The terrifyingly powerful Tark and Mara form a plan to find a true and quantifiable value for art, so that they can quadruple it, and then watch it increase. And if you have a spare million or three lying about, you can do it too.
“I’m tired of blogging.” Tark pushed the 24 carat gold-plated Macbook away from him. Autumn sunshine danced through the stained-glass atrium of the Dublin penthouse, making a disco ball of Tark’s unwitting head. He looked at his wife, who was reclining on the 18th-century chaise longue upon which Marie Antoinette once gently farted following a massive feed of…
All was not well in Tark and Mara Towers. Mara’s shrieks could be heard on Dublin’s Northside, unbeknownst to Mara, who would never knowingly have sent herself to that part of the city on purpose. The irony was lost on both her and her husband, however. They were too incensed. They were madder than Jean Galliano and the UKIP…
I took a holiday this week. At home. In Dublin. It was almost entirely unplanned, in that I only decided to have a holiday last Friday, and I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do any of the stuff you’re supposed to do on holidays in order to call it a holiday. Here is a list of the stuff people…
“I’ve decided we need a new season.” Tark waved a manicured hand at his chest barber in dismissal, and wiped his newly-shaven belly with a monogrammed towel before dismounting from an uncomfortably tall massage table. He swore they had it raised on purpose before his appointments. It was their only way of feeling superior to a client so great…
Today, this cynical old blogger wants to talk about love. * Because just 2 short weeks ago, I fell in it. I found myself swimming in sticky, glorious, all-consuming love. I tumbled into it while reading a book. I’m going to be mean, and not tell you which it was, because it was an old book, already famous, and I don’t want this…
Mara swept Billy goat’s-curd serum from her upper lip and sat up. She would know that noise anywhere. The man she loved was in pain. She had to go to him. She wound a bamboo hand-towel around her fleshless frame and donned sunglasses before exiting the treatment room. She was only three minutes into a two-hour Deeply Detoxifying Core Cleansing…
All was quiet in Tark and Mara’s penthouse (in the most ruinously expensive borough of Dublin city) save a seductive hum of contentment. Mara was reclining on her brand-new 16th century fainting couch following her weekly meal, languorously turning the pages of a glossy magazine. Tark had been miming at the baby grand piano for twenty minutes. Nobody could…
Tark and Mara were holding their AGM. Their 12,000 square foot penthouse resembled the control room of an overly optimistic mission to Mars. Every window blind was a projection screen festooned with graphs and media strategies. Every surface, including the grand piano, was a sea of printouts, computer equipment, and swatches of ruinously expensive fabric.…
( I know, I know. This REEKS of dragging it out. But it’s a month today, and I did promise Tark and Mara’s take on the Blog Awards ages ago. Then we’re done, I swear.) Somewhere in a parallel universe, a large function room in Co. Kill Dare was brimming with hope, excitement, and alcohol, wherein the Blogerati had gathered,…
