveling, opening an art gallery, convalescing from a nasty cold, moving into a new home (which involved consolidating three households), entertaining visiting friends and relatives, relapsing and re-convalescing from the nasty cold, attempting to ascertain how unpacked boxes in the garage  seem to propagate and failing miserably at reining in his entrepreneurial tendencies (investing in at least two other businesses that I know of), doesn’t mean he should abandon the all important Flog. 

After all, there are dozen(s?) of you faithful Flog-ites who have been waiting in breathless anticipation for David’s next observations.  Well, I have taken matters into my own keyboard.  I have had to put my editing axe…uh…pen down to step into the role of High Priestess of the Art Gallery, but unlike that slacker David, I can multi-task. 

What about David’s travels, you are wondering?  Keep wondering … that’s a Flog for another day.  Today, I will tell you of The Eye of the Beholder … David’s new art gallery near Old Town Scottsdale (5^th Avenue and Marshall Way).   The Eye, was born of a combination of David’s desire to display the portion of his massive art collection that would not fit on the walls of his home and some dumb luck in acquiring an ideal gallery space in an ideal location with ideal terms.

It began with a bag of small petrified wood pieces purchased at the lone retail establishment at Ft. Courage (somewhere along the I-40 between New Mexico and Arizona).  I’d given them to my jewelry designing mother who decided to drill holes in them.  Thus began the search for drill bits that would cut thru petrified wood.  Mom handed me a bead magazine and pointed to an advertisement in the back for Diamond Drilling (or something like that).  I called the number which was disconnected, then noticed the magazine was five years old.     I Googled the company name and found a current number which was answered by a gentleman named Elliot.  He indicated he was no longer in the bead business, but after explaining what I was looking for, invited us down to his office.

We went, and got the grand tour of Elliot’s ginormous, un-named office building which housed his collection of collections (he collects everything).  Two hours later, we left with a set of hollow, diamond edged drill bits. 

Fast-forward six months.   David is in Old Town Scottsdale taking a look at a retail space that a friend has mentioned is for lease.  David doesn’t think too much of the space but continues looking around the neighborhood.  He comes across a vacant, dusty windowed building on Marshall Way and takes a photo of the “for sale” sign in the window.   When he shows it to me, I tell him I think I recognize the name and tell him about Elliot.  The phone number on the sign is disconnected and I couldn’t remember the name of Elliot’s business, but I remembered where the building was.  I Google-mapped it and came up with a business name (but no phone number), and give the info to David. 

A few weeks later, David calls me as he is leaving a hospice facility where he has been visiting a friend … which happens to be directly across the street from Elliot’s building.  David goes to the building and three hours later emerges with a new best friend – Elliot.  Two weeks later, we have a short term lease on the Marshall Way building and we are officially in the Art Gallery Business.  We have a Gallery High Priestess (me), a Gallery Master (Kris – although I tried to sell him on “Gallerina”) and Schlepper (David).    

Oh, and we have some art.   For sale.  Stop by, visit us on the web, or call us … we almost certainly have something you can’t live without (Eye of the Beholder).  You can thank me in person for updating The Flog.

Regards,

Mean Eileen, Editing Queen and High Priestess of the Gallery

Eye of the Beholder   4251 N Marshall Way  Scottsdale, AZ  85251

Semantics 101 for the Ultra-Crazy (with extra foam)

Letter to Alan Keyes

Dear Mr. Keyes,

I received your “urgent memorandum” which was enclosed in an envelope bearing the words JURY DUTY NOTICE in large bold letters affixed with a Non Profit postage stamp.

I assume your fund-raising  efforts have reached desperation levels,  thus the subterfuge required to get anyone to open correspondence bearing your name. 

The reason you have never been elected to any public office is that you are a whack-job (interpret that however you like – it’s such a conveniently flexible term).

I am impressed however, that you have managed to convey in writing a tone that can only be described as jet engine-like screeching hysteria.  Chicken Little would be envious.  Leaning so far to the right has its perils – you’ve obviously bonked that side of your head so many times that your creativity is limited to fake civic duty announcements.  That’s civic – as in U.S.  government – as in the one with offices to which you have never been and will never be elected.  Because you are a whack-job.  In consolation, if "Crazy Town" were an actual place, you'd be a shoe-in for mayor.

You are entitled to your insane rantings – this is America after all.    

