Opening Day at Ralph's

The Laurentine Palace opened its doors a few minutes late this morning, after an impromptu ribbon-cutting ceremony that held the small crowd of half a dozen people waiting at the front door past the promised 10:00 AM opening time. Having been waiting at the front of the line since the night before (well, actually since about 9:54 AM), your scribe was the first customer to enter the store. Right behind him was a man with a mission: his wife had sent him to buy a gorgeous full-length green velvet dress in the first room to the right of the entrance.

Your scribe wandered around, upstairs and downstairs and in the various chambers devoted to milady and milord. The Indian Cove Lodge rooms were perhaps the most noteworthy: rich and red and masculine and comfortable and suitably decorated for the Christmas season. The unopened bottles of Maker's Mark bourbon and 12-year-old whisky on the coffee table seemed to invite one to sit down and enjoy a preprandial drink.

Back downstairs, the man with a mission was on the phone with an obviously upset wife. The dress he had told the salesgirl he wanted to buy had been "pre-sold" by a staff member to a friend. Your scribe was outraged. "This man asked to buy this dress less than ten seconds after the doors opened. You have an obligation to sell it to him."

The salesgirl cringed. Upper management wrung its hands. They offered to tailor a similar dress in a larger size to fit his wife. But she wanted that dress, and that dress only. Matters were at an impasse.

Your scribe walked out, and went down to the Post Office. As he came back a few minutes later, the salesgirl rushed up to him to let him know the man had been allowed to buy the dress. The person to whom the dress had been "pre-sold" had relinquished her claim. "Thank you for standing up for your friend," she said. "It helped to settle the matter the right way."

Well, your scribe had never set eyes on the man before, but he was mindful of the old Latin adage: Amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas. So he took her words to mean that he had successfully stood up for his greater friend, the truth. All's well that ends well, he told her.

Meanwhile, the poor female mannekin was nude except for a leather jacket that had formerly been draped over her and the dress. It made for a startling image, and gave a whole different flavor to the Ralph Lauren brand. At the salesgirl's suggestion, he joined his "friend" in the men's department while they re-dressed the mannequin in a different gown.

Said friend turned out to be a New York City fireman, young and tall and Irish and handsome. His wife, it appeared, is a stunning redhead who is a perfect size four - the dress she and her husband had held out for. She will be the cynosure of every eye at every party to which she wears that dress.

Before long, your scribe and his new friend Tommy were offered cut crystal tumblers with a generous measure of 12-year-old scotch. It was a little early in the morning, but clearly this was management's way of apologizing for the snafu. It would have been ungracious to refuse.

As he left the store half an hour or so later, a diminutive dark-haired young lady accosted your scribe, saying she was a reporter for the Not-So-Local Rag, aka Yellowwich Time. "I'm so sorry for you," he replied; "What a terrible fate." The look of stunned surprise on her face was priceless. But eventually, no doubt, she will come to realize the truth of his words.

And so, dear reader, endeth this tale of opening day at the new Ralph Lauren store. It turns out, by the way, that the Renaissance palace was designed by the local firm of Halper, Owen, which was nice to hear. Your scribe is a great believer in supporting locally-owned enterprises.

And should you come by the new store tomorrow or on Sunday, rumor has it that champagne and hors d'oeuvres will be on offer. Perchance your scribe will find an opportunity to pay a return visit - after, of course, he attends the opening of the new Apple Computer store down the street. All of a sudden, Greenwich Avenue seems to be starting to come back to life, just in time for the holidays.

Ralph Lauren Visits Greenwich

All the smartly-dressed salespeople in their monogrammed blazers are walking to and fro between the new Ralph Lauren store and Starbucks, abuzz with the news that the Great One (that's the GO with the initials RL) is coming to Greenwich this afternoon for a final look-see at the new Renaissance palazzo that sports his name in letters of gold above the front entrance. One would almost think it's 2007 again.

The doors will open tomorrow morning, but, alas, no goody bags will be on offer, according to what your scribe has been told. "We spent it all on the window displays," a staffer confided to him. Well, not to mention the building itself, which is anything but understated in its architecture. It recalls the self-aggrandizing palaces that the Medici family used to build at the height of the Renaissance, just to flaunt their wealth in front of the local citizenry. And now we, the lucky citizens of Greenwich, can ooh and aah at this latest addition to our local landscape.

Not that it really fits in, of course. It clashes with the Art Deco of the former Bob Force's Town House restaurant, later Greenstreet, later Gaia, now something else again. It clashes with the Beaux Arts style of the old Town Hall, now the Senior/Arts center. It clashes with the more modest early-20th century buildings that make up the bulk of the rest of the block. It even clashes with the Rhinelander Mansion, but, fortunately for New York City, it's 30 miles away from there, so the clash is not as immediately apparent.

Will this faux-Renaissance edifice bring about a Renaissance on Greenwich Avenue? 'Twill be interesting to see. Further down the street, the new Apple store will open the following day in more modest premises, but your scribe's guess is that it will attract much more attention (and foot traffic) than Ralph's place. And it will probably offer better value for money, as well. Should be an interesting weekend on Greenwich Avenue.

