Friday, August 18, 2023

The Basquiat Caper

I left the house yesterday morning for the gym.  From there, I went with Tennessee to move furniture.  By the time we finished, it was late afternoon, so I went to my mother's.  A grocery run was imperative.  And I had to get a birthday card and present, too.  By the time I got home and showered, I was zonked.  I haven't spent a full day like that for a long time.  I was tired and grateful for food and drink and a little t.v.  It was an early night.  I was ready for bed before my usual hour.  

After all the texts yesterday, just before bed last night, my old secretary sent me a report.  The day was, in the vernacular of the times, a shit-show.  She misses me.  They all do, she said.  I had mixed feelings as we finished our communiques.  But as I said yesterday. . . onward.  

Or, as Ken Kesey declared, "Further."  

Travis sent me a NY Times article yesterday about the Basquiat Caper.  It seems the director of the museum was in on the scheme.  He was going to receive a kickback for exhibiting and selling the fakes--30% of several hundreds of millions of dollars!  What a plan!  It has all the tainted stupidity of an Idiots for Trump ruse.  In both cases, the morons nearly succeeded.  Imagine if any of them had been competent!

I sent the article on to my friend with whom I went to see the exhibit.  She is thrilled that we were observers of the caper.  Indeed.  I declared each and every piece a forgery loudly to the museum goers.  Not jut the Basquiats.  EVERYTHING.  

"You can't trust these swine," I shouted.  "They are lackeys of Mammon.  They worship Beelzebub.  These people are worse than money changers in the Temple!"

For my performance, I got a hearty round of applause--from the elderly couple on the other side of the room.  But I would have said it no matter how many were there.  I'm against Crimes of Art.  

"It is what we have instead of religion, I yelled."

"Well. . . some people have religion, too," they replied.

I let them have the last word.  

I took photos of all the fakes, but they are somewhere else.  I don't have access to them now.  

I just deleted a bunch of gibberish.  I am standing on tip toes looking for material, but the cupboard is bare, so I will let this be brief today.  The weekend is upon us.  I'll leave you with a little Friday Happy Hour Jazz.  The bar is oak and the lighting soft.  Maybe you've taken a booth with someone intriguing.  Maybe someone who is or may soon be Your Own True Love!

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