Mary's Fish Camp

the manager's crazy
he always smokes dust
he's got his own room at the back of the bus

That's the Beastie Boys rapping about Lyor Cohen back in 1985.

This past Friday night, while I waited to be seated at Mary's Fish Camp in the West Village, I turned and there stood Lyor Cohen. Or rather, there loomed Lyor. The dude is really tall, has huge hands, and really nice skin. And once we were all seated inside, for a couple of hours the mean income of the entire place went up a couple million dollars. So. For a little while I was a millionaire. Very nice.

Should I have been shot dead (or died suddenly) at Mary's Fish Camp, I would've died young, happy, and rich.

And I've made up my mind. Once I'm a millionaire you're not going to be able to tell just by looking at me. I'm not going to wear a big clunky watch and expensive loafers. (I will drive a Mclaren but it'll be late at night and I'll be going so fast you're only gonna see a blur.)

Some years ago my brother and I were talking. He's owned BMW cars for a while and he said, "I work hard. I want people to know about it." I thought, "That's so weird. I don't want anyone to know anything about my portfolio or how hard I work. In fact, I could care less what anyone thinks of me." When I die, I plan to leave behind a legacy. There will be several thousand acres of land in preservation. There will be a couple of scholarships at a few universities. I might have a wing at a hospital named after me. But while I'm in my earning years you could be sitting next to me on the subway and you (will hopefully) be none the wiser. So if you see someone wearing a Timex and Keds who looks super young (but with a lot of gray hair), that might be me.

I'll be wishing you good luck and sending prosperity vibes in your direction.