Ca$h for Gold - Update

Today's Not-So-Local Rag, aka Yellowwich Time, sports a full-page ad for those wonderful folks from Ca$h for Gold. Now, as a potential vendor, you need to ask yourself this: isn't that a fairly expensive form of advertisement? And isn't the Hyatt Regency a fairly expensive venue from which to run a business? Where does the money for all of this overhead come from?

The answer is simple: right out of your pocket. Do the math, and don't be a sucker. Caveat vendor!

Update to the update:

Mike said...
I would strongly suggest checking out the Silver and Gold Exchange before selling gold or silver to ANYONE. I did a great deal of research, online and offline, and learned a lot about this business. I checked pawn shops, jewelers, "gold parties", hotel "buying events as well as the online buyers, including the "as seen on tv" guys. I found that the Silver and Gold Exchange paid more than anyone else I could find. I liked the fact that they post the prices they pay per gram (beware of the places that quote in pennyweight/DWT) on a live price chart at http://SilverAndGoldExchange.com I also checked out their Better Business Bureau report and found they have never had a single complaint as opposed to HUNDREDS of complaints some other companies have! I can recommend them 100%
November 19, 2009 8:13 AM

Ca$h for Gold, or Checks for Suckers?

Most people around Town have probably seen those annoying little stickers on the front page of the Not-So-Local Rag, aka Yellowwich Time - you know, the ones that usually take the pixels right off that picture you had been curious to see. Not infrequently they advertise an outfit called "Ca$h for Gold", which has been setting up shop on a weekly basis at the Hyatt Regency for the better part of two years now.

With the recent run-up in the price of gold, your scribe thought he would take that old watch he had bought at a tag sale some years ago for $5, and which Terry Betteridge had said at the time was probably worth $10-15 as scrap. Imagine your scribe's delight when the man at Ca$h for Gold told him it was worth "about $60". But that was only a come-on, of course.

The man was a born haggler. $60 quickly turned into $50. "I'd be losing $10 if I paid you $60," he told your scribe, who replied, "Well, then, pay me $55 so you'll only be losing $5." The man thought that was pretty funny, so he agreed. But the "Ca$h for Gold" people do not pay cash. They write checks instead, and demand ID which is then noted on a form. Your transaction is about as anonymous as the police blotter of the Not-So-Local Rag.

Then your scribe brought out a British sovereign - you know, the gold coin that James Bond carried in his belt and American aviators carried in their emergency kits during World War II. The man stated that it contained a quarter of an ounce of gold, which is approximately correct, and added that collectible gold coins command a premium over scrap gold because they are suitable for purchase in an IRA or the like. He divided the spot price of gold by four, and came up with an offer of $277. Your scribe accepted.

But when he went back the next day with a similar coin, the man had changed his tune. He called some mysterious "partner" who instructed him to offer $231. Since the price of gold had jumped nearly $30 an ounce in the past 24 hours, your scribe had been expecting an offer of $285 or so. Any legitimate coin dealer would have offered something within a few dollars of that price, because of the coin's marketability. $231?! That was highway robbery!

The man showed him a group of similar coins he had bought from someone else earlier in the day at a paltry $225 (the spot price had been lower then). Your scribe was appalled. Some unsuspecting person had taken an offer that was hundreds of dollars less than the true value of the coins.

Feeling sullied by having shaken this man's hand at the outset of the visit, your scribe quickly left and washed his hands in the nearest men's room. What a rip-off this operation had now revealed itself to be! And so, your scribe's advice to anyone who might be considering paying a visit to these folks is very simple: Don't. Go to a reputable jeweler or coin dealer instead.

As usual, the Romans have a phrase to fit the situation: Caveat vendor. Don't let this shady operation make a sucker out of you. And be sure to warn your friends, as well.

Habitat for Humanity

Not infrequently young people are brought into Town and dumped on Greenwich Avenue with a box of candy bars or the like, and told to solicit "donations" for some non-existent "cause". Usually the police run them in for hawking without a permit, and once in a while the responsible adults are also apprehended and charged. It's one of those quality-of-life issues that the cops on the Avenue are able to monitor, and another reason not to replace them with insentient, unobservant, less efficient, and certainly less handsome traffic signals.

Thus when two young people approached your scribe on the Avenue this morning, waved what appeared to be a milk carton at him, and requested a donation for an unspecified cause, his antennae went up. He noted their description, and kept on moving. Unfortunately, he had left his Dick Tracy crimefighters wrist phone back in his car, so he was unable to call in this possible violation of a Town of Greenwich ordinance.

Well, actually, it turned out to be fortunate that his wrist was bare. As he approached the Havemeyer Building, he saw a group of Greenwich High students at a table, all dressed with the same white tee shirt and blue jeans that the earlier pair had been wearing. And across the front of the tee shirts were printed the words, "Habitat for Humanity".

Oops. Mortified at his mistake, your scribe quickly made a donation, and told the kids to keep up the good work. One of the great programs at the high school is the one in community service, and this was clearly an example of our local students volunteering to help a good cause. Now that's the kind of soliciting on the Avenue we could use more of, he thought to himself as he proceeded on his chastened way.

