Everything is outsized on the farm. This big-ass spider lives next to the back door. Photo Socotra.

I was looking down on the pastures from the deck on the back of the farmhouse.

There is a strange sense of disorientation as I settle in to the place. Frank, the local guys who whacks the grass for me, has done a nice job and the place looks great even after all the rain in the last month. The things that are different always surprise me, and sometimes in a hostile reminder of nature red in tooth and claw.

Those discoveries come after the mild surprise that the place is there, not just an idea, when I pass the big-ass rock in the circular gravel turn around.

There were several modest surprises this time. I was hauling some crap up the steps to the side door and almost stepped onto a dead bird, flattened and looking like the fossilArchaeopteryx, feathers and bones extended in surprise.

I stepped over thing myself it was better than finding the nest of burrowing wasps in the barn, or that evil fast-growing razor-spiked vine that had threatened to take over the side yard.

I reminded myself to bring the shovel up from the garage. The mail from the box out at the road contained stink beetles, something I didn’t notice until I went through the stack looking for anything real.

Then, there I was, mostly moved in and drinking it all in along with a frosty beverage. I turned to go back in the house and found myself eye to eye with a large arachnid who had used my absence to craft a web from the deck surface up to the outside lamps next to the door.

I don’t particularly hate spiders, but the size of this one so close was a bit startling. I grabbed my phone and took a picture so I could identify the species and figure out if I had a potential killer outside my door.

While the vast majority of spiders are harmless and retiring, their appearance and predatory habits—not to mention their ubiquity at the farm- generate major curiosity, and sometimes outright terror, on the part of humans. While there are tens of thousands of spider species, and exact identification must often be left to seasoned experts, there are a few characteristics to look for—and I marked in memory the four white dots in the abdomen of the beast.

As best I could tell, hunched over the iPad, it was a Black-and-Yellow Garden Spider,argiope aurentia.

Or I hope so, anyway. I came away thinking it was probably not a Brown Recluse or a Black Widow. But for about the hundredth time I marked how Steve Jobs had changed our lives, and more the life of the spider by my door, since I did not kill the arachnid, but went to Mr. Job’s invention to seek knowledge.

It is an epiphany Sunday. The display on the iPad conveys the full text of the New York Times on my lap, sitting on the porch not far from the spider’s web. There were many perspectives on Mr. Jobs passing, at 56. It was beyond cool to sit in the rising dawn, the light advancing over the fields, and streaming music.

Sundays in Arlington I usually stream KRCC on the MacBook computer Mr. Jobs invented. That is the NPR outlet at Colorado College, which most mornings has Dan Damon broadcasting out of Bush House in London. Their overnight guy on Saturday night-Sunday mornings is a guy named Tino, whose Tino Tunes sets are a lot like The Loft on satellite radio, the station I blast at the farm.

It is nice not to worry about the neighbors.

Decent coffee and the iPad were acceptable companions, along with Cat. I stroked her idly as I scanned an article on prostate/PSA screening. The consensus is that all men get the cancer, if you live long enough. That is where or pal Mac is- he feels fine and thinks the meds they give him are impairing his ability to live.

“Quality of Life,” I said at lunch the other day. He nodded in agreement.

That is what Steve Jobs did for all of us. I would never have believed how effectively the tablet has altered the waay I do things- just as the iPod made my exercise sessions tolerable.

Or the New York times app on my iPad, for example. Sundays issue featured a  bunch of Steve Jobs articles- and ones about hobbit houses and yoga and Wall Street Occupiers, too, which another source told me is an ACORN-SEIU plot.

Life is a hoot.

One of the articles cited Steve’s commencement remarks to Stanford a few years ago. A pal in Michigan told me to look it over just after the word spread that he was gone.

