Events, Places, and Things
DIARY 10861
4/28/76
TIBET DINNER
The loft is surprisingly poor, with furniture stored on an actual loft-floor above; and the people are far more numerous than I would have expected. They exceeded anyone's estimate of chairs and food, unhappily, so we were careful to keep the chairs we had and got to the front of the food line. Joseph Campbell was there busily talking to so many people that I didn't bother to renew our acquaintance, but there was no one else that I knew, though there were a number of beautiful crotches that I wish I DID know, particularly a straight-looking fellow with a woman who was SO possessive she positively RADIATED a feeling of luck to be with such a handsome guy. Other blue jeans were attractive, though most of them were talking closely enough with women to allay suspicions that something might be forthcoming, so the only person I talked with aside from Arnie was a heavyset guy who talked to ME. There was punch, and then something labeled "non-alcoholic punch," which lead everyone to question whether the OTHER punch had anything in it: after three glasses of it, I couldn't detect anything but a dirty look from the punch-pourer. The drawings on the wall were awful, with aniline-looking colors that were NOT beautiful, though he said they improved with age. Nothing that was for sale was interesting, they assumed that everyone was on their mailing list because there was no place for me to sign up, and the food was so like Chinese food as to be uninteresting: just one dish had a characteristic spicy flavor that Arnie didn't like (and inadvertently took a second portion of) that stood out, and the rest was doughy Chinese rolls that tasted uncooked, vegetable dishes overcooked, meat dishes with tough meat, and only the finishing fruit salad, with oranges from Bhutan, was tasty. Then the movie started, showing some of the 1939 German expedition footage, but no one narrated it WHILE it was going on, which was probably good, witnessing the agonizing stuttering of the Tibetan son of the court painter of the Dalai Lama over an English script. Not something that I'd volunteer to do again (the food was worth about $3), but the $10 provided an interesting evening and something to talk with friends about.
DIARY 10872
4/29/76
VILLAGE PIER
Christopher Street is filled with gays, some of them with shirts off, but even that (and the people, during the daytime, in the Studio Bookshop) didn't prepare us for the sight of the people on the pier. The first thing that struck me was that so many of the guys were FABULOUSLY good-looking. Not even at the bars or baths was there such a high percentage of spectacular people, though the added attraction of peek-a-boo clothes added to the character of the pier: cutoff trousers, skin-tight shorts, see-through shirts, tanned arms, a preponderance of beards and mustaches and hairy chests, and a number of guys necking with girls, just to show that they can be attractive to someone BESIDES guys, I guess. Not really much CRUISING seemed to be going on, but not much of the dog-walking excuse for being out was visible either. It was rather a cocktail party atmosphere, with the groups tightly knit talking to each other, but still surveying whoever came past. I was disappointed to get somewhat less than my share of glances, but then I wasn't feeling particularly sexy, even though I had on my Indian shirt from Art and my tan trousers --- the shorts and shirtless ones were obviously more the vogue than I was, though they didn't have to be planning for the next two days "on the rails" of the subway without getting home to change. No soapbox orators disturbed the serenity, not even too many radios made interruption in the sound. But the pier was certainly overcrowded: you had to wait until someone left to get a view down into the gray-green water; there was no place to sit until someone vacated an edge or a piling; some of the attractive people were surrounded by a circle of friends so that you had to maneuver to see the crux of the attention: the crotch. But it was nice to see the hassle-free atmosphere [and now that I'm NOW at 5/16/76, EXACTLY FOUR WEEKS LATE typing this page, I have no idea how to end it!] even the straights didn't seem to mind the show. Walk back in front of Keller's, which had a huge crowd outside drinking beer and looking tough, and I can't imagine what it must be like to live UPSTAIRS on one of these streets that never knows what it's like to stop having fun for certain people.
DIARY 10873
5/16/76
ACTUALIZATION REUNION DINNER
Gary Hollis's plump friend (Bob?) opened the door to Ann's big apartment: enormous living-study-dining area around her kitchen, separate bedroom onto 57th Street, bathroom along the hall, and she was busy in the kitchen MOST of the time, for which I either give her credit or accuse her of running away. Karen, the assistant; Barbara, the cocksucker; and a fat unpleasant someone from the second Actualization were there before me, and later someone cute from Rutgers, or some other NJ university, showed up to get Ann to go there to talk about Actualization, and Stephen, still beautiful, showed up later. For an ACTUALIZATION dinner, everyone was talking more about Werner, Leonard, and other people FAR more than Stewart. Also news of the glider weekend from Maureen, when SHE came in later. Ann should have known that we were going to be 8 or 9, but her homemade bread and butter went very quickly, her stew didn't last NEARLY long enough, and her Chinese-style vegetables went completely. The starting drinking cleared her out of everything but wine, and then the dinner drained her wine (not EVERYONE eats as little as you do, stupid Ann!), and a guest's gift went very quickly, so there was nothing to do but go out with the awful fatty, who seemed to want to let ME know that he was gay, after I told everyone that I was gay, to the liquor shop and pick up a $10 bottle of Amoretto, which ALSO went quickly. Talk was rather boring, mostly, and I ended up at the chair staring at Stephen holding fingers with Barbara and Karen, listening to the ridiculous antagonisms that seem to arise so easily in such "liberated" groups where everyone will freely accuse everyone else of being covert, hiding their true thoughts, and lying for effect. I didn't volunteer for a thing, expressed little interest in anything, and was rather sorry that I came, except that it was interesting to see who showed up, what was going on now: all SORTS of stuff that sounded uninteresting, and to see Ann's apartment, which just looks as traditional and bookish as she seems. They all went off together for drinks and an Easter Sunday sunrise service, and I was hoping at LEAST for a glider ride, but I phoned, left word, and was never called back.
DIARY 10875
5/16/76
INWOOD HILL PARK
The day is hazy rather like late summer; later the setting sun was bright cherry through the trees. New shiny greenery covered the ground for the most part, making the unkempt paths look even more disheveled. Some of the fruit trees still had their halos of white blossoms, none of which smelled very much, but then we came upon a collection of sticky yellow pods that rubbed some of their yellowness off on my fingers, leaving a sweet, almost perfumed scent of delicate fascination. We lay on the grass and looked at the trees, finding wild violets perfect in the grass, thankful that there was no one around so that we could kiss and hold hands. Above Columbia's Baker Field we necked for a bit on the path before we discovered a single fellow sitting atop a rock, gazing off into the distance, and another time we were probably seen by a straight black couple who were doing what we were doing, so we didn't bother anyone. Around the top of the island of Manhattan we went down concrete steps with one remaining stainless steel railing toward a culvert to smoke our joints, hiding them paranoidly when someone passed on the path high above. It grew slowly darker as we returned in a southeasterly direction, past a playing field with still-screaming kids, and wandered a distance up a picturesque ravine that looked ENTIRELY foreign to Manhattan, lit by streetlamps, but Dennis was worried about going up this way and we went back to the main path, which led us up and around to a bowl of grass on which dogs were running loose, but we found a place to sit and finally got into the sandwiches we'd brought with us for a snack, looking as the sky got darker and darker and finally became one with the violet land and river beyond, and the lights got brighter and looked like some different city, Boston somehow, with its quiet beauty. Then it got somewhat chillier, we ran out of things to say, wanted to hold each other closer, so we threw away the bag, and Dennis led us back to the apartment. But the huge trees, the overgrown grasses in the malls, the unkempt paths, the inaccessibility to most Manhattanites, still makes Inwood Hill one of the anachronisms of Manhattan, and a delight to revisit and find that it's as charming as I'd remembered.
