Armed with a bottle of Olde English scratch-remover furniture polish, I stayed late into the evening before Bart's arrival, shining and buffing away with an energy and zeal seen only in TV commercials. Meanwhile, age-old plaques and certificates on the walls in my office were replaced with a half-dozen New Jersey coast seascapes from my own hand. In the larger outer office I hung a like number of modern abstract pieces that had been executed by my fine arts-major son on a recent scholarship in Europe.
Throughout, no detail was overlooked. Indeed, by the time Bart arrived, the place had been transformed into a sparkling, squeaky-clean renaissance showplace. Eagerly I awaited his reaction, which, unfortunately, was not long in coming.
After briefly casting a discerning eye about, he shoved his hands into his pants pockets, peered through the venetian blinds to the street below and, after a long, long pause, quietly intoned, "Colly, I travel all over the United States raising money for the Ad Council-and you spend it!"