Events, Places, and Things
DIARY 11678
3/4/77
HASSLE WITH WILEY ON FIRST JOB
What a comedy of errors! First she called me for a resume, then had to write me a letter to get me to send her one. Then she called me in for an index, and I gave her Margaret Willard's name, who said that I was good but expensive. When I first look at it, she says something like 800-1200 lines, then cuts it down to an EXACT 800 lines, which causes me pain. Then I find all kinds of inconsistencies in the book, so much so that I sent it back to her, and she didn't respond at all to the questions I asked. Finally, it was decided that since the author was in Saudi Arabia, nothing could be changed in the book. I started thinking I could follow the errors, then decided that I'd have to make them as compatible as possible, except for things I couldn't resolve like the Pw versus Pw. Then I went to about 1050 lines, and I had to cut it. Then when I DID take it in, she looked at the carats for the subscripts as if she'd never seen them before. I KNOW we'd talked about the italics for tables, but a couple of days later someone calls and she asks if it's necessary. I frankly tell her that I had to edit all the discriminating entries out of index ALREADY, so the reader could catch on quickly that everything beyond page 98, or whatever, was on tables. THEN when I asked how much I could charge, I asked if $348 was too low (I calculated about 40 hours but COULDN'T charge $600, and figured $3 per page was about as high as I could go, so at $8/hour I picked 48 hours for--- $384, NOT $348! THEN threw out $480 for 60 hours, 50% more, hoping to settle on a compromise of $432. She said the MAXIMUM was $350, and took 35 per line (I don't think she could see I saw her writing 35 and multiplied by 1050, and STILL came out above $350. Then she took the 800 lines and multiplied by what she said was her HIGHEST rate, 45, and THEN (didn't REALIZE that came out $360) said I'd have to settle for $340. THEN TODAY I got in the mail from her the copyedited version, and someone played HAVOC with it, running-in first subheads where the heading had no page number, taking OUT some of the lines that I'd edited in by repeating headings, moved See Also's to the bottom, put "sigma" in FRONT of the S's, and threw in commas where they made NO sense--- as well as crossed out the "the's," which she said they'd do. I tried calling her at 12, left word, then called at 4 when SHE didn't, and she'd left early. I'm ALMOST tempted to say, with all THAT, that I'm not going to work AGAIN for them.
DIARY 11721
3/14/77
INTRICACIES OF UNITED ASBESTOS
Rolf calls on Sunday and tells me so much about the financial situation that caused the stock to be withdrawn from trading on the American Stock Exchange that I write a page about the knowledge chasm (see DIARY 11717). It seems that a smallish bank in Quebec had been financing the mine in Ontario, and they had no more money to pour into loans. Delays in bringing the mine online (and the added safety devices that had to be added when the laws were changed by the government during the building) raised the costs, and some U.S. bank, that owns 25% of the Canadian bank (whether for investment or for diversification Rolf doesn't know, so that must mean something), won't add any funds. Then, when Rolf was away in Boston working, the Quebec elections put in a separatist party that threatened to nationalize all these industries, which sent the stock from 3 3/4 to 3 1/4 quickly. They've come down from nationalization, but not far enough to cease being an unknown threat. Then he got into the over-the-counter market, because the day it went off the stock exchange someone put in for BUYING at $2 and SELLING at $3, and he must have bought some for $2, because someone else came in at the same price, rather than going up, which would imply that $2 was too low. Rolf said that he and Veneroso and others were thinking of watching closely to buy more stock when prices sink possibly lower, but Rolf's already had to scurry to make up margin calls, though he says that few are in on 50% margin as he is. He mentioned that the SAME thing happened to Comrex and Comten, and he finally helped raise the price of the stock (from 4 to 2 to 12) so much that he at last served on their Board of Directors at $300 a day for about a year and a half, and he sees the same thing happening to United Asbestos, where he's talked with all sorts of people, using free lines from Rothschild, and keeping in touch with Larry Price, who would have to charge a HIGH commission, rather than over-the-counter, with lower commission. Other facts like the possibility of selling the mine, the impossibility of producing products from the asbestos there (because the FINISHED products are too bulky to ship competitively in price), the tax disadvantages (and unemployment costs) for the government to force the mine to close down, the bad bargaining position of the company, and he said he'd call after Monday to say where things stand, but he hasn't yet (11:30 pm).
DIARY 11756
3/24/77
STOCK MARKET INFORMATION
Rolf talks on and on about the possibilities for United Asbestos, echoed in the morning by Larry Price when I called him: they could sell for $20 million, a total loss; sell for $40 million and pay off their debt; sell for $60 M and be a tremendous bargain. They could get outside financing, leaving it at $3-$4/share; there's a SMALL risk of a sheriff's sale, leaving it at $0/share; but if anything REASONABLE happens it's at $4-$5 or even $6-$7 a share, and Larry at last consents to put me in an order for 500 at 1 (which he gently corrects from my "one point five"). Then I check Globe (which I'd bought for $2690.50) which is now wallpaper; Listfax (which I'd bought for $3838) which is now 1 1/8, or $168.75; and Pop shops, which I bought for $2286.50 and he can't see the price for, though there IS a market for it. All quite lousy, but I think the money was all from profits anyway. He says there's a "chance" that the market will open and sink back to 1, at which point I could buy more, though I'll kick myself if the market opens at about 3/4, which it might, and leave me behind. He also said there was a chance that no one would take my offer at 1, at which point I'd probably raise it to 1 5/8, which is what they'll sell it for NOW, by which time they may have gone up to 1 3/4, but WHATEVER it'll be, it'll be better than the 300 that I bought for 4 1/16. Rolf talked of the dangers of nationalization of the mine by the Canadian government, the nationalization of the potash mines in Saskatchewan for twice book value, to keep Canada high in the list of countries in which foreign investment is safe (headed by little Switzerland, surprising West Germany, the perennial US, and upcoming Australia). Then he talks of how he'd like the Colt photos that I have spares of, and of the new protein-maintenance diet which is better than a fast because when the body breaks down fat in a fast it ALSO has to break down protein--- muscle tissue--- to get the SUGAR that it must have which is not capable of being metabolized from fat. He's amused at my stopping marijuana, tickled at my use of the pyramid (asking if Bob would like to invest in United Asbestos)--- and Larry is tickled to say that he's putting in my bid as an "unsolicited bid," which he confesses means "You can't sue me if it goes down to 1/4 when it returns to the market and all the people who have it on margin can't cover and are forced to dump it."
DIARY 11786
4/2/77
DINNER AT TAVERN ON THE GREEN FOR MY BIRTHDAY
People are clustered around the reservations table, but they seat Dennis and me immediately, next to the center window looking over carriages arriving with diners, neat. Lovely flowers on sills and tables, but golden cow, boar, and deer heads are glitzy all around. Nice Tiffany-style lamps and lots of nice mirror-work around the long curving bar facing me, and the same style of glass encircling the elm of Elm Room across the way, with the festivities in the Crystal Room in the distance, and menus advertised for lunch, brunch, tea, Elm Room, and Crystal Room dinners. Dennis says we can come back. Good warm raisin bread and loads of butter served, we get huge menus and read them all. He decided on avocado, lobster, and pineapple ala Russe for $7.15, an interesting idea, good quality food, but nothing blended to get again. I get the hors d'ouvres variés with boring beets, cold mushrooms, tasty anchovy under the half-hard boiled egg, zesty cole slaw with horseradish, arresting beef and pepper that had the texture of squid, creamed peas and potato, and a pork paté which was so mixed it could have been tuna or salmon smoked, and maybe three other unimaginative items. Too little for $3.65. Half-bottle of Pinot Chardonnay good for $5.75 with that course, but half-bottle of Chateau Seyzac, or something for $4.75 wasn't very good with meal. But Dennis liked his three cutlets of tender boar with lingonberries, cranberries, and apples for about $9.25, and my sweetbreads were best I've ever had, with good fresh asparagus, for about $7.25. He had $1.00 coffee, and for dessert $2.25 hazelnut cheesecake with HUGE sliced strawberries on the side, which he couldn't finish (so much for our idea of getting soup, too!), and I had FABULOUS $2.25 & GREAT banana fritters with cinnamon sauce AND hot chocolate sauce AND schlag in three large dishes that we couldn't even finish the CHOCOLATE from. Sort of fun people, with the older woman across from us giving her red-rimmed white rose to us, the waiter giving us balloons and laughs, the head waiter asking if I wanted the red wine with the appetizer, and a bellboy saying he'd get ingredients but he didn't. Bill came to something like $47, we got two balloons, walked around looking inside and outside, getting told of the disco and outside restaurant opening soon, and left feeling just great about a fabulous dinner for my birthday.
DIARY 11816
4/11/77
WALK IN FORT TRYON AND INWOOD HILL PARKS
The bright sun didn't quite take away the coolness, and the babble of all the men in Jewish caps and the women in their drab overcoats were overlaid by the roar of jets from Kennedy every so often. It DID appear that this was the highest point, since the Cloisters was definitely below, and the view of Inwood Hill beyond looked lower. I found that the path from the southeast corner is the ONLY ingress to Inwood Hill from the south, except for going along the highway to the west, which isn't pleasant. With the leaves not yet on the trees, I could see how I was walking along the highest ridge of Inwood Hill, going up to the old viewing parapet to look in dismay at the ravaged park benches, only concrete left standing, and then up the spine to what looked like the foundations of a pavilion from the turn of the century, not a private house, and then to a blasted section that looked like it had withstood some ritual midnight orgy, so trampled was the bare earth. Farther on a bare rock seemed to be the highest point, but the trees around didn't look suitable for easy climbing, so I couldn't check, but it did seem that the Cloisters towered above the park, so Tryon must be the highest. Could look down to the rivers at both sides, and was rather disgusted at the use and abuse of the park: three old ladies with dogs that barked constantly, two sexy boys with THEIR dogs, and a father and son who were practicing their putting. A Chinese couple went by with a shopping bag to collect goodies, joggers loped past with their dogs, a mixed couple wandered, but that was about it: Tryon was jammed, this was almost empty. I stood at top points and watched the setting sun, then went for the subway elevator at 6:30 when I noted a river of birds in the sky, seeming to skim the edge of sunset, flying from northwest to southeast in a stream perhaps 20 wide, perhaps five passing a point in a second, for a rate of 100 a second, for five solid minutes, of 30,000 birds, and they could have been as long or longer BEFORE I saw them, and they continued in discrete bundles until about 6:30, when I went down to the cooler lower regions, noting a well-dressed PR mother stopping her baby carriage for a bit while she lit up a joint. I cursed the fountains for not assuaging my thirst, then found an orange on a ledge that tasted good; Dennis crowed about my creating my universe, and he said he'd wished he'd come along with me.
