The Turning Wheels of Commerce
Aug. 15th, 2003 07:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraA little taste of the apocalypse: big power outage in the Northeast. New York City, upper New York State, Jersey, Canada, parts of Ohio and Michigan. The machine stops.
As I remember from my brief sojourn as a public policy expert, municipal and state governments tend to use funds allocated to capital improvements as a kind of floating cash backup for operational deficits. This is why the whole city of San Francisco will fall apart in another ten years. The power transmission grid is coming apart because we need the money it would take to fix and update it for other things. There’s a war going on, don’t forget. Several wars, actually. Plus, here in California, a sixty-five million dollar recall election. Spending money on capital improvements just isn’t very sexy.
Heard Michael Bloomberg on the radio last night trying for his Rudy Giuliani moment. What a pompous asshole. Watched CNN and its considerably more amusing counterpart Fox News for many hours last night (mainly because I was too brain-dead to read or interact with my child) and followed the bouncing red ball of blame. It’s a lightening at Niagara Falls! No, it’s a fire in Canada! See, they’re rioting in Canada but they’re filing out from the underground tunnels in an orderly fashion in Times Square!
This morning I find myself bemused that power is slowly flickering back on in Manhattan – the media and financial capitol of the world – but is expected to be off in Detroit – Motown, black people, Eminem – until Sunday.
Meanwhile, back in my own tiny solipsistic universe…
Tiles bought and paid for. Chris, the handsome floor guy, will come in and do the work tomorrow. Tomorrow is Saturday, so he is being very nice. The Bill Sullivan connection, no doubt. Two highlights to the day – the first was the showroom at Monterey Packaging, a universe filled with vibrant shades of wrapping paper, gift bags and specials on rainbow-hued translucent ribbon plus friendly, deferential sales people. Does it get any better? Beautiful tchotchkas, respectful help.
Then, in the afternoon, I took Robin and the dogs down to the shop. The dogs attract a lot of attention. I’m wondering if I should get SLOW BURN and a big red and green chili pepper tattooed on the side of their coats.
"What kind of dogs are those?" asks an Arab-looking guy in a thick Atlanta accent. He is dressed very spiffily, as are his children and his gorgeous blonde wife sports the Rock of Gibraltar on her married lady finger.
"Jack Russell terriers," I reply. I’m dressed rather nicely too today in a purple crepe ensemble with all my heavy gold jewelry since I’m supposed to be rendezvousing with the property manager. Upscale dogs, upscale outfit: I’m the fucking Queen of the Universe.
"They’re very smart dogs, aren’t they?" asks the guy as his children squeal with delight and Robin authoritatively informs them, "He’s my dog; his name is Legolas." People like this could buy a lot of hot sauce. Not to mention chili-themed gift products.
"Very smart, yes," I say. "Also very energetic. They need to be exercised. Run, if possible. You need to wear them out at least once a day."
"Daddy, Daddy, I want a dog like this," says the well-dressed little girl.
"It’s Wishbone," says the well-dressed wife. This is a woman who shouldn’t go anywhere near Detroit until the electricity is turned back on.
I open up the store. Robin wanders down to the beach with the dogs. I’ve somehow missed the property manager but that’s okay, it’s a gorgeous day and the Bolivian musicians are playing flute music on the plaza. Sooner or later the property manager and I will run into one another. Meanwhile, I watch Robin on the beach. He’s standing, talking to an incredibly beautiful woman who looks to be in her early forties, with a glorious mane of long blonde curly hair. Magic child. She’s entranced. Robin has been a charmer since birth. I remember taking him into the Time/Life Building when he was around two or so. One of the People Magazine senior editors raced from her desk with a stuffed animal in hand. "Can I give this to him? I want to give this to him!" Last year at one of the RLS football games, a 12 year old tried to pass him her phone number.
"Do you know how old he is?" I asked her. "He’s eight years old!"
"But he’s so-oo good-looking!" she moaned.