DIARY 10917
5/19/76
THE LITTLE KITCHEN
Dennis wanted to see the Eden Theater again, so we walked down to 12th Street and then made our way east with the lights, so it was QUITE by accident that we found ourselves on 10th Street moving toward First Avenue. Dennis noticed the door with the sign "The Little Kitchen" and I looked for the place, and it had to be upstairs where soft lights reflected off brass lamps and curtains, and I searched for and found the bell. A woman's head peered out saying "Whaddya want?" and I asked if they were open. "Got reservations?" "NO, but can we eat anyway?" "OK, I'll buzz ya." A long wait, then a buzz, and up the neat wooden stairs to a black waitress who took us through the "black" room where a piano was being played, to a "white" room where another white couple was eating. I looked at the walls, but someone who introduced herself as Princess Pamela said, roughly, "Sit down, you can't wander, I'll show you around," and then she shook hands limply and demanded to know my name. Later, she chortled "You got the best now, the food is LOUSY." I ordered the chicken, Dennis the oxtail, which he didn't care for, but the chicken was fabulous, the candied yams heavenly under marshmallows, and the collard greens NOT bitter and the salad tasty. A woman was singing in the next room and I peeped through the grating, calling Dennis over to my side. The cornbread was fabulous, the food great, and the waitress beamed when we told her. I walked around again and Pamela said that Jerry Snyder had been buried today, who had given her place its start in 1967, in the Herald Tribune. Then she invited us over to the black room, saying we were the first, then gave us free wine (after giving us a piece of pumpkin cake for free). I paid the bill, $12.40, leaving the rest for tip, and the wine kept coming, Pamela started singing, Dennis started dancing with her, Keisha St. John's date started singing; Ada, the waitress, asked Irving, the pianist, to sing "Trees," which he did fabulously, and the maracas were being shaken, I was banging on bongo drums between my knees, kissing Pamela's hand saying how beautifully she moved, and we said we HAD to come back, loved the place, got totally bombed with pleasure, leaving at 1 when we HAD to, hugging Irving, wondering whether the clothes were going to come off after she donned a black feather boa and then a brocade hostess gown slit to the navel, showing flat tits on either side, and it was a FABULOUS evening, and I STILL want to go back.
DIARY 10935
5/19/76
CONEY ISLAND
Find a parking space on a street, get two dimes to get two hours' time, and go to Jumbo Jet for 75, no one's on it, they think it's slow, and up holding onto their seats and wigs, loving it. Then to the rocks to smoke two joints and talk about Mexico for a long time, then over to Cyclone, Don behind, then Dennis and I ride again, $2 for his two orgasms, and he says he could become addicted to the park, coming every Saturday. Pass a BEAUTIFUL shirtless guy in white trousers and a GREAT crotch, with a girl. Around to the Wonder Wheel, and my paranoia still works best there, 75¢, and Dennis later missed $5, thinking he handed it in for $1 and got no change back. They want to see a funhouse, so I insist they go together, so they do, saying it was awful. Then Don and I go onto the dodgem for 50¢, re-riding for 25¢, and it's fun, though there aren't too many people, but some of the attendants are so beautiful I can't take my eyes off them. Then we try the Hell Hole for 75¢ and that's too much for me: I'm dizzy coming out, staggering and feeling poor in my stomach, and getting a hot fudge sundae for 75¢ helps somewhat, and Dennis gets cherry slush, but the chunks of ice are too big. Oh, I get an ice, too, for 40¢, rainbow. Then onto the Hurricane, but it's not special enough to go again for 50¢, even though it cost $1 at the start, and Dennis gets a slice of pizza and Don isn't eating anything that's fattening, so nothing. I regret that the Bobsled and Tornado have come down, and we're nearing the Thunderbolt when I remember the car: it's 3:20 and the meter's expired. We figure we have enough, and I'm STILL a bit dizzy, not wanting to try any of the more risky rides, figuring I've had enough --- and FORGOT to ask about the discount ticket, which would have been $5 if they were selling it, and I spent at least $6 on rides and about $1 otherwise, not THAT expensive, but more than TDF dances. Don likes it, willing to try Great Adventure if we can get started early on Saturday, and Dennis really seems to like it, saying that Don seemed to enjoy it too. Back quickly, feeling very sleepy, and we didn't try any games, though Dennis was interested in the mirror maze, and some of the twist-em-up rides will be next time, one each new time, maybe.
DIARY 11046
7/7/76
OPERATION SAIL 1976
TV showed the ships going upriver with sails furled, since the wind was downriver, so the passing ships upstream weren't terribly special, except that the number of smaller ships made it interesting, as did the crews of the International Review ships standing to attention on their decks. To the roof of Don's, but the view to the south was blocked and we couldn't see the GW Bridge, so it was a smaller view than I would have wanted, but the Kreutzerstern, the larger Russian and largest in the float, is very impressive, making some of the others look tiny. Later, even smaller ships with full masts of sail make these look gigantic, dwarfing the truly small ones of which there are hundreds. Then about 3 the ships start returning, Eagle looking great with all sails out, passing the Russian ship, then it started raining hard, I had to shut the French doors I'd opened to the world, and a fog rolled over the river, sogging the sails and sending the smaller ships scurrying to safety. Some of the full-rigged ships sailing from a distance looked like a MASS of sheeting, only resolving into individual sails as it got closer. The Italian "Amerigo Vespucci" was best with its white patches of SAILORS forming wedges of sail as they went up; the Club Mediterrané ship was a sensation when it put up all 7 sails, and four quadruplets maneuvered beautifully together, putting on huge balloon sails of green and white stripes, and then there were ships with crimson sails, blue-and-white striped spinnakers, oranges and reds and greens in other combinations that looked far more COLORFUL than the rather drab military training ships, and I was the tiniest bit depressed as I thought about the militaristic slant to the whole day. Bill and Harvey were there with one of the daughters, other couples I didn't know; Alex made strawberry and peach and banana daiquiris through the day; Dennis liked Lee and talked for a long time with him, some of the other couples were cute but they weren't sharing, and I stared out at the ships and stored up information, looking at all the others on their terraces, running from the rain, milling in the streets, lining the Jersey shore in a colorful mass, and it was too good to leave to go anywhere else.
DIARY 11047
7/7/76
MACY'S FIREWORKS DOWNER
During the afternoon their flacks said that WASHINGTON'S display would be the greatest, and I believe it. Also got $100,000 confused with $500,000, but it was cheating to send off ONE blast, then have 15 minutes of music and announcements, and then only have 15 minutes of fireworks. Governor's Island is hidden by the tall buildings at the tip of Manhattan, but we see the entire Statue of Liberty fine, though the "firefall" at the base of the statue we just think is the whole supply of sky things going up in smoke. The flag was backwards to US so that they could get a good shot of the flag over the skyscrapers of Manhattan from Staten Island, which is rather backwards. The best place probably would have been the Jersey shore, but who could get there? The three displays were well coordinated, and tears rose to my eyes as they began orchestrating "The rocket's red glare" in the national anthem with gigantic blossoms of red from all places, but the intensity was so little because of the distance it just wasn't impressive. Particularly since bangs from Central Park started about 9:25 and continued through to 10:20 --- we missed 45 minutes in the park for 15 minutes here. There were lots of people on the landfill, lots of foreign languages being spoken all around us, and it was a kick to watch the solid streams of people filing past the World Trade Center for subways, walking in darkness and silhouette along the West Side Highway, and moving reluctantly out of the way for cars and the whooping sirens of police cars and ambulances. Dennis and I agreed we could shoot hundreds of feet of film and make our own disaster movie out of it by skillful editing. The crowds were better for the ships: lots of shirtless wonders on foot and on bicycles, lots of gay couples glancing at the smile on Dennis's face, all of which didn't happen tonight because everyone was so concentrating on a few bits of explosions in the air that were so dampened by distance that they really couldn't be said to work. But I tried looking at the positive side of things: it WAS neat to see all the people, hear the music, see the "real" event, and not make Dennis wish, like me, that we'd gone BACK to Guy's, who'd AGAIN opened his place to his friends, and seen what was surely a more impressive display from Central Park West.
DIARY 11075A
7/17/76
PARTY FOR PATRICK AND JOAN AND DENNIS
Everyone has a breast, and I'm too stoned to think to offer more, so we have two chicken legs left over for later, and Dennis has the rest of his steak from LAST night late THIS evening, and I can smell it strongly on his breath. Pat's made out two checks to Joan for $25, and I give him the money on it, and every so often Joan mentioned how often Pat mentioned the Mafia, and Joan gets very upset, which is the reason I figure Pat's doing it --- whether it's true or not wouldn't matter. Dennis returned about 10:20 and tried catching up with watermelon and grass for dessert, and then the peach pie came out, and by this time the lights in the living room were out, the bedroom light lighted the apartment; Pat had changed into a pair of my shorts and taken his shirt off, so Dennis could once again look at his legs, and Dennis took off HIS shirt, too, and the next morning, only, Joan remarked about Dennis's BEAUTIFUL eyes. They talk about appearing in various things and Pat gets into when he did a drag show with silver in his beard, and refuses to tell Joan juicy parts which he says he'll tell me later. He's been committed for insanity before, and he keeps talking about it, and Joan solemnly assures me that he IS crazy. He's going off now to Detroit to travel with a friend across to San Francisco where they'll get an apartment on Russian Hill, he says. Joan said he HAD three friends close enough to do this to, and now he has TWO. Pat wants to get cigarettes, so we're out to the corner while he gets them, and then we're down to the promenade with Joan's glass of rum, straight, and it's misting slightly and the towers fade into the upper fog. Joan says nothing that I can hear, but then Pat starts shouting about her "endangering his life" by asking questions and not leaving well enough alone, and I try to say that SHOUTING about not wanting to hear a question is more attention-arousing than merely saying "Yes, no, I don't know," but by the time he's finished, he's insisting on moving into a hotel, and Joan's in tears beseeching him NOT to move to a hotel, and then she decides to stay with me, I walk him to Borough Hall saying scarcely a word, and he thanks for a pleasant evening, apologizing for Joan, and takes off so that I can walk numbly back home where Dennis is buzzing the buzzer at random, since my bell isn't working at ALL anymore.