DIARY 11873
4/26/77
GROWTH OF THE TREE OF HEAVEN NEXT DOOR
I keep having to say "Tree of Heaven next door," so that I'll pull myself away from thinking I'm talking about something INSIDE ME equivalent to the TREE OF LIGHT that Actualism talks about. This is a page that's been niggling at me for the past couple of weeks: the last few years it seems that I looked out one day and the Tree of Heaven growing outside my back window was just a skeleton, and then the next day I look and it's complete with full-fledged fronds, swaying about two feet in the breeze. I had the idea that I could catch the DAY in which they grew, and actually MEASURE their growth, so fast would it be. So THIS spring I decided to watch it more closely, and I looked out for about a week, the week before last, and it seemed that the buds were as small as could be while still giving the impression that there was still life there. Then last week the buds grew to a larger size than I'd ever seen them before, from about dime-sized to about quarter-sized, and I figured that any day I'd look out and see some fantastic spurt of growth. But Saturday I looked out and they'd unfurled the tiniest bit, not being a BUG anymore but a tiny FLORET in which the ends of the leaves could be seen, and when I left on Saturday I noted they were about as big as a silver dollar, thinking that Monday, on my return, they would again be exploded. But the weekend was cool and cloudy, so they didn't go very far. And each day I'd think to myself "Want to write a page about that, want to write a page about that," and be disappointed the next day when I HADN'T yet written a page about that. So today's the day, and the florets have grown so that the most advanced ones have complete red leaves totally pushed forth from the bud-formation of green, extending out like a star to a diameter of about 2 inches, so it's NOT instant, and I'll leave it as it is TODAY, and hope to notice them later in the week and come back to finish this page. It's HARDLY instant: by Thursday 4/28 it's hardly changed at ALL: some buds now florets. By Monday 5/2 they're all florets; some have distinct leaves in a 5" clump; SMALL trees OUT! By Wednesday 5/4 the clumps are about 6", by Friday 5/6 they're about 9" clumps, but still got LOTS to go.
DIARY 11899
5/5/77
BOOK LIST FUN AT NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
I start by requesting Woolf's "Monday or Tuesday," "Street Haunting" and "Beau Brummel," but when I get my Rare-Book-Room slips OKed in room 219 and go back up to 303, I find that "Beau Brummel" is in the "Second Common Reader" and that "Street Haunting" is in "The Death of the Moth," but he lets me read it after lending me a pencil, and I LAUGH when I find that the first sentence in the essay is "No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a lead pencil," and show it to the guy. The woman who's seen me before for Huxley remembers me and says hello. Then I xerox $5.70 worth (19 pages) of Woolf and cross HER off my list. Then go to the National Union Catalog and check through the whole lists for Blackwood stories and sign out "Incredible Adventures" to find "Regeneration" too long to copy, "Pan's Garden" for titles, "Selected Tales of A.B." for titles, and "Ten-Minute Stories" for titles, finding that "Tales of A.B." which NUC lists as IN library doesn't have a CARD in the files, so it's "lost." Oh, got the Woolf on the SECOND try when the FIRST, shorter-in-pages, London edition was listed as "lost," also. Then also checked Bibliography of VW to find that "Kew Garden" contained ONLY the story "Kew Garden," which has been reprinted. Also, "Monday and Tuesday" had everything checked EXCEPT the two stories: "Blue and Green" and "A Society," so obviously they were making the same hunt as I was. Then when I checked Dahl's "Over to You" and found the first, fifth, and 10th story checked, I thought I'd found another, but then found that NONE of them were in the three editions I had, so THAT had to remain on the list. Found, sadly, ANOTHER John Collier entitled "Pictures in the Fire" with 26 sheets of xeroxing for $7.80, and found that "Devil and All" is ANOTHER rare book, so I just made out a card and didn't check THAT, but I might be able to CUT HIM IN HALF, since the other two are definitely novels. Check that there are no more Ouspensky novels, and that "Fourth Dimension" seems to have been entered ONLY in Russian. There was no listing of Watts' "Nonsense," but found an entry in the American Union Catalog in 1942, or something, and tried to get "Way of Liberation" copied and they refused for copyright purposes, and the guy said I should try Columbia University, where they'd just let me use the xerox machine there for 10¢ a page (though I ran into DIARY 11902!).
DIARY 11902
5/5/77
COLUMBIA LIBRARY AND SCIENCE-FICTION SHOP
Find a NEW Watts "Outline of Zen Buddhism" that I can't duplicate because I'm not a student, find a new Ballard listed from the University of Indiana Press, find that "Retreat Diaries" signed by Burroughs in their rare book division ALREADY, that they have little Sturgeon, forgot to check Chardin, and THEY don't have Watts' "Way of Liberation." Then in the Science-Fiction Shop I find that Tuck gives me ALL the contents of ALL the volumes by Blackwood that I hadn't been able to locate, and tell Baird Searles that he came up with 26 of Blackwood's 48 titles, and he asks if they're all sci-fi, and I tell him about "The Fruit Stoners" and he agrees that it SOUNDS sci-fi. Then check THEIR Ballard listing to find lots of titles that I no longer NEED, but only their first volume is there so I can't check on John Wyndham, though I should have looked under Harris. Told Baird that I wanted to find what the contents of Clarke's "Of Time and Stars" was, since it wasn't listed in the bibliography, and he gave me his phone number and told me to call him: he'd give it to me. Tried about 10:30, but he wasn't home last night. Hinted that he might like my Blackwood list, but he didn't seem to take to it. HUGELY muscled boy from "Big Gym" came in, popping everyone's eyes, and there was lots of business for their specialized books. Updated my list of Lem hardcovers, checked the paperback contents of the Dover that wasn't in the bibliography, and felt that I'd got lots of good out of the afternoon there, when I really hadn't intended to go across to them at ALL, and they didn't have the Wyndham I was looking for anyway, nor did they have any of the missing Ballard books, though now I just need 4 books of his, only one of which is a collection of short stories, "The Overloaded Man." Then TONIGHT (5/5) I try to locate Blackwood's "Man from the Gods" and don't find IT but find where I'd first read Ballard's "Souvenir" about the Drowned Giant, in Playboy, along with a Sturgeon story that I hadn't had recorded, along with large numbers of Dahl and Collier stories, including "Beware the Dog" which is in "Over to You." But I STILL can't find the short story entitled "Someone Like You" in his COLLECTION entitled "Someone Like You"!
DIARY 11941
5/17/77
STAMPS AND WHAT TO DO WITH THEM
Know that MANY of the bargains from Hamilton will remain valuable if I don't put hinges on them, but THEN what do I do? Though I go through lots of possibilities from getting rid of ALL the stamps to putting them ALL in books, I figure that ONE way would be to treat the two-volume album for mainly USED stamps, and shop around for special blank albums with photo mount-type pages so that I can DISPLAY the stamps that looked so great in the German display plastic, but still have them organized according to country so that I can see what I have and what I don't. It's rather a relief to see that in some of the packets of stamps that I have copies for the album of the stamps that I have in SHEETS, but that gives me something MORE to do, shop for another high-capacity album for special countries. Then I sort of wonder what to do with the rest of my LIFE, thinking again about what joys will be open to me when I'm 90, thinking of getting rid of books, records, tapes, stamps, and going traveling in a camper, but decide that, JUST LIKE LIFE, the joy of collecting or living isn't directed TO THE END OF IT, but TO THE PROCESS OF IT. I don't collect stamps to SELL them, but because I enjoy getting them in mail from friends, soaking them off, sorting them, filling in spaces, cataloging them, and keeping up the lists of empty pages and duplicates of duplicates. It's the PROCESS that's enjoyable, not the final collection. The collection will probably outlast me, just as my books, my dreams, my lists will, but that's no reason to complain, since I ENJOYED THEM WHILE I WAS DOING THEM. If I DON'T enjoy them, I should STOP doing them. Even though I complain about the demands of the diary, I enjoy getting it all down, AND hope that I'll find use for it in the future (just as TODAY, Dennis called about Coretta King, and I said she "introduced" "The Three Kings," which was just the word Dennis seemed happy with, so it was good for THAT, as well as for reactions, impressions, and whether I want to do something AGAIN or not). So there's no use for anything DRASTIC like GETTING RID OF IT unless I don't LIKE it, which isn't the case, though I suppose I can quit spending loots of money--- NONSENSE: if something comes in AGAIN that looks as good as the Hamilton offer, I'll SEND for it again, only taking care that it isn't SHEETS. And I even now have lots of LARGE glassine envelopes in which I can sort out COVERS and add them to the general drawers from their box misplaced on the bookshelves.
DIARY 11942
5/17/77
BRONX ZOO FOR THE YEAR 1977
It was rather tiring, so I don't think I'll want to go BACK this year, but I didn't think I added too many NEW places: tried the heads and horns to find that office partitions block most of them now. Line too long for the tramway, so we went around the south walks to enjoy loafing gnus and prancing, galloping zebras, just beautiful. Blesboks with white blazes on their faces. Only one tapir in South America, and it kept moving away from us, nose dripping, but trees were in beautiful bloom there. Pheasants again charming, with the pipers piping, sun glinting off blood-red feathers of oscillated turkey, who was displaying for its flying female, and other beauties, including one in tight trousers with open shirt with a woman. Then to elephants and the rhinos chomping on their hedges with a lovely keeper onlooking, to the lion house to a lively Siberian tiger cub startled by the sounds it got out of its meal-pan, the second cub (from January 20th, 1977, only) lying weakly nearby, the father growling, eyes milky in the sunlight. Into the monkey house, but Dennis didn't like the noises of the people, and suggested we search out the Minnie Downs Mice, and so we go all the way across to the small mammals and find only one terrified-looking one, and then to the ape house to stare at the gorillas outside, who quickly went inside, and find the seal looking like a brown-gray rock in his pool. Penguins weren't doing anything, so we go down around the bear dens and walk down the back way to come to the tramway about 5:20, and I impulsively suggest we ride across AND back, so we get right in, sail across to see the goats eating in their hilltop feeder, the seal rock, lots of people still moving around, and at the other side we stop for ice and pretzels (after I'd had a softee which was pretty bad and Dennis had a slice of pizza), and then in the long line to go across AGAIN and STILL see lots of people, some of them waving from the cars going the opposite way, and we often got more pleasure watching the Clothed Crotches on the outsides of the fences than the Spotted Splotches INSIDE the fences. STILL didn't see the bird walk, Gibbons, Rainey gate, though we caught the crane walk, nor did we see the Roosevelt elk, the emu, or Wolf Wood, though everything else still seemed to be pretty much seen.
