This is my UK first edition of The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West. I love this book and this collectible copy is in particularly nice condition. Remember the rule when it comes to collecting: condition is king! The reason this is a UK first is that I cannot afford a U.S. first. The first editions in the author’s home country are always more expensive than the foreign first editions. It’s called following the flag. A decent U.S. first of this title will run you around $2,000. This UK first is probably worth about $300 bucks, give or take a recession.

This is the corner of my UK first of Day of the Locust after my swine of a dog, Coco, chewed it. The book is now worthless. It certainly wasn’t one of the most valuable books on my shelf, but I really loved this one and it hurts more than it probably should. Both of my girls went through babyhood without touching any of my collectibles. I turn my back for one second and that stupid mutt tries to make a meal of it. Christ, I hate dogs.

So, naturally, I started to look for a heavy, bunt object to smash her over the head with. Can you blame me?! But first, I had to find the little pig. When I turned the corner into the living room, I was confronted with this Hallmark Moment.

I am so stuck with this problem. And since she (the dog) is only 6-months old and she (the daughter) is only 5, I am stuck with this problem for a long, long time. I can feel the punishment but I can’t connect the crime.

It’s all about geometry! Here are a few pics I took from poolside in Las Vegas. The hotel I stayed in was surrounded by new construction and I thought they made for some interesting angles, especially when viewed against a desert sky.

I heard some people complaining that looking up and seeing buildings wasn’t very appealing. But the light in Las Vegas is so bloody bright and the daytime desert sky so blue, that I thought it made for some interesting, otherworldly vistas.

Here’s where I stayed. The Cosmopolitan. A beautiful hotel with a stunning view from the balcony. When I come home from vacation, I always suffer a brief period of mourning. Vacations give you a taste of the sweet life, and then you get the knife. My moroseness has been particularly acute this time around. I’m really blue. I’m in such a funk that I gave away tickets to a Broadway show last Friday night (A revival of Harvey starring Jim Parsons from The Big Bang Theory) simply because I didn’t feel like going. I didn’t care.

It’s not difficult to rebound from a trip to Disneyworld or (please forgive me) a trip to Ohio to do the family thing. Both are enjoyable but they’re necessary trips. I had been waiting for years and years to take this Vegas trip and it proved to be as cathartic as I hoped it would be. Winning a big pile of money didn’t hurt, either. Coming back down to earth has been a real problem.

 I think I lost myself

From three strange days.

Slot machines are for old ladies and people too lazy to apply some simple math. Everyone knows that! My friend and I, both sophisticated gamblers, were three sheets to the wind from several glasses of pretty good red wine and decided to prove, once and for all, just what a boring waste of time it is to play slot machines. We pooled our resources ($50 each) and bellied up to a $1 Wheel of Fortune slot machine. It’s a silly device that allows for a bonus payout each time a “spin” icon appears. A wheel of fortune is automatically activated and spins round and round, usually paying out an additional $20 or $30 dollars. Don’t make me laugh. You can do better than that on one simple roll of the dice.

After several eye-rolling, we-told-you-so pulls of the lever, feeling quite vindicated and proud of our prejudices, this came up:

That’s $1,000. So, as you can clearly see, playing slots is a boring wast of time that never nets you any kind of real payout. Losers. Leave it to the professionals.

So I have to eat my words while on vacation, too? Don’t I get enough of that at home?

I’ve seem some pretty tragic cases since landing here. We had a big guffaw over some kids who got in way over their heads at the bar and, literally, had to be carried down the aisle. This place is crawling with amateur drunks and people gambling with mortgage money. We had a long, interesting, conversation with an old guy who visits prostitutes on a regular basis (it’s legal here). But here’s what has to be the saddest thing I’ve seen so far:

Teach your children well, indeed. How extraordinarily selfish. Dad won’t be denied his time playing slot machines so he plops his adorable, innocent young daughter in his lap and makes her play, too. What kind of imprint do you suppose is being made on this poor kid’s mind? Gambling will forever trigger feelings of parental love and acceptance.

I should know. My dad used to play football pools with household funds, even though we were economically challenged. He started giving me football chits to play when I was a young teen. Filling out football pools were the only conversations we ever had. It certainly wasn’t abuse—that’s not what I’m implying— but if you ask Dr. Freud why I love gambling so much, what do you suppose he would hypothesize?

On the other hand, it got me $500 richer yesterday, so maybe I owe him.

I posted the prices realized from this week’s contemporary art auction at Christie’s. You’re not going to believe your eyes. Expectations were exceeded. In come cases, by many multiples. Buckle up and scroll down.

I’m flying to Las Vegas early Saturday morning. Lots of guys go there to visit strip clubs and chase young tail. Some guys drink themselves into a blind stupor. Some queue up at the buffet and stuff themselves like horses at a bottomless trough. Some twist towels and jam them into the bottom of hotel doors, fire up a bong and smoke themselves into an anesthetized oblivion. Some mix a toxic cocktail using all of the above. Those are not my vices. The only real danger I pose to myself is when I’m bellied-up to a craps table. I like shooting craps. A lot. Can I maintain my composure? Well, that’s the name of the game, isn’t it?

Will try to post a dispatch from the road. Yo eleven!

The spring Post War and Contemporary Art auction is about to be sprung at Christie’s. I present to you my semi-annual post of jaw-dropping and head-scratching multimillion dollar offerings. Here’s proof positive that judging art is, at best, a subjective sport and that beauty truly is in the eye, and the pocketbook, of the beholder. These works are not for you or I to consider owning. We are left to wonder what it would be like to have this kind of discretionary income. If nothing else, these auctions serve to reiterate a point we’ve known all along—that wealth is not a barometer of good taste. I ran down on my lunch hour and took these pics. Check back on Wednesday and I’ll post the prices realized for each lot.

I’ll start off with the works that I like. The estimates are uniformly insane for ALL these lots. I can’t imagine what I’d do with an extra $15 mil but I wouldn’t blow it any of these. However, if I were to bid at this auction, these are the works I’d raise my paddle on. Feel free to disagree but remember, this is my sandbox.

Sold for: $812,500.

Here’s one of Andy’s iconic soup cans. Cleverly titled Small Campbell’s Soup Can (Chili Beef). Est. (ready?) $5,000,000 – $7,000,000. It’s a SOUP CAN!

Sold for $7,362,500. It’s a SOUP CAN.

There are a few of Warhol’s celebrity portraits for sale. Here’s a painting of a very young Meryl Streep that was executed in 1984. Meryl Streep. Est. $900,000 – $1,200,000.

Meryl Streep: Did not sell. Poor Meryl.

There are over 200 working pinball machines, some dating back to the 1950’s. Each machine has a placard on top that gives the machine’s history; the year it was constructed, how many of that model were manufactured, the designer and critical player reaction. You can really lose yourself in this place, especially if you’re in a certain age category that will go unmentioned. It’s $10 bucks for an hour of open play and worth every penny.

It was sunny and pleasant. Nice enough to kick off our shoes and go for a walk on the beach. We climbed on the rocks and poked around the tide pools. It’s off season so the beach was gloriously empty. In a few weeks, the tourists and off-seasonals will start to descend upon the Jersey Shore. None of those clowns you see on TV are from New Jersey. They’re all from Staten Island and Brooklyn. A lot us wish they’d stay there.