Never Know What's in Store

I have to admit I'm the kind of person who gets excited (of the smiling inside, not the outward oohing and ahhing kind) at the prospect of Wild King Salmon, regularly at $21.99/lb., on sale for $12.99. Pan grill it with just salt and pepper and then at the table top with some mustard-chive-lemon vinagrette and thin-sliced radishes and celery, it's freshness on a fork. So I'm smiling inside by the seafood counter at Lazy Acres, one of Santa Barbara's upscale markets, and a fellow shopper goes by who looks oddly familiar. He seems tooo pleased with himself, and dressed a bit too well without really being stylish--he just seems to have dropped a lot of coin at Brooks Brothers (expensive clothing for the tasteless and clueless™). I suddenly realize it's Arthur von Wiesenberger, co-publisher of the News-Press. Then I realize he's not alone--Wendy McCaw is out shopping with him, too, like she doesn't have minions to do such trivial work for her. Makes me wonder if their shopping cart is full of basil, so they can corner the market if the News-Press predicted shortage happens. McCaw seems collapsed inward and making a "I just sucked an unripe Hachiya persimmon" face. The bad vibes just seem to emanate from her, as if she can't believe she's in a place where people not worth millions are.

Of course, I instantly think there must be some witty rejoinder I can offer, but nothing truly delicious springs into my head, and anyway, I figure if I start a biting comment, she'd have one of her lawyers present me with a restraining order before I finished the sentence. Plus I do sort of believe that people out, whether famous or infamous, should be given some space. Although when they are public figures who refuse to meet with the public or give the public any say (how many negative letters has the N-P comments page run since July?), it might not hurt to try to get a swift verbal jab in, if nothing more than a, "I have to tell you how much I like what you've done with the paper. You've helped make my blog so much more popular in the past few months...."

Alas, I don't even get a good look at what they're buying, which might be fun to report.

I check out in a different line, and then get the bright idea I have to drive my car past them in the parking lot, so they have to see my "Boycott the News-Press" bumper sticker. I actually loop about the lot to try to find them, but, of course, they are oblivious to anyone else. They did get into a brand new Volvo XC90, so Ms. Environmental doesn't mind driving around in a vehicle that at best gets 22 mpg. I guess the dinosaurs already died to make that oil, so wtf.

And now I keep thinking about that bizarrely self-satisfied smile the Nipper had plastered on his face. It makes me even more glad I didn't say anything to them. It's almost as if he felt like he was on parade, and enjoys his infamy; maybe he feels something akin to the opening of George Orwell's "Shooting an Elephant"--"I was hated by large numbers of people – the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me." Of course, Orwell is writing with the awareness of what being part of an empire means, and what it did to his soul. I wouldn't want to vouch for the Nipper's.