However, I find it somewhat less than amusing that you point (excuse me, vigorously thrust) your finger at what you call Obama’s criminal behavior while actively evading taxes under the guise of myriad non-profit organizations.   You rail against “big government” while milking the system for your personal gain. 

You don't really deserve it, but I have decided to enclose the "generous gift" you begged for; two pieces of embossed copper bearing the profile of an original tree-hugging liberal. 

But I am reporting to the U.S. Postal Service that you are abusing Nonprofit postage, the deceptive words “Jury duty notice” on the envelope and eight pages of irresponsible and extreme statements demeaning the President of the United States and the Office of The President of the United States.

It appears to me that you,  Alan Keyes, may be in violation of False or Deceptive Representations, the Postal law (TITLE 39 > PART IV  > CHAPTER 30 > Sec. 3005) prohibiting false or deceptive representations made in an attempt to obtain money or property through the mail.  This section was amended a few years ago to authorize the Postal Service to impose significant monetary penalties. The law now permits an administrative penalty for deceptive mailings of up to $1,000,000 for the first offense depending on the volume of mail.

Shame on you, you selfish hedonist.

If The Shoe Fits ...

More adventures in How Not To Buy A House in Arizona

My housemate/daughter's  Realtor turned onto a back-road circuitous route to the first house of ten we would look at on her quest to find the right house for two adults needing two home offices, bedrooms and baths, two rooms for young children, one for a Nanny and a large well equipped kitchen.

The long street went by one corral after another with beautiful horses.

Scottsdale, AZ had segued into Louisville, KY. I loved the ride. I loved the horses. I loved the ambiance (Ruth clearly didn’t).  I liked the contemporary ranch-style home (again, "no bueno" from Ruth).  But when she walked into the master bedroom closet the large shoe collection within captured her attention.  She noticed immediately that the owner of the home wears the same size as she does.

I turned to  Realtor Rick.   “Do the shoes convey?” I asked.

If he can work it out, we may have a new home.

And after all that, the burger was just ok

WARNING!  Use caution (and telepathy) when driving through Pueblo of Laguna, New Mexico. 

A few nights ago I was bringing up the rear of a three-vehicle procession on Old Route 66 from the Guadalupe Vineyards near San Fidel, NM.  The vintner, Tony, had his face fixed for dinner at his favorite burger joint in the village of Bibo which he alleged was a fifteen minute drive away.  The Sledgehammer of Reason (having liberally sampled the goods at the vineyard) let me drive the picturesque rural road; my only turn at the wheel on a 1,000 mile, 3-1/2 day journey.   Tony was driving the lead vehicle, followed by his cousin, famed artist Pablo Milan with his lovely significant other, Len.   

Having only a glimmer of an idea where we were and knowing the "smart" phone got progressively dumber the closer we got to the mountains, I kept pace with the rest of the pack.  Tony was clearly starving after a hard day of grape-crushing and was not wasting any time.  As we drove over a hill one of New Mexico's finest (and youngest) pulled out from the side of the road with his lights flashing.

I pulled over to the shoulder to let him pass, as did Tony and Pablo.   To my surprise, he pulled up behind me ... and to his surprise he then discovered his Super Powers had inadvertently kicked in, and had managed to bag three vehicles with one stop.   Appearing a bit confused, the officer asked if we were all together to which I responded affirmatively, adding that we were all on our way to dinner in Bibo.  Had I ever been to Bibo, I would have realized how suspicious this sounded - it actually takes longer to say, “Bibo” than it does to drive through it and I gather Zagat doesn't have any impending plans to check it out. 

I hadn’t been going that fast (and certainly not faster than Tony) so I wasn’t sure why I was being pulled over.  Inebriated co-pilot?  Seemed unlikely.  Missing hubcap?  Ugly, but as far as I knew, not a crime.  It turns out that going over that last hill, the speed limit dropped briefly from 55 to 35 and I had been clocked at 47.  There supposedly was signage, somewhere, that indicated the change in speed limit - just not anywhere visible from the road. 

Officer Confused demanded my license and registration which he then took back to his vehicle for a mini-investigation.   Meanwhile, the Sledgehammer managed to get a call through to Pablo to tell him what was going on.   Of course, most of a bottle of one stellar Grey Riesling (among others) made the message sound a lot like, “ah tink we’re butted for weeding” which I suppose is why Pablo and Len suddenly lurched around to get their eyes on the situation.

