Bachelor #2 was allowed to make his pitch this afternoon. His dad is a diamond merchant, his mom a former curator at the Met, he has a PhD, and is cute as a button. Alas, no fireworks. I finally meet someone with a diamond mine and I can’t drum up a little enthusiasm. He arrived at the appointed time with his Ferragamo bag and very handsome euro-cool outfit and perfect two-day shadow. I wore a black shirt that was way too warm and my nose started sweating. When my shirt buttons started popping off I mentioned Tender Buttons on NY’s Upper East side, which prompted an articulate soliloquy about the difference between the upper east and west sides. I’m not very comfortable around money, or around the talk about and around it. And “old” and “new” money talk gives me the heeby jeebies. He wants to buy a piece of mine, though. I told him, “You know, they’re kind of expensive,” like I would say to one of my impoverished friends before offering to trade for a foot massage. He countered that his family has a fund to buy art. Remember, this is the family of diamond merchants. Now, you just don’t say things like that to an artist who tries to make a living selling his art. I’ve already spent it in my head. You say, “I’d love to visit your studio, and see what you’re up to.” And then, at the studio, you pull out your checkbook and make my day. I always say a kiss on the hand might feel very good, but a diamond tiara lasts forever.
Tales of Post-Twinkie Ennui