Every year around this time life becomes decidedly sadder. The sunlight dissipates more quickly. Even though daylight hours have been dwindling steadily since June 21st, the longest and happiest day of the year, it seems much more pronounced when Daylight Saving’s Time rolls around (total misnomer—no one is saving daylight, they’re just moving those precious few hours to fill other hours of the day, most of which I sleep through anyway).
Clothes become heavier and more cumbersome, yet no matter how much the layers multiply, I am still cold. As I tuck my chin into my coat to avoid the wind and cold, my focus is shifted down towards the ground and I lose sight of the buildings and people around me. I take less interest in the tidiness of my "home" (ironic that we learn to call 750 square feet or fewer a home in NYC).
I don’t expect any of this elicits much sympathy; Seasonal Affective Disorder rarely does. After all, I could go out and buy a SAD lamp, move to a latitude that guarantees more sunlight or simply pull up my socks and stop being such a wimp. These are among the facile solutions that have historically been offered to those suffering from SAD (and some might even take issue with the participle "suffering" here).
How does one sympathize with SAD people when there are so many others who are far more entitled to sadness (don’t forget: the right to be sad is something we must earn in society). Even putting aside the big name tragedies such as death and divorce, there’s always someone who has more frayed relationships or finances and whose career path is even more dismal than your own. Look at the folks in Iceland for crying out loud. Not only do they have a fraction of the daylight we have this time of year (just try searching on weather.com for the time of sunrise in Reykjavik, you’ll find "N/A" on Dec. 20), but now they don’t even have Happy Meals anymore.*
I have a job; therefore, it’s self-absorbed and inconsiderate of me to even consider experiencing sadness—just take that emotion off the menu altogether. I once told a male friend (one whose work also guarantees certain excesses of solitude) that I often became sad and lonely in my office. He said "That’s crazy." As you can imagine, that cheered me right up. I was practically skipping after that!
We are most partial to sadness only once someone has risen above his or her depressive state (or genes, depending on which theories of depression you accept) and done something great. Look at all the great depressed American writers: William Styron, Sylvia Plath, Tennessee Williams, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, etc. Their writings once comforted me because they convinced me that my crippling blues were a sign I was destined for greatness. But what is depression when not a sign of latent creative genius? It’s just pedestrian, inconvenient and unattractive (unless you’re careful to closet your sadness and stay in your apartment from Thanksgiving straight through Easter so no one can be dragged down by your heavy moods).
Today I was determined to create and consume my own Happy Meal and so I did what any sensible sad person would do. I left work (not that work makes me sad, but sometimes sad people need extra doses of happiness and sunshine before hunkering down for winter) and headed to Westchester to play golf and take one last look at the vibrant leaves before the cooling temperatures and winds pull them right of the trees. My lunch consisted of:
Multiple uplifting views of the Hudson River
Four Pars
Silly banter with the caddie master
One high five with the assistant pro
Notes:
*Forced to concede that the costs of operating in Iceland have become prohibitive, McDonalds will no longer be offering Happy Meals, or any other meals, in Iceland
Friday, October 30, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Lunch Report: Lunch with JP Morgan
Today I had lunch with JP Morgan. Not "at" JP Morgan, mind you, but "with" JP Morgan, in the real House of Morgan* (Let’s call him "JP" and pretend we're on nickname bases).
What I am trying to say is that I lunched at The Morgan Library and Museum, my favorite NYC institution.
Lunching in the Dining Room at The Morgan is a rare and coveted benefit of being a Fellow of the Morgan (and, fortunately, gals can be "fellows" as well in the House of Morgan).
Today's lunch consisted of:
Two sips of sherry
Broiled salmon nestled on a bed of quinoa and spinach
Apple raisin cake with a fig glaze
A splash of Bordeaux
Cost: $0, unless you figure in my annual contribution to maintain my Fellowette status, then it was almost 1000 times my daily limit, which I can ill afford).
Typically, I miss these quarterly lunches because either work interferes or I am overcome with ambivalence as to why I should attend. I am not likely to gather any clients there and even less likely to gather some eligible men (Maybe my standards are too high, but I am not yet willing to consider the 65+ age set when it comes to dating). So why is this gal a Fellow?