Whatever info the cop was able to ascertain about me was apparently disappointing – he reluctantly clipped his handcuffs back on his belt and returned to our car.     Vintner Tony (administrator of the local parochial school and well known in the community) started to get out of his truck but was ordered back in by the cop.  I was then handed a pink slip and informed in a out-of-the-vast-generosity-of-my-Super-Powered-heart tone that I was only receiving a warning which held no repercussions license or insurance-wise. 

My fellow intrepid travellers' collective opinion was that there were too many witnesses to issue a BS speed trap fine.  It should be noted that of our three vehicles, mine carried the only out-of-state plate.   Not implying anything - I'm just sayin' ...

Further Musings on Occasionally Convenient Coincidences

The slightly interesting news: There are 28,477 people in the U.S. with the last name Stern. Statistically the 1,311th most popular last name.

The good news: There are only 337 people in the U.S. named David Stern. I am David F. Stern. (#237). F as in Friedman, my mother’s maiden name, not F as in the F-word people in Phoenix still apply emphatically to the NBA commissioner (who is #266).

In 1959 I went with a group of Wharton Business School students I had just met to a bar adjacent to the campus. A man introduced himself as the establishment’s owner and apologized for having to ask for our ID. I was first to produce mine.

“Are you related to David Stern, the publisher of the Philadelphia Record?” he asked. Sensing an opportunity, I replied, "He's my father." He called the waiter over to our table and said to him “drinks on the house for these fellows.”

Four years later I was invited to dinner in New York City by a friend who wanted me to meet a guy named Johnny Stern who was producing the TV show Victory at Sea. After introductions I asked Johnny Stern how he got such a job in TV at his relatively young age. “My father is publisher of the Philadelphia Record,” he said.

Three Degrees of Seperation

I'm in Westhampton, Long Island, New York and my amiable host (The Host With The Most) has an overnight guest, Dale,  who lives in Manhattan and is originally from Memphis, Tennessee where my late wife, Margaret, grew up. 

Dale's older sister was a friend of Margaret and a classmate at Central High School.  Dale is trying to reach friends from Memphis, named Belsky who are on Long Island visiting relatives but is unable to reach them because she doesn't have the right cell phone number. She mentions the name Belsky and I recognize them as somebody Margaret knew, and who also are close friends with Irvin and Deana Serenco (my dear friends in Memphis). 

So I call the Serencos on my cell phone and get the cell phone numbers for the correct Belskys, write it down on a piece of paper and deliver it to Dale.

The small world is getting smaller.

The Fourth Be With You

I have to finish this fast because it’s the Fourth of July and I’ve got to call my niece, Olivia, in Colorado and my sin-in-law in LA to wish them happy birthday (they are both Yankee Doodle Dandies). Then I leave for the airport to exchange my three weeks out of the 100 to 118 degree heat for 100 to 118% humidity in New York, after a stop in Seattle to spend my brother’s 75^th birthday with him. The two of us are the same age for two weeks every year, having been born 11 months apart.

Before I leave I have to tell you about cilantro. On Friday night I went to see my dear friends, Jerry and Ginny, and their wonderful new house.  They took me to El Encanto Dos, a large picturesque Mexican restaurant not far away. I had been to the first El Encanto in the center of Cave Creek, AZ many times.

When the very good waitress came to take our order, Jerry asked if what he was ordering had cilantro in it. Truth is that almost everything made in a good Mexican restaurant has cilantro.  He ordered accordingly.

When my Tortilla Soup arrived, Ginny took a taste and we both wanted Jerry to taste it, but of course, we had to determine if it had cilantro. The waitress said she would find out, but she was busy and the soup was losing its heat. The manager stopped by to ask how everything was. During a brief discussion we told him we were waiting to find out if Jerry could taste the soup until we found out about cilantro. David, from Missouri, excused himself and returned in a minute to say he had spoken with the chef who was on and he didn’t know if the soup had cilantro because the other chef made it. David had called the other chef and wasn’t able to reach him, but he assumed the soup had cilantro because just about everything on the menu does.

I was most impressed that the waitress and now the manager went to such lengths to answer Jerry’s question and commented to David-the-Manager that I had never witnessed such service in any restaurant.

I was about to suggest that he call the Food and Drug Administration, but remembered the Federal Government was taking plenty of time off since Monday was the Fourth of July.

Speaking of the Forth, I leave you with one question. Why would the State of Arizona allow the sales of fireworks, but have a law against setting them off?