LONGPRONG 2014 Redux

One evening back in 1984 at the Privilege in Paris I was talking to a Vogue cover girl the bar. Nordine the barman was giving us free drinks. We belonged to the same crew and I said to Brigitte, "My friend really likes you."

"Vonelli?"

"Yes." The bearded art dealer made me laugh and I like that in anyone. He was balding and older than us, but like Cyrano he possessed panache and I decided to act as Cupid.

"Not a chance." Brigitte was nicknamed Cruella. The brunette South African had broken many hearts across Europe, but I was immune to her allure. We lived together on the Ile St. Louis. If I succumbed to her succubi, I would be living under a bridge by the Seine.

"That's too bad." My girlfriend was a eighteen year-old Puerto Rican/French model. She had left me again for a younger man. I was crashing here, until she took me back again. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Why?"

"Because Alan has the biggest penis I've ever seen on a white man." I had never seen his penis and I had never ever said these words to anyone before about anyone else's penis and certainly not mine. I'm half-Irish, thankfully Black Irish from the Aran Isles.

"Really?"

"A real long prong."

Five minutes later the two of them left the disco as a testament to the power of words quenching desire. I heard them at it that night and many more. Them in the upstairs bedroom. Me on the living room couch. Neither of them ever mentioned my claim about the Vonelli organ, but they seemed happy. As I said I was a good wingman. Both for women and men. Me, I went back to Candia. My happy was another story with other endings. Some of them good and some is better than none.

Picasso No Sale - 2013

Over the last few years Richie Boy has sold a Mr. Dithers a few diamonds with hopes of scoring big with the Washingtonian financier. I had rsumed my job as a diamond salesman on West 47th Stret after a sojourn as writer in residence at a embassy in LUxembourg. I became friends with Dithers after he learned that I knew Jean-Michel Basquiat. I recounted about having my girlfriend erase his painting from my refrigerator.

"I wasn't the only one to do something stupid."

An art restorer had given a Basquiat to her new boyfriend as a birthday present. They broke up shortly thereafter. I didn't tell Dithers this tale. The New York art scene is very small.

Over the past three years Dithers and I have collaborated on attempted sales of an antique Roman bust and a Claudio Bravo without success.

Mr. Dithers is no salesman and I doubted whether he had real control over either piece.

Upon hearing this Spring that I was looking for a Picasso in the $15 million range, Dithers surprised me by coming up with a cubist painting from the 50s.

"Its owner are Italian and need money."

"Everyone in Italy needs money."

"Same as us."

The portrait's provenance had an impeccable lineage and Vonelli, my London client was eager to buy it, however Dithers had trouble producing the painting.

"The couple want to see the results of the auctions," explained Dithers.

"That's not good news." The hammer would only increase the price and cut into my commission.

"We'll see what happens." Dithers cautioned for patience, however nothing did happen and this week I discovered the reason upon reading a BBC online article about the US government blocking the sale of a more expensive painting owned by an Italian couple who had been charged with embezzlement of millions of Euros from the city of Naples.

"Is this the same couple?"

"Maybe." Dithers wasn't saying yes or no over the phone.

"Then it's another dead deal." I had thought the same since early May.

That evening I phoned Vonelli and told him the bad news.

"Well, that's good luck I didn't buy it."

"How so?"

"You'd have to get me my money and the FBI aren't into refunds."

"I certainly don't want to speak with them."

"None of us do."

Vonelli hung up. He was on his way to his summer house in Belgium.

I had hoped for the Picasso commish to buy a ticket to Thailand.

My kids miss me.

Something has to happen soon.

It always does.

In Heaven Above

Back in the 80s I was invited to fashion shows by Claude Montana and Azzedine Alaïa. My friend were models and designers. Some have become famous and I was lucky enough to have known some of the most beautiful women in the world. Few were more exotic than Marpessa.

She was half-Dutch and half-Indonesia. Her beauty was frightening, but I seduced her into a dinner with the infamous art dealer Vonelli by saying that we wanted to exploit her beauty for NASA.

"Why?"

"Because NASA is broke and they want to hold a lottery to see who will be the first man to have sex in Space," I told her this in Dave's restaurant on Rue St. Roch. His BBQ ribs were exquisite and I piggyback their flavors to bullshit her about Vonelli being a NASA scientist. "He saw your photo on the cover of Vogue and said this woman could launch a Space Shuttle."

"C'est Vrai?" Marpessa spoke four languages and a fifth was saved for her lovers.

"Absolutelment." Vonelli was in his prime. He looked 50% CIA in his Brooks Brothers suit.

"Your face will grace posters across the globe. One night with Marpessa. $1."

"$1?" She usually gave it away from free to French painters.

"Times one billion people. We will make you rich." I couldn't believe she was buying my hooey, but Vonelli dropped a card on the table. It was only partially stained by BBQ sauce. "We will guarantee you $10 million for your efforts."

"And I'll have to go to Space?"

Vonelli and I pingponged a glance.

"Yes." He nodded like a senator okaying a secret assassination. "We call the project IN HEAVEN ABOVE."

"I'll do it."

We toasted our future.

It lasted to the door of Dave's.

Marpessa went her way in a taxi.

Vonelli and I repaired back to our table. Dave sat down and said, "You are mean. I want to wrapped you in Saran Wrap and cover you in Mayonnaise."

Sounds like the perfect Space Suit."

"For Heaven Above." Vonelli pointed skyward to the ceiling.

"You are mean to ignore me."

"And beauty is even meaner." Vonelli ordered a bottle of wine. We drank it regaling everyone about Heaven Above.

Everyone wanted to believe, for when the shit gets a foot high the cool step a foot higher.