As the youngest of my class of Fellows (Yes, Fellows have "classes" although I am still not certain what happens when we graduate. Do we get to take home one of our favorite works from the museum?), my participation is unusual, if not odd. I do not have an extensive collection. In fact, I don't really have any collection at all, unless you count the William Kentridge* drypoint hanging proudly above my mantelpiece, the intricate crocodile drawings from an emerging (aka affordable) Brooklyn-based artist and a random assortment of hand me downs and prints that are a cut above those I had in college but do not justify an independent visit to my apartment.
My absence of a collection was a source of grave embarrassment at lunch. I was seated next to the head of the library who, after introducing himself, asked me what I collected. I quickly stuffed some salmon into my mouth to gain time before responding and then washed it down with a swig of Bordeaux (yum, not bad, did that also come from JP’s collection?). I suppose as a Fellow, I am meant to have been hording art works over the last 10 years which some day can be harvested into treasures worthy of The Morgan, instead of pouring my paychecks straight into the coffers of golf resorts (who, by the way, really need the money now, just as badly as museums).
Because my lunch companion had become the Head Morganite after I had been elevated to “Fellow” status, he probably had not read my sponsor's application for my candidacy, which stated quite clearly that I collected men, not art (although query which costs more in the end—it’s just as difficult to buy low, sell high and generate capital gains).
As I formulated my response (pronounced so meekly that Mr. Head of Morgan probably convinced himself I’d said I collected “Caravaggio” rather than “Kentridge”), I suddenly felt very small in the big House of Morgan, especially after having walked through the three story atriumesque Gilbert Court (thanks, Renzo*, well done) to reach the Fellow’s Dining Room.
At this point in life I have come to terms with the fact that I am unlikely to establish a bank of international repute (I’m having enough difficulty at home with the Bank of Frost and its anemic reserves), stave off a liquidity crisis, as JP did in 1907,* or pull together a collection that rivals the diversity of JP's (gotta love a collection that houses Babar the Elephant, William Blake, lyrics of Bob Dylan and some Gutenberg Bibles)..
But still, it all made me think, what is my legacy, to The Morgan, or to anyone else for that matter? Will anyone know I was here when I am gone? There will probably be no children to whom I can pass on my little Kentridge.. (I could give it to The Morgan, if they’ll have it . . .) You will likely never see "Gift from the Penelope Frost Collection” under a work hanging on one of JP's walls.
Maybe my contribution to The Morgan is not as easily measured as others. Yet, hopefully, JP (if not other Morganites) can appreciate my less tangible form of support through the friends I drag to The Morgan in the hopes they may also make a small contribution, triggering some form of never-ending self-reproduction of contributions.
I haven’t decided whether this intangible contribution is enough and I don't even know what I would want my legacy to be if I had the power to shape it. Maybe when I do know, I will be ready to graduate as a Fellow.. Until then, I urge you all to stop by The Morgan, especially following November 4th when a new exhibition opens—“A Woman's Wit: Jane Austen’s Life and Legacy”—which promises to surpass all the rest.
Please also visit: http://www.themorgan.org
Notes
*Not to be confused with Ron Chernow’s book of the same name which brilliantly chronicles the Morgan family’s financial dynasty through the splintering created by the 1933 Glass-Steagall Act into J.P. Morgan & Co. (later Morgan Guaranty Trust), Morgan Stanley and Morgan Grenfell and up until Morgan Stanley’s merger with Dean Witter. The House of Morgan: An American Banking Dynasty and the Rise of Modern Finance (© 1990 Ron Chernow).
*William Kentridge (1962-) is a prominent South African artist best known for his animated films created from drawings and erasures. One of these drawings now sits in the Penelope Frost Collection in NYC.
*The Morgan’s most recent renovation and expansion, designed by world renowned Italian architect Renzo Piano, was completed in 2006.
*JP purportedly resolved the Panic of 1907 by locking his fellow bankers in his library at The Morgan until they reached a resolution. Apparently Secretary Geithner and others have attempted to implement this same crisis resolution technique, but have been unable to agree upon the appropriate library in which to lock in all the bankers.
What I am trying to say is that I lunched at The Morgan Library and Museum, my favorite NYC institution.
Lunching in the Dining Room at The Morgan is a rare and coveted benefit of being a Fellow of the Morgan (and, fortunately, gals can be "fellows" as well in the House of Morgan).
