Manure

baa, The Catskill Merino Newsletter
Volume 2 Number 49
May 21 - 27, 2006

I’m not sure which I dislike more, opening the mail or answering the phone; I like to write letters and chat on phone, but I always prefer to initiate the contact. A week ago a green envelope arrived in the mailbox, with my usual trepidation I opened it. The Mayor of the City of New York, Michael R. Bloomberg, was cordially inviting me to Gracie Mansion to Honor the Greenmarket Farmers Market on its 30th anniversary. Well thank you Mr. Mayor and congratulations Greenmarket.

I have never been to Gracie Mansion, but I had seen Mr. Bloomberg campaigning for election in his proletarian shirtsleeves, better to rub elbows with the poor I suppose, in the Greenmarket at Borough Hall in Brooklyn. One of his fervent young flacks, pamphleteering his arrival, was keeping customers away from my stand. She got pampy when I asked her to move and downright pissy when I told her that I was for the Reverend Al Sharpton; better sense of humor I said and stronger neck muscles from wearing that hubcap sized medallion day in and day out. But no politician is perfect, even those with great hair, the good Reverend needed a ruthless policy advisor, a Karl Rove of fashion, someone to tell him that powder blue leisure suits have been out since John Travolta feverishly danced in Brooklyn one Saturday night.

But what should I wear? I went deep into my closet, past the Armani shirts, and deeper past the Issey Miake coats to find a skeleton on which I’d hung a black wool double knit Gianfranco Ferre jacket. Yes, perfect for the occasion and to go with that a pair of wool gabardine slacks, also black, from Comme des Garcons; I selected a light gray sateen shirt by Pierre Cardin, just the right kind of shine, to go with the dark pink silk tie from Liz Claiborne. I admired myself in the full length mirror. But shoes, yes, I needed the right shoes. I went back to the closet, behind the Kenneth Cole lace-ups I found what I was looking for, a pair of cheap black Adidas slip-ons that I’d worn to the lambing barn. I turned them over to examine the soles and smiled when I found manure clinging to the tread—perfect—a shepherd doesn’t go anywhere with out his sheep.

I was off to see the Mayor. You can’t fight City Hall, but you can fight fire with fire; and I was armed, or shod, to fight bullshit with sheep shit. I felt good. Mr. Bloomberg is rather short and taking into account his feelings, I chose not to have my picture taken with him, a guest should always be a good guest, no matter what’s underfoot. In his remarks, he proved himself a witty, off-the-cuff speaker. Despite his shortcomings, he was certainly head and shoulders above the current occupant of the White House. Yes, a knickerbocker ticket in 2008, the homeboys, Al and Mike.