DIARY 11101
7/29/76
DE CHIRICO EXHIBIT
Just two rooms of his stuff, divided almost evenly from the 40s and the 70s, and though he was born in 1888, he's still alive, though when I talked to Arnie, he said that Ernst had died just a few months ago, so De Chirico may be the last of the biggies still working. But he's doing about the same thing as he's done before: dressmaker's dummy-heads that show more expression than the totally inept head he drew of someone, or even his more traditional self-portrait from the 40s. Wordplays such as "tete of prince" showing a "tepe" and "Colons" arranged on the chests of two old men in a typical Solon pose. His "Bains mysterieux" are fun with naked men, cock-shaped pools with brown herringbone patterns for the water, and beachballs turn into umbrellas in Dennis's eyes as his colors run off parallel into the water from the top of the floating ball. Phallic symbols in his towers, chimneys, smokestacks, architectural tools, and even doorways, which have remained REMARKABLY similar, even to the streak of sun-reflected color on the left side and no-such streak on the dimmer right side. His reclining statues, his horses on Delos, his trains puffing into stations, his nodding and bobbing heads with sad-tearing eyes, his Hectors and Andromaches facelessly confronting each other, with stacks of bar-bell weights for shoulders or breasts, depending on the angles, seeming to me to be symbols of heavy-handed do-nothingness, copelessness. His "Solitary Poet" with a Greek temple and only a fragment of ruined column within; reflected in other poets and other studies of innards. A few of his things that WERE different seem to have sold somewhat better, maybe to collectors who already HAVE samples of his more common stuff, but who are interested in his moon and sun on easels with black masks trailing off onto the floor, the worst picture I've seen him do. Some small studies of fruit by the elevator hall were quite different, too, but these seemed to verify his lack of talent or artistry when he DID get away from his limited repertory of figures. A small Elie Nadelman exhibit downstairs implied that HE [sic] was still alive, too, though some early works were done as early as 1905: they took all of 45 seconds to look at.
DIARY 11136
8/6/76
12 WEST SOMEWHAT BETTER
Pleasant evening's walk down to the river, remembering the sides of the buildings that we'd waited alongside before, not getting in, and around to the front to find lots of loungers outside, but the line waiting to get in, at 12:15, starts inside the door. $5 for me and $6 for him, and he talks to the guy checking coats, to the people taking card numbers, and to the fellow who wants his hand to add the indelible ultraviolet mark of admittance to the crotch between the thumb and the first finger. The music is mercifully not blaring, balloons are still all over the door, and I suggest I show him the place first. We pick up drinks and some bananas downstairs, then go upstairs to find the egress to the roof closed, but the central lounge is dimly lit and the side room has another refreshment stand and benches around the walls where some people are smoking, so we sit and smoke, too. Then down to dance for a few numbers, the volume of music loud but not overwhelming, and there's restrained use of the strobes and confetti-lights, which Dennis loves. His shirt comes off early, and later when we break for more fruit, potato chips, soda, cookies, and pretzels, he says that his taking off his shirt is a new thing: he wouldn't have done it before he came to a better acceptance of his body. Smoke the last two joints about 1:30, then down to the more crowded floor again, and there are lots of threesomes dancing, since a normal card admits a couple and a guest (or a ticket holder and two guests), and lots of shirts are off, lots of people are attractive, and I stare around, wishing I were higher, and smelling the poppers reminds me that I should have brought those, too. But Dennis loves it so much that there will probably be a next time, and I tell him that he can be responsible for renewing the membership, since it's "his" place. He says that I seem to be having fun, and I am, but it's not the sort of place I want to go to any more than once a month: compared with baths ideally once a week and bars about once a year. And sex once a day, but I didn't tell him that. I'm sort of tiring, and he's spent lots of energy, and the music really doesn't get CARRIED away, so about 3 he says he could leave, and we do, pleased with the evening's dancing, liking the refreshments and the uncrowdedness of the summer Saturday's evening.
DIARY 11145
8/8/76
DINNER AT THE LITTLE KITCHEN
I pointed out the candles in the windows and the lights in the kitchen as we walked up First Avenue, but I waited with Andrea as she put her friend Linda into a cab, apologizing when I got angry when I thought it was the scheduled Lyn. We got buzzed in and Princess Pamela was waiting for us at the door, and she smiled and embraced me, but seemed not to remember me until she introduced me to Irving, who said "Oh, yeah, you sat right over THERE," and he pointed and Princess slapped her forehead, burst into a smile, and hugged me with pointed pleasure. We were in the "white room" and there were two tables set up, but we all crowded around a long narrow table that was set for about 15 as it was. A black pair of women were eating in the next room, and Irving sat alone in his room and played through the whole evening. Ada seemed to remember me, and we introduced everyone around the table when Peggy and Lyn came in. Peggy sat next to me and we talked a bit, but it was mainly Frank across the way who kept the conversation going. Andrea moved up to next to where Dennis would sit, at the head of the table, when the air conditioning turned out to be too chilling. There were pretzels and potato chips on the table, which I couldn't stop eating, and then she asked if we wanted wine, so she opened a bottle of red and a bottle of white, which went quickly, and then there was another white Liebfraumilch and I ASKED if she could pour some of the house wine after that was gone, but I don't know if she did or not. I told Princess that we'd be 10, and she said something about making for 14, and I said I understood that. Then out came the cole slaw, heaped high, but I didn't think until much later that she may have served ALL the food for 14 to us 10, which may explain why we were SO stuffed at the end. Then came plates with two ribs (though Stephen got three) and some chicken (I got two small pieces, others got more) and collard greens, with a side dish of macaroni salad, baked and very light. The ribs were tender and sweet, the chicken as good as I remember, and the collard greens still non-bitter, and then out came the yams and marshmallows, so sweet that Peggy had none, though she finished the peach cobbler that came at the end. I made the stupid mistake of asking for butter for the cornbread even though I could TASTE it when she said it was on right NOW. I was drinking red wine from a bottle with a black label so dense we had to put it up to the light to see that it was Pomerol, or something like that, but they said the white was OK. Andrea, Dennis and George seemed to be chatting nicely at their end of the table, Guy was holding forth for me and Rhea and Stephen on my left, and Frank and Peggy and Lynn kept talking about theater. When Peggy went to talk to Princess, Lynn and I chatted and she seemed pleased and pleasant. Everyone groaned about the amount of food, and a few extra ribs and chicken pieces seemed to end up with Dennis, and then Stephen and Guy and Rhea were leaving about 12:20, giving me $10, and I started worrying about the finances, going over to the Princess and getting a bill for $140 for 14 dinners, $19.46 for the wine with tax, for a total of $159.46, which I took to be $160. I gave her $130, $110 for the bill less my deposit, $20 for her, since I saw there was about $8 on the table for her, not everyone leaving tips, and I later worried about Irving, but I didn't care. Guy said he and Rhea would pay whatever extra they had to do, and Peggy said something about paying extra, but then she reminded me that she was Dennis's guest, so I said that she couldn't pay ANYTHING extra. Stephen insisted that I take $10, and though I fussed for a bit, I thanked him extra-good when I finally took it. Everyone said that it was great, but I settled into a sort of funk, thinking that I'd lost something like $80 on the deal: $40 from the people who didn't show, $20 for wine, $20 for tip---though of course the tip was MY doing: I could have left the table do what it would. In fact, I was so embarrassed about it that I said I'd given her only $10 for a tip. As it turned out, I got $20 from Catherine, $10 from Paul, and $16 from Dennis for the wine, so I was only "out" $34: $10 from my stupidity with Michael, $20 for the tip, and $4 for my and Stephen's wine. But Catherine said we might go back, as did Paul and Art, and though Dennis thought it MIGHT be expensive, I thought it was fair enough all around, though we had a LONG talk about it the same evening (see DIARY 11147), after I spent my last $6 on the cab, taking only $3 from Peggy for her share at 90th and Lex.