DIARY 11997
6/6/77
WORLD TRADE CENTER ROOF
Stumble on the escalator to the observatory ticket booth by accident, and through the sumptuous lobby to pay $1.70 and wait for one elevator, and then listen to the guide talk while we endure the 20 mph leap 1337 feet into the air in less than a minute, shuddering at the thought of 110 floors speeding past. Out to the GRAND windows to the floor, the BRIGHTNESS of the day, and just EVERYTHING out there. We'd aimed to go up, but we couldn't resist looking at each view as we passed it on the way to the elevators in the south, and I started pointing out islands and states and boroughs from the first. Then up a set of three (I think, maybe four) escalators to the roof, built up ABOVE the roof so there's no real chance of jumping THERE, but the view is all there except for Chinatown and straight below. We're even higher than the other tower, which is a kick and a necessity, though it still has a construction crane atop it. Chinese buzzed about the fact that the wall-climber came over the northeast corner of the building. Point out bridges, buildings, the Promenade, tunnels, belt parkways, airports, United Nations, and he gets quite a kick out of the extreme juxtaposition of the old and the new, particularly the old St. Paul's, the gothic tower of the Woolworth Building, other Roman and Greek temples atop buildings, and the modern glass blocks. Remarks about the cleanness of the air, no smoke at ALL, and I tell about stenches from New Jersey, which looks VERY boring from there. Could see people in Windows on the World, there was an interesting Z-A exhibit of things from different countries, something on gold, and an AWFUL souvenir shop and snack bars, as usual. We went down after being blown about a bit by the wind, but there was no need for the windscreens posted about. Lovely looks at ferries going all sorts of places: Governor's Island, Staten Island, Liberty Island, even a small seaplane taking off. My French was becoming increasingly strained, and he supplied a few words, but couldn't imagine that I wanted voiles for sails rather than poupe for stern of a ship. Lots to walk around to see, so much LARGER than the Empire State Building, but its MIDTOWN location makes it STILL a kick to go up onto.
DIARY 12046
6/26/77
TALK WITH PEOPLE AT EGR
Joyce Palmer passes as I'm talking to the secretary who's balking at my name, and I'm in to the fast talking Aussie-accented stern-looking woman that Arnold could describe as "very businesslike." She chatted about the problems (hardly any) of the trip to the Plaza, almost apologized that it would only be $100 for actually the better part of 3 days, but said that probably I'd have a chance to eat at the Tavern on the Green and at the Plaza, though of course I wouldn't be drinking, and I might go to Yankee Stadium for the All-Star Game if they had tickets for me, since it was their coup of getting THOSE tickets that got this group for them in the first place. Everything's independent until they get to the hotel, so there's nothing to be done at airports, though I tell her my FIRST job was for airport check-ins. We talk more and she asks if I've ever guided a tour in London, and I say "No," but I'd been there two years ago. However, she said she had great fears about this group of 130 liquor dealers (60% Italian and 40% Jewish) chewing up the escort since they were very demanding. But as we talked she seemed to be pleased (though she wondered why I hadn't worked more after TDI, and I said it just didn't fall into my lap, and we talked about the joys of freelance working quite a lot) and rang for John Kiley to see if he'd like to talk with me. He passed by, introduced himself, and led me to his office making remarks about "that troublemaker Arnold" in affection. He asked me about the Stella Oceanis because he'd been on board the Jason, and I mentioned the problems of switching people around, the inner cabins with no windows, the noise everywhere, and the elevator in the back, and Arnold said he just wanted to see how I handled myself in talking with people. I'd said I'd stayed at the Kensington Close "because tours used it," and said that it wasn't anyone's cliché of London with hot water (and HE had to mention the mustiness of the ships' towels, I'd forgotten that, and Arnold said I should have mentioned the TINY closet space in the deluxe cabins), and we chatted on until he seemed to have gotten enough, I felt I might have gone a bit too far in saying "It would be a good trip to start someone out on," and he said "Yes" a bit too abruptly, and they said they'd call me. Well, they didn't, so I should be checking them this week again.
DIARY 12054
6/27/77
SODOM AND GOMORRAH DAY
Pairs and clumps and trucks and busses of cops greet the eye as we near the park, and they almost outnumber the freaks gathered around a tiny group of people shouting something in one corner of the walkway. We stroll around the park and look at the old people peering out of their ages, dog walkers, guy spouting poetry for sale and hamming it up in an embarrassing way, and Dennis goes to the john while I debate encountering a cop. Later I ask why they're here and some clunk says "Donno, 'cause they told us to come here," while another seems to be calmer and says that "It's Sodom and Gomorrah Day, so we had to come," and they begin to infiltrate what appears to be the only show in the park, getting comments like "C'mon, even you men in blue can smile," and they talk about how no one's supposed to take their clothes off even though they were born without clothes on; and someone recently passed a law against mothers nursing children through bared breasts, and I get a DREADFUL feeling of oppression, even from the horse shit on the sidewalks deposited by the cops' horses when they were dragging off someone. Some cop asks me to "Move over there," and I feel my rage building and say "Why?" as calmly as I can, but I can hear my voice tremble. "Because I say so," doesn't move me until someone else says "We have to clear the walkway," which I take for at least an ATTEMPT at a reason, though Dennis said that there was no one who wanted to get through, so that wasn't a GOOD reason, but I just demanded to be told SOMETHING that made sense to me. Everyone agree THEY were asking for trouble from the crowd as an excuse to bump heads, and then a flier handed out said that the Yippies were sponsoring it, which made the whole thing unpleasantly political. The level of "humor" was pretty bad: trying to get people to get their bodies painted (which obviously WASN'T what they were into, only using it to break the law in big enough numbers so that the cops couldn't bust EVERYONE, but it didn't work). They announced they'd be throwing away money and joints, kept urging someone to take their clothes off, and gave out with dreadful monologues and scatological songs and semen, but it made me feel ugly and dirty just listening to them, so I didn't know whether to feel more depressed about the Yippies, the cops, Soho News, or myself for the cruddy taste left in my mouth from it.
DIARY 12088
7/1/77
PARTY AT TREE COMMUNICATIONS
ANDREA DINOTO smiles myopically at me then recognizes me; she's big-boobed and serious.
KATHY KASHION is a petite swinger with a great personality, smiling at me while dancing.
MAGGIE OSTER from "Green Pages" is beautiful, shiny haired, finishing MS in horticulture.
SONYA is the art director, fetchingly dressed in one of her own creations, pretty.
BRUCE is co-owner, been asked to push the animated "Metamorphoses," gracious.
RODNEY is co-owner, a HANDSOME man in Indian shirt, but living with a WOMAN, as
NIEL is quick to tell me with chagrin, since everyone thinks Rodney and Bruce are together.
TOM MORGAN fusses around the cheese platter of creamy tasty chevre cheeses.
SOMEONE LERNER looks like a sandpapered black who's pinko-gray now, talking of lover
LARRY ZIM whom I'm supposed to call about a 1939 World's Fair Guide, and even JACK HERBERT is talking very gay, John Connolly's transportation-model friend.
MARTIN SOKOL is there feeding his face after opera class, having not eaten with
REGINA, who's laughing at my drink (and has one) of Marti and Marti, talking with
MIKE, her ex-husband, who's doing a chapter for them on photography.
DENNIS is sorry he had to leave early, hated Ornette Coleman, loved showing me his desk, and everyone said the place was decorated so nicely, like offices in Milan. The editor of the hardcore crafts book is tall and dancing with a fellow who wears slacks JUST like hers, the animation expert is pushing his wife, who's a doll collector, and no one seems to know who the woman in beige with the large straw hat is, and a pretty woman in a white dress might be Rodney's woman (though Niel even whispers that they might be MARRIED!), and I'm amazed at the open gayness of people talking about good places to cruise, lovers, "taking it out and playing with it," and movies they've liked for their nude scenes. Food unending: lox and cheese sandwiches, pita bread with ham, paté, salads of potato, bean, and cucumber, sandwiches of roast beef, pastrami, dark and light-meat chicken, and of some filling that I don't get because I'm after the grand enormous brie, the black and green olives, the meatballs on skewers, the cookies of melting chocolate chips and later gingerbread men, the Lowenbrau beer on ice, the unending bar, the loud music that's later danced to, and Dennis said that it ended about 1 am, and I'm sure everyone had as much fun toward the end as I did at the beginning with the beautiful mix of people fascinating to talk to.
DIARY 12111
7/6/77
FIREWORKS OF JULY 4, 1977
Up the eastern stairway out of the subway when the western ones are totally jammed and moving slowly, and then down 96th through droves of people, and the cops have blocked off 96th west of West End, so I walk in the street quickly to the park entrance, and bicyclists are maddeningly trying to cycle through ignoring the people. Walk along the roadway under repair to about 98th, then double back south along the road, crossing it down to the lawn, then past the basketball fields until I get to the river walk, where I walk south until I see a space along the fence and *voila* I'm at the river's edge to see the five barges moored at 86th, 91st, 96th, 101st, and 106th Streets, while blue-light-blinking police boats keep the river clear of other traffic. Lots of skyrockets being set off from the crowd, people selling four firecrackers that lots set off, and low tones of "loose joints" float through the crowd. Again silly people on either side of me, but it starts at 9:15 exactly, though when I WANT radios around, there are none except those tuned to raucous rock-n-roll stations. The five barges JUST fill my field of vision, but I quickly find that the IMPRESSIVITY of the fireworks comes from watching ONE blast, followed by the streamers out from the center, followed by the sparks, whistlers, comets, or secondary explosions, followed by the secondary sparks, or whatever, and the dying away. It is NOT so great to see something out of the corners of the eye and see an already exploded formation in the sky. So I looked from one side to the other, and got most of it, and it DID seem to be MUCH better than the display last year. Three idiot-children jabber about their own business even during the height of the blasts, more reasons why blacks don't see free Shakespeare in the park, even though a deep black voice says "Watch it man, there're kids here." They were stoned, I hope, rather than so retarded even fireworks couldn't take them out of themselves. Ashes filter back to get in eyes, more fireworks in crowd, some LOUD ones that cause anguished cries, and then the milling flood of people over the roads, over stonewalls and iron fences, up hillsides to clamber over the wall like an idiot so as to avoid walking another 20 yards with the rest of the people, and the traffic jam commences for the next hour in the worst places, ambulances whirling their lights ineffectually in their half-hour trek along the single black of 88th Street that Dennis lives on while I wait.
