On John Massengale's note that his "other architecture list" is
quiet except for me, it is a pleasure to report that I've
gotten excellent private email response from posts there. In
equal amounts of vituperative flames, advice to not waste time
on the dunderhead estate managers, and invitations to continue
annoying the list in mindless imitation of my dutiful
mail-stuffing on D-L.
To happily rip tiny mail boxes and wits-enders, I send my
response to a London inquiry about assisting with a racy
inquiry in Mr. Al-Fayed's affairs for a Brit archie mag looking
for stinky industry juice and, more likely, a prying salacious
scandal rag aching to feed its hungry mob. (There is a chance
that the inquiry is from Mr. Al-Fayed's solicitors hoping for a
sting; me too, I adore dank Anglais jails for perverse archie
language.)
--------------------
Dear Refferant to Racy Rags,
Thank you for the enticements.
Mr. Al-Fayed's apartment is, or was, located in the plush Hotel
Pierre, where I was consulting architect for many years. It
happens to be the US hangout for a bevy of UK denizens and
groupies (and other NYC-fearful international fly-by-nighters),
probably because it was run for some years by Lord Forte -- who
got into a tangle of financial and legal difficulties (all too
common in this viper's pit) even as he was enticing
high-snooters to co-hunker in his wine cave.
My backstairs role in helping perpetuate, perhaps conceal, this
high-stakes soap opera of the super rich enjoyably fucking each
other, was enlightening, if at times costly, a la Mo Al. His
case was one of the simpler affairs.
So here I am brooding on your note. Which tale might be the
more interesting. My minor lament of Mr. Al-Fayed or the way
he and other wealthy transients are setup and fleeced by NYC
financial and legal and architectural and engineering and
interior design and construction cartel of predators, in spite
of lowly worms such as me who are supposed to protect them from
the vultures for pennies.
I resigned the Pierre position a few years back to escape
unscruplous handling of a deal involving a certain Lady Fairfax
from Sydney, who, you may know, purchased the top two floors
of the building for multi-millions. There remain unpublicized
problems for her digs and the whole building, which I reported
during negotiations to the Pierre chiefs, to their dismay. The
matters are neatly described, I discovered, in the disarrayed
public records awaiting scrutiny -- and have been waiting since
1930 when the pile was piled. Owner after owner have been
enticed to buy, learned the truth, and, feigning ignorance,
passed on the problems to the next poorly advised sucker.
Great NYC tradition -- surely nothing like that ever happens
elsewhere.
Thus, I entice in return. And muse.
quiet except for me, it is a pleasure to report that I've
gotten excellent private email response from posts there. In
equal amounts of vituperative flames, advice to not waste time
on the dunderhead estate managers, and invitations to continue
annoying the list in mindless imitation of my dutiful
mail-stuffing on D-L.
To happily rip tiny mail boxes and wits-enders, I send my
response to a London inquiry about assisting with a racy
inquiry in Mr. Al-Fayed's affairs for a Brit archie mag looking
for stinky industry juice and, more likely, a prying salacious
scandal rag aching to feed its hungry mob. (There is a chance
that the inquiry is from Mr. Al-Fayed's solicitors hoping for a
sting; me too, I adore dank Anglais jails for perverse archie
language.)
--------------------
Dear Refferant to Racy Rags,
Thank you for the enticements.
Mr. Al-Fayed's apartment is, or was, located in the plush Hotel
Pierre, where I was consulting architect for many years. It
happens to be the US hangout for a bevy of UK denizens and
groupies (and other NYC-fearful international fly-by-nighters),
probably because it was run for some years by Lord Forte -- who
got into a tangle of financial and legal difficulties (all too
common in this viper's pit) even as he was enticing
high-snooters to co-hunker in his wine cave.
My backstairs role in helping perpetuate, perhaps conceal, this
high-stakes soap opera of the super rich enjoyably fucking each
other, was enlightening, if at times costly, a la Mo Al. His
case was one of the simpler affairs.
So here I am brooding on your note. Which tale might be the
more interesting. My minor lament of Mr. Al-Fayed or the way
he and other wealthy transients are setup and fleeced by NYC
financial and legal and architectural and engineering and
interior design and construction cartel of predators, in spite
of lowly worms such as me who are supposed to protect them from
the vultures for pennies.
I resigned the Pierre position a few years back to escape
unscruplous handling of a deal involving a certain Lady Fairfax
from Sydney, who, you may know, purchased the top two floors
of the building for multi-millions. There remain unpublicized
problems for her digs and the whole building, which I reported
during negotiations to the Pierre chiefs, to their dismay. The
matters are neatly described, I discovered, in the disarrayed
public records awaiting scrutiny -- and have been waiting since
1930 when the pile was piled. Owner after owner have been
enticed to buy, learned the truth, and, feigning ignorance,
passed on the problems to the next poorly advised sucker.
Great NYC tradition -- surely nothing like that ever happens
elsewhere.
Thus, I entice in return. And muse.