Yes, the Autogrille. Seems funny to recommend a "pit stop" as a ding sport in one of the world's great culinary hot-spots, but on a trip I planned out as an adventure in eating, the Autorill was a surprise favorite. Nice for a quick bite or drink. We liked their grilled vegetable panini sandwiches. Bill

I am so sorry. Through all the grief, I hope your son's memory remains a blessing to you always. Bill

Here is what I truly believe. The need for you to go "outside the box" as you create these arrangements is going to unleash your creative side and they are going to be the most amazing creations to enjoy, one's not only made with love (which is enough right there), but they will be something spectacular and unique. You will slay it!!! You are the best! Bill

I know you will knock it out of the park. Especially as the bride likes a "wild look." This should play to your creative spirit. Forage. Bill

Speaking of drinkable yogurt, there is a style of (homemade) yogurt drink that I really enjoy. It is a Persian-style drink that's called doogh in Farsi. I first had it at a hole-in-the-wall burger place in Berkeley called "Bonzo Burger" that was next to the famous "People's Park" (of 1960s student protest notoriety) when I was a university student. I had some friends who lived in a dumpy apartment above Bonzo Burger, that was at least cheap. Bonzo Burger was run by some some Persian intellectuals/political activists who'd fled Iran during the Shah's final days and opened a burger joint to survive (which is so very "Berkeley"). Bonzo Burger was unusual in that they served lamb burgers instead of beef, which must have been bad for the bottom line as lamb was/is typically more costly that beef and many Americans don't like lamb. But I liked Bonzo Burgers. But for me the big draw was "doogh." There are many styles of doogh, with flavoring variations (such as adding various ground spices and diced fresh herbs or even things like rose water) but the basic idea is to use a couple scoops of yogurt and then thin it with sparkling water (stir gently as it tends to foam up and can create a mess if one is too vigorous). To the drink one adds mint (fresh finely diced mint is best, but dried can suffice), and salt, and fresh ground black pepper. Yes, for real, black pepper is pretty essential. Should be a bit salty. By adding some curry powder on can riff on the recipe to create a nice Indian-style salty lassi. So many possible combinations. Bill

I'll be very curious to see where his cooking goes. William is wildly creative. His artwork, especially in recent years, is very expressive. And while his traditional culinary skills can be honed a little, he is not afraid of making outlandish combinations. I think he will be an out-of-the-box type of cook. It will be fun to see how that develops. Next year--really for the first time--he will be cooking for himself every day, so it should be a time of growth. Nice that your sons have those skills. I said it before, but I believe being able to prepare healthful meals is one of the keys to enjoying a good and healthful life. Bill

Good job with the frog! I personally think it takes more courage to do something you know is terrifying--like sticking one's arm into a suction hole to pull out a frog--that it is to do something that you later realize was crazy dangerous w/o thinking about it in the moment. But whatever gets the good deeds done works for me. Bill

Thank you for your kind words. I feel that I have been very blessed. There have been moments in this life that--despite my being a lifelong secularist--when I wonder. For example, had I a driven past that alleyway just a split second later, or a minute earlier, I would not have seen that young woman get knocked down. Where she landed would have been out of my line of sight, and I barely caught it anyway. I literally caught the incident out of the corner of my eye as i was whizzing past. Almost felt like it was "guided." I shudder to think what might have happened otherwise. I suspect that (then young woman) who must be in her early 50s now must have replayed that surreal experience over in her mind more than once over the decades. Sometimes in one's life it's nice to know one has done something good. That day I got to do a mitzvah. Bill

A good refinishing company (or perhaps you guys, if you have skills) can patch in areas of damage. Especially if you have any sections you can steal perfectly matching wood, such as the insides of closets, that can be replaced with other material that comes close. Bill

The weirdest part of that incident for me was that--despite the obvious danger that I did have to admit after the fact was exceeding real--I quite honestly didn't not give it a thought in the moment. It was as if instinct took over. This young woman need to be saved, and that was it. No "thinking," all "action." Later, i've read stories about people who have done similar things, run into burning buildings or other crazily dangerous things without thinking about it. Seems like a common response. And I realize it isn't "courage."Courage, to my way of thinking, is doing something even when you are scared or terrified. I was not. Just going on instinct. Sometimes I guess it is better for people not to think too much. Bill