DIARY 12112
7/6/77
SUMMARY OF AURA GOGGLES
Take them back to Pope on July 1, having tried them three or four times without any results. In Test One, the black paper appears greenish for 20-25 seconds, which implies I have a rather long staying-time, but if there's nothing to stay, that doesn't matter much. In Test 2 the white paper and the walls seems faintly greenish while the black paper remains black. In Test 3 I try it both ways and nothing happens, and then I try it WITHOUT BLINKING both ways, and nothing happens. This is from 1:04-1:20 am on 9/4/76 (so I've had them ABOUT a YEAR!! No WONDER Pope doesn't want to lend me his alphaphones!). The folder says that 15-20 minutes is enough, and at this point I felt that 16 minutes was enough. Then on 10/27 I try it from 9:20 to 9:40, and nothing happens with the papers either black or white, and when I put my fingertips together I get a bit of orangish color about the fingertips that is just my exhausted eyesight. At the end I think I can see a glow around the SHADOW on the black behind my fingers, but I'm sure that's a common physiological effect from the shadow appearing "blacker than black," so that the area next to the "black" there HAS to appear as "lighter than black." Another time I took it to Dennis's with Bob Rosinek stoned, and he kept saying that he saw things with them, but I saw only the same color contrasts that occur between dark-haired people and light-colored walls, that even looking at Nick Sanabria I saw in the Appleton office a couple of times, which is the same effect as above. Bob said he saw it stretch out more than I did, and the heightened "go-with-it" quality of the grass caused me to agree with him, though I'm sure there was no heightening of the usual effect. And now that Actualism has ruled out smoking grass for the duration of the classes, I won't be able to do THAT anymore, and figured that three times was about enough to try, and I wanted to return SOMETHING to Pope so that he'd be conned into loaning me his Alphaphones when he's finished with his current looking into them, now that I'm reading Barbara Brown's book. If I can't see energies in Actualism, which are supposed to be MORE sensual, after 25 lessons, how can I see auras after any number of lessons guided only by my skeptical self?
DIARY 12130
7/10/77
SPECIAL EDITIONS COLLECTION
Look at the catalog "The Beat Generation and Other Avant-Garde Writers" and find that Anacapa Books in Santa Barbara lists LOTS of Burroughs in special editions, and I ask the librarian about it and she fills my ears. Lots of famous writers do this, and she's sure Burroughs has a hand in his own special editions. In the back of one of the books is a letter from Unicorn Press telling the Special Collections Library at Columbia about the special editions of 90 copies for sale, and the librarian says they have a very large endowment that permits them to buy essentially all they want of these, and they just keep rolling in. I'm sure the companies never have to worry about selling them at about $25 apiece, and $2500 for an edition of 100 books isn't bad, since 10 are left out for the publishing house and the authors to make fortunes on later, I guess. I determine to SEE Burroughs on this--- why should I pay a COMPANY $15-55 for his books when I can get them UNSIGNED from him and get him to SIGN them, maybe, not to mention meeting him. She says that lots of poets go into private printing, and they have a file of special presses, and she takes me back and shows me about 40 FILE DRAWERS, and I boggle when I think this is a card per press, but it turns out to be a card per BOOK from these presses, and some "Limited Edition" press goes back about 50 years and prints such valuable things as "Leaves of Grass" on special papers and hand-bound works, but she says that even the BEST "state-of-the-art" books of the current time can't match the beauties from the past, and some of the Joachim brothers' press books are dated back in the 1660s, and she said that collectors just get so many of them that they end up getting all of them, and the art ones are stored at another library, but most of them are here, and she doesn't accept when I say I was startled by the Morgan Library, and I'm sure she has more here. She said she didn't get into acquisitions, and if I wanted to talk to the person who makes the decision WHICH authors to buy, I could see him. But she said they got just about everything, and in lots of different fields, too. A whole business in which a private person has not a chance to get EXHAUSTIVE with ANY author who indulges in such money grubbing.
DIARY 12134
7/11/77
LUNCH AT LA GRENOUILLE
The head waiter tells me of a "little man" waiting for me, and then says something about "le premier" when he puts us in the far rear corner and I order a drink that doesn't come because the waiter's fussing about a group of 13 Chinese girls sitting down the row from us. Dennis finds Susan, who orders a glass of dry red wine and Dennis has a white Russian that they charge $3 for, and my Dubonnet and soda finally comes. Two women on my right talk about wanting to see "Annie" and the maitre d' recommends that they try ticket agents even after the box office is sold out, and the restaurant fills up with what looks like tourists. Waiter says that he'll explain anything we want when we had just been given the menus, so I say we have to read them first, and then Susan asks for the Daube de Boeuf and he says "We wouldn't think of having such a hot dish in the summer, it's just beef stew, you know," and Susan curtly suggests they change the menu for the summer, and he says he would if he owned the place. Dennis has the spinach soufflé since he'd had it at a dream-party once, and it's VERY light yet filling with mucho eggs and VERY pretty green under its dark-tan browned coating and white sauce, and Susan has none but I have lots, and the waiter makes some remark to his sidekick about that. Susan orders the veal scaloppini when I do, and the veal is REALLY lush, three middle-sized thin rounds of surpassing tenderness, with spinach on the side, and they have coffee that Susan knocks with her elbow and stains the corner of the tablecloth. My poire Belle Helene comes with John Connelly's HOT sauce AND he reminded me of the crystallized VIOLETS, and cold chocolate, and earlier I was SURE that I was served the paté that Susan ordered and that she was served my terrine, since the paté had chunks of goose liver paste in it, dots of truffle, and varieties of color whereas the terrine (now I'm not so sure) was uniformly of the texture of sausage. Dennis loved his clams, little necks, though I didn't care for them, and the service of the new rolls and cutlery was rushed and clanky. Waiter bowed expectantly when we passed him on the way out, but I delighted in not giving him anything: no use having him laugh at us WHILE we eat and then laugh at us for tipping him as we LEAVE, too! Don't think I'm entranced with the idea of returning: menu only of ONE appetizer, entrée of chicken, chicken livers, brains, sea bass, soufflé, omelette de Bresse, veal two ways, the non-summer beef en daube, calves livers, and another omelette, so we had what we wanted. Their desserts of strawberries and raspberries nice.
DIARY 12136
7/11/77
SOUTH STREET SEAPORT
Walk along Fulton and climb the stairs at ship models to go across past the padlocked Marine Library to the printers' shop, where I get a flier on the yacht that I hope we're taking around the island next week with the group from Cincinnati. Then down to the boring "Farewell to Old England" exhibit with filched spices and grains and seed from the display racks. The book and chart store doesn't have any of the Clarke, and the New Fulton Market is just a junkshop of antiques, trivia, handcrafts, and noisy people eating junk foods in a huge area. The art gallery, education workshop, and steamship model room are all closed, which is probably to the good. North along the East River and under the Brooklyn Bridge where the high-rise ghettos have their money-ball games, the dice games, their crap tables, and a marvelous orange-peel grinder that produces shoelace-thickness leather-looking lengths of oily orange about 15 feet long that Dennis gets one of. Along the street to a foul-smelling greasy box that seems to be GENERATING squirmy maggots that overflow into the street, but we don't get up the courage to see what's INSIDE the offal box. Some sexy numbers, a salsa band that isn't playing, a john over the river that could be used for a tiny whorehouse, and people poking into other corners. Down to the docks to board the Lettie G. Howard, an old fishing boat with tiny bunks down below; the Ambrose Lightship with its old tiny elegant officer's dining room, and look over the river. Had also gone out on the pier connected to one of the legs of the Brooklyn Bridge and looked into the dirty green waters for only a couple feet. Then south to love 127 John Street, wander past Delmonico's and various closed restaurants we'd neither of us heard of (Yvonne's L'Escargot, Coachman, Harry's of Hanover Square, Italian Alps), past Fraunces Tavern that we both want to go to, and lots of closed bars and coffee shops where I became more and more aware that my legs were hot in woolen pants, my black shoes were heavy, my shopping bag with my jacket kept swinging against Dennis's shorts, and I was getting tired and short-tempered by the time we settled into our too-expensive meal in the underground-looking brick and woodwork of the Sketch Pad, which not even the cuteness of the bartenders could alleviate.
DIARY 12144
7/16/77
FULTON FISH MARKET
Can see the lights from the bridge, which is already busy, and down to walk off William Street into the projects around Spruce and Gold Streets, lots of people walking around already toward work at 7:45, and down Beekman Street where I think to walk on tiptoes to protect the hole in my heel, but the whole thing is icy and wet so I walk and get socks wet. Down past people hosing off sidewalks, tight and tanned in undershirts wet with work, and some fairly unassuming crotches under nice biceps and pectorals. Down to Fulton and across South Street to the market proper, and there are huge carcasses of swordfish, tiny headless sharks, hunks of meat which must be going toward cat food in a chopper, and lots of barrels of whole fish that range in color from white (though none as white as the plastic-looking huge fish seen all about) though pink to green or blue tinged, to red, to black. Some piles of shrimp not yet red with cooking, lots of scallops shipped up from Virginia and southward, and cabbage and onion bags bulging with clams in their black shells. Everywhere filets glistening white in tins that make them look purified and edible, and we saw a fellow filleting expertly, saying to Dennis that this is the fellow we blame for bones. Black women shop around for their purchases, and a guy says he'll sell anything over 10 pounds. Macho look to men: sweaty, droopy trousers, cigars dangling from mouths, and one fellow says he gets up at 1:30 am on the island to get to work at 3, so he's almost finished at 9, then stays up and gets to sleep about 6. Look at some beautiful muscles across the way, then through more places and across more streets to find that the area's bound by Dover, Pearl, and John Street, so we walk all the streets a couple of times, looking at buildings for sale from 1811, though the 3 am starting time would make them bad for apartments, watch them washing the windows at the being-remodeled Sweets, the Essex Restaurant is closed under name of Coachman, closed also, and macho fellows order double portions of bacon, crisp, in the John Street Restaurant where we eat later, thirsty from the day, wet from the constant wetness and ice being crushed to preserve the fish that had been caught yesterday and shipped immediately. What a pain to see it earlier, so we'll probably be content with this tag-end viewing.