I don’t manage my time very well, and had not gotten around to it. So, being at the Farm, I clicked on the link this morning.

http://news.stanford.edu/news/2005/june15/jobs-061505.html <http://news.stanford.edu/news/2005/june15/jobs-061505.html>

It is a great speech by a thoughtful man. In part, he said:

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

I stroked Cat, who seems to have missed me. Being here is very liberating.

“Stay hungry, stay foolish,” said Mr. Jobs to the graduates. He was quoting the dance-off of the last issue of the Whole Earth Catalog.

Damned if I don’t agree with him, and them.

Great music, great to have the windows open and Cat mewling in pleasure at her second can of mixed grill this morning.

I need to be here more often, and I need to work on my relationship with Rosemary, the owner of the big Summerduck Farm horse barn up the road.

If I am not in Michigan next weekend I will be back shortly

Cat in action. Photo Socotra.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Artist’s rendering of the new Bob Peck construction site, which is kitty-corner from the window where I watch real workers work. The red arrow signifies the location of the faux accordion Chevy sign in classic Googie style. My pal Mac reports that Bob had dementia at the end. Photo Cooper-Cary Architects.

It was getting late in the day, the day being late in the week, and it looked beautiful outside. It tugged at me as I sat at my desk on the 8th floor of the building in the vibrant Ballston neighborhood of go-go Arlington. I face the window, which is a key violation of tradecraft. Wild Bill Hickok always recommended facing the door, but screw it. The view is too good.

If I go down in a drive-by, so be it. I like to watch the people who really work for a living hurl the concrete and steel toward the sky.

Wild Bill had a premonition he would die in Deadwood, SD, just as I have a premonition about Raven and the Little Village By the Bay. He can’t play poker anymore, but I an certain now he has drawn a five-card hand with a pair of Aces and Eights. That is the same hand that Wild Bill had that night at Nuttal & Mann’s Saloon Number 10. He usually sat with his back to the wall, and asked to change seats twice but was refused.

A former buffalo hunter named “Broken Nose Jack” McCall had some sort of dementia- alcohol induced or other- and walked into the Saloon and shot Wild Bill in the back of the head, killing him instantly.

The bullet emerged through Wild Bill’s right cheek, striking one Captain Massie in the left wrist. Wild Bill had been wiped out, and just borrowed $50 from the house to continue playing, sort of like Congress.

When shot, Hickok was holding a pair of aces and a pair of eights, all black. The fifth card’s identity is debated, or had been discarded and its replacement had not yet been dealt. That is basically the way I felt about the week- two pair, enough to open, but not enough to close. No way to tell if that fifth card would leave me with a full house, a flush or a bust.

The week had been eventful enough on several fronts. The Government, bless its pointy little head, had striven mightily and delivered what might be the last Task Order of the big IDIQ contract I allegedly manage for the company.

There were a dozen frantic e-mail exchanges from partners who wanted a shot at the action, and in between, I watched great silvery panels being hauled up the strange crenelated flanks of the new tower across the street where Bob Peck’s Googie-era flying saucer Chevy dealership once stood.

There is a quotation of the old futuristic façade bolted onto the front of the new building, which is so post-modern that I cannot quite figure it out. The internal pillars were poured on the bias, which I watched in amazement as the structure rose out of the pit of the parking garage. The shimmering sliver glass is being bolted on with strange protrusions and curves.

It is a strange building and these are strange times. In the midst of the ongoing construction and the volleys of e-mail, I shuffled through my parent’s mail. The taxes from last year had been deferred with an extension but the Federal piper had to finally be paid, and I had to scramble to find the money (or the credit vehicle) to bounce past the end of the month.

In between calls, I talked to Dr. B’s office in the Little Village By the Bay. Apparently he contacted The Bluffs nursing home over in the Springs as requested. I then talked to Mary, the admissions director at the facility- they had a very busy day with people coming and going from residences to lock-down, and to hospital and back.

She said she would get to Dr. B’s paperwork on Raven’s prospective admittance come Monday, and then we can talk about the availability of beds and the process that must be followed.