DIARY 11159
8/9/76
THROW OUT TRAVEL FILE
There go all the sheets I'd worked on: Prentice-Hall, McGraw-Hill, Harper and Row, ASI, NGTF, Mattachine, Harlem Hospital, and even more publishing companies, trying to sell them the trip to Africa. There go the sheets from the friends of Arnie that never took their trips, from the Tellers and the Sands and the Grossmans who did, and from Mom in her various abortions and ME in my various abortions. A great feeling of sadness, but then I rather had fun, both in actuality and in fantasy, while I was doing it, I learned a lot (that I didn't like) about the travel business (and I'll have to get to the stacks of Travel Agent sometime, too, waiting to be thrown out beneath my desk), and a lot about people in the doing of it. If positive thinking at that point could have done anything, I would have made it with the letters that I was sending out and the phone calls that I was making. At least now I know from IATA what it takes to open up a travel agency (too much money and a real office and two people who have been in the business for years). Keep information from Travel Dynamics on general travel data, from AAA on the duties of a tour manager, and forms and letters from Trip'n'Travel, whom I still hope to do business with. Think of the number of hours I put in on it versus the rather little return, even when things were going well. I guess I was too interested in actual TRAVEL to make it a paying thing: spent far more time than I NEEDED on the Teller's itinerary, and though they enjoyed it, I didn't get THAT much money from them. And I threw out some outdated Europe charter books, but know that there's still about half the stuff in the bookcase that's totally outdated, but will still be good to give me an IDEA what's available, from what companies, in various parts of the world, in case anyone of the few people who still realize that I can ACT as a travel agent contacts me about more trips. I tired it, and it didn't work, with little MONETARY interest involved, except for the classes from Steve Goodman, who epitomized the dealer who said "I've got all kinds of good freebies for you, all you have to do is get 15 people to travel with you." I can't find ONE to take a vacation with me that I'd like, let alone 15!!
DIARY 11162
8/9/76
WORDS ARE FASCINATING
I think of someone feeling like a FOOL, and that's what FOOL-ish means, like a fool, though people don't think of that. That leads to idiotic and moronic, though those two words are less frequently used. I think of the shape of the tongue and mouth and the sound of the word "foolish" and get off on the way Pope would say it, blushing and laughing at the same time. I think of concentrating on various words and writing a sort of Espy dictionary of words about the sounds, connections (usually forgotten, as fool to foolish) and attitudes connected with the words. "Cellar door" for beauty, frabjous for an invented word, and the movie today gave "Woodstein" to me, compounded of Woodward and Bernstein. Think how pronouncing words over and over give them different sounds, bordering on gibberish, of "Kinney System Parking" and "Kingdon Gould." And how words SEPARATE things, rather than unify them: think of how to say a noun, then modify it with an adjective, then qualify it with an adverb, describe its action with a verb, and link these qualities together in a sentence, and you get something totally removed from the thought or the object of the thought. Of course, none of the above has ANYTHING to do with meditating, which brought the whole things UP.
DIARY 11167
8/10/76
THE TRAVEL AGENT MAGAZINE DISPOSAL
I suppose I should have known it before, but neither the travel agents nor the travel BUSINESS are really interested in the TRAVELER: agents are harping for 15% of the payment for commission, as if the travelers would end up paying the same and the BUSINESS would end up taking LESS; they don't want to TALK about discounts yet have to acknowledge that the fare structures, tour arrangements, and legal intricacies are so complex that even THEY don't know what they're talking about most of the time. Someone like Icelandic and Laker are condemned for giving the customer an even break without subjecting themselves to the idiocies of IATA and other agencies that perpetuate the impossible load factors of between 33 and 60% (for LOT airlines---the Poles must be doing SOMETHING right) on planes crossing the Atlantic. If the agent gets 10% and the client can go free if 15 other people come along and the wholesaler gets a chunk and the suppliers themselves get a chunk, it's astounding that it ends up that travel IN ITSELF ends up costing anything at ALL! Then Friedheim wants free travel for retired travel agents, just as airline employees get, and wants to simplify things while seeming to want everyone to keep their piece of the pie, including all the regulating agencies. There are all sorts of hotel ratings which are out of date the next year, tour packages that come and go so quickly that MANY of the ones announced DON'T even leave at all. The photos look so great, but they're repeated within six months without anyone saying anything about them. The tour guides all look like artificially smiling slimy creatures who surely aren't out for the tourists---but they ARE out for the tourists! Prices change almost monthly, and the GOOD packages, like the "all the travel you want for 99 days" seem always to be replaced by "you get goodies if you stay only a week," and the air-car systems are not there, and the long-range cheap travel methods, I'm sure, aren't mentioned at ALL, because they're not subject to all the businesses, agents, and regulating agencies: THEY are merely run BY tourists FOR tourists. The NEXT magazine of travel I subscribe to will be entitled "Rip-off Travel," or nothing.
DIARY 11185
8/16/76
CULINARY INSTITUTE OF AMERICA
We were in the "bar" room rather than in the main restaurant, but we could see the huge bricked window that framed the kitchen with its "Saucier/ Poisoniere/ Entremetier/ Rotissiere/ and other Ieres." Sonny thought his Jack Rose was too tart, my daiquiri tasted anise-y, Dennis's Pernod and orange was VERY strong, and Rick's Lillet was rather like weak Compari. Then Rick got prosciutto and melon, good; Sonny the escargots that I loved because they were almost charred and not slathered in garlic, as he would have preferred them; I thought the paté was too bland, but the selection of hors d'ouvres variée that Dennis got was great: tuna salad, a mussel, a spicy artichoke heart, seasoned octopus, and as many MORE things. To the soups: the onion was VERY tasty, Rick's consommé tasty but mediocre, my puree of split pea hammy and ordinary, but I'm glad Dennis and Rick wanted onion soup so I wouldn't have to settle for the chilled fruits. The salad was tasty, with spectacularly red and tasty tomatoes, and we'd settled for the house white wine, a Muscadet de Sevre & Maine, Domaine Jean Baptiste 1974, for $7.50 that was VERY fruity without being sweet, loving the shapes of the huge tulip glasses. Rick had to ask for the peppermill. All the while there were constantly replaced croissants with butter curls, good and plenty. Then the Pommard, cheapest of the lot, came for $11.50 and everyone SAID they loved it, and I thought it was good, but the choices of meats were not the most spectacular: Sonny's Pompano en Papillot was rather dry, but flavorful; Rick's rack of lamb was so rare and tender as to taste like braised human flesh; my pork cutlets with Sauce Robert was tangy in sauce and FAT in chops, which left me room to indulge in a full HALF of Dennis's second Tournedo, tender and juicy, with an INCREDIBLE Hollandaise sauce in an artichoke heart capping the meal. Then they brought cheeses: goat VERY creamy and sweet for me; delicious soft Port Salut for others, and THEN came the almond-flavored apricot-glazed cake with two candles for Dennis, and they asked what we wanted for coffee. Dennis and Sonny got regular, but Rick and I ordered the Brazilian coffee when we heard what was in it, and Victor Martinez was in his glory with the side table: he heated the glasses in a flame, dipped them in sugar at the rims, then caramelized it in the flame. More than an ounce of Grand Marnier was then slopped into the bottom, heated, and then sloshed around the bottom and OVER the sides so that the sugar took on the orange flavor, and the same process was followed with generous servings of Kahlua (since they didn't have Tia Maria, so they said), and then the coffee was poured in hot, cream lollopped on top, and then cognac was heated in a silver ladle and (not for mine, but the second one worked) poured in a flaming stream from the ladle to the glass for the final bit of flavor. Then napkins were wrapped around the glasses and they were served on a plate. I gingerly licked the hot edge and was rewarded by the most delightfully alcoholic candy on the rim and blastingly refreshing coffee under the cream. We shared it in pairs, loving the cake with it, and wondering what the check would be: SURPRISE: it was $14.75 prix fixe for $59 for the meals, $8 for the drinks, $19 for the wines, AND THAT WAS ALL, nothing for the cake, nothing for the Brazilian coffees! And the tax was so low that the TOTAL bill was $89.50. I plunked down 5 $20s, causing Rick's eyebrows to arch, and he added a $10, giving me $20 later, and Sonny gave me $30, so I paid $50: $30 as 1/3 of the bill without wine, $20 for the wine, which I proclaimed to be my treat. Rick made a point of looking at Victor when he got the tip, and he seemed pleased, and then he asked about the cake, which they'd forgotten to give to him! On the way out we watched Bernstein, or someone, the head of the restaurant, prepare zabaglione, beating and beating the egg whites, and then pouring into glasses that had been started with some liquor on the bottom, and he said that Victor was quite special. Others were good, others were trying very hard but gave the impression of never making it. Dennis talked to someone who said it was too expensive and too fast, taking 9 days for a cycle of training in which too many things happened at once, but I can see how people would always talk about the night they had dinner at the Culinary Institute of America.