DIARY 12146
7/16/77
NYC BLACKOUT
Last one November 9, 1965, from 5:15 pm to 5:15 am, this one from 9:30 pm to 9:30 am! People in the other wing of the Olcott shouting back and forth, lots of candles flickering in windows, not many car horns. Out to candlelit lobby after fumbling with 22 others downstairs after class, and little groups huddle around radios that say all of the city and some of upstate is out and no one knows when it's coming back. Already there are flash-lit people in intersections directing traffic, and on West End and 87th I hear "Thank YOU" from a director who had obviously just been thanked, but on 88th a woman shouts "Son of a BITCH" at a car she waves forward then tries to stop to let pedestrians cross. Lots of shirtless men on the street in the heat and high humidity, made cruisy by the dimness and the flickering lighting of auto headlights that diminish as the evening goes on. Some cars drawn up to light restaurants, some cars running over glass and causing people to shout, but nowhere did I see fires set (thousands) or looting (hundreds) or arrests (2500) that the papers built up so that Mom called me Thursday midnight after picturing me in the rubble of my apartment. Red flares, candles in glasses, and flashlights helped people along the streets, and I followed a couple of nice asses and backs swinging up the road and caught a couple of nice eye-passes from groovy people who seemed searching for something. Lots of lightning flickering in the east, but it never rained in the north as Mark reported it did in the south, after leaving the Metropolitan when the musicians couldn't play without lights and the spotlights hit the audience more than the stage. Fireworks shot off on 88th as Dennis cooked and bystanders applauded, lots of people looked out windows, others didn't notice strange patterns their flashlights threw on adjoining buildings, and people tended to shout more in the dark, which turned off the police alarms that permitted the looting except where owners sat armed in cars outside. Pope said that shops permitted people in one at a time to prevent looting but sold candles and bread and milk, and I got out water in case pumps went and urged saving candles and wondered about all the fresh meat in my refrigerator and my frozen peas unfrozen and floating in the freezer tray. Tacky sleeping that night, but we were tired from our early day.
DIARY 12160
7/21/77
ALL STAR GAME IN YANKEE STADIUM
Some winning Drum and Bugle Corps from New Jersey performed to absolutely no attention from 8-8:15, then Pearl Bailey sang "America the Beautiful" with a nice ear for letting the echoes die; Cardinal Cooke (the most powerful man in NYC, according to Bill Christopher, who got blotto on beer next to me and moaned about his 13-year-old son being in pain from an ear infection) gave the invocation, who was booed when it went on too long, and Bob Merrill and the New York Chorus (of blacks) sang the National Anthem. Mrs. Jackie Robinson threw out the first ball at 8:56 and they started. Honorary captains Willie Mays and Joe DiMaggio got the biggest hands outside of Tom Seaver. Bill taught me how to use the line scores, which I did not as elaborately as the fellow next to me who drew needlepoint designs to show exactly how outs took place. The crowd was only partially humpy, the best bodies being seen walking shirtless while we roasted on the bus, but there were lots of families and snotty kids and just plain people, some of them even looked like they might have part of a brain in their heads. The lighting in the new Yankee Stadium is mind boggling, almost blue in its brightness. The stands look comfortable, though the plastic seats seemed to collect my sweat and leave dark stains on my tan pants that I was self-conscious about all the following day. It was over at 11:32 and we walked down the 8 blocks to the bus park on 164th Street with not much trouble and took off at 12:05. The game ITSELF wasn't that exciting, since I didn't know who was battling, but the array of colors of local uniforms was nice, the pants seem to be getting tighter, which is nice, though there weren't what you'd call CROTCHES to be seen, and there were fights in the stands to liven things up. The biggest kick was watching the melee when fouls came dropping into the stands, and Bill said he DID see one fellow flip out of the balcony at Ebbets Field. People very TV-conscious, waving whenever a camera came vaguely near: the scoreboard was incredible, transferring TV pictures into light, and the board let me keep track of who was hitting and up. Thank God it didn't rain, though it was rather hot, and the beer at $1 went fast, as did 75 franks and $2.50 programs, which I got one of as they SAY the next one won't be back here for 26 years!
DIARY 12175
7/26/77
RIIS PARK WITH ROLF
The temperature's only about 82Ε and there's a lovely wind, so it doesn't FEEL warm as I cruise up and down the beach with my trunks on, seeing that the nudity stops abruptly at the borders of the beach, even though the barriers are down completely, and stops just past the boardwalk, though the gay section continues into the straight crowd beyond that, with the pushers embracing in front of seemingly accepting families. Then Rolf goes into the water and I finish "At the Earth's Core," and he lays nude and gets lots of looks from a FABULOUSLY built black behind, who oils himself into a MIRROR finish of chestly perfection. Lots of grass being hawked, kids watching bare boobs and particularly cunts (what a SAD society we have!), and then I splash about in the water and decide it's not THAT cold once you're in, so I'm back to take off trunks and cavort for a lovely long time in the breakers, having to constantly move to the right to avoid the left-swing of the surf, and bounce with other bare asses in the lovely waves: floating, diving into, crashing through, being caught by, trying to ride, ignoring while watching another lovely body. Great scene of a nude black man and woman trying to tear the trunks from a laughing blond guy who loves to hug the black, and there are a few people looking at each other, and even Rolf says he plays with Julio in the water, but I don't see much, and there are women everywhere. BEAUTIFUL people stand on the beach, oiled muscles flawlessly shining in the sun, and it seems a pity they would ever HAVE to wear clothes. A shivering guy with a nice chest has a huge lens on his camera, and I'd like to chat with him, but don't. Nearby cutie is reading Proust, and I think of Dennis's comment. Some loud radios, but mostly people seem nice. Don't seem hurting from the sun, even past 3 pm, except on my calves, which is strange because they're covered with sand, but they DO turn out to be the worst hit, along with my shoulders and back, but thank goodness my stomach was out of the sun long enough to get pink enough to show but not sore enough to prevent sleeping on it. Hardly a bathing suit line, but most of it will fade and peel, and I'm not really looking forward to the first time I have to wear clothes. Even Rolf called on Monday morning to say HE was hurting, but I said it was tolerable for a good day of fun. But I won't want to go AGAIN for at LEAST two weeks!
DIARY 12207
8/12/77
WINTERTHUR MUSEUM
The new wing rather makes it look like a factory, and it's nice to know that the house started smaller and was added to AS A MUSEUM, rather than someplace they were living QUA living. The rooms run one into another, with names up the gazzazz: Philadelphia and Chippendale and Empire and Queen Anne and Early American; chairs/ tables/ fireplaces/ curtains/ bedsteads/ watch closets/ candelabra/ windows/ paintings/ gaming tables/ unique needlework/ and enough to make anyone's head spin. They'd lived in part of it, and I was strongly reminded of Hemlock Hall when she pointed to brass nails in the floor that showed exactly where chair legs should go, installed by Francis DuPont himself, in the Early American kitchen. Flowers everywhere, though some windows were blocked by new additions, and I still can't decide if the façade court is a dreadful mistake or charming: four stories of indirect lighting on a brick inn, a wooden house with Venetian blinds, a rusticated wood building with shopping courts inside, and a drab house front from Massachusetts brought down bodily. I glanced at one of the resource books and found photos of the house it came from, details about every piece, and references to the more extensive files below. The groups of four played musical chairs with some of the rooms, and the three elevators seemed pretty constantly in motion. The Wyeth painting wasn't a good LIKENESS, she hastened to say, not "not a good PAINTING," and the model of the house was a kick, showing that almost nothing of the original remains. Various bedrooms occupied by favorite aunts tried to give an impression of lived-in qualities, but it was too precious: carpeting over rugs that we can walk on, acres of tiny cases and eyeglasses and pin cushions and priceless bibelots that just couldn't be shown to children, though just recently the age limit was lowered to 12, and "they can really take it." Distinguishing types of construction and style and names were glossed mercifully over since we weren't interested in those, but still she talked on and on until I felt tired for her, and she dashed off to show the man the john as we sat exhausted in the Wedgwood Room, looking longingly at the greenery and sunshine outside. Staggering place, and we saw possibly 1/3 the rooms on view. Too intense.
DIARY 12268
9/9/77
CENTRAL PARK QUITE CHANGED
The paths between 72nd and 75th are VERY beaten down, but I enjoy lovely bodied PR practicing with girlfriend his Frisbee routine (as a go-go boy?). Beside lake to see weed-clogged tiny lagoon and dead goldfish in murky water to right of bridge, but they've cleaned up the downed stones from the over-arching stone bridge. People still cruising there, but families have taken over, too. What HAD been tiny strips of paths were now huge beaten-down areas of yellow-brown dust, quite depressing, and even down in the thickest areas the undergrowth was so infiltrated that in daylight you could see into the heart of the thickest area. Even along the hilltop which had been so secluded before, paths were beaten into the side areas so there was absolutely no space for cover left. The crowd was pretty awful, and any pretty ones determinedly didn't look at me. There was a patch of mushrooms growing on a new island in the stream, which looks to have been repaired, but that was the only positive point. Across the vacant lawn and up the side steps to the castle, more grafittied and stone-loosened than ever, with lots of weeds and even small trees threatening to destroy the very structure. A VERY long line for the Delacorte went around and vanished into the trees at the far end of the ball fields, and the main soccer areas were just plains of the same dismal dust. Clots of debris filled the lake, and kids were even climbing up the castle walls from the rocks below. Lots of loud radios, though lots of nice bare legs, too. But the KIDS now seemed to be taking over the park from the TEENAGERS. Winter's falling foliage would make the park paths look even nuder than ever, and I can imagine the sorrow of someone who had been there 20 years before ME, liking the greenery, who had now to go through TWO successive stages of denudation. In 20 years it'll probably be a desert. Didn't have a chance to see it in the night, but the crowd during the day didn't promise many nice things at other times. One of the dancers with the Lombardi Company was sitting in the park that afternoon with his tight blue jeans, but there wasn't much to choose from, though the place didn't seem to be as crowded with DOGS as it has been in the past.
