One day, seven minutes

As I begin typing there are twenty four hours and seven minutes left on the Big Maria auction. Gracious me, the tension is palpable. You?

For the record, I don't get tense about selling the damned things. In fact, I hate--HATE--selling them. I mean, the money's nice. But handing these precious things over to perfect strangers in exchange for a couple of bucks. It makes me feel cheap. It makes me feel...

Good God, I'm a whore!

I'm a cheap whore winking at the boys on Wall Street, whispering through the perfume things like, "I bet this would look great above the fireplace."

Or, even more degrading: "You're a handsome man. I'd love to paint your portrait." All while scrounging around in the bottom of my counterfeit Chanel bag to see if I have a condom left.

Lord have mercy on my soul.

Anyway, back to the tension. I don't get tense about failure to sell. I think of it like the guy in the old Fram oil filter commercials who says, with a shrug, "Pay me now or pay me later." I, in a brand of cock-eyed optimism wholly unsupported by the facts of the matter, believe that all these paintings are, literally as we speak, increasing in value.

So failing to sell doesn't bother me.

What bothers me is selling the damned things at the minimum bid. That's what makes me positively morose. I recently increased my minimum bid level from $3,500 to $5,000 specifically to address this issue. Hoping, the way every cheap hooker does, that more money will dull the pain. I doubt if it will work. Perhaps heavy drinking (although it's bad for you, and should not be done at home unless you are a professional) is an option.

So the tension is palpable, yes?