I had no idea how this all works. Apparently the milestones to lock-down include a visit to Potemkin Village by a Bluff’s Admittance person and a social worker to assess- presumably- Raven’s suitability for in-patient status. Admission is not a guarantee, since availability of a bed is the driving factor, but I think it is the best alternative at present.

I told Mary I would be there for the visit to assess Raven, since I don’t want Big Mama to get panicked. I kept the line of communications open to the grim detention facility a mile or so away from Potemkin Village. It is cost competitive with the Bluffs, though I shiver a bit at the prospect of seeing Raven in there.

Christ, he was the Mayor of the Village once. This is depressing.

I walked over to Willow when I could not stand it any more. Jim was anchoring the Amen Corner. Jon-no-H came by, and Jimbo the old bartender returned to drink at the civilian side of the bar. I pointedly sat with my back to the door.

Times are tough, and he is going to be back in the rotation at Willow. I am negotiating with Liz-with-an-S to enter into a fiduciary relationship with her as my lead Legal counsel. She is admitted to the bar in New York and New Jersey, and I am admitted to the bar at Willow all the time.

If we can figure out Raven’s eventual roost, maybe we move this whole thing forward. I am hoping to figure it out by the time that they mount the façade on the Bob Peck Chevrolet site.

In the meantime, he has been dealt aces and eights, and we just don’t know what that last card is going to be- or when it is going to be dealt.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Mac at 92. Photo Socotra.

I wish Turner Classic Movies showed more of the Marx Brothers- that is Big Mama’s favorite television channel, and the films she watches are integrated into the blended space-time continuum in which she lives.

I had to think about their classic film “Duck Soup,” since Big Mama has taken on some of the aspects of the wealthy Mrs. Teasdale , as portrayed by Margaret Dumont. In that role, Big Mama has designated me in the role of Rufus T. Firefly, leader of a small bankrupt nation somewhere in Middle Europe.

If the nation of Fredonia has a a lot in common with what is happening in Greece, so be it. It helps to stay in character. I got a call from my broker in Milan yesterday, saying that some of the Italians investors were contemplating throwing themselves out of basement windows.

There is talk they may walk upstairs if things get worse, and that appears entirely possible.

I walked over to The Madison to have lunch with Mac. I had not seen him since I returned from the Little Village By the Bay, and he had a bout with a lung infection that landed him in the hospital.

I had several questions about what is happening to the Socotras, and I explained how Big Mama is incorporating the movies she watches into her life-stream. He nodded as I described that, and the issues with Raven and his wandering.

“That is the thing about Alzheimers, and other progressive dementias” he said. “No two cases are alike. When you have seen a case of Alzheimers, you have seen one case. My wife Billie was diagnosed when she was 59, and she lived twenty years.”

I took a spoon of the cabbage soup and wrinkled my brow. “How long was she in a nursing home?” I asked. “We are going to have to do something with Raven, and soon.”

“Ten years,” said the Admiral, looking off over my shoulder. “She fell, and we thought she might have broken her hip. I took her to Jefferson Hospital down in Alexandria. It is closed now, they had a dementia unit to keep it stable and assess what course of action to take. She was there for two weeks, and I realized that she no longer knew or cared where she was.”

“That is about where we are with Raven,” I said, thoughtfully, “Or way past it. Big Mama was keeping him afloat, but she can’t do it any more.”

“They determined that her hip was OK, and when they released her, I drove straight from there to the Methodist Home’s Alzheimer’s unit.” He put down his spoon and looked with pleasure at the Bacon-Lettuce and Tomato sandwich that appeared on the arm of the cute Ethiopian waitress.

The luncheon service was thinly attended, but I could hear other conversations from the largely female-populated tables and they all sounded the same as ours.

It was nice to be in the Big Dining Room, which is quite ornate, similar to the one for the still-mentally active up at Potemkin Village. I envy the people that get to eat there, though they are very kind to the residents who are consigned to the Challenged Room.