DIARY 12273
9/9/77
BROOKLYN LABOR DAY PARADE
Loads of people around subway exit, some even in costumes, with steel-drum bands banging away in person and on tapes, but no one was GOING anywhere. We looked at people for awhile, then started walking down Prospect Parkway toward another concentration of people, and passed the Percy Sutton flack-group, and finally a group of Grand Marshals who didn't look like they knew any more about what was going on than anyone else. We walked for about 4 more blocks and turned to see the BWI and Grand Marshals and the Navy drum band all coming to meet us, and then it sort of disintegrated. Then up onto the sidewalks to see all the foods from Haiti and Santo Domingo and Cuba and Trinidad and Jamaica, and finally the French toast settled down enough that I sampled some of Rick's Guinness Stout, bought some cinnamon-flavored Sorrel Juice in a lovely lavender color and intriguing taste for only 25, and then while Rick was waiting for cane sugar for 75 the stalk, cut off with a quick machete also used to whack tops of coconuts for sipping, I saw the sign for Irish Moss and was told it was fished from the sea and made things feel good for my middle leg. So I got a large glass of milky substance, maybe coconut milk added, with a slightly bitter slightly cinnamon taste that got CLOTTED down at the bottom around the ice cubes for an interesting texture. Had to pass up the Maulby, a tree-bark beverage, because I was thirsted out. The curry drowned out any distinctive flavor from the curried goat Rick got for $1.50, and I bought a shish kebab for $1 that was terribly gristly but LOOKED beautiful. Bottled sorrel from the Islands bottled beautifully, and lots of other foods, though I was sad to learn that the omnipresent "roti" was only a hot dog. Lots of people, some nice bodies, some blazingly bright costumes, the best a tiny girl in red and silver in the midst of a perambulating Christmas tree ornament, and lots of ripply-throbby dancy music of the steel drums, great en masse, and I could well believe when Rick said they did the best "Blue Danube" he'd every heard. No "dangers" at all, little drunkenness though there were half gallons of Scotch everywhere, lots of tranquil cops, and a pleasant loud dirty-street feeling on the Parkway that was so tree-lined and people-crowded that it looked like it must be Paris or New Delhi and couldn't possibly be right here in the borough of Brooklyn.
DIARY 12284
9/12/77
WORLD BODYBUILDING-GUILD CONTEST
Get a dead-center seat in the dead-last row for $10, sides pretty empty in the Felt Forum, and sit a few rows forward where I figure they won't sell the worst placed $15 seats (and tickets went up to $20 and $25!) and adjust my binoculars. When I get in at 8:15, the perennial MC Alan Burke (?) is introducing about the fifth contestant for Mr. Teenage America, and most of the boys 19 and under aren't terribly bulky, but there's a HUGE fellow Sciscio, or someone, who's quite impressive and doesn't win a THING. And the guy who DOES win is VERY unpopular, boos and hisses from an irate audience, possibly BECAUSE Sciscio didn't win. Then there are 3 VERY unimpressive guys in the Over 50 category, and MANY impressive guys who are just 48 and 49 in the Over 40 category. Then the regular Mr. Universe contest is divided into short, medium, and tall, though 5'6" people fall into BOTH the short and medium, as 5'11" people fall both into the medium and tall divisions. Anibal (pronounced Annabelle) Lopez wins the short, and he's not very impressive, but Don Ross, who wins the middle, is quite huge and rather cute, and Joe Spooner is classically beautiful and long as a black, and there are 18 contestants and finally Don Ross wins Mr. America. There are 6 in the Mr. World contest: one from NY, Guneau from France who wins 3rd, though he's not THAT great; Serge Nubret who's 39 and looks incredible, winning first, with 21-inch biceps; Leroux from Paris with a 26" waist and a 50" chest, another beautiful black who mysteriously gets nothing, and Fredericks from the U.S. Army who's just BIG, not pretty, who comes in second, and someone from St. Lucia. Then Dan Lurie presents the trophy to Nubret, and Fredericks and Nubret compete for Mr. Olympus, and Steve Reeves presents his award at 10:40 and everyone leaves promptly, and I pick up some fliers about coming contests. Opinionated audience (they had a Miss Body Beautiful contest, too, and Burke commented "That was the best fallout since Hiroshima" for a floppy tit in the WORST taste of the evening). Some nice-titted people in the audience, little gayness, butch Levi-number next to me growled me a few questions, but it didn't have nearly the cachet of the OTHER contest, which I guess will take place sometime later this month.
DIARY 12286
9/12/77
THIRD AVENUE MERCHANT'S ASSOCIATION (TAMA) FAIR
Lots of different kinds of foods shedding their assorted smokes and smells across the streets, but since we'd just eaten, that wasn't appealing, and the total litter at corners and piled around barrels made it a floppy mess. There were planned acts of Flamenco and comics and other dance on stages, and unplanned acts of jugglers and balancers and dancers and comics who gathered crowds around them in the middle of the street. Large pushing crowds made moving together difficult: when we held hands and tried to stay together, a man roughly pushed his family between us and spat harsh words at us, and I heard a comment about "Lotsa faggots," by a group of teenagers who pushed past in the other direction. Sidewalks were sometimes clearer than streets, so that we could see backs of exhibit tables and racks of clothes or food or junk set up along storefronts. A few street tables were mostly filled, so it wasn't even convenient to sit and drink and watch the crowd seep past. A pile of horse shit made part of the street taboo, and there were a cute faces and chests in the crowd. I stopped from force of habit to look at a few tables piled high with books, but knew that the chances of finding anything I wanted were remote, and then stopped looking, staring at the people clustered around knickknacks, belts, shirts, pottery, jewelry, polished pebbles, beads, T-shirts, chairs, wicker ware, Lucite products, kitchenware dishes, glasses, and didn't know whether to feel GOOD or BAD that I didn't seem to WANT anything of this: good because I didn't feel I needed anything additional to make me happy, bad because I wasn't participating in the purchasing aspect of the fair, and felt vaguely unhappy because of it, or at least ferociously out of place. When we sat, later, gathering strength, I said that "Hope springs eternal: I keep dreaming of just the RIGHT street fair, with music and good food and cheap prices and JUST the things I wanted to buy waiting for me, with a nice crowd to boot, but the reality is always SO far from this; it's like shish kebab, I can't figure why I keep going back just in the HOPES of fulfilling that certain fantasy of what it would be like, or what I'd like." Had enough junk for a month.
DIARY 12309
9/19/77
ATLANTIC AVENUE FAIR
We walk across the nicely-temperatured streets to Atlantic Avenue, and it's not so crowded that it's no possible to cross streets from one side to the other to see what's there, and probably only this is enough to make it seem much nicer than the Third Avenue Merchant's Association Fair (Sept. 11). Dennis finds a soft-edged plastic suitcase for $12 that seems such a good bargain that he buys it, and Rick, who's taking a course in framing for all his needed framing, finds a frame for $2. Lots of chocolate chip cookies for 35 apiece, so I only spend 25 for a decent brownie, and Rick again moans that it's a pity we've just eaten. Bands march down the street, the Son of the Sheik Restaurant has a float with aging belly dancers but a few sexy-chested guys riding horses (which leave an awful stench in the street), and there are jugglers who appear both official (no donations requested) and unofficial (hats and violin cases out for graft). Lots of Middle Eastern foods and junk sections, but there's so much space between that it's more of a pleasure looking at them. Paté Vite has a booth crowded with people paying $1.50 for a slice of paté, lots of people eating off paper plates, and enough shirtless, shorted fellows with tans and nice pectorals to make the wandering pleasant. Some screaming kids in rides like the Whip and the Sky Ride that are controlled by little motors or little people, and truck goes down the street with an elephant's ass sticking out the door, but we never did find where it was going. Lots of little bands around, along with a do-it-yourself percussion section, but there weren't many books outside the Brooklyn Public Library's stations that lent books to whoever wanted them, quite a kick. Lots of charities looking for handouts, also, and we checked a number of clothing racks for pants for Dennis's 27" waist for $1, but since he couldn't try them on he didn't take any of them. By a coincidence, he'd taken out a bagful of shirts to take home to launder this morning, and now he's gotten a suitcase to take them home in. Couple gay guys holding hands and smiling at Dennis made him happy, I found a few bookshelves to look through but found nothing, and bought 2 bottles of shampoo listed at $2.95, discounted at $1.99, selling for $1 in most stores, here 69¢, 74¢ with tax.
DIARY 12314
10/9/77
SAN GENNARO STREET FESTIVAL
We follow neat blue jeans into the south entrance of the fair, and the number of sexy Italian kids helps give an atmosphere of excitement. The fair has been going on so long that they can put up wall-to-wall stands of great permanence, narrowing down the passage in the street so that you have to push through throngs of people to get anywhere. This closeness helps too. Then there are the smells of things broiling and frying and baking and spinning off, and the shouts of the hawkers bringing the people into the gambling places, which ALSO wasn't present at the other fairs. In fact, I was drawn by the fact that you could AIM at the $20 bills on stakes, but didn't take note of the fact that the CORKS that were put on would have different ballistic properties that would CHANGE the aim, AND that the stakes with the 20s would be HARDER to knock over, since both I and the fellow next to me (I didn't even hit one, got four points with my seven shots that gave me a sleazy pack of paper female-porno playing cards) actually hit the $20 a couple of times and it refused to go down. The hawker flipped it down, but I'm sure his finger-flip could muster more dynes of force that the shot-out cork, which was something I hadn't thought of: the idea that the game would be DISHONEST simply didn't enter into my calculations, which shows something. Constant shouts of "There goes another big prize" was echoed by the fluffy animals carted away by other people, and even Dennis wanted to try to get a kangaroo with one eye out. But we both got tired of the places, had just eaten so we didn't feel hungry for all the colorful vegetable-filled skewers and salads, or cups of fresh fruit, so THAT avenue of adventure was closed to us. Dennis smiled at most of the sexy hawkers, but that just gave them a chance to give him a special come-on. The blaze of lights in front of San Gennaro was impressive: the glint of what seemed to be gold, the green of high-denomination bills attached to the base and sides of the stature. Also, there were no GOODS being sold, which was another great difference: nothing was second-hand, except the games of chance, and THEIR sleaze added to the general carnival atmosphere.