DIARY 11293
9/14/76
MR. AMERICA CONTEST AT BEACON THEATER
Lots of humpy numbers on the subway and crowds in front of the theater, but only a short line to the box office to find there are no $5 seats left, that the $10 balcony seats are too far away, so we get 2 on the side of row J for $15 each and watch the people until the show starts about 3:15, the usher seating us TWICE in row G for some reason. The Mr. America under 20 is impressive for some of the bodies, and Rolf keeps looking at the contestants when I want to. The crowd shouts to turn off a backlight, then screams for their favorites, and Rolf observes judiciously, "They're a pack of animals!" But then he's never seen a rock concert, a wrestling match, or any other teenage entertainment. Some pubic hair showing, but mainly the highly chiseled and veined torsos aren't to my liking, though some of the tiny pale heads atop the tanned and glistening bodies (obviously transplants) are on the sexy side. Then there's an intermission in which we lose our seats and look at all the people in the lobby, and then there's the Mr. America over 40, with Elmo Santiago and a few other familiar faces still competing with great bodies, and I listen to all the chest measurements up to 54 inches and gape at the little Japanese with a 27" waist and 25" thighs, who DOES win a trophy for best legs in the "body parts" categories. Steve Michalik in "Pumping Iron" comes as close to the extreme of THIGH = WAIST = 1/2 CHEST: Thigh = 26", waist = 27" and chest = 52". If he could pull in his waist just ONE more inch, he'd have it. Then about 10 for Mr. World, then the 4 for the shouting match for Mr. Olympus, screaming "Where's Arnold?" and Chris someone is familiar and beautiful, but he comes in last because he's not ugly and deeply cut, and Serge Nubret, signing his free photographs, comes in 2nd and Sergio Oliva (?) gets first, shouting for Schwarzenegger to compete with him (though he's supposedly retired). We moved twice during the seating, Rolf moving down when requested to, and I moved to get part of my binoculars, which he demanded as if his right, though I kept saying he shouldn't get addicted to them. He thought it was interesting, bodies without genitals interesting him as much as porno, and I thought it was expensive but I was glad I caught it: when I get older, I'll feel even MORE conspicuous looking at those fabulous bodies. BEAUTY of a fellow in tight shirt to watch on the subway home.
DIARY 11296
9/14/76
DINNER WITH DENNIS AT THE FOUR SEASONS
The bar was surprisingly empty, and my first daiquiri was VERY dry. Listened to business conversations, marveled at all the people at tables, and moved the reservation from 7:30 to 8 after they said that the pre-theater dinner was still OK. Dennis arrived at 7:35, saying that he'd been talking to Beatrice and then thought this was on 53rd, and we moved to sit together, he had a sloe screw, getting a surprised look from the bartender, and I had a somewhat less dry daiquiri, and the bill was $7.75 + 65¢ tax or $8.40, so I just left the rest of $10 for a tip, since I'd had so many nuts. Then into the dining room at 8:05, being seated in the corner (not in the center, as Art warned against, but not against the curtains, either) near the service entrance and given two REGULAR menus. We looked at them about a half an hour, then I requested the bargain card and they gave it to me reluctantly, saying we'd gotten in after 8, despite my protest that the guy OUTSIDE said that was OK. We started with the mousse of ham in peach for $5.95, very good at the base of the peach where IT was riper and the good ham was more plentiful. I'd ordered a soufflé of morels, making sure they were fresh and not dried or canned, imported from France, and it came in about 40 minutes in a HUGE puff of pastry with a creamy inside and DOZENS of tiny large olive-size wrinkled morels that tasted vaguely sandy and not terribly flavorful, but it was interesting for $5.25. Ordered a Chablis Grand Cru Vaudesir 1972, a half-bottle for $8.50 which was QUITE raw tasting, pity, and we had so much ALREADY we debated what to have next, but went for the soups: he had the cold avocado with sherbet and almonds, I with the summer vegetable soup: his for $3.25, mine for $2.75, both fabulous! His was cold and tasty, but I didn't like the watery quality of the sherbet mixed with the cream of the soup, but the nuts were nice, and the flavor of the base and the LOVELY texture of crunchy lettuce and carrots and crisp peapods was marvelous! Then we sat and thought and thought, and after looking at the liver with avocado ($9.75), the squab with olives ($12.75), the chicken fillet with oysters carnevali ($11.50), and the duck with candied orange zest ($13.50), we decided to stay with white wine and have the striped bass with fennel and Pernod, flambé, and the waiters were really thinking we were idiots. The $14.50 prix fixe didn't seem like a real bargain: appetizer OR soup, with good soups and poor appetizers, and a NOT interesting selection of entrees, a green salad that wasn't on the regular menu, desserts that weren't interesting (except that Dennis HAD the coffee cup soufflé, $2.95), and tea---not BAD, but not that great. The fish for $19.50 wasn't heated long enough for the Pernod to flare into huge flames, but he skinned it neatly and boned MINE fine, but poor Dennis located about 6 bones and a scale in his meat. The sauce was VERY tasty, and though the fish was HUGE we managed to eat most of it, but it WAS overpriced at $19.50. The nutted wild rice was a great choice of his for $3.25, and they split it for two without a comment. The second wine was better, a half of Chablis Premier Cru St. Roux for $6.50, better, or we may have been inured to sourness by then. THEN Dennis ordered the soufflé for dessert, at 11:30, and the waiter exploded that we should have ordered it before. Dennis loved my question to him, "We're not in a hurry, are YOU?" And he assured us they weren't closing, but both made a fuss, and I wanted to thank the older waiter who came alongside and said "We just didn't want to let you get impatient, thinking we weren't working on it, but it DOES take about 30 minutes." We talked about all sorts of things, and it came out about midnight, when most of the people were leaving, but some still ordering desserts. Dennis loved it, and thought the coffee was good for $1.50, too, and I asked for the check at 12:50 and it might have had only ONE cover at $5 to make it $64.40, or maybe I have something else wrong, but with tax it came to $68 and change, or maybe even $69 and change, but I figured that $80 would JUST cover it, a bit MORE than 15% WITHOUT tax, a bit LESS than 15% WITH tax, just about right, so I left the $10 and change on the tray and we left about 12:20, the next-to-last party to leave, just after the handsome Tab Hunter-type with AWFUL red pants below the waist, and the captain didn't even say thank you, just a curt goodnight, and I'd wished the older waiter had been there so I could say "Thank you" and shake hands with greenery to HIM. So THERE was the $90 evening for 2, lasting OVER 5 hours for me, just under 5 hours for him!