“Billie never came home again, and she didn’t ask to.”

I nodded. “Same process, I guess. How long can this go on?”

Mac looked thoughtful. “I studied this pretty hard, as you might imagine. Twenty years, outside twenty-four, but the average might be eight or so. People forget how to swallow, and ingest food into their lungs. They say that pneumonia is an dementia patient’s best friend.”

I did some mental calculations. “Raven began to show symptoms when about four years ago, or maybe it was sooner.”

Mac nodded. He volunteered in the Dementia unit at Arlington Hospital for years as a third career. “When they no longer can walk, they also become vulnerable to congestive heart failure due to inactivity.”

I sighed, and then we talked about the closure of Walter Reed, and the impact on Mac’s care, and the more arcane aspects of Medicare.

“I had not idea it was a state administered program,” I said.

“You will learn a lot,” said Mac. “The odds of getting dementia by the time you get to your 80s is something like 50%.”

“You are in the happy half,” I said. “You are still as sharp as a tack.”

Mac shook his head. “I feel like I am slipping a bit. I sense a decline, and it might be the drugs they have me on. I am going to the Oncologist later this month armed for bear. I have my entire medical record,” he said, and indicted the thickness of the file with his thumb and forefinger.

“I also recommend that  you make sure you have papers on that 911 NOT be called in the event of health event, that you have a DNR prominently on file, and ensure the staff knows you DO NOT want him in the hospital.”

“Great point. I wish I brought my notebook.”

“Mine is prominently posted on my apartment door,” he said. “Dessert?”

I demurred, and he took his ice cream in a plastic container to eat later. I walked with him to the elevator as he pushed his cart slowly.

“I cant thank you enough,” I said. “You help me understand all this.”

“Doesn’t come with an instruction manual,” he said. “No dress rehearsal.”

I waved as the doors closed and whisked him skyward. I thought hard about the conversation the rest of the afternoon and did the calculations.

“Once we have Raven on the meter in the facility, whichever one can take him, we have about three years to figure out what to do before we have to start tapping the house.”

Those were not my first words to Jim Champagne that afternoon at the Willow, but they were close. I was a little down, but perked up when Tracy O’Grady appeared behind the bar with one of her long square plates.

“Do you like Peking Duck?” she said. A burly young man in a white coat had appeared next to Jim and smiled. “This is Christopher,” she said, gesturing at him. “He used to be the sous chef here, and then went on to a couple other places. He has come back to help us launch the Nosh menu.”

Willow’s new Peking Duck taco kit. Photo Socotra.

Christopher smiled. The dish held a small mound of dark slivers, thinly sliced scallions and neatly folded Chinese pancakes with Hoisin and ginger dipping sauces. “See what you think,” he said. “And can you believe it is only $5?”

“Holy smokes,” I said, piling some of the duck and vegetables on the pancake and ladling some sauce on it. “How come we haven’t seen this before?”

Tracy smiled broadly. “We don’t have it all the time. We get fresh duck legs, not the whole bird, and we crackle them in their own juices and then cut off the skin. The meat goes in our duck pot pies with the wonderful crust that Kate Jansen makes. The skin goes into the Peking Duck tacos.”

She smiled again and disappeared to the kitchen with Christopher. Chef Robert came out to bump fists with us before getting into the evening rush.

Jim and I finished off the plate in a New York minute and asked Liz-with-an-S for more.

“This is the best part of the day,” I said, munching the crispy duck.

“First pitch in the Yankees-Tigers game in an hour,” said Jim. “Might be the best part of the year.”

“Considering the alternatives,” I said. “I have to agree with you.”

“Oh, you were showing off that man-purse yesterday?”

“It is not a purse,” I said indignantly. “It is a supplemental ammunition carrier.”

Jim smirked and reached down under the bar and picked something up. He produced it with a flourish and smacked it down on the bar. I blinked.

“This is a man’s lunch-pail,” he said. “It could carry all the duck you need for a week.”