Beauty and charm like Robin’s is a mixed blessing. As his mother, I worry for him. The things that come easy are going to make the things that come hard not worth having.
"Robin, let’s go!" I called to him on the beach.
He scampered up. The dogs and the beautiful fortyish woman followed close behind.
"That’s some boy you have there," said the woman. "He’s beguiling."
"Yup," I said. "Look out world when he hits puberty."
The woman laughed. "So you’re opening up a hot sauce store."
"I am," I say.
"Where? In that building?"
"No, over there." I point. "On the plaza."
"Great location," says the woman. She has a brilliant smile and for a moment I feel as though the Goddess of Commerce has climbed down from her summer vacation home on Mr. Tauro to bless my enterprise. "I’ll definitely be back to check it out. And I’ll bring all my friends."
Maybe I should have Robin stuffed and put on display in the front window of my store. Robin and the dogs.
As I remember from my brief sojourn as a public policy expert, municipal and state governments tend to use funds allocated to capital improvements as a kind of floating cash backup for operational deficits. This is why the whole city of San Francisco will fall apart in another ten years. The power transmission grid is coming apart because we need the money it would take to fix and update it for other things. There’s a war going on, don’t forget. Several wars, actually. Plus, here in California, a sixty-five million dollar recall election. Spending money on capital improvements just isn’t very sexy.
Heard Michael Bloomberg on the radio last night trying for his Rudy Giuliani moment. What a pompous asshole. Watched CNN and its considerably more amusing counterpart Fox News for many hours last night (mainly because I was too brain-dead to read or interact with my child) and followed the bouncing red ball of blame. It’s a lightening at Niagara Falls! No, it’s a fire in Canada! See, they’re rioting in Canada but they’re filing out from the underground tunnels in an orderly fashion in Times Square!
This morning I find myself bemused that power is slowly flickering back on in Manhattan – the media and financial capitol of the world – but is expected to be off in Detroit – Motown, black people, Eminem – until Sunday.
Meanwhile, back in my own tiny solipsistic universe…
Tiles bought and paid for. Chris, the handsome floor guy, will come in and do the work tomorrow. Tomorrow is Saturday, so he is being very nice. The Bill Sullivan connection, no doubt. Two highlights to the day – the first was the showroom at Monterey Packaging, a universe filled with vibrant shades of wrapping paper, gift bags and specials on rainbow-hued translucent ribbon plus friendly, deferential sales people. Does it get any better? Beautiful tchotchkas, respectful help.
Then, in the afternoon, I took Robin and the dogs down to the shop. The dogs attract a lot of attention. I’m wondering if I should get SLOW BURN and a big red and green chili pepper tattooed on the side of their coats.
"What kind of dogs are those?" asks an Arab-looking guy in a thick Atlanta accent. He is dressed very spiffily, as are his children and his gorgeous blonde wife sports the Rock of Gibraltar on her married lady finger.
"Jack Russell terriers," I reply. I’m dressed rather nicely too today in a purple crepe ensemble with all my heavy gold jewelry since I’m supposed to be rendezvousing with the property manager. Upscale dogs, upscale outfit: I’m the fucking Queen of the Universe.
"They’re very smart dogs, aren’t they?" asks the guy as his children squeal with delight and Robin authoritatively informs them, "He’s my dog; his name is Legolas." People like this could buy a lot of hot sauce. Not to mention chili-themed gift products.
"Very smart, yes," I say. "Also very energetic. They need to be exercised. Run, if possible. You need to wear them out at least once a day."
"Daddy, Daddy, I want a dog like this," says the well-dressed little girl.
"It’s Wishbone," says the well-dressed wife. This is a woman who shouldn’t go anywhere near Detroit until the electricity is turned back on.