DIARY 11313
9/27/76
DINNER AT DELMONICO'S
The place is empty of diners except for two people at the OPPOSITE corner of the room, and Don says he's glad HE didn't have to look at the emptiness. The place is full of sconces and drapes and velveted wallpaper, fitting the triangular shape of the lot it's on, and the menu is a card from which Don wants the snails, I get the Carpaccio Florentine (beaten raw steak with oil and vinegar and tomatoes and parsley, rather Indian), and Dennis the Oysters Rockefeller, that come under a cheese topping rather than the dry spices listed in his recipe from Gourmet magazine. The snails are MARVELOUS in texture, plump and TENDER, but not NEARLY garlicky enough, and everyone agrees it's probably because stockbrokers are all so conservative. The waiter said we wouldn't want the soup, so we went to the meal: Don's horrible frozen, squishy salmon with a nothing hollandaise sauce; Dennis's squab (which he'd avoided on the Four Seasons menu, saying he's had it before and he's trying something new) was tender and tasty, but no more, and my duck à l'orange was nothing special: the skin wasn't particularly tasty, the meat not particularly moist or flavorful. We'd gotten a half-bottle of white something for about $15 that was overpriced, and a half-bottle of red that was even worse, for about $9 or $19---robbery! Though Don thought the sommelier was cute, and HE thought we were a RIOT. Don just had coffee for dessert and Dennis and I had strawberries, which were truly the best part of the meal, sweet and tasty and nicely rummed over ice cream. $1 each for cover, and the bill came to $105.25. Don paid with Amex, taking $85 from me since $35 was HIS. The service was better than the Four Seasons, but then we were the ONLY clients, and there was NO one around when we finally left. I went to the john and was surprised to see the stalls stuffed back over a lowering roof that would scarcely leave one room to stand. The wine list was HUGE and VERY expensive, very few things under $30 for the first dozen pages, but it's NOT, under any circumstances, the kind of place that I'd go to again, while the Four Seasons, at least, would be a place to try at ANOTHER season for the pre-theater or post-theater specials, again for a special thing. But not THIS rip-off at ALL.
DIARY 11315
9/29/76
MUSEUM OF MODERN ART
Even an hour was too long to see it. Unfortunately, "America the Beautiful," or whatever, wasn't opening until October 1, so the temporary exhibition area was closed. The small room had studies for Rodin's "Balzac," which Dennis likes because he thinks the nude statue is COMING that pillar from his cock. Quickly around the minimalist art on the first floor, look at some of the Gatun Locks photographs that quickly get boring, then upstairs to the permanent collection, seeming to see a new Cezanne of puppies, look through the design galleries and see a temporary silly exhibition of new flags for states and organizations, all sewn with distracting wrinkles, and look into some of our favorites like the Tanguey, Tchilechew, Dali, Dufy, and Boccioni. Then quickly upstairs and pass through the "Guernica" room, having seen it, and even the photography galleries don't impress: I ask Dennis if HE knows what it is that makes some perfectly ordinary looking landscapes and portraits merit a space here---though that question doesn't apply to the marvelously detailed, hyper-real mountains of Ansel Adams. Pass up the sculpture because we're due downstairs, but many of the rooms seem to have so little in the line of CONTENT that they can be scanned on passing through. It may be true that art relies more on STYLE than content, but if the style is an INVESTIGATION of what little need be done to create what will be accepted as a work of art, or how much something has to be distorted to produce a NEW view of art, I might be interested in the final result, but not the fumbling beginnings. There doesn't seem to be any new SCHOOL that's terribly impressive after pop art and op art---and even those people are ignored, though there's the rumor that the MMA isn't even BOTHERING to be modern, just luxuriating in its collections from 1880 to 1950. We didn't go outside since there seemed to be no one there, and there were a FEW sexy people wandering around, but the most obvious fixture seemed to be people sitting tiredly on benches not looking at anything in particular, and young marrieds looking as they might look at Bloomingdales merchandise: colorful, interesting, but not something they'd really like to LIVE with.
DIARY 11317
9/29/76
MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY MINERALS
The brown-carpeted and -walled rooms are sticky with the humidity and the heat of the people inside, but the exhibits are dynamite. I look at the central podium at some of the lesser treasures, then go into the side room to look at what might be the most valuable square feet in the world: one panel of this 8-panel display case had NOT ONLY the three huge stones that were the center of their collection before, but a FABULOUS array of rubies and sapphires in addition, and another collection of stones below. In the FRONT was an incredible trio of gold, yellow, and brown diamonds, with an eye-dazzling spectrum of diamonds in all colors from dark brown through blue and green and red and pink and yellow to almost-white. The ring that illustrated fluorescence was one of the most brilliantly faceted pears that I've ever seen, and the June Bricolet was extraordinary: a CYLINDER of diamond. Other cases were glorious with jadeite and lapis statuary, others were glowing with fluorescence, and the topaz, onyx, and sphere arrays were almost overwhelming. Rare jewels were a kick, putting a ransom together from stones whose names few have heard on, and the inside of an emerald (not so, but near it) mine stunned people who'd wished they'd found it. An array of 5x3 slide projectors showed a neat show of ecology with the admonition of "the world is all we've got; what we use, we deny some OTHER use," using single slides, strips and diagonals, and alternating 2x3 arrays for World's Fair excitement. Then I followed the classification of minerals around the outer walls, marveling at some of the extraordinary crystals, but the center-inner set of talking panels on the geology of minerals wasn't as interesting as it could have been, and no one was looking at it. The display of huge pieces out to the touch of the viewers was quite risky, and I suspect they'll withdraw some of them from touch, finding that human sweat and moisture don't do them any good. Looked in on the meteorites outside, helped by a sexy guy looking at them too, and the crowd was MUCH nicer than that at the MMA, and I'll have to go back and buy the guides to BOTH of them: have dozens from other museums, and not for the ones closest to me at HOME!
DIARY 11365
10/21/76
NEW YORK CITY TOURS OF LIBRARY AND GRAND CENTRAL
THE LIBRARY TOUR doesn't do much: talking of the history from the Astor, Tilden, and Vanderbilt families when NYC HAD no public library, to the present treasures of a letter from Columbus, an original Declaration of Independence, and a Guttenberg bible, with a girdle bible and other manuscripts in the MANUSCRIPT division and printed books in the RARE BOOK division, and lots of other special collections we don't see. To the main reading room, the hallway exhibits, the current periodicals room, and then to the Trustee's Room, a large room with a large table (21') seating 24, set up for a meeting this afternoon, used in the film "The Network" that Arnie said got rave reviews in Variety. Downstairs to stamps and the Hapsburg Arch.
GRAND CENTRAL TOUR is talky at the start because it's raining outside, but we go down into the Biltmore to see the "Kissing Gallery" of the upper waiting room, the main concourse with its OTB booths, the small waiting room with the oatmeal-brick upper walls, then down to the Oyster Bar and the lower concourse with the rare-tile ceilings; then on an elevator up to the tennis courts above, in the tacky former CBS studios left as they were, and then the hit of THAT tour: the flying walkways between the windows at either side of the Concourse, used in the past with cleaned windows to pass from office to office on the same floor, now used ONLY for the tours but open so that anyone who KNOWS could come up there anytime. Great views down on the people, and he said that one time per year the sun rises directly up 43rd Street and showers the inside with direct sunlight: otherwise the tarred roof from the WWII blackout keeps out THAT sun, the Pan Am building keeps out THAT sun, and the dirty windows keep out most of the rest. 123 tracks, and all of the east side from Madison to Lexington is built over the upper fan of 56 tracks and the lower fan of 67 tracks, for a total of 123, and they DO have a lot of loops under the terminal itself. What a time when BOTH this and the library were a-building between 1900 and 1910! He's trying to save the terminal, talking of its Beaux Arts exterior and French Moderne interior and chandeliers hanging from light grids and a fabulous architecture only little changed by all the cleaning---and the zodiac above is backward, he thinks, because the designer looked at the OUTSIDE of a celestial globe, not from INSIDE.
DIARY 11378
10/22/76
ROLF IN PROVIDENCE
The Children's Hospital in Providence had to have a study of diagnoses for all discharges, about 1110, in the month of July for a Senate subcommittee on more finances, so the in-house staff of 37 (15 vacancies) who have been working for two years ("And threaten to undergo a mass nervous breakdown if any deadlines are pushed") to convert their system from Honeywell to IBM 370, estimated 6 months and $5000 to do it. So Rolf went in and worked 15-hour days for 35 days to do it, generating the only computer-based list of diagnostic procedures and principal operations in the country, in his estimation. He describes an ungodly procedure of ripping into a child from the front, DISCONNECTING HIS HEAD, and putting in bars and wires to straighten a profoundly curved spine, which LEAD their operating procedures with 20 during the month, the only place on the East Coast that does the operation. They also specialized in dental work for spastics, open-heart surgery for birth defects in infants less than 24 hours old, and have double diagnoses like pneumonia with leukemia, mental retardation with bone cancer, and need for cranioplasty when their eyes are situated at the corners of their head and need to be brought down to true. Rolf describes the hospital as totally disorganized, with all the doctors "prima donnas" who refuse any sort of discipline, so that the chief of surgery refuses to call when he'll be late for an operation, so the operating theater must simply wait until he arrives, only one example of a profound misuse of facilities. "That's why the cost of medicine is so high." He worked at the Harvard Business School's computer, which "operates at a much more intelligent level of inefficiency than the center at the hospital" and talked of their rescue of a tape which he'd made when the printer went down, which couldn't be formatted onto a drum because it had something called Hewlett-Packard ASCII codes on it, and he finally dumped it onto another printer at Harvard. He's going back for a week to clean things up, working for Kathy Nearing who'd set up the company to use the best pupils from her computer programming courses at the College of William and Ethel, or something, in Providence.