Today's lunch consisted of:
Two sips of sherry
Broiled salmon nestled on a bed of quinoa and spinach
Apple raisin cake with a fig glaze
A splash of Bordeaux
Cost: $0, unless you figure in my annual contribution to maintain my Fellowette status, then it was almost 1000 times my daily limit, which I can ill afford).
Typically, I miss these quarterly lunches because either work interferes or I am overcome with ambivalence as to why I should attend. I am not likely to gather any clients there and even less likely to gather some eligible men (Maybe my standards are too high, but I am not yet willing to consider the 65+ age set when it comes to dating). So why is this gal a Fellow?
As the youngest of my class of Fellows (Yes, Fellows have "classes" although I am still not certain what happens when we graduate. Do we get to take home one of our favorite works from the museum?), my participation is unusual, if not odd. I do not have an extensive collection. In fact, I don't really have any collection at all, unless you count the William Kentridge* drypoint hanging proudly above my mantelpiece, the intricate crocodile drawings from an emerging (aka affordable) Brooklyn-based artist and a random assortment of hand me downs and prints that are a cut above those I had in college but do not justify an independent visit to my apartment.
My absence of a collection was a source of grave embarrassment at lunch. I was seated next to the head of the library who, after introducing himself, asked me what I collected. I quickly stuffed some salmon into my mouth to gain time before responding and then washed it down with a swig of Bordeaux (yum, not bad, did that also come from JP’s collection?). I suppose as a Fellow, I am meant to have been hording art works over the last 10 years which some day can be harvested into treasures worthy of The Morgan, instead of pouring my paychecks straight into the coffers of golf resorts (who, by the way, really need the money now, just as badly as museums).
Because my lunch companion had become the Head Morganite after I had been elevated to “Fellow” status, he probably had not read my sponsor's application for my candidacy, which stated quite clearly that I collected men, not art (although query which costs more in the end—it’s just as difficult to buy low, sell high and generate capital gains).
As I formulated my response (pronounced so meekly that Mr. Head of Morgan probably convinced himself I’d said I collected “Caravaggio” rather than “Kentridge”), I suddenly felt very small in the big House of Morgan, especially after having walked through the three story atriumesque Gilbert Court (thanks, Renzo*, well done) to reach the Fellow’s Dining Room.
At this point in life I have come to terms with the fact that I am unlikely to establish a bank of international repute (I’m having enough difficulty at home with the Bank of Frost and its anemic reserves), stave off a liquidity crisis, as JP did in 1907,* or pull together a collection that rivals the diversity of JP's (gotta love a collection that houses Babar the Elephant, William Blake, lyrics of Bob Dylan and some Gutenberg Bibles)..
But still, it all made me think, what is my legacy, to The Morgan, or to anyone else for that matter? Will anyone know I was here when I am gone? There will probably be no children to whom I can pass on my little Kentridge.. (I could give it to The Morgan, if they’ll have it . . .) You will likely never see "Gift from the Penelope Frost Collection” under a work hanging on one of JP's walls.
Maybe my contribution to The Morgan is not as easily measured as others. Yet, hopefully, JP (if not other Morganites) can appreciate my less tangible form of support through the friends I drag to The Morgan in the hopes they may also make a small contribution, triggering some form of never-ending self-reproduction of contributions.
I haven’t decided whether this intangible contribution is enough and I don't even know what I would want my legacy to be if I had the power to shape it. Maybe when I do know, I will be ready to graduate as a Fellow.. Until then, I urge you all to stop by The Morgan, especially following November 4th when a new exhibition opens—“A Woman's Wit: Jane Austen’s Life and Legacy”—which promises to surpass all the rest.
Please also visit: http://www.themorgan.org
Notes
*Not to be confused with Ron Chernow’s book of the same name which brilliantly chronicles the Morgan family’s financial dynasty through the splintering created by the 1933 Glass-Steagall Act into J.P. Morgan & Co. (later Morgan Guaranty Trust), Morgan Stanley and Morgan Grenfell and up until Morgan Stanley’s merger with Dean Witter. The House of Morgan: An American Banking Dynasty and the Rise of Modern Finance (© 1990 Ron Chernow).
*William Kentridge (1962-) is a prominent South African artist best known for his animated films created from drawings and erasures. One of these drawings now sits in the Penelope Frost Collection in NYC.