DIARY 12417
10/31/77
CEZANNE EXHIBIT AT MOMA
I grab the leaflet as if THAT will be what I get most from the exhibit: something to SAVE to prove that I was THERE and SAW it. Watch the slide program on the Influences of Cezanne, and as I see it ANYONE who would paint with his colors (a sickly green, a tannish orange, a pallid blue) or used his blockish form of reductionism or let some of the white show through (which DID have a good effect of clouds when left in some of his SKIES, which are hardly ever an OPAQUE blue) would be stated to have been influenced by him. But, even if they HAD been influenced, it seemed like so many pigments on woven fabric to me when I stared at the innumerable studies of the Chateau Noir, of Mt. Victoire, of a quarry. It was interesting to see the progressing from a solidly painted canvas to a lightly painted one to a sketch with watercolors, but it didn't seem too much different from the impasto clots being sold in Paris now. It's so ARTIFICIAL: artists citing him as their influence when they have to be influenced by SOMEONE; buying and sending up prices to benefit investors and family and banks and showrooms; giving museums something to draw in people to pay $2 for, giving critics something to talk about and dilettantes something to jabber about. But the stooped old man seemed so BLACK compared to his paintings, and the whole thing was so out of DATE--- only experts who own paintings trying to escalate the selling price of their investments. Where are the bright colors, rather than the DIMINUTIONS of nature? Where are the VISIONS, rather than the slavish rendering of the unromantic slopes of the mountain which happened to be out his window? Where are the seductive shapes? It might be an interesting LESSON in the progress of A painter, but what do I care about Cezanne, French painting, painting in general, art in general, representations of ANYTHING in general? Rather to look at a hill or trip in a quarry or talk to the people portrayed. Joe Easter would probably be disgusted by what I say and overjoyed at the exhibit, but what good would EITHER of those reactions actually DO FOR him and his life as it's being lived? Feel impatient with museums in general at this point, as with theater, so maybe I AM gathering up energy to direct into written words of my own to be published. Though one can't resist the final charge that these, TOO, are only REPRESENTATIONS!
DIARY 12636
12/30/77
ROOSEVELT ISLAND
The tram is solidly built and warm in the cold winds of December, but Pope still says that the stairway at 1st Avenue and the colors remind him of an amusement park ride. It leaves on the quarter hour, opening doors slightly to let newcomers in, and the OLDcomers sit on benches while the tourists stand and stare out the windows. PRETERNATURAL ("I was thinking of the SAME WORD," said Pope) brightness to headlights coming up First Avenue, and the high-rises along Sutton and First look VERY elegant. Up quite high, without any of the "rattle" as we pass over the towers, but we go VERY high, then start to descend in the middle of the Queensboro Bridge to Roosevelt Island, a brightly colored (without sheltered waiting place) concrete block that gives onto waiting shuttle busses onto which we pile for a ride past a sort of industrial-service area to the east coast, then north to the bright buildings ahead, nude trees standing in the parks, and then two stops under various buildings that come right out to the street, and we rush inside 555 because we're late. Coming out, I'm impressed by the "world's fair" quality of the modernistic architecture, the empty streets with almost no traffic except busses, few strollers, but large windows with Christmas decorations in them, offset by the old dark brick church on an incongruous empty lot, where all the rest of the buildings use ALL the space. Walk south past a few frame houses from before, and look back on a sort of futuristic dream of lit windows and empty streets in the wintry winds. Down to the west shore for a bright view of the orange-pink lights on the FDR Drive and large ships seemingly camouflaged by having the same colors on their decks, and other ships passing as we walk to the concrete platform to the only decorated subway token booth in the system, rather dark, since everyone who LIVES there knows it stops on the quarter hour, and we just saw one leaving, so we took the time to look into the brightly spinning wheels in the glass-sided power room, and then sat inside and chatted until Michael and Malcolm joined us for the ride back, grating against the side, and Malcolm said that happened BEFORE, too: smooth to the island, rough back to Manhattan, and it was sort of worth the $1 trip over, and people who came over HAD to buy their tokens to return, even though they didn't STEP on the island.
DIARY 12639
12/30/77
RIDICULOUS AIRLINE RULES
Talking with Arnie, but he insists the savings would never come to us: if Book of the Month didn't spend millions on advertising, they wouldn't have so many customers so they couldn't profit from such a low markup per book. But I said that the airlines should be COMPLETELY overhauled. He thought there might be 15-20 flights from NYC to SF per day, but there were 36, probably with an average loading factor of .66 (which is why the fares have to be so high), so 24 flights could probably go and be FILLED UP, and there was no reason they couldn't operate like the Roosevelt Island trams: be scheduled to leave on the hour; when they fill up, send out another, but keep enough in reserve so that if one fills up LATER it'll still be able to go. So with 24 leaving, surely they could leave close enough to once an hour to satisfy anyone who HAD to get there and had to schedule, but for the person who was just GOING, they could use it like a subway, but get a seat. Thank of what would be saved: the full-page ads in the Times advertising the 100 seats/week for $20 less than the other lines if you reserve three weeks before and name starts with a Q; all the lawyers who have to plan these circumventions of IATA's ridiculously stultifying rules. We talked about the phone system, and Arnold said that ATT had to PAY the little companies about 25 for OUR calling Ozarkiana, but I said just let the lines LAPSE: if they don't like having no phones, let them move to the city! He didn't think it could possibly work. But the savings in phone questions by the airlines, schedule changes and printing OAG's, training of travel agents, probably something like HALF the fare could be saved, since then it would just be the PLANE, the flying personnel, and the FUEL, and it would have to be LESS than Laker, who still has advertising and a bit of scheduling to do; he refused to admit that Icelandic served a purpose during the strict time, saying it didn't go to Paris cheaply enough. But I used Icelandic and I NEVER used Air France, and that's what matters to THEM. With a complete laissez-faire system, one company, I felt more like Rolf urging a conservatism that looked positively RADICAL compared to the "make work" plans of the LIBERAL side of the ledger, who didn't want ANYONE to lose any jobs, despite the fact that FEWER riders on the subway will make them OBSOLETE before PROFITABLE with cuts of service, increasing dirt, less new facilities, and higher fares.
DIARY 12683
1/17/78
WINDOWS ON THE WORLD
The express elevator shudders back and forth in the shaft and grinds rather ominously toward the end, but it opens onto the golden carpet, warm lights, and mirrored sales and reception desks in front, a coat-check booth, and banks of flowers mirrored in scallop-shaped wall urns. The restaurant isn't open yet, so we're down into the private dining room area to a huge lounge with four chairs centered around a rug that you LITERALLY have to step up onto, and to the windows that showed only the uniform haze of the clouds around the building. Into the men's room to gasp at pink marble everywhere, with a flowered central étagère selling creams and gum and mints, and a change plate, of course, on the mirrored ledge. The freestanding pink-marble urinals were REALLY a kick! Then down a long hallway outside Cellar in the Sky, or whatever, an incredible green mirrored hallway with rose quartz and amethyst geodes and mirrors that make you look like you're looking down to the base of the building. Then to the bar area, brilliant in décor and lush in warmth of browns and golds, and then around a corner to a bank of azalea pots for the dining room, set on very many levels: down to the windows, on terraces overlooking the balconies, and on daises overlooking the balcony, with swatches of cloth, mirrors, and serving tables all over the place, with gold carpeting and felt railings making everything a piece. Menus large and simple, but the food's not the best: bones in the turban of sole that Denny disliked the aspic of, flavorless spinach soup with dumplings for Dennis, dried-bean strings in Rita's colorful vegetable paté with tomato frappe, and my croustade of chicken livers the best in Béarnaise sauce of elegance and great fillingness. Rita and Dennis complained about the seeds in the huge grapes with their flavorless shrimp and GREAT cream sauce on the rice, Denny's beef was fabulous in taste and texture, and my duck was colorless except for the broccoli head/carrots/turnip purees, and not crisp enough so it wasn't fat. Lemon tart zingy, other desserts average. Three-green salad less than marvelous, tea and coffees good, and the fact that we had two sets of glasses for our two carafes of wine was a kick, and Dennis loved the headwaiter "George" and the joking waiters and table clearers. Wandered around more, to an emergency exit we couldn't use from the restaurant and a closed Liberty Lounge, and then down to the garage in 92 seconds to get the car and still find the view the best.
DIARY 12696
1/20/78
SNOW EMERGENCY IN NEW YORK
Lots of snow and blowing at 8 am, when they forecast a foot of snow, but I just assume things are fairly normal. First inkling comes when I exit at 2:40 and find people walking in the street, though the sidewalks are actually easier to walk on, as I find walking up Pierrepont, which has incredible drifts before buildings over 2 feet high (yeah, I know!), and some of the stairs are featureless slides of snow. NO traffic at ALL on Henry Street is the next startle, original snow still in place. Kids screaming and surprisingly stiff puffs of wind sounded louder than the occasional whirr of tires spinning to get free of the ice. Court was deserted except for a bus spinning, with a row of busses behind it, and hardy souls entered and left the post office with smiles on their faces. Back to the meat shop to find a mini-run on things, with no bargain hamburger and very little bread, in fact none except rather bland rolls, so I picked up eggs, put back the bacon, got about 3 pounds of hamburger and 10 rolls, just to tide me over. Lots of people walking joyfully on the streets, and when I got to Love Lane, an old lady looked across the mound doubtfully at me, and I encouraged her to come across since it was pretty solid (though her smaller shoes sank in deeper than my wide boots), and I held her hand as she came across and a fellow behind me extended his white mittens to carry her the rest of the way, talking cheerily. Back on Montague, as I marveled at the 4' drift near the Minimax Cafe, I walked a one-way path and said "Thank you" to a fellow who drew back and let me pass, and he beamed a bright "You're welcome" in return. People smiling, and even the meat clerk waited until I put on my gloves before venturing out to return. Kaina smiled at me over his shovels, though blacks on Montague didn't look like they were having fun with all the traffic. Still blowing out in back, spectacular wisps past the dark bricks with waves and billows of snow on roofs and clinging tightly to the skeletons of vines on the buildings, and the whole back garden is an almost 2-foot deep morass of unblemished snow, since no car has yet tried to get out. Looking back at 4:30 shows the snow within an inch of the third rung from the top (counting the top as first rung) of the bridge-like structure in the far yard, so I can see how deep it is when it thaws. Talk to Dennis and share the feeling of being in an adventure, and it's snug and warm inside, and Arnie said his phone hasn't stopped ringing since 12, when employment's closed.