DIARY 11405
11/2/76
101 BOOKS TO BE READ
From a time when I worried about what I was going to read, to the time I made out a booklist of about 73 on February 16, 1976, to the revisions and additions and acquisitions and machinations and list-making which led to the time that I had 84 books to get and 84 books on the shelf to read, NOW I check and find that "The Seeds of Space" that I finished on Sunday was the 101st book on the shelf to read (counting Rolf's book and the one at Dennis's), and there were still 71 on the list to get, and I'd ORDERED 4 from S&S and 9 from TDI, so I guess the day isn't TOO far in the future when I'll have TWICE as many books on the shelf to read as I have on the list to get. I'm discouraged by how quickly the list of books to get GROWS: adding 8-9 titles by Lem, a dozen or so titles by Ballard, and then the new books "Marry Me" by Updike, "Slapstick" by Vonnegut, and various things by various other people, not to mention the inclusion at a late date of Collier, Malzburg, Roberts, and now it seems that I want to add Ouspensky's "The Fourth Way," which it seems that I passed up at the used bookshop and now I wish I hadn't. But I continue acquiring, rapidly; continue reading, more slowly, but I don't have to worry about books to read for AT LEAST a year, and probably more, since the momentum of the "books to get" list will probably continue for the rest of my life, with each addition felt more strongly, each book found that had been on since day one celebrated with more glee. And I mention that I'll wait to be 90 before tackling the entire works of people like Edgar Rice Burroughs, Charles Dickens, Pearl Buck, Willkie Collins, Joseph Heller, Saul Bellow, and others that will come along in the intervening years. Had wanted to keep the line at ONE shelf, but then it went into the living rooms and STILL to two shelves in the study, and now it's at the ABSOLUTE maximum of three shelves, but if the dozen or so come in from the mail-order (with the dozen or so that S&S has found, that I want, that I'm waiting for a larger checking account balance to order), I'll HAVE to go to a third shelf, which I've now (thanks to Eddie) cleared off just waiting for it, and the RATE of incoming books MUST slow down very soon, or I'll have to think about buying ANOTHER bookcase somewhere.
DIARY 11432
11/15/76
BOOK-BUYING ORDER IS WRONG
I was right to shop around for all the books I could find HERE, but I was WRONG not to send off a slew of book-find lists to ALL the places in the New York Times so that when offers came in I could take the BEST of the lot. S&S was certainly effective but they were never CHEAP, and I keep getting Science-Fiction Bookshop copies for HALF the price of their copies, and I keep buying them just to amortize my investment, but I can't continue to do this, since where will I sell books for as high a price as book-find services can charge ME? But though I check to make sure I can't find the books HERE at a cheaper price, I should have sent out all the lists to the other places FIRST, so that I could compare what ALL of them find. Of course there's the chance that they all use some of the same sources, which means that I'd end up competing against myself, particularly if one place gets about 10 requests for the same book and they figure they can quote increasingly high prices. And then I don't know enough about how the process WORKS in various organizations: is there a chance I can get different quotes from different places where a company with a LESSER markup simply happens to find a copy of a book for MORE than a company with a HIGHER markup does, and I begin to respect the "low" prices of a company that would cost me MORE in the long run, as I suspect S&S is doing NOW. But I remedy the situation as much as I can on Monday by sending out 9 copies, all I have, of the newer list, hoping to get LOTS of fast action from them, and then I can figure how to buy the LAST copies of the books that I want, hoping to be able to read at LEAST fast enough to keep the books to be read on the THREE shelves. I don't think I'll have to buy another book at LIST price for the next three years, at least. And the idea that I'd paid list price for lots of paperbacks in the past, AND am not checking what the quotes might be for expensive books that I bought BEFORE (even other copies of "Mysterium Magnum," for example, for which I paid the current record LIST price of $30---and was narrowly saved from paying $35 for it---), but I just can't relive my life, and now I'll try to do as well as I can with what's LEFT me.
DIARY 11462
11/29/76
THANKSGIVING AT CATHERINE ELLIS'S WITH MADAME
In at 5 to bright people, Gregory opening the door, Annette's son, who made a good braided bread to go with Dennis's two loaves. Then Gretchen comes in and I think I know her but Sarah (who's from Ohio, too) says it louder than I do, and it turns out that Gretchen worked with Ron Greenburg on "The Big Showdown." Then I'm pouring champagne and hear Sammy talking about Gurdjieff and he says there's been a Gurdjieff center in New York City since 1939 (though I don't see one in the phone book now!), but he's heard nothing of Actualism. His wife (or live-with) Cynthia is a dancer, worked with DTW and at ATL, and worked with Linda Tarnay and knew "Ocean" and talked very highly of Sergio and Kenneth, knowing they'd moved into a house but she hadn't been there yet, either. Madame came in about 5:30, short white hair atop a darkly wrinkled face atop a sweater and pants, both in black to show off her remarkable agile body, and Dennis introduced her to me as a special friend, and I said how pleased I was when she was being introduced to the people sitting on the sofa (all women) that she wheeled around and was introduced to me first, and she twinkled and said "It's because you were so attractive," and Dennis beamed his pleased little-boy smile. I came back with the fact that I thought she was looking very handsome this evening, too, and she smiled and accepted it. We talked for a bit, but then she left after eating, and Dennis said she returned after I'd left, holding court with the people who were left. Sonia and Nikolis came in later, and I tried to get Catherine to say "F Harry Stow," but she wouldn't, and he became my friend for life when he agreed that "borborygmus" would probably mean stomach rumbling, though he said the root was more likely "borborysmus." Tall Richard helped Catherine with the cooking, and I think I'd seen HIM somewhere before, too, and the turkey was extraordinarily tender, the huge olives and cherries marvelous, the candied yams ordinary, and the peas with water chestnuts new to Dennis. I drank lots and served lots and opened lots of bottles and chatted with almost everyone, liking the people and the apartment, and was almost regretful of leaving at 7:30, for the lousy "Aida."
DIARY 11518
12/20/76
OPEN HOUSE AT FRED BASSOFF'S
He's using the MAIN door, as opposed to the kitchen door, this time, and I'm sorry to see (1) that the place has women in attendance and (2) that everyone's far more casual than I am (blue jeans and shirts to my black woolies and red sweater), but the spread in the dining room is not to be believed: fish paste in aspic in the shape of a fish, fruitcake, paté in more aspic, eggnog, red and white wine, cheeses and dips and toasts and squares of bread and cake, and various other unidentifiable mixtures and fantasies, all done by Gene, who's marvelously hung and marvelously ugly at the same time, and blotto out of his mind from the spiked eggnog and whatever Scotchy drink he's drinking and sloshing all over the white rug and his pants and the floor when he gestures as he talks. The tree is a spectacle, everyone bringing their balls and me with my mirrored Indian one hanging heavily. Someone named Parris is an even younger-looking person than the one who was at Arnie's, and I don't have the courage to ask if it IS him. Others are not so attractive, until someone comes in at the end who looks good, but he doesn't say a word to me, and the introductions are rather haphazard this late into the eggnog. Sit and listen to everyone remarking about the dog begging for food from someone who'd fed him before, laughing at the cats streaking in fear across the room, and being surprised that Jim Moultner and Bruce come in, looking as jeanie as they always look, except Bruce is showing a MUCH bigger basket. Listen and listen, Gene gets me in the dining room on a refill trip and asks what I do, boozily appreciating my freedom, and then they give some eggnog to the dog, who rolls on his back on the floor, lists to one side as he hesitates to put down his left rear leg, and sits crooked begging for more. They want to give him enough for him to pass out, and Bruce regales us all with talk of his Great Dane that sent kids running when he sat up in the back seat of his convertible parked in a risky neighborhood. I leave at 6, before it turns into chaos, and someone charming with a beard looks inquiringly at me and then probably enters Fred's as I leave. I always miss the good times, but I'm anxious to get back for ABT on TV at 6:30.