*The Morgan’s most recent renovation and expansion, designed by world renowned Italian architect Renzo Piano, was completed in 2006.
*JP purportedly resolved the Panic of 1907 by locking his fellow bankers in his library at The Morgan until they reached a resolution. Apparently Secretary Geithner and others have attempted to implement this same crisis resolution technique, but have been unable to agree upon the appropriate library in which to lock in all the bankers.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Lunch Report: A Writer's Lunch
I am not a writer, just a lawyer. But today I had the honor to lunch with a writer imported to NYC for a few days from NOLA. NOLA is short for New Orleans, Louisiana for those who've never hung out "in the Quarter." I can barely describe how different this lunch was from my daily lunch at the office, which is typically spent in the company of crisp, clean and symmetrically stacked documents and people.
Today’s lunch consisted of:
*Some Old Fashioneds (the tricky thing about daytime cocktails—at least for me—is that after half a glass, they defy quantification)
*Several bites of the writer’s no-egg-yolk omelet. What a joy to find a lunch companion who isn't conscious of the conventional boundaries that imprison our daily lives—such as the borders of one's own plate.
*Cost: I don't recall who paid so, in my financially disturbed mind, that means the lunch was free, or at least well in compliance with my $3 lunch limit.
The food was not remarkable but the "focus" or lack thereof left an extraordinary aftertaste. A real writer (or, as I idolize them) lives (and eats) to create dialogue and consume a novel thought for lunch. A real writer is daring enough to eat up a new experience without fear that it may take months to properly digest it and may ultimately defy articulate description.
To be clear, I am aware that writers are in no way a uniform "type" or "breed" who practice a single lunch style or technique. It would be just as easy to lunch with a writer whose anxiety level rivals that of a bond trader than it would be to lunch with a writer who exudes Rastafarian-levels of relaxation. But I got lucky. The writer with whom I lunched conformed to all of the stereotypes of writers we hold dear: charismatic; dissolute; eccentric; intellectual; irreverent; passionate; sensitive; and original. The contrast with my lawyerly lunches was delicious..
Trained and compensated to anticipate and analyze clients’ risks 24/7, the lawyer is at times overpowered by his or her own analytical and risk averse tendencies. They seep into almost every facet of life, inside and outside the office, sometimes leading to a dizzying inward spiral of overanalysis and anxiety.* This must be why lawyers and other professionals have historically been fairly strong supporters of writers and artists—not only does their work inspire us in ways that are refreshingly different from our own discipline, but we really want to BE them.
I look at “them”—those hopelessly creative types who can’t help but spew out original phrases on a daily basis—with great envy. Writers seem liberated from schedule and concern—they eat, drink, write and sleep whenever. They spend as much time as they choose (it’s not like they’re billing by the hour) fondling words, toying with life changing ideas and exploring new people like spelunkers. Very few meetings and no dress code (in fact, clothing optional). Nirvana. I would so like to trade some of my “estoppels,” habeas corpus (corpii?)” and “theretos” for some “bandersnatch,” “contumely,” “peroration” and other words I never get to use at the office.
But instead, I content myself, for now, by being a financial provider of sorts (of increasingly modest sorts) for those brave enough to trade the illusion of financial security for creative latitude. Yes, financial providers and creative types seem to complement each other terribly well.
In fact, so well do we complement each other that the financial provider-artist pairing is considered indispensable to the success of any NYC liberal’s dinner party (assuming, of course, a lesbian is already present). Only the pairing of a Goldman Sachs partner, the uber-financial-provider-figure, and his kindergarten school teacher wife (before she stopped working, obviously), the gold standard for the maternal-nurturing-figure, ranks higher than the lawyer-artist pairing.
In these uncertain times, though, the classic symbiotic relationship between artists and their providers is strained. Traditional providers, much like some banks, are failing to provide. They may still look to the arts for inspiration, but the outflow from their wallets has not been particularly inspired, at least where the arts are concerned.**
In a great twist of financial irony, some of society’s traditional providers—lawyers and bankers (and their hedge fund managing cousins)—are now struggling with the financial uncertainties that many writers have wrestled with, yet taken for granted as an occupational hazard, for ages.
