Big Maria One

"Where," a chorus of fans and critics have been shouting, "is Big Maria?"

Beats the shit out of me. No...that's not the right answer. People want results. People assume that I'm a salmon; my only mission in life is to swim upstream, sometimes violently, in order to spawn. You think this shit is easy?

Which is ironic, given that I was driving down the road some weeks ago with my father in the passenger seat. He said to me, "I'm concerned that I may die before having another orgasm."

This, for me, is Life With Father (see "Life with Father" Clarence Day, Knopf, 1935)

My response? "Join the fucking club, man!" I screamed back at him.

Anyway, here, if for no other reason than to silence the peanut gallery, is a rough sketch.

This, of course, would be it:



Note the aquiline nose with the Loren-esque (Sophia) bulb on the end, and the treatment of the upper lip--not to be confused with a mustache; I'm sure Ms. Bartiromo's upper lip is as smooth and soft as a baby's bottom. But I can tell you this--the woman's upper lip is a matter of some interest to me. It's one of several fulcri upon which success or failure is balanced. It's one of those fleshy, puffy (but not artificially so), wrinkled ones that make a person sit straight up in bed screaming "Get me out of the sub-prime market!" I stand in awe.

Note: the "join the fucking club, man!" business is of course made up.