I only have the one child. My son, William. The question is funny for me, because I love to cook and do think about food and healthful (and delicious) eating is a major life value, but have never really thought in terms of carb percentages, ot things like that. I guess my goal from the time my son was young was to to inculcate a taste for real food and to avoid the overy-processed products of "food scientists." We always fed him the same things that we ate. Although he was very sensitive to picante. "Too spicy for Momo" was a family catchphrase. At 18, he's outgrown that almost singular limitation. He was always an adventurous eater. He'd, for example, eat kale because we ate kale. He didn't know any better, and his palate wasn't warped by processed "kid stuff." I remember being a little shocked when he first went to a cute little nursery school coop in our neighborhood. I think we live in a fairly enlightened place. Where most families have the means to provide their children with healthful food, and not some "food desert." But seeing the children's lunches was a bit shocking. So much "crap," and so little real food. At nearly 19, I think that eating a diet that provided a rich balance whole foods has formed a taste for real food. Sodas, and chips, and candy, and other similar items that many young people struggle with, just have never been his thing. Today William is strong, healthy, and as lean as a person can be. I think he got a good start. Next year he will have an apt on campus. This summer I want to work expanding his cooking chops. He ate dorm food this year, at a university that aims to be conscious in what they serve, but he found it pretty underwhelming. I do think that having the ability to quickly prepare fresh, wholesome, delicious, and hopefully economical food, is one of the great life skills a young person (any person) can have. Bill

