A Gent's Words of Comfort

Fair Reader,

My, how times have changed since we last spoke. Our economy is on the verge of collapse, my beloved Mets pathetically collapsed down the stretch, and now I - like so many of my other brothers in luxury - fear that our lifestyles will have to be paired down to the bare necessities. Duck breasts will cost forty quid, hair pomade will be priced similarly to one Gucci shoe, and I will be forced to trade in my Grey Goose vodka for Popov. My lord, we could very well be in for it.

Or could we? Does yesterday's ominous collapse in the markets mean that we're all becoming Okies? Well, considering that my beloved father, Allan the Gent, packed up all of his belongings into a pick-up truck and will soon be heading to California to look for work as a peach picker... possibly things are going a tad south.

A snapshot of AtG on his western roadtrip

Regardless if they are or not, one thing is for certain: We'll all be just fine. I remember a barber I used to see on Essex Road in London who would regale me with tales of his relatives. These relatives of his survived World War II as London was being shellacked by bombs. He would often say that his grandfather, who did not fight in the war and was in London at the time, often referred to that moment as the simplest he's ever lived. This was because no matter how dreary it got, his neighbors, friends, and even strangers were always quick to help one another out and to share whatever they had. Whale lard and crackers and tins of what have you were made available not just to one family but to all. Survival, I suppose, brings people closer together.

This is not to say we'll soon be forced to share tins of beans with forty other families and bathe in rivers. Things will right themselves out financially in a bit. It just means that buying a cashmere suit or a Fabergé egg will simply have to hold for the next few months. But I will say this, though: If I had a can of whale lard, I would happily share it with thee, friendly reader.

A presto,

EtG