I open up the store. Robin wanders down to the beach with the dogs. I’ve somehow missed the property manager but that’s okay, it’s a gorgeous day and the Bolivian musicians are playing flute music on the plaza. Sooner or later the property manager and I will run into one another. Meanwhile, I watch Robin on the beach. He’s standing, talking to an incredibly beautiful woman who looks to be in her early forties, with a glorious mane of long blonde curly hair. Magic child. She’s entranced. Robin has been a charmer since birth. I remember taking him into the Time/Life Building when he was around two or so. One of the People Magazine senior editors raced from her desk with a stuffed animal in hand. "Can I give this to him? I want to give this to him!" Last year at one of the RLS football games, a 12 year old tried to pass him her phone number.
"Do you know how old he is?" I asked her. "He’s eight years old!"
"But he’s so-oo good-looking!" she moaned.
Beauty and charm like Robin’s is a mixed blessing. As his mother, I worry for him. The things that come easy are going to make the things that come hard not worth having.
"Robin, let’s go!" I called to him on the beach.
He scampered up. The dogs and the beautiful fortyish woman followed close behind.
"That’s some boy you have there," said the woman. "He’s beguiling."
"Yup," I said. "Look out world when he hits puberty."
The woman laughed. "So you’re opening up a hot sauce store."
"I am," I say.
"Where? In that building?"
"No, over there." I point. "On the plaza."
"Great location," says the woman. She has a brilliant smile and for a moment I feel as though the Goddess of Commerce has climbed down from her summer vacation home on Mr. Tauro to bless my enterprise. "I’ll definitely be back to check it out. And I’ll bring all my friends."
Maybe I should have Robin stuffed and put on display in the front window of my store. Robin and the dogs.
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no subject
Date: 2003-08-15 08:21 am (UTC)I also used to do camera for Biker Billy Cooks With Fire, which is whay got me into hot sauce in the first place, though after an experiment with Blair 2AM, I'm fairly turned off on it.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-15 10:06 am (UTC)Properly speaking, Blair's 2AM is not a sauce but an additive. Meaning you really shouldn't use more than one drop at a time. It's very big in a particular biker subculture here on the West Coast -- guys that drive off to the desert with their bikes, their guns, their beer, their speed and their big rusty pots. They cook up enormous pots of hot chili and then spend the next three days shitting fire. Seriously, that's the hook -- not the food going in, but the stuff going out.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-15 10:12 am (UTC)I went to Circlet Press' Hot Luck party, which is a party where you can try some hot sauces. They had a Mild table, Warm, Hot and Death. I worked my way up to the Death table and even that wasn't so bad. Then someone brought out something called Blair 3AM. It was in a plastic box marked: CAUTION EXTREME HEAT. THIS IS NOT A SAUCE. ONLY USE AS AN INGREDIENT. ADD A TEASPOON TO A GALLON OF SAUCE FOR EXTREME HEAT. DO NOT CONSUME. KEEP AWAY FROM EXPOSED SKIN.
Opening the box, there was a little plastic skull inside, and a bottle covered in a plastic covering made to look like an erupting volcano. It took ten minutes to get that off. So after I did, I put half a drop on a chip and ate it.
A couple of seconds later, I ran to the bathroom, drank most of a full carton of whole milk, and then three cans of Coke. Then I sneezed and fell to the floor from having some of that droplet in my sinuses. Then I ate five pieces of bread and another quart of milk, but I ate that too fast, so I went to the service steps and vomited off the fire tower. Which made it even worse of course, so I had to start again with the milk. Then I just took a seat in the hall because I couldn't stand or talk.
About twenty minutes later, I got up and found Madpop and tried to tell him the story, but it hurt too much to breathe. About an hour later, it was as though I had just guzzled a bottle of ordinary hot hot sauce. I was still gasping and constantly drinking and sneezing. Yes, then I experienced the ol' burning rectum about an hour after that. The next day (Sunday) I could still taste Blair 3AM on my tongue, though it was pleasant and mild by that point.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 06:30 am (UTC)I have mixed feelings about even offering things like the Blair reserves for sale -- but you kinda have to do it un the hot sauce biz. Not to would be the equivalent of owning a bookstore and refusing to stock Clive Barker.