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

The original fifty year bag, made of original Victory Canvas, 1945. Photo Socotra.

I am sitting here at the table, stewing in Steve Job’s juices. I am pecking at the MacBook, the iPod 4th Gen is charging on a cord attached to the computer, and by peck, my fingers, and the iPad is resting in the Sixty Year Bag.

Steve was 56 when he passed last night- younger than me, which goes to show the strange way things work out, him being a genius and a figure for the ages and me being- well, whatever that is.

I am having lunch with my pal Mac, who is not a computer, and is still sharp as a tack at 92- and dealing with the warehouse issues that go along with 88-year-old-Raven, my dear Father, who has taken up his wandering ways again, and got himself on the eviction list from the haven of assisted living at Potemkin Village in the Little Village By the Bay.

The radio is murmuring about both Jobs, Steve, and jobs, no capital, and things are a mess in all directions.

It is funny: it was Steve Jobs who is leading me to perhaps create some jobs in China.
Here is the deal. I have been lugging my old Agency-provided leather bag around for years. It is a great thing, more mailman’s sack than briefcase, and almost commodious enough to use for luggage on short trips.

Hell, it is luggage for farm visits. But over time, it has filled up with a portable office, checkbooks, stamps, mailing things, spare glasses, books, magazines, old bills destined for the shredder at the office, sunglasses, small tools, business cards and generally more of a closet than a bag.

With the advent of the iPad tablet 2G 64 gig, I had a capability to replace the Kindle and the laptop with at least some functionality, and the iPod and another couple devices. I started looking around for a carrying case for the slender but capable device.

I looked in the closet and saw something that might work. It is an old pal. The green canvas bag joined me in 1960 or so. Raven would take us to Silverstein’s Army-Navy Surplus Store on expeditions of discovery.

Mr. Silverstein specialized in moving out the left-overs of the Great War on Fascism from the Government attic. His lot, inside and out, was filled with assorted militaria: Air Corps Navigator seats, Navy direction finders with intricate gyroscopes; uniforms, bayonets, insignia and patches, crates and bins filled with all the crazy implements of mass conflict, marked down and sold in lots for a song.

My brother and I loved the place, and Raven was a sucker for gadgets of all kinds, so it was a pleasant male place of diversion. They even had a massive olive-drab DKW- a Duck- a the entrance. A Duck, if you have forgotten, is one of those massive boats-on-wheels that I still see driving around town hauling tourists, and with the clear implication that it could drive into the Tidal Basin and survive.

Unlike legendary former Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee, Wilbur Mills, and the equally legendary Argentine Firecracker, Fannie Foxx.

Anyway, one of the things Raven let us buy on our modest 50-cent allowances was the green canvas bag. It was a delightful size for a kid; almost the size of a small back-pack, yet compact and with a sturdy canvas strap. Under the weather flap were the words: “Victory Canvas 1945,” and the proud US initials on the front.

It was perfect for playing Army, and later, as I aged, the bag came along with me. It was a perfect school tote bag, with just enough room for a spiral composition pad, a bologna sandwich and an apple.

It even survived the divorce, since by the turn of the millennium it had become bedraggled and a little forlorn, even if still stoutly stitched. I marveled that it was perfect for the iPad, a novel, and my sunglasses. The perfect poolside companion.

I began to take it to the office instead of the mailsack, and had it on the bar at Willow one evening, describing the provenance of the canvas.

Jim looked at me and said: “Goddamn chewed up piece of crap.”

Chagrined, I said: “It still works.” But I took his point. The Fifty Year Bag was good for that, but maybe it was time for a replacement.

When I got home, I decided to see if I could find out what it was. The joys of eBay revealed that the little sack was not an anonymous Army thing In fact, the Green Machine had assigned it an official nomenclature: MK 413, Bag, General Purpose, Supplemental Ammunition, Canvas, one each.