That post alludes to a story I once told here, but I was never able to find the original post. I do recall the telling was so "cinematic" that perhaps some people where skeptical that it really happened. But it did. In the mid-90s I was living in West LA in a very cute little Spanish style house that I was renting from a nice old guy who'd grown up in the neighborhood and had acquired a bunch of properties over the decades, starting after WWII, when he purchased a corner lot on Santa Monica and Barrington and set up (and still ran) a business that rented out tools and trucks (U-Hauls and then Ryder trucks). In his own way, he'd done very well for himself, and was certainly a multi-millionaire based on the value of all his land holdings. He was also one of those people who resisted development and many (most) of his properties still have the original (and well kept) charming little homes and compounds on them from the pre-war era. I was so fortunate. The place was so cute, affordable, and had all the charm of hardwood floors and real plaster walls that speak to my soul. We were not yet married, but Mrs Spy Car was living with me in our little Casasita. Life was grand. Our neighborhood was bustling. We had nearby movie theatres, such as the arthouse Royal theater and another famous arthouse theatre NuArt a few blocks further. Great restaurants. I helped friends open a tiny cafe called "Cacao" that is still there. Many people might think it was Santa Monica, but we were just over the border, sandwiched between Santa Monica, Brentwood to the north and Westwood to the east. Not a "dangerous" place ordinarily. Then a gang of very scary guys took up residence in my landlord's trucks, sleeping in them at night in the storage lot. I asked him at the time why he didn't have the police clear them out? He said he was a afraid. I could see why. These were very bad guys. I grew up in LA. My experiences with Mexican migrants has been almost entirely positive. Good people, who work hard, and will, always help people in a jam. When I drove an old and unreliable car in my youth, I always knew that anyone who helped me push that car out of traffic was likely to be a Mexican migrant. Let's say, I greatly admire the people and the culture. This gang was the aberration. Dangerous men. Bad guys. Very scary. They sort of hassled my future wife one day while she was heading off to work in her top-down little Suzuki Samurai, which put them immediately on my radar. Then, as few days later, I was shopping at the local Von's market, where the "security guard" was a frail old man who reminded me a bit of Don Knott's character Barney Fife on the Andy Griffith television show, only much older. This guy wasn't in the right job for his physical gifts, but people need to work to survive and I always felt for him. So I'm checking out after making a small purchase, and I see the security guard try to stop the leader of this gang. The bad guy was sort of dashing, in his own way. A bit like a Mexican Elvis. Young (younger than I) and handsome. But had the look in his eyes of a killer. No joke. So "Barney Fife" tries to stop this guy, who had been shoplifting, and "Elvis" wallops him with a hard punch to the head. I'm within 15 feet, and my brain snaps. I charge toward the guy, who sees me coming and runs. I follow in hot pursuit. I resent his relative youth and athleticism, but my adrenaline is pumping and I'm neither gain or losing ground. We run blocks down Barrington, until he cuts onto a side street, and then into an alley and back towards the truck rental yard near where it all started. Just as we hit the rental yard alley, I finally overtake him. I locked him up in bearhug. I'm exhausted, but I've got him. There are people across the boulevard (where the supermarket was) who are taking in the scene, but no one crosses over to offer support. Just then "Elvis" calls out to his hombres, who start piling of the trucks. I start getting surrounded. I hold this guy tight, pinning him with my left arm, while preparing to fight using my right. But, there were enough of them (7 or 8), that my rational mind started telling myself that fighting them all at the same time was going to be tough. And still no one was crossing over the street to offer support. So I pushed Elvis away, and slowly backed out. I was none too happy about that. The precise time frame blurs, but a day or two later I took my machete to be sharpened by this crazy old coot who did such things. I'd planted a few banana trees in my little patio and they were wildly successful. We got great bunches of a delicious variety of bananas that tasted much more "tropical" than the supermarket types, and had an almost peach-like color. Anyway, they grew like crazy and my trusty machete was just the thing to keep them trimmed, if it was sharp. Cleaning up this grove dulled the blade. I can't remember in all honesty if I was most driven to have the machete sharpened to clean up the banana trees, which need it, or the previous day's incident, or a combination of both (which is most likely). Anyway, I'm in my Isuzu Trooper (a lightweight four-door Jeep-like vehicle) driving home from having that machete sharpened, when I drive past the alley where things had gone down the day (or two) before. Out of the corner of my eye I see a young woman walking down that alley and in the split second I see the gang jump her and knock her to the ground. My mind once again snaps. "Oh no you don't," is what I'm thinking. I look at the "traffic" on this ordinarily very busy street and here is none, so I put the Trooper into a powerslide 180, slam the accelerator,and then do a hard turn into the alley. The Trooper was so light and had leaf-spring suspension (which are very "bouncy) so when I hit the driveway doing into that alley the truck launched up into the air. It truly looked (and felt like a "movie stunt"). When the Trooper landed I see the gang all looking slack jawed, like "what the hell is going on here?" I jumped up of the Trooper with machete in hand. Ready to use it is need be, but my main goal was to extricate this young woman. She is in a state of shock. I yell at her, "get in the car!" She is paralyzed with fear and can't move. The gang (once again) tries to start surrounding me, but I must have seemed certifiably insane in that moment and I wasn't fucking around. I was (again) outnumbered 7 or 8 to one, but they were the ones who seemed scared. I was not. Again, I told her to get in the car, that I was getting her out of there. This time she complied. I held the bad guys off with my machete until she was inside, then I sped out of there. Turned out she was a college student at UCLA. Our neighborhood was popular with university students and was on an easy bus route to campus. She was quite pretty. Jet black skin. African American. Had a look of nobility. I'm fairly certain they would have raped her if they'd had the time, but mercifully they did not. This poor girl was shaking like a leaf. In my life I've never seen a person tremble like that. Seeing her shaking in terror was the most upsetting part of the whole thing. I said, "we are going to the police department" (which was close by). She said, " I can't, they know where I live and I'm afraid." I did mention that these were scary people? I said I would take her home (and did), but I informed her that I would be going to see the police myself. She said "Okay." Met with higher ups at the police department after telling the story several times. Was advised by the police (on the downlow) that I ought to consider an aluminum baseball bat for purposes of "plausible deniability" rather than a machete, in case I needed to use it. Less likely to result in felony charges, while at the same time receiving kudos for my quick actions. Over the next short period I worked with the police, all the local merchants, security people and neighbors to drop a dime on these guys if/when they were spotted and things became so hot for this gang that they moved on. I was one of those moments were--in retrospect--I understood how crazily dangerous it was. I could easily have died in that alley, I suppose. But not acting was never a consideration. Had to do it. Not a moment of hesitation. And glad of it. I never saw or heard from that young woman again. I don't even know her name. I suppose she's never forgotten that day? I certainly have not. Bill

Sending healing thoughts your way. Bill

Blessed indeed. They have been somewhere between very good friends and nearly surrogate parents. People I consider family. Kind, and decent, and ethical. Good people. I miss just being able to wander over and saying hello. My friend was always a good eater, and has proud Mexican ancestry (family from Guadalajara), while her husband is a secular Jewish former professor of Psychiatry at UCLA, and whenever my wife took vacations with our son (while I held down the fort and looked after the animals) I'd cook up a big batch of tripe (in some form, from menudo to North African style), which is about the only culinary item my adventurous family of eaters would not touch, and she and I would have a "tripe festival." LOL Bill

