Greetings from the Land of the Sun

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I knew you guys never really had to worry about Irene.  You see, “Irene” was my grandmother’s name, and she was a sweet and loving, and– most important– gentle soul.  Many members of my family are still inhabiting the areas of the Atlantic Coast where Irene was scheduled to visit, and I knew they enjoyed her protection.  By irenic transitive properties, you too were therefore to be spared.

Of course, we in Deep Flyover Country had nothing at all to be concerned about, save perhaps what quotient of sunscreen and chlorine would obviate a mild sunburn on what was perhaps the finest weekend of the entire summer.  Hardly a cloud in the sky — save for the occasional high cumulus drifter that might obscure a glaring sun for a blessed second — and the humidity at right around 15%.

What’s that you ask?  Yes.  Yes..  There was a slight breeze in the cooling air, but just enough to wick away the last of the late summer pool moisture.

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But enough about all that as I have an incredible story to tell.   I had to come out tonight to the first reception of a regional conference to which I’d planned on attending for some time.  The subject and details of the conference are unimportant but the cocktail party story is the crux…

As soon as I had arrived at my designated hotel, I was ushered into a hotel reception room, perhaps best described as a high ceilinged “mini-ballroom.”  I met a colleague at the portable bar and immediately began scoping the room for clients of interest.   I noticed off in one corner stood a tall broad-shouldered man dressed in khaki pants a nice open collar Egyptian cotton dress shirt and a smart blue blazer. He was solitary, and attending to his Blackberry notes.   In my reckoning,  the man was not only distinguished by his size but by his decision to wear a jacket to a conference whose invitation had born the quizzical prescription “Business Casual” for dress attire.

Like him, I still considered such instruction to mean “sports jacket necessary” for all gentlemen.  Unfortunately, many rubes and charletons in attendance (including my own companion) did not agree.  Bourbon rocks in hand, I nodded at the large gentleman as I proceeded out to the veranda to discuss politics and finance with a past mayoral candidate.

I did not see the large gentleman again until much later, at the bar that evening as I was concluding a long conversation with an aging property and casualty cowboy and his rambunctious and large breasted third (trophy) wife.  I had excused myself to use the facilities, and upon my return, the very large man was sitting at my place at the hotel bar, chatting amiably with my erstwhile interlocutors.  Not wanting to interrupt him, I took the chair to his right and began a separate animated conversation with a pair of the loveliest “Sappho’s Isle” residents I’d ever encountered.  They wanted to talk horse racing and basketball.  Go figure.

My insurance industry friend must have decided my new companions were of  more interest than his trophy wife and the dapper mystery man so he decided to make his entree by shoehorning his party into my “menage a sports talk.”   He started by introducing me to his large friend.  I did not catch his name at first, allowing for my approaching near deafness and the blare of the MTV Music Awards (or whatever) over the saloon’s monitor.   He reached out and with a big grin accepted my name and my hand, enveloping the latter in his big catcher’s mitt paw.

I leaned in to him and smiling apologetically, mentioned that I had not quite caught his name… His eyes glistened and I noticed that his teeth were capped from canine to canine.  Their whiteness gave his grin a wolfish impression, and the voice that came again was deep and gravelly…

“Chuck,” he said.  Again, the gravel like an old stone road… “My name is Chuck Bennet.”

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I swear to you the above story is absolutely true and happened less than two hours ago.

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Put some sugar on it.  You want an easy-peasy trade you undeserving pikers?  I mean besides “Go long silver and gold miners.”  That’s a no-brainer at least in a measured sense.

No, I am talking about this crazy IPSU sugar shack stock which is no doubt driving some adherents crazy.  Keep in mind this is a trade.  If you hold this thing longer than the appointed hour, and do not adhere to a tight stop (below $7.00), you are no longer my children and I will disavow your very existence:

 

 

Remember — don’t get greedy!  God bless.

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