With the name in hand, it was a synch to find vintage versions for sale, but as a curiosity from the earlier age of the Empire, some were far pricer than I wanted to deal with.
Then, a mouse click and I saw one, brand new, and for a price that probably reflected slave labor and raw materials only:

MK 413, Bag, General Purpose, Supplemental Ammunition, Canvas, One Each, new.

I bid on it for the forced labor price and was mildly surprised to win. Along with the notification came this note:

“HELLO,dear Vic,Thank you for your time. I have shipped the item to your registered ebay address after the payment was clear. I am in a remote area of China so the shipping time is a little longer. It should take 20-28 days for the shipment to arrive. The item is good quality and I am sure you will be pleased with the value. If you are satisfied with the purchase and our total service, your comment is very important in our business success. Please take a minute to leave us a positive feedback with an overall Detailed Selling Rating (DSR) of 5.00. If you have any other questions, please write to us immediately so that we can do our best to resolve your problem. Once again, thank you and hope you enjoy shopping with us! Please contact me if you have any questions. Best regards to you and yours!
MA NING YU”

If the bag arrives, and if it is as advertised, I may go into the MK-413 bag business, and call it what it is: the last bag you will ever need. Good for a lifetime.

The Sixty Year Bag. Papa’s got a brand new one.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

The Bluesmobile was at the curb on North Utahstreet , having hurtled back from Falls Church to Ballston with impressive velocity. The sun was back in the sky after what seemed like weeks of chill gray and rainy skies.

The change in weather helped me feel generally good about the $1100 I dropped at Currey’s High Performance Auto Service- the air conditioning was working again, the power steering flushed, the synthetic oil changed and a new deep-cycle battery dropped in to ignite the massive 4.6 Liter 250 HP V-8.

Oh, and the real reason I went to the shop: the expired safety-and -emissions sticker on the windshield. I knew there was a reason my son had given it back when he did, and purchased a late-model Ford Explorer.

I did not realize it until my trip to the United Nations of Northern Virginia, the DMV, on Friday, the last day of September.

Crap. Then, having a temporary surplus of automobiles, I parked it until there was an opening in the schedule for the professionals to deal with it.

I thought it might be a signal that it was time to re-headquarter my company to The Little Village By The Bay- Emmett County is a HUBZone, I had found, a “Historically Underutilized Business Zone.” Plus, if I re-titled the beast in Michigan, there are no annual inspection or emissions requirements.

Those were some of the thoughts rolling through my brain as I purchased 45 minutes of rent from the County for the time at the curb and walked into Willow.

My Seattle-based pal is in town this week, and he was seated next to Old Jim at the bar. John-with-H was drinking happy Hour Red to the right, Jim was on his second or third Bud and my pal was processing a Happy Hour White. It was good to see him, and good to see Liz-with-an-S behind the bar with Tink.

These people are an adjunct family, and I relish seeing them, particularly in light of the e-mail that had come from Potemkin Village that afternoon. The subject line was “We Have to Talk,” which in my experience are the four most ominous words in the English language.

I was more eager to talk to the usual suspects at Willow, and I tucked the revelation away until enough wine had been consumed to take the edge off the immediacy of the car-repair bill and the awful new task that has landed on the plate.

Pac NW, Jon-without and Old Jim. Photo Socotra.

We caught up on what is happening in Seattle, which is one of the most progressive municipalities in the nation. No, make that the world. John-with is a political creature despite his position in the State Department. He was an appointee of a by-gone Administration who was able to burrow in to the career ranks of the Foreign Service.

Accordingly, he has a scathing view of the inside of Secretary Clinton’s Department, and a firm point of view about the follies of the current occupants of the Executive Branch.

It is funny how the bureaucracy works, sedimentary layers of Administrations past, all theoretically answering to the latest Will of the People.

My pal loves egging John-with an exaggerated progressive view of the world.