Wow, the story of helping my dear sweet neighbor when she was choking brought back a flood of memories. In more recent years she developed Parkinson's. And she started falling. Especially in the middle of the night, when she hoped to use the restroom without disturbing her elderly husband. If/when she fell, they were not physically able to get her up. I may be getting old, and everything else (especially my mind) is going, but I'm still unnaturally strong. One of my greatest joys--if one can call it that--over recent years has been being "on call" to go over any time to get my dear friend up if she'd fallen. They hated to call me, but I always insisted that helping her was one of my greatest pleasures that I had in my life. And that was something I meant. She was probably the most vital person I ever knew. She kept her home beautifully and her garden was an inspiration for me (and a constant source of cuttings and "babies" that I propagated for my own garden). Some months back, she once again fell in the middle of the night. This time she had a small fracture in her hip. Not bad enough to require a hip replacement, but bad enough that they decided it was time to sell the home that they'd live in for 50 years, and one that served as a hub for their large family and our circle of friends. They recently moved out to a very nice assisted living situation. Their house, which is gorgeous, will be bulldozed and a much (much) larger home will be built in its place. Breaks my heart. I've been working on salvaging as many of her plants as I can. A way to keep her spirit and gardening efforts alive. I saw her a couple days ago at her daughter's home. Again helping her do some transfers from bed to wheelchair. Damn Parkinson's! Bill

There was a time when I could tell a story in a compact fashion. LOL Bill

Speaking of such crushes. In 1979 the film Tess (based on Thomas Hardy's novel Tess of the d'Urbervilles) came out, starring Nastassja Kinski. I went to see it with my (then) girlfriend, a dancer in UC Berkeley's Modern Dance department, who very strongly resembled Nastassja Kinski. Equally beautiful and of the same type. I was smitten with both. After I met my wife, I tried assiduously to avoid mentions of "crushes" or the beauty of former girlfriends (who needs that?) but I think that eventually Nastassja Kinski became my "Keith Urban." Mrs Spy Car, who is another great beauty of the same "type" didn't seem to mind knowing of my one-time screencrush. Then, one day, we were together in Santa Monica, in the famous park on the palisades overlooking the Pacific, near the pier, and right in front of the Camera Obscura building (for those who know the area). And right there, standing right next to us was Nastassja Kinski. And I looked at Nastassja Kinski, and then I looked at my (future) wife, and I came to the conclusion that I found my (future) wife was the more beautiful of the two. Perhaps this is the wrong sort of story to tell on a forum full of women. But that was real. Don't hate me. Bill

Did Warhol's "Brillo Boxes" not look like a fun playthings for an active kid? No better--or worse--than a standard packing box from the grocery store, but I guess that was the point. Andy Warhol seems totally unfazed that I was using his "art" to amuse myself. That made him okay in my book. LOL Speaking of grocery store boxes. Back when I was an infant, in the days before human life mattered that much (LOL) and there was no safety equipment or child seats or anything like that, my parents--who were both driving antique cars at the time--would keep me in what they always called a "Jiffy Box." Only much later did I figure out that the name "Jiffy Box" was from a conflation of "Skippy" and "Jif," which were two famous peanut butter brands of the era. My parents adopted a cardboard box from the local Dale's market, and packed it with some baby blankets to tote me around as an infant. While I have no active memories of the Jiffy Box itself, the stories were so often re-told that they entered the family lore. So cardboard boxes and I go way back. LOL. Like re-visiting the womb. Andy's versions were just fine in my book. Glad you husband has enjoyed the stories, and especially those of "the proud bird," my dad's F4U fighter plane in the Pacific in WWII. Say, I'm not so great searching this forum. Are you able to find the story of when I saved the girl from a gang assault by going into an alley with my Trooper and a machete and pulling her out of there? I found that old machete recently. That was a moment where didn't even think about how insanely dangerous it was to go against an entire gang. I just had to act. I can still run that event back in my mind, frame by frame, like it was a movie. Bill

Somehow my "stories" mostly require retaining the ability to laugh at myself. LOL So go ahead if you must Bill