What a great character-building exercise awaits us as financial uncertainty sharpens our resolve to design better laws, build better banks and stabilize our economy so we can continue to provide. And, gosh, if none of that works and I still lose my job and can’t pay my rent, maybe the writer from NOLA will let me squat at his place and drink Old Fashioneds with him at lunch? Here’s hoping . . .
Penelope Frost
Notes
*To be fair to lawyers, there is tremendous social and intellectual creativity involved in the lawyering process as we attempt to make parties with widely disparate interests reach agreement. Unfortunately, not a single merger agreement—not even from legendary mergers such as Time Warner-AOL or RJR-Nabisco—has made it on to the NYTimes best sellers’ list. We humbly leave the glory to the writers and artists.
**Charitable donations generally fell by almost 6% in 2008 alone, the sharpest drop in 53 years, with the arts suffering a decline of between 9 and 10%. The Chronicle of Philanthropy, June 9, 2009.
Today’s lunch consisted of:
*Some Old Fashioneds (the tricky thing about daytime cocktails—at least for me—is that after half a glass, they defy quantification)
*Several bites of the writer’s no-egg-yolk omelet. What a joy to find a lunch companion who isn't conscious of the conventional boundaries that imprison our daily lives—such as the borders of one's own plate.
*Cost: I don't recall who paid so, in my financially disturbed mind, that means the lunch was free, or at least well in compliance with my $3 lunch limit.
The food was not remarkable but the "focus" or lack thereof left an extraordinary aftertaste. A real writer (or, as I idolize them) lives (and eats) to create dialogue and consume a novel thought for lunch. A real writer is daring enough to eat up a new experience without fear that it may take months to properly digest it and may ultimately defy articulate description.
To be clear, I am aware that writers are in no way a uniform "type" or "breed" who practice a single lunch style or technique. It would be just as easy to lunch with a writer whose anxiety level rivals that of a bond trader than it would be to lunch with a writer who exudes Rastafarian-levels of relaxation. But I got lucky. The writer with whom I lunched conformed to all of the stereotypes of writers we hold dear: charismatic; dissolute; eccentric; intellectual; irreverent; passionate; sensitive; and original. The contrast with my lawyerly lunches was delicious..
Trained and compensated to anticipate and analyze clients’ risks 24/7, the lawyer is at times overpowered by his or her own analytical and risk averse tendencies. They seep into almost every facet of life, inside and outside the office, sometimes leading to a dizzying inward spiral of overanalysis and anxiety.* This must be why lawyers and other professionals have historically been fairly strong supporters of writers and artists—not only does their work inspire us in ways that are refreshingly different from our own discipline, but we really want to BE them.
I look at “them”—those hopelessly creative types who can’t help but spew out original phrases on a daily basis—with great envy. Writers seem liberated from schedule and concern—they eat, drink, write and sleep whenever. They spend as much time as they choose (it’s not like they’re billing by the hour) fondling words, toying with life changing ideas and exploring new people like spelunkers. Very few meetings and no dress code (in fact, clothing optional). Nirvana. I would so like to trade some of my “estoppels,” habeas corpus (corpii?)” and “theretos” for some “bandersnatch,” “contumely,” “peroration” and other words I never get to use at the office.
But instead, I content myself, for now, by being a financial provider of sorts (of increasingly modest sorts) for those brave enough to trade the illusion of financial security for creative latitude. Yes, financial providers and creative types seem to complement each other terribly well.
In fact, so well do we complement each other that the financial provider-artist pairing is considered indispensable to the success of any NYC liberal’s dinner party (assuming, of course, a lesbian is already present). Only the pairing of a Goldman Sachs partner, the uber-financial-provider-figure, and his kindergarten school teacher wife (before she stopped working, obviously), the gold standard for the maternal-nurturing-figure, ranks higher than the lawyer-artist pairing.
In these uncertain times, though, the classic symbiotic relationship between artists and their providers is strained. Traditional providers, much like some banks, are failing to provide. They may still look to the arts for inspiration, but the outflow from their wallets has not been particularly inspired, at least where the arts are concerned.**
In a great twist of financial irony, some of society’s traditional providers—lawyers and bankers (and their hedge fund managing cousins)—are now struggling with the financial uncertainties that many writers have wrestled with, yet taken for granted as an occupational hazard, for ages.
