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"Roobart Sbunsar" mentioned his Russian connection, and mentioned the poet Naum Korzhavin. Speaking of whom, I just caught sight of Korzhavin walking on the Arbat, accompanied by his wife (he has lost his vision but his amazing knowledge -- with so much recallable by heart, long ago learned naizust'--of Russian poetry remains intact) and admirers. He must be on a visit here from his home in New England.
Why am I on the Arbat, you ask? Well, I came to the Millionaire's Fair to try to sell stock in myself, but had no takers. Turns out Russians do not see the Islamic handwriting on their southern wall. And I'm not turning out to be good at this game of self-fundraising that everyone else seems to be a past master at. I tried to explain, to at least one person in the hall, that I'm a good investment, with lots of upside potential, and while Kleiner, Perkins might not see what I meant by that, free-spending Russian ought to be able to, and if if they knew what was good for them they'd buy a share or fifty or a hundred, of me. But those who came to this grotesque event were not like the Russian rich in olden days, the Prince Bolkonskys or Volkonskys, chudaks who would willingly support on the estate or in town into a private theatre, or even a private orchestra (of serfs, bien entendu). No, these latter-day Russian rich were all too busy kicking the tires of the private planes and the Porsches. Hardly the maecenases of yore, the Shchukins and Morozovs and, in emigre exile, the tragic Fondaminskys, the wife dying before the husband, and the husband then murdered by the Germans. I once held in my hands a private memorial volume that Fondaminsky had put out in honor of his wife, a volume owned and signed by Bunin, part of the stock of the book-dealer Aleksey Struve, brother to Gleb and son of the Legal Marxist Ptyor. Alas, I couldn't afford it. That volume has, no doubt, ended up in the clutches of the relentless collector Guerra, like so much else, unless Guerra himself has now died.
Maybe I'll pitch the woo that went over so badly here at the Millionaire's Fair in Moscow back in the United States, or possibly right at this site. For all I know, a visitor here, or a relative of that visitor who has been properly alerted, will find the notion appealing. So Sergey Brin won't be visiting, but what about Sergey Brin's intelligent parents, who ought to teach their son about where to put his money? Okay, here goes.
So here's the IPO. Only $500 per share, and bound, like shares in Google, to go ever upwards. And just think, you can even give a share, or ten or a hundred shares, as a Christmas present. Or as a wedding gift, the kind never to be listed on those wish-lists provided by brides-in-waiting as visions of light-blue Tiffany boxes dance in their heads. Or it could be a cadeau de rupture, and you know that Breaking Up Is Hard To Do. Or possibly for a young girl, in her Confirmation Dress, or a boy, as a Bar Mitzvah gift. Yes, instead of "My son, today you are a fountain pen" you can say, especially if you are a lawyer, "My son, today you are, in pertinent part, Hugh Fitzgerald." He won't understand at the time. But someday he will.
Think about it. You know that wolf that keeps hanging round my kitchen door? I'd like to send him permanently packing.
And you know how some of those IPOs pan out, don't you?