I made stuffed (red) bell peppers for dinner. I mixed up my typical approach and used freshly cooked (from dried) small fava beans in place of lentils or meat. Instead of doing rice of cauliflower ice, I did a combination of both. I had some yummy Afghani basmati rice leftover, that I'd pan-roasted with butter prior to cooking and cooked with dried cranberries and prices. To that I added more herbs, spices, garlic, and the remnants of a well-seasoned yogurt marinade that I used for grilling chicken earlier in the week (that was not "used"). I like making "stuffed" dishes. They make for nice leftovers and meals for my wife to take to work. Bill

How about another basketball story? Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was one of the greatest basketball players ever, and played Center for the LA Lakers (and before that for the Milwaukee Bucks). But another great Lakers Center, and in my mind arguably the greatest basketball player of all time--with no disrespect to extraordinarily talented MJ or LeBron James--was Wilt Chamberlain. Wilt, when he was still with the Philadelphia 76ers once scored 100 point in a game (by himself). Never was a player so relatively dominate in the game. And the NBA changed many of their rules in an effort to somewhat neutralize Wilt. I was a tall kid in elementary school and enjoyed played basketball on the playground. I played "Center" myself, and I tried (but who is kidding who here?) to model my play on that of Wilt Chamberlain. Obviously there was a "talent gap" there. LOL The first time I ran into him I think I was about 12. We were in Saks 5th Ave in Beverly Hills. The department store had a very old fashioned escalator that went from the main floor up to the second floor. As we headed over to the escalator (and it really was of a very old-fashioned type) Wilt stepped out of nowhere and got on this funny escalator right in front of me. I remember looking up and all I could see was his butt. LOL. His butt was where an ordinary man's head would me. I kept thinking, here is one of my all-time sports heros, and all I'm taking in is his rear-end. That struck me as funny at the time. Years later, I was romantically involved with a very fine equestrian who did dressage, eventing, and hunter/jumpers. I was pretty fair natural rider myself, and I got pulled into the world of horses and rode a great deal, even training and conditioning many of LA's top show horses and polo ponies. I had such fun doing that and I found I make great soul-connections with the horses that I rode. Kind of "horse-whisper-ish." People who love horses know what that sort of love is all about. Anyway, guess who decided that he was going to play polo? Wilt Chamberlain. So old Wilt was 7' 1" and had to weigh well-over 300 lbs (had to be way more than that). He was a huge man. Strong, very tall, and muscular. Polo ponies, in contrast, tend to be pretty small. I always thought that *I* was a little over-sized riding polo ponies, which was a plus when I rode other people's horses for conditioning work, but seeing Wilt on a polo pony was a bit ridiculous. He could (very easily) put his feet on the floor. As if he was riding an undersized motorcycle. Poor ponies. I remember he'd arrive at the barns in a very cool convertible Bentley coupé. It had been an automobile with front and rear seats, but being so tall Wilt had it converted into one row of seating, with the "front" seats moved to the back. And it was painted in a very slivery-lavender color, that was most unusual at the time. So during that period, he and I were at the barns and in the polo arena together all the time. It wasn't as if we became best friends or anything, but he knew me (and I certainly knew him). We knocked around polo balls in light practice on more than a few occasions. Playing "polo" with Wilt Chamberlain was something I'd never envisioned doing as a kid. But life can be strange sometimes. I would commonly offer up secular prayers for the ponies that he rode. Oh dear, oh dear. Bill

My dad loved going to see UCLA basketball games when my brother and I were growing up. Almost every year during that period, Coach John Wooden and his Bruins were National Champions. Back during the 1965-66 season (but no longer is that the case) Frosh players were not allowed to play on the Varsity team under NCAA rules. So a highly recruited young freshman named Lou Alcindor was restricted to play on UCLA's Frosh team. It was a tradition at UCLA to start the season with with a Varsity vs Frosh game. During this period of UCLA's utter dominance of college basketball, this game was rarely competitive. Frosh would get blown out by the mostly second and third string Varsity players. But still a fun "tradition." That is until 1965. With Lou Alcindor leading the Frosh team, they soundly beat UCLA's starting Varsity team. That was a shockingly improbable outcome. 62-44. We were there. Lou Alcindor, as many basketball fans are aware, came to be known as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Over the next years we got to see Lou Alcindor play many games at Pauley Pavillion. What a great talent. Many years decades later, my father was honored by the LA City Council at City Hall for his important work in preserving the Watts Towers, one of our city's greatest art/architectural works. and for helping build an art education center on that campus, for the underserved children in the community. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was there that day. He came over and gave my father a big hug and he told my dad how proud he was of the great work that he'd done. My father always had the utmost respect for Kareem, and to have him offer up such kind words (and pretty near the end of my father's long and fruitful life) meant a great deal to my father and to me. That's a "celebrity" who I admire. Not just for his outstanding basketball skills, but for the quality of his mind and his character. A great human being in my estimation. Bill