And so, dear reader, if you come to Greenwich Avenue on this relatively mild and rain-free Saturday afternoon, please be quick to make a donation to Habitat for Humanity. Your money will go further there than at Saks or Baccarat, and you will be making a difference for the better in the lives of others. Can you imagine what would happen if you donated the money you may have been planning to spend on some overpriced bauble at some out-of-town chain store to these students instead? You would quickly become a local hero. And you'd probably experience a much greater sense of satisfaction as well.

The Greenwich (Dumb-as-a-) Post Strikes Again

Greenwich is ill-served by its no-longer-local newspapers, as we all know, but really! Is it such a difficult thing to get the facts straight in a simple story based on public records?

Apparently so. Ace investigative reporter Ken-Ken Borksuck (he of the sneezes that sound like obscenities) manages to get just about every salient fact wrong in his attempted exposition of the alleged art fraud scam on Doverton Drive.

Long known for his slovenly reporting - not to mention appearance - the unlovely Ken-Ken tells us in his very first sentence, "A backcountry resident has been arrested...." He then goes on to give an incorrect address which is within a stone's throw of the Boston Post Road in Cos Cob. Even the correct address is only two stones' tosses away. This is "backcountry" Greenwich?! Ken-Ken clearly needs a geography lesson, for starters.

He also gets the name of the Doverton Drive resident wrong. He carefully edits and alters the Greenwich Police Department documents to avoid identifying the accused by the name that is referenced in the warrant itself. Her mother is identified only as Mr. Ford's "late wife", which is as true as only a half-truth can be. Her father is not mentioned at all, even though everyone in Town knows who he is.

Sloppy? Yes. Inaccurate? You bet. Deliberately misleading? Of course. Such journalistic swill is typical of the Greenwich (Dumb-as-a-) Post and its crack investigative reporter Ken-Ken Borksuck. It's hard to understand why any advertisers would want to be associated with such a rag. Well, sooner or later, perhaps they won't. Hasten the day.

Tsk, Tsk, Tina

Today's headlines in the not-so-local rag contain yet another juicy story about Tina Pray, the current undisputed poster girl for the Town of Greenwich wild child. Well, at 46 she's not that much of a child anymore, despite her colorist's valiant efforts, but her behavior is still pretty jejune.

Tina has long been known for her, shall we say, unorthodox deportment. When she tired of her first husband, local attorney Eric Grayson, she went off to a singles party. Jof Amiot, himself single at the time, warned her not to go in, but she blew right past him. There she met Pierre Gagne, whom she invited back to her house on Round Hill Road to join her in the marital bed. When Eric arrived home later that evening, it was immediately clear that Tina had come up with a novel way of announcing that their marriage was over.

One hears that her deposition at the subsequent divorce proceedings was smoking-hot. Her father basically disowned her, which did not stop her, they say, from trying to sell the Round Hill Road house out from under him. Apparently Tina has a serious streak of larceny deep inside her.

And now it has come to the surface again, as she has been arrested for trying to scam an insurance company for a "lost" painting that she is alleged to have surreptitiously removed from her mother's house and then sold at Sotheby's. When her stepfather, Dick Ford, called the police this past May at Tina's insistence to report the painting as "missing" (Dick has a life interest in the house, originally owned by Tina's mother), he told the police that Tina was "a shady character who had stolen from the home in the past, squandered money, and is always in need of more." No love lost there, apparently.

With such a sterling character reference from her stepfather, a multiple-arrest record of her own, and the well-known estrangement from her father, always a generous supporter of police and other charities in Town, Tina was soon called in for questioning. She lied like a trooper, of course, saying she had not seen the painting in question since 2005. When confronted with evidence that she had sold it at auction in 2007, Tina said she was utterly "baffled" and claimed to have "no recollection of that," offering to swear to her innocence on a Bible. Since, of course, Bibles are somewhat scarce in the local cop shop, she did not get an opportunity to do this, thus perhaps avoiding, or at least postponing, an eventual reckoning with St. Peter.

When your scribe first knew Tina back in her younger days, when she and her mother were running Amfit, he and she always hit it off well together. She was fun to be around, easy on the eyes, and seemed to be a reasonably squared-away young lady. But things never "clicked" between us. Looking back, your scribe is unsure whether to be sad or glad of that fact. Perhaps, let's say, a little of both. Sad, because both our lives might have moved in different directions from the ones they took instead, and perhaps Tina would not be in such a pickle right now. Glad, because if these are her true colors shining through in today's headlines, it would not have been a happy relationship.

Tina, here's a word of advice from an erstwhile friend: Use your Bible for something else other than as a false prop to your obvious lack of innocence. Own up to the truth, apologize for what you have done, and turn over a new leaf. Read the story of the Prodigal Son, and think how your father must feel about his prodigal daughter. The lesson of Luke's parable is that it's never too late to make a change, and perhaps the best time of all to do so is when you have hit bottom.

"I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy [daughter]....'"

You know what happened next in the story, Tina. Perhaps it might happen in your own story, as well.