DIARY 12697
1/24/78
DINNER AT LA CARAVELLE
Hat-check girl refuses to take boots, other group almost pushes ahead of us, but we disrobe and walk ENTIRE restaurant to be sat in the FAR corner, where they can see everything and I can see them, and we're almost through the menu by 8:30 when Dennis arrives, and we start out again explaining everything and trying to keep track of all the specials of the day. Finally we're set, and after some switches Denny has the onion soup that Dennis is delighted in the color of HIS, but is just about as non-zappy. Dennis has cold Cressoniere which is sort of beady-lumpy and tasty, but not THAT creamy. Rita has a tasty terrine but I take the cake with their MARVELOUS Brochet Campenoise, a pike mousse of the marvelous texture of La Marée, which he says the owner of this place knows the owner of, with a FABULOUS multi-flavored sauce, and everyone admits it's the greatest thing going, with its quarter-size truffle slice. Order Sancerre, which is nice, and no one drinks much, which is also nice. Bread is hard on outside, butter VERY non-salted, water constantly filled, service agreeable and the head waiter pleasant and not pushy. Meals are not that super: Dennis is disappointed with his Pigeonneau American with French fries, and it's dark and tiny and not enough food, rather dry, too. Rita's kidneys taste just plain UNDERDONE to me, mushy lobules of tissue all too apparent, and then the bottom pieces have the tubules still in, unpleasantly chewy and they STILL have that distinct urine savor that I'd remembered from before. Denny's duck in natural sauce is FABULOUS of skin and texture, and taste, too, and he rather likes it, and my sweetbreads are delicious but they have those membranes which have to be chewed and taken off. Desserts are a kick, passing around my peach tart, flavorful with GREAT crust; Dennis's floating islands, like poached egg whites with hairy sugar strands; Denny's Napoleon that's not TOO sweet, but not too tasty, either, and the anisette is lost in it; and I forget Rita's. Price fixed at $26.75, Denny had coffee, so the bill was $107+12+1=$120+9.60=$130 +18 tip +2 coat = $150 for 4, which Rita rather dazedly makes out 3 $50 traveler's checks for. Strange loud crowd, not very elegant, though the PLACE was nice, and it was very good but NOT one of the transcendent experiences that would drive anyone to return. Interesting that Le Cygne was sold out with their new 4 stars from New York Times.
DIARY 12825
3/18/78
ZOO AT THE OLYMPIA THEATER
First the cashier lets 12- and 13- and 14-year-olds in, though the rating demands that children under 17 be accompanied by parents, and the blacks shout back and forth. Then a loud-mouthed show-off kid comes in, and of course the family sits behind us and the father lights up a cigarette. Someone behind says "There's no smoking here," and the guy puts it out, for which I say "Thank you," to reinforce the suggester's suggestion, but then during the intermission he lights up in the row behind, and there are scattered smokers all over the theater who smoke undisturbed by the occasional rambles of the usher. A snorer saws away, disgusting me, and finally I shout "Someone wake him," but they look at me as if I'M crazy, so I crawl over the people in my row and shake him awake, which he remains for about half an hour, but then the buzz saw starts again. A little girl sits next to me, so of course her mother has to explain everything to her that she doesn't understand, and to ensure that she doesn't get too frightened, and I shush them a couple of times, getting belligerent stares from momma. Then there's the cliques in the balcony, shouting things back and forth that either cause gales of laughter that obscure the next dozen lines of dialogue, or a soul satisfying round of applause that obviously makes the commenter want to get a bigger reaction next time. Kids are shouting back and forth along the back of the orchestra, and if anyone goes "Sh," someone ELSE will go "SH," back, and then these will echo around and about, everyone trying to get in the last mock-indignant "Sh." When someone SAYS "Shut up," there's usually a huge back talk amounting almost to a row. Then a drunk Puerto Rican spouts a long line of "Maricon"-laden talk when someone throws something off the balcony at him, and something tinkles on the apron of the stage that someone threw, and there are swag marks on the screen, lessening the whites of the images. Families talk, bottles rattle underfoot, people chew on gum and candy and popcorn, strewing junk all over the place, and there's an insistent, growing, all-pervading smell of stale urine all around, not to mention from the tackiness of the floor underfoot, but a least our SEATS were in one piece, not broken as some of them are, and the film didn't break once.
DIARY 12852
3/31/78
BIRTHDAY MEALS
LE COUP DE FUSIL is beautifully decorated, and the food, which Azak insists is cooked personally by Countess Someone, sister of Guiscard d'Estaing, is simply fabulous. He applauded my stumping the barman with a Cin and Cin, which was better than his Dubonnet, and my Planc de Mousse de Legumes avec Moelle is a fabulously flavored (with non-fatty marrow dice floating in it, while his Terrine de Jambon et Legumes was nicely paved and colorful and tasty, with contrasting textures. Then he praised his kidneys to the sky, though they were on the plain side, but WELL-cooked compared to the rare blobs on Rita's plate at La Caravelle, and my liver was surpassingly tender, with only the fewest chewable tendons, with an incredible blast of taste in combination with grapes, seedless green grapes that clashed beautifully with the tang of the liver. Again, both were in a thin clear gravy almost like a spatter of consommé of flavor but little caloric or grease content. His wine choice for $18 was flavorful, but not much more. Then for dessert my Galatte de Citron was a sugar wafer supporting a float of lemony custard, swimming in a pool of strawberry puree, which was so tart that it knocked out the delicacy of his chestnut sherbet, but the brown pastry-ruffled cup that it came in was tasty and crisp all to itself. $59 with tip. MR. AND MRS. FOSTER'S was $95 when the waiter didn't return change for Dennis's bills for the $79+ check, which is rather sad, but her care was all-encompassing, her livers on wine with toast tasty for the start. HER $18 wine was tasteless, but went well with the food, followed by a light custardy quiche, and a salad that she quickly heated to make flexible the carrots, and I GUESSED from her description that she was serving Jerusalem artichokes, since they sounded JUST like what I'd bought at the supermarket that very afternoon. She seemed to like us, almost offering us tickets to the off-Broadway Dracula, exchanging recipes and dropping names, including Robert Redford and Cecily Tyson, and the duck and prunes was a BIT much at $25 apiece, but it WAS a 5-pound duck, boned, cooked to perfection VERY slowly, then covered with a skin out of which ALL fat was braised, and it was delicious, but still a bit much. Then a carob cake for both of us to taste, and a pecan pie with a birthday candle for me and custard and strawberries for him--- and FORGOT the apple and peanut soups that we had along WITH it, too. Only customers for last seating, nice.
DIARY 12922
4/19/78
ROLF ON FINANCES AGAIN
He talks of United Asbestos going up to an asking price of 1 13/16, which is my breakeven point, and then talks about companies making "tenders" of possibly as much as double the price in order to "buy" a company. I didn't know that people don't BUY corporations (which means they issue stock), because the STOCKHOLDERS own the company, so the buying organization has to either round up a majority of the stock, or get ENOUGH of the stock so that THEIR slate of the board of directors can be elected, which will in turn elect a president which will manage the company. I didn't ask how one "bought the assets" of a company. Then he got into the "fact" that profitability was so low currently that companies were only making 5-6% on their investment, and they could liquidate and get 5% in a bank or 8% in bonds without any trouble. He laid this to the economic attitudes, saying that if there wasn't a change in "orientation and sentiment" that we'll end up being like England, poor and suffering. No one will BUILD a plant if there's a plant owned by a company whose stock is selling at about half what it deserves to sell at: they'll buy the plant and the company cheaper than they could put up a new plant. When I say that this would produce inflation, he says that it more likely produces more stagnation and lack of growth, that no new plants will be built and people will take their money elsewhere for investment. He said we're currently 3rd or 4th in per-capita national worth, not even counting the Arabian countries, and in a number of years we'll probably be 14th or 15th, which is probably where England, which was once the richest, is now. He mentioned the "Crash of '79," which had been based on ARABIAN money putting the market to "an unheard of 66 million-share day" (Monday was 64M, where the previous high had been something like 44M and Friday was 52M, and he wants Pope to say if there's anything astrological (see DIARY 12950) to predict this sort of event again) and then the Arabians withdraw their money and our economy collapses. He says the situation will get worse unless something is done to make business, which has been militated against for the past N years, more attractive to people who want high returns, about 12-13%, for their investments.
DIARY 12928
4/21/78
ROLF ON TAX SHELTERS
He said this crazy friend of his on the stock market, and his wife's hairdresser, came up with the idea of a chain of gay restaurants, and I said that the IDEA sounded good, and all he had to do was write the prospectus and become a moneymaking general partner. He said that in the past the guy tried to engineer such ideas as a number of people putting $1M into the purchase of a 727 for 7M, borrowing $6M, but when they do THAT, they can claim a tax CREDIT of 10% of the investment, which is then $700,000, and they can DEDUCT their payments, which might be about 9%, so 9% of $6M is about $500,000, and then they can arrange a 5-year depreciation, so they can deduct another $1.4M, so they get a $2M DEDUCTION ABOVE a $700,000 tax credit, all for the investment of $1M! These billowing tax shelters can work "ad infinitum" to cover the profits they get FROM this, since tax shelters have TWO reasons, to (1) shelter from taxes AND (2) to make a profitable investment. They just lease the 727 to American Airlines, who protects their investment by maintaining it and insuring it, and giving them money in leasing. He told this guy about Comten, and HE still has some of them, but Rolf had sold out at 8, rather than holding his 3,000 shares, bought about $1, rather than holding them until 17, which they are now, which would be $51,000, and just the INTEREST would pay for his week's trip to Venice, which he said he couldn't afford because he didn't have the money, admitting that he could borrow in case of an emergency, but he hardly thought that a nice trip to Venice would be classed as an emergency. He said the guy is ALSO into a string of "Chinese McDonald's" which would be known as "Shanghai Express," like the Rickshaw Express for Japanese food, and there's one opening at Madison and 60th. He said that the secret of economic success was evaluating people's ILLUSIONS in order to get them interested in ANY kind of investment, but to see the TRUTH behind the investment so that every facet of it could be adequately manipulated and milked. He said that the financial difficulties, and lack of police, in Italy wouldn't hinder our progress as tourists, but Arnie said STRIKES might.