“We have voted to increase our taxes in Seattle five or six times,” he said in response to a disparaging comment on the President’s Jobs-and-taxes plan. “We like bike paths and parks and world-class civic amenities. It is our choice. That is democracy in action.”

John-with had to concede that it is indeed the epitome of the Founders Principals, before he found another topic on which to heap scorn. I sipped my wine in silence, the barbs flying overhead with me in the middle.

“Raven is done,” I said in a moment of silence.

“What do you mean?” asked my pal. “Is he sick?”

“No, that isn’t the problem. I called Potemkin Village and they said since we upgraded his level of care, his strength has come back a little. Big Mama has slipped badly, and she can’t handle him. She dresses him in some of her clothes, and the Staff thinks it is inappropriate. She is also letting him wander again. They said he was in other apartments three times since I got back two weeks ago.”

“Crap. That must be scary for the other residents.”

“Yeah, they were locking the door at night to keep him in, but he has taken to going on his missions at all hours of the day. They want him to leave, and that is the crisis de jour. We have to figure out how, and that means I may have to drive back up.” I sighed and drained the glass. Liz-with-S was prompt and solicitous with a re-fill.

Her intelligence and beauty are wasted on the Amen Corner, and I am hoping she finds something suitable in the Health Public Policy racket in order to grow as a professional, but I have to say I like her right where she is.

“That sucks,” growled Jim. “I hate that drive.” I nodded in agreement.

“That is not all that sucks,” said John-with. He smoothed his rep-pattern tie and adjusted his suspenders. “Did you see Mr. Bernanke in that weird performance before Congress today?”

“No, the company doesn’t let me watch C-SPAN in the office. I heard he looked shaky and out of ideas.”

“He may have looked that way, but the Fed is desperate. I checked the official website. The M1 category has increased by 18.1% over the past year.
M2 has increased by 9.2% over the past year.

“Wait, it has been a long time since my last Macroeconomics class. M1 is the total amount of real money in circulation, right? And M2 is an expanded characterization to include all time-related deposits, savings deposits, and non-institutional money-market funds?”

John-with nodded. “According to the Fed’s own website, over the past 13 weeks, the annualized rate of increase in M2 is about 19%, and about 30% for M1 over the same period. These are huge numbers. The M1 category is now at about $2.100 Trillion dollars.”

“These are very rapid increases,” I said. “They were not just floating trial balloons when they talked about heating up inflation. I have always thought that was where they were going to wind up. I guess we ought to borrow a lot of money right now.”

“Yeah,” said Jim “If you could find someone to lend it to you. He waggled his empty Bud long-neck at Liz-S down the bar. “Remember the old exchange equation of Milton Friedman and the monetarists?”

“No,” I said. “What was it?”

“M times V equals P times T,” he declaimed with satisfaction. “Where ‘M’ is the amount of money in circulation,  ‘V’ is the velocity of that money, ‘P’ is the average price level, and T is the value of expenditures or financial transactions. “ He looked at his beer with satisfaction. “If M is really increasing at 9.2% per year, then either V is collapsing or we are looking at increased inflation, and soon.”

My Pacific Northwest pal looked thoughtful. “Doesn’t ‘T’ usually increase at no more than 4% in a good year? We may have to increase our taxes again.”

“That is one thing you might have to do. Former Treasury Secretary Volker wrote an OpEd piece about this right around the time the Fed must have started it. He  beat Stagflation back in the ‘80s. He said once you let the genie out of the bottle there was not way to throttle it back.”

“So what does it mean?” I asked.

Jim looked at his fresh Bud as Liz-S brushed a lock of chestnut hair over her ear. “It means we are hosed, my friends.”

“Crap,” I said. “At least I paid for the Bluesmobile in current dollars, and that will be enough to get me out of town,” and finished the second-to-last glass of Happy Hour White just as Jon-with-no-H came in.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked.

“Nothing you won’t be hearing plenty of,” I said. “But drink now. Prices will be going up.”