My experience with cats (or rather, "cat," as Desmond is the only cat I ever had) is only a year and a half, as my parents were quite allergic, and I was always a dog guy. So take this with what every grain/border of salt you choose. But my experience with Desmond, who is purring on my lap as I type, mirrors that of my 9 year old Vizsla (dog) Chester. Most dogs develop periodontal disease by the time they are 3 years old. Chester's teeth and gums are perfectly healthy. His teeth have no tartar, are clean, white, and the gums look like what one would expect only in a young pup. Pink and tight. No puffiness or swelling. When we finally saw our very traditional vet for the first time since the pandemic, and she examined Chester's teeth and gums, she was amazed. Nothing remotely like what one would expect of a 9 year old dog. The cat's dental health is the same. Absolutely pristine mouth, teeth, and gums. What's the commonality? Both eat a balanced raw diet that's inclusive of soft raw edible bone at every meal. The dog gets 10-15% edible raw bone in every meal, and Desmond get about 6% edible raw bone daily. Both animals need to tear and chomp and work to breakdown the meat, organs, and bone that forms their diet. I'm absolutely convinced that all the "work" helps to keep their teeth healthy, and their jawbones and the muscular structures of their mouths strong. Cats, on average, typically have even more dental issues than dogs, and dogs fed a "standard American dog diet" tend to have big problems. While my N=2, the difference in oral health is so dramatically better than what one might expect, that my attachment to feeding a "prey model raw" (PMR) diet has only gotten stronger over time. In addition to the "work" helping to clean the teeth and keeping the underlying structures clean, there are also no carbs/sugars to ferment in their mouths (which helps avoid tooth decay). Sorry to evangelize for a PMR diet, but for anyone thinking of adding a puppy or kitten to their family, I consider this method of feeding one of the best decisions I've ever made. 100%. It has been hugely positive on every level of my dog's and cat's well-being, from coat condition, to lean muscle and optimal weight, general health and vitality, and--most especially--dramatically noticeable positive dental health. Just putting it out there. I got turned onto raw feeding here on the WTM more than a decade ago, even before I got Chester. It did seem a bit "odd" at the time in some ways, but in other ways it made sense that feeding carnivores a diet that resembles the sort of prey their species evolved eating would contribute to their healy, and that feeding heavily processed food would do the opposite. Of all the areas of positive benefits, the difference in promoting excellent dental health is the most dramatic. I will get off the soapbox now. Bill

We watched many Richard Rusczyk videos back in the day. Now that's a super star. My boy and I worked through the AoPS PreAlgebra book as a "crash course" over one summer. Rusczyk's companion videos were a boon. Getting it finished--and in such an intensive fashion--felt like a real accomplishment. Bill

I met Andy Warhol when I was a kid. I think it was 1965 or perhaps 1966, so I'd have been 7 or 8 years old. There was a restaurant in the Miracle Mile/Fairfax district across from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) called The Egg and the Eye, which was sort of a bohemian cultural hotspot at the time. Above the restaurant was a second story gallery space. Up there Warhol and his crew were doing an installation of his "Brillo Boxes." These looked like the sort boxes that would have been delivered to supermarkets, which would have held a case of Brillo pads. Little kids like playing with boxes, and I was no different. I remember having some fun amusing myself by pushing Mr Warhol's "art" around on the hardwood floors. LOL Andy didn't seem to mind. But eventually I lost my toys due to the need for the assistants to finish up stacking them in place for the upcoming exhibition. I don't even want to know what one of these original Brillo boxes--that I was treating like an ordinary cardboard box (as this was not far from the truth)--would fetch at auction today. Although Warhol was known inside the insular "art world" at that time, he was not yet generally famous. I'm just glad to know my childish play did not destroy the man's career. LOL Bill