What a great character-building exercise awaits us as financial uncertainty sharpens our resolve to design better laws, build better banks and stabilize our economy so we can continue to provide. And, gosh, if none of that works and I still lose my job and can’t pay my rent, maybe the writer from NOLA will let me squat at his place and drink Old Fashioneds with him at lunch? Here’s hoping . . .
Penelope Frost
Notes
*To be fair to lawyers, there is tremendous social and intellectual creativity involved in the lawyering process as we attempt to make parties with widely disparate interests reach agreement. Unfortunately, not a single merger agreement—not even from legendary mergers such as Time Warner-AOL or RJR-Nabisco—has made it on to the NYTimes best sellers’ list. We humbly leave the glory to the writers and artists.
**Charitable donations generally fell by almost 6% in 2008 alone, the sharpest drop in 53 years, with the arts suffering a decline of between 9 and 10%. The Chronicle of Philanthropy, June 9, 2009.
Monday, October 5, 2009
The Lunch Report: A Snow Leopard Lunch
For the tech geeks amongst you, the following Lunch Report in no way relates to the next generation Mac upgrade (sorry) but I suggest you read on anyway.
Today’s lunch consisted of:
One small Manhattan chicken chowder (leave it to my cafeteria to get creative with leftovers)
One diet coke
Several saltine crackers
One Snow Leopard (Panthera Uncia for the Latin scholars amongst us)
Cost: $12.20 (Yes, I exceeded my daily budget but there were extenuating Panthera-uncia circumstances)
No, no, no, I did not EAT a snow leopard for lunch. For goodness sakes, they’ve been on the endangered species list for quite a while now. Today, my soup and I slipped out of the office and parked ourselves before the Snow Leopard Exhibit at the Central Park Zoo (entry to which accounts for $10 of my lunch).
This is not the first time my lunch and I have done this. We’ve have been having secret rendez-vous with Bo, the male snow leopard, since last June when he first took up residence in the zoo. However, this is the first time the leopard showed up for one of our dates. Yep, no sooner had he established residence on the UES, then he realized that showing up on a date is actually optional for men in NYC (just ask how often your single female friends have been stood up on a date-the statistic is astounding), even when you're the one paying . . .
Apparently though, the male leopard is far more sensitive to the opposite gender in his native Central Asia. In Tibet, for example, male leopards often show up with fresh kill before thrusting themselves onto a female leopard to mate.* This is in sharp contrast with men in NYC who, while they wouldn't even think of paying the tab when dining with a lady, will lick their chops over their after-dinner drink in full anticipation of being more fully satisfied by their dinner companion later on in the evening. Much like the typical NYC man, after mating, the male leopard plays no other role in the cub rearing process.
I'm not sure what I did different this time to merit the leopard’s attention. In the past I have gone to great lengths to lure him, showing up with scraps of wild boar, marmots, mice and other of his favorite treats (all of which can easily be secured online from FreshDirect.com—just click on meats and then look for the "leopard treats" button). I even once threw some markhor meat (whose odor is often described as Chanel No 5 for leopards) into the front of his cage hoping the smell would draw him near so I could savor his spots and piercing eyes. Nothing.
This time I had no expectations. I had long given up expecting to see him. Instead I sat on a bench engrossed in my chowder--it didn't offer the same thrill as the elusive leopard, but it was reliable and warming me up on this cool fall day. Just as I was on the verge of resolving whether green beans are in fact traditional chowder fare, there he was, staring me down, almost angry that I was ignoring him. His presence may not have been obvious to the untrained eye because of his superior ability to camouflage himself (much like NYC gentlemen—although I have never met one, friends tell me they're ubiquitous and I just haven't learned how to identify them).
My panther's appearance may seem insignificant to my readers but I attribute deep symbolic significance to the fact that he appeared today, of all days. Why? Last night I bumped into a male friend, sort of a scotch-drinking nocturnal leopard himself. For many years, despite myriad devoted girlfriends, he has eluded commitment as successfully as the snow leopard escapes the naked eye. Just when I thought I would have to spend another evening turning a deaf ear to why he wasn't sure whether his current girlfriend--despite her stunning looks, exceptional talent, profound intelligence and obvious adoration for my male leopard-like friend--was "the one", he surprised me by pointing out an engagement ring sitting comfortably on her finger. And it was far more sparkly than the fresh kill that leopards bring their female mates in Tibet. I almost spat out my fourth glass of wine, so stunned was I.