Liz-S presents an alternative to the velocity of money. Photo Socotra.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Restaurant Nora’s Southern-style pulled pork with health slaw sliders on organic wheat circles. Is there a better smile? All photos Socotra.

I had the best of all food worlds this weekend, though Fall sort of got lost in the mix. It started with happy hour white after work on Friday- and Tracy O’Grady, Willow’s vivacious owner- stopped by the Amen Corner to have a glass of wine with Old Jim, Mary, Jake and me.

She mentioned that she was going to be open on Sunday, a highly unusual happening, since Tracy is a hands-on executive chef, just as her partner Kate Jansen is a totally engaged baker and pastry chef. They like to get the staff (and them) at least one night off a week.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“It is the Fall event for the Women Chefs and Restaurateurs. We are calling it “World Fare: a Street Food Festival.”. We are going to have almost forty vendors here- women brewers and vintners and cheese-makers and chefs and restaurant owners. It is going to be a lot of fun.” She pulled a flier with the specifics and how to order tickets from her chef’s coat and handed it over.

“Sounds like a lot of work?” I said. “So, I think I have to see it. Five on Sunday?”

She nodded. “Kate and I try to support the DC chapter of WCR, so we are throwing the place open. It is going to be fun.”

Jake decided to get home before he got in trouble, and I thought that the work-week was thoroughly done and did the same. I had some prep cooking to do for the tailgate at College Park on Saturday, and the weather had reported that there might be rain. I recalled the last time I tried to cook out there- in the monsoon- and this time we conned Jason into providing his easy-up tent and folding grill.

The Agency Jake used to run had a gala that night, and with a three o’clock kick-off, even if it rained, we would get the tailgate and then see whether or not we would actually go to the game.

As it turned out, it rained a steady chill gray right through, and it was the best of all worlds- slow-cooked BBQ, sautéed peppers and onions and beer and chilled clear liquids. Then, at the appointed moment, half the party started the wet trudge to the stadium and we packed up and left, due to Jake and Jason’s commitments elsewhere.

I did my research for the World Fare event that night, and in the morning before running the deferred errands and cat support mission to the farm. Tracy’s WCR was formed in 1993 by eight marquee-named women in the culinary business, and now number in the thousands, supporting women-owned ventures and training the next generation of chefs and restaurant operators. The top women chefs, sommeliers, farmers, bee keepers, cheese makers, food truck operators and mixologists would be gathering through the afternoon.

I deliberately kept myself hungry all afternoon, and was surprised to see both the Lions and Redskins win. By the time cocktail hour rolled around, I was read and willing to hit the Street Food at Willow.

The drizzle continued, but not intrusively, and I could see the food tracks parked at the curb as I drove up Fairfax Drive in Ballston. I could see Tracy and Kate and Deborah managing their chaos in their customary effortless manner, and I decided to park at the office and walk over.

The nice lady at the gate to the patio checked my name against The List, stamped a red star on my right hand, and I wandered past The Willow station to my left, featuring a thinly-sliced porcetta dish with black beans on the side.

It is a guy, but he works for Tracy!

Nora’s was to the right, pulled pork country American, and the culinary institute of the Paint Branch High School was serving Cuban tamales on authentic corn leaves.

These are nice, hard-working people with real passion in their lives.

Inside, I did the circuit. There were three kinds of beverages available for sampling along the bar. In the Bistro area was the silent auction for a variety of delightful food-related products and activities.

But the main event was in Willow’s main dining room and the private salons in the rear. Willow’s tables and bar stools were all pulled out and stowed somewhere, and it was no wonder that Kevin, Willow’s estimable sommelier, looked tired. His wife Megan was dispensing hard cider- not too hard- bubbly in The Cave.

Megan serves up a complex, dry and bubbly cider from downstate.

Whatever it was, this oriental dish frHank’s Oyster House table was an immediate winner- I peered over the divider and watched a real artist shucking away.

om Equinox in yam-flour wrappers had tasty shrimp.