DIARY 11530
12/25/76
CHRISTMAS EVE DINNER AT PAUL'S NEW HOUSE
Paul's baking a chicken with white sauce and Billy and Hugo end up working on some Argentine cannelloni which is very tasty, except they don't heat it up all the way and the garlic seems to lie in tiny, spicy bits. But the Italian bread is great, the lights are flickering from the buildings across the street, Paul has a rather nicely shaped tree with packages from his mother underneath, and we're drinking champagne and wine around a tiny kitchen table. Pierre is very quiet, Billy goes rattling along, and I'm talking with Paul about the house, and he shows us around later to see the vacant upstairs that he's going to move walls around in, and the backyard looks as if it will be nice, with a view of the subway platform down the block: the GG train, so someone DOES use that line. I have two of the three tubes they put on my plate, saving the other for another meal, and the chicken has all breasts, which is nice. David comes in just as we're finishing dinner (and has a piece of the walnut cake, which is ghastly), passes around a joint, and starts talking about his job and his roommate and his adventures---I don't even remember about WHAT!!---and we just sit and listen and listen and be happy that it's 9:30 and they're having to leave at 10:30 for midnight mass, which has even been announced over the radio because they're doing Bach's B-Minor Mass, yet, He talks disparagingly about the "Spanish woodwork" around the stairway on the ground floor, says that a pipe burst in the basement, flooding it (and not to flush the toilet, but HE does and DAVID does and they both agree it's IMPOSSIBLE to piss and not flush), and the downstairs fireplace is covered ready for repairs, and he's going to knock out the stairway-enclosing wall on the parlor floor, put the arch into the back room somewhere else (which will be the kitchen), and then remodel the upstairs when the woman who's living there will get out in June. He's pleased with the place already, noting the differences in the neighborhood from the city, and David drools over some of the Italian kids in the neighborhood. It'll probably be nice when he finishes, but it looked pretty shoddy for Christmas, which didn't help my poor impression of the evening in general.
DIARY 11532
12/28/76
CHRISTMAS DINNER AT MADGE'S
Werner's so awful (and Mike remarks, at one point, "You just have to make do with what you can get" and gives a DREADFUL look to Werner that I ALMOST can't resist remarking about) showing off his house, all the rooms and bare floors and intercoms and signals and alarms direct to the police headquarters for a pretty bad start. Then Madge is so obviously hassled by Michelle, so that she's obviously glad she's working: Michelle is as big as her three-year-old cousin, probably 1/4 as heavy as Madge, and she constantly carries her, when she's not cooking. Mike's chipper about dancing as usual, and the parents are still smiling at me and patting me and catering to me, and when I'm "reminded" of Mrs. Mao's Hoisined walnuts, I eat most of what's eaten in the evening. Mr. Meyer carves the ham and capon, Mrs. Meyer keeps trying to get some attention from Michelle, who never even admits that she's there, and her cousin and she keep eyeing each other with suspicion and at a few points outright hostility and "I'm-better"-ness. Then everyone's talking in Chinese, which doesn't make me feel very with-it, except that last night everyone was speaking Spanish, so I should be used to it by now. Then the food really isn't THAT spectacular, except for the dressing that Madge said she chopped for hours to get, which was great, and everything else was rather Howard Johnsony adequate---and some of the appetizers that she went all the way down to NEW YORK to get were pretty awfully cheesy and mediocre. Then there was no joy from ANYTHING from the kids, and when Werner insisted on showing off the gaming table they bought in Capri and I found that the chips for the roulette table weren't even OPENED, and that no one of them knew how to play Backgammon, it said something else about the household. I DID get the publisher and date of "Gravitation" the paperback for $19.95 by Wheeler, and he seemed interested in the entire field, but that was hardly a reason to enjoy the entire evening. Peg Casey looked exactly as she'd looked 15 years ago, but her considered graciousness was such a thorough pose and automatism that it rather put me off, and though she traveled and traveled, she didn't even remember the names of the places she's been in FIJI! I was glad to get home and take off my white shirt, where the neck had been chafing mine quite badly---it would have felt so good to just SCREAM there.
DIARY 11540
1/1/77
HAPPY NEW YEAR 1977
Start nervously looking at the clock at 11:30 (after figuring at 2 this afternoon that there are only 10 hours left in the year, and at 6 that there's only 6, and about 10 that there's only 2), guessing that Paul ISN'T going to be calling and that I WILL be working through this New Year's. There isn't a sound from upstairs (except the cat, running like crazy---and I almost hope she's lying dead up there) or downstairs and no lights across the hall, except when John comes thumping upstairs about 11:15, seemingly alone. Look again at 11:45 and 11:55, then decide to see how right my clock is and call NER-1212 at 11:57 and 50 seconds, *click*. Hear what seems to be revelers on a nearby line laughing and screaming and shouting, building to a crescendo as the recording gets to 11:59 and 50 seconds, and I'd debated hanging up and calling back, since I recall they DON'T leave you on indefinitely (and I'd actually thought their lines might be BUSY from everyone doing what I was going). But it gets to "12:00 o'clock, exactly" *beep*, and there's a half-second pause when I think NOTHING may happen, but then there is a long low blat of a boat's foghorn, a flurry of firecrackers (since that sound doesn't carry far, does EVERY neighborhood arrange to have its OWN flurry?), and maybe one or two car horns. The telephone gets to 12:00 o'clock, and 10 seconds, when it does off the air, perfectly, and the horn continues for one minute, there's another flurry of firecrackers in back, and it seems that a minute's energy is all there is. I smilingly go back to work--- even if you were SLEEPING you'd probably be wakened to know when it is, making you feel even more guilty about having been sleeping through it--- and the sounds continue for about 5 minutes: more foghorns, more sounds from the river, more horns gently from the street, and then I sort of wait for the sounds of drunkenness along Hicks, but there isn't any of that. So I've done New Year's Even in ANOTHER way, and found that the telephone company doesn't put on anything special for it, as it does for daylight time and I guess that's about it. Thought that someone might be phoning at midnight (Paul, not Dennis, who has it five hours LATER, I find from EB, surprised that there's only 2 hours difference between California and Hawaii, though it ACTUALLY stretches in DISTANCE across about 4 time zones), but they didn't, so that's 1977-start!
DIARY 11577
1/19/77
DINNER AT ARNOLD'S WITH THE FRENCH
Chris talks with Dennis and I show Margaret around while Alice chats with Arnie. Then when Judy comes, saying she remembers me from Travel Dynamics, and then I say we fantasized about going to Africa and she'd just returned from 2 weeks in Nairobi, telling me about how things gather in front of one of the hotels, how one of the greatest guides has gone back to Sweden, and how she'll be going to France to live, just traveling around. Violon is a dynamite blond with bright wide blue eyes and black rims, and for some reason I can get along with her in French, talking about the Algonquin, her brother who lives in the Ivory Coast, and how she's going to be climbing Annapurna sometime in September or October. I tell her how fabulous Kathmandu is, she knows about Kulu and I tell her about Manali and Rohtang Pass. Every so often Judy tried to get into the conversation in French, and I can speak it so much better than she that I'm quite surprised. Even Greg seems to be having fun with the group, pouring wine, making remarks, acting as best translator. Christine looks fairly haggard (though Greg said that the apartment was going very well, though with the mattress on the floor), Alice and Margaret and Dennis are into a deep conversation about the theater, where Margaret is starting to take acting lessons, and Dennis wants to see her again. I'm almost in love with Violon, telling Dennis how I hoped she knew I was gay, otherwise I felt like I was playing some sort of game with her, acting flirtatious and appealing without really wanting anything more from her than friendship. Judy gives me her former card and home phone number, I give my address to Violon who'll give me her brother's address, and I'm rather sorry to leave early as everyone's cleaning up, but someone has to be the first to go. The wind is still blowing fiercely outside, the white flies are really proliferating on the last grass plant, and the next day I keep mopping the floor where the melting ice on the window (it actually got up to about 25Ε the following day) keeps dripping down and making puddles. For some evening that I expected nothing from, it was a delightful time, particularly when Judy insisted I must have graduated from high school the year she did: 1968! Only wrong by 15 years, and I feel FABULOUS about it!