A committed bachelor has decided to make the leap to coupledom. An elusive leopard emerges after months of hide and seek. These cannot be coincidences. There is a message in all of this, a message of hope: A leopard may never change his spots, but maybe as he matures he can learn to use them differently.
*Note, however, that the female leopard must first alert the male leopard that it is mating season (you'd think he could figure that one out on his own), which she does by peeing over nearby rocks and other protruding objects.
Today’s lunch consisted of:
One small Manhattan chicken chowder (leave it to my cafeteria to get creative with leftovers)
One diet coke
Several saltine crackers
One Snow Leopard (Panthera Uncia for the Latin scholars amongst us)
Cost: $12.20 (Yes, I exceeded my daily budget but there were extenuating Panthera-uncia circumstances)
No, no, no, I did not EAT a snow leopard for lunch. For goodness sakes, they’ve been on the endangered species list for quite a while now. Today, my soup and I slipped out of the office and parked ourselves before the Snow Leopard Exhibit at the Central Park Zoo (entry to which accounts for $10 of my lunch).
This is not the first time my lunch and I have done this. We’ve have been having secret rendez-vous with Bo, the male snow leopard, since last June when he first took up residence in the zoo. However, this is the first time the leopard showed up for one of our dates. Yep, no sooner had he established residence on the UES, then he realized that showing up on a date is actually optional for men in NYC (just ask how often your single female friends have been stood up on a date-the statistic is astounding), even when you're the one paying . . .
Apparently though, the male leopard is far more sensitive to the opposite gender in his native Central Asia. In Tibet, for example, male leopards often show up with fresh kill before thrusting themselves onto a female leopard to mate.* This is in sharp contrast with men in NYC who, while they wouldn't even think of paying the tab when dining with a lady, will lick their chops over their after-dinner drink in full anticipation of being more fully satisfied by their dinner companion later on in the evening. Much like the typical NYC man, after mating, the male leopard plays no other role in the cub rearing process.
I'm not sure what I did different this time to merit the leopard’s attention. In the past I have gone to great lengths to lure him, showing up with scraps of wild boar, marmots, mice and other of his favorite treats (all of which can easily be secured online from FreshDirect.com—just click on meats and then look for the "leopard treats" button). I even once threw some markhor meat (whose odor is often described as Chanel No 5 for leopards) into the front of his cage hoping the smell would draw him near so I could savor his spots and piercing eyes. Nothing.
This time I had no expectations. I had long given up expecting to see him. Instead I sat on a bench engrossed in my chowder--it didn't offer the same thrill as the elusive leopard, but it was reliable and warming me up on this cool fall day. Just as I was on the verge of resolving whether green beans are in fact traditional chowder fare, there he was, staring me down, almost angry that I was ignoring him. His presence may not have been obvious to the untrained eye because of his superior ability to camouflage himself (much like NYC gentlemen—although I have never met one, friends tell me they're ubiquitous and I just haven't learned how to identify them).
My panther's appearance may seem insignificant to my readers but I attribute deep symbolic significance to the fact that he appeared today, of all days. Why? Last night I bumped into a male friend, sort of a scotch-drinking nocturnal leopard himself. For many years, despite myriad devoted girlfriends, he has eluded commitment as successfully as the snow leopard escapes the naked eye. Just when I thought I would have to spend another evening turning a deaf ear to why he wasn't sure whether his current girlfriend--despite her stunning looks, exceptional talent, profound intelligence and obvious adoration for my male leopard-like friend--was "the one", he surprised me by pointing out an engagement ring sitting comfortably on her finger. And it was far more sparkly than the fresh kill that leopards bring their female mates in Tibet. I almost spat out my fourth glass of wine, so stunned was I.
A committed bachelor has decided to make the leap to coupledom. An elusive leopard emerges after months of hide and seek. These cannot be coincidences. There is a message in all of this, a message of hope: A leopard may never change his spots, but maybe as he matures he can learn to use them differently.
*Note, however, that the female leopard must first alert the male leopard that it is mating season (you'd think he could figure that one out on his own), which she does by peeing over nearby rocks and other protruding objects.
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