Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Last night I dreamed that M. was rehearsing a bawdy ditty about lawyers on a small stage. I was the only person in the tiny theater. M. was dancing stark naked, and I was embarrassed so I averted my eyes taking only a peek, through my fingers whenever I imagined she wasn't looking. I wondered why she had chosen this particular song to sing for the wedding, and felt sad for her that she had to sing it naked.
I also dreamed that I was drinking at the bar of a very expensive, luxuriously appointed, steakhouse when Mr. (Richman) arrived with a group of businessmen. Apparently they were there to discuss a "deal," Richman greeted me routinely, and rudely, quickly took the group into a private room without introducing me to anyone. I was wearing the pin stripe I shall wear Saturday night. Upset, I grasped the hand of one of the group and gave him my powerful, strongest handshake as he walked away from me into the private room. Later, Mr. Richman asked me, why I had manhandled his partner. I asked Richman where he had learned that word.
In my waking hours early this morning, as I drank my coffee, at about 5:15 AM., I read this line from a fascinating diary-journal of an editor at Conde-Nast called Leo Lerman. Lerman was a man who knew everyone in New York for about fifty years, so his journals catch everyone from a member of Sara Bernhardts' troop, to Leonard Bernstein, and Ingmar Bergman.
His mother had early on recognized her son's proclivities and was not unhappy about them as she understood that he would never marry. "So he's a momma's boy," she said, "and I'm his mother."
I like that.
This book is not meant for you to bother with. It's for people like me, who read what used to be called gossip columns and who wish that they could have been at every party, vernissage, debut, and opening whether theater or art, that was reported.
But Lerman had a remarkable life and each of his entries, though brief, are witty and insightful. His parties, apparently, were legendary and after running his own on jug wines and rat cheese he was offered the bankroll of Conde-Nast and his parties became larger and larger and his list became triple A and held only people of accomplishment. Anyway, the book is not for serious people and not for you.
Lerman and his family fit right into our discussion of "Who is a Jew," as he was another Bar Mitzvah boy who never set foot into a schul after the fountain-pen celebration.
You can forward and or edit this if you like. I'd like to send it to St Eve, but am holding it because of the first paragraph. Use your judgment.
m.
Last night I dreamed that M. was rehearsing a bawdy ditty about lawyers on a small stage. I was the only person in the tiny theater. M. was dancing stark naked, and I was embarrassed so I averted my eyes taking only a peek, through my fingers whenever I imagined she wasn't looking. I wondered why she had chosen this particular song to sing for the wedding, and felt sad for her that she had to sing it naked.
I also dreamed that I was drinking at the bar of a very expensive, luxuriously appointed, steakhouse when Mr. (Richman) arrived with a group of businessmen. Apparently they were there to discuss a "deal," Richman greeted me routinely, and rudely, quickly took the group into a private room without introducing me to anyone. I was wearing the pin stripe I shall wear Saturday night. Upset, I grasped the hand of one of the group and gave him my powerful, strongest handshake as he walked away from me into the private room. Later, Mr. Richman asked me, why I had manhandled his partner. I asked Richman where he had learned that word.
In my waking hours early this morning, as I drank my coffee, at about 5:15 AM., I read this line from a fascinating diary-journal of an editor at Conde-Nast called Leo Lerman. Lerman was a man who knew everyone in New York for about fifty years, so his journals catch everyone from a member of Sara Bernhardts' troop, to Leonard Bernstein, and Ingmar Bergman.
His mother had early on recognized her son's proclivities and was not unhappy about them as she understood that he would never marry. "So he's a momma's boy," she said, "and I'm his mother."
I like that.
This book is not meant for you to bother with. It's for people like me, who read what used to be called gossip columns and who wish that they could have been at every party, vernissage, debut, and opening whether theater or art, that was reported.
But Lerman had a remarkable life and each of his entries, though brief, are witty and insightful. His parties, apparently, were legendary and after running his own on jug wines and rat cheese he was offered the bankroll of Conde-Nast and his parties became larger and larger and his list became triple A and held only people of accomplishment. Anyway, the book is not for serious people and not for you.
Lerman and his family fit right into our discussion of "Who is a Jew," as he was another Bar Mitzvah boy who never set foot into a schul after the fountain-pen celebration.
You can forward and or edit this if you like. I'd like to send it to St Eve, but am holding it because of the first paragraph. Use your judgment.
m.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
August 2, 2007
It has been as though a veil has dropped over my head. Everything is a shade darker, and I find myself sighing every once in while. I keep looking back at my mistakes, the same mistakes I made forty years ago—not buying certain real estate, not investing in the stock market on a more regular basis, remaining at KDS all those boring years, not finding a business partner with whom to work, not following up on many ideas that ran through my mind at various times…
Now I regret not having the money to have two homes, to take vacations, to travel. Money is too short even for going to NYC, and I am stuck here, in Florida in this luxurious apartment—but surrounded by people so different from me, that even when I am with them at the office or on the beach I am lonely, unsatisfied, unhappy, discontent. There is no laughter here—except with M—and if it weren’t for her I’d be a bum on the road, or dead. I’m lucky to be here, with here, but it isn’t really enough.
Why has money become so important here, at the end of my life?
August 3, 2007
I learned last summer that I could live over a store in Cold Spring, in a tight one bedroom apartment with M and be happier than here. It was the guys I met at the Foundry, a coffee shop on Main Street. I could be with them, chat, felt accepted, felt on their level and they were on mine. Again, this summer, M and I spent a short time in a small house in Westhampton. It was fine. Of course, there is no money for a small house in NY. If we sold this apartment we might end up with $600K or so, but that wouldn’t bring much in NY, and then there are the higher living expenses there. Taxes would probably be lower, especially if we were to buy an apartment in NYC. But then, the temptations of NY living would easily outrun my wallet. And then, M needs something, anything, here in Florida, so here would be two sets of expenses. We can’t do it.
M says I should have more male friends here. Yes, I should…and I know that I exaggerate when I say that no one in Florida has any brains, or that I have no interests in common with anyone. It’s an exaggeration, but still it describes the problem.
August 11, 2007
In the days before Jaws I was something of an ocean swimmer, but since 1975, I swim accompanied by an undertow of anxiety , an unspoken, and until now, unacknowledged fear of swimming alone, especially far out where I used to swim as a child and later as a young man.
In those days I never would have thought of encountering a Big White, but now, always in the back of my mind, one swims close by waiting for its chance. The fear never leaves me even when I summon, somehow, the courage to swim by myself past the line of buoys that mark an invisible dividing line between swimmer and boater about a hundred yards out.
Any nearby splash, or even a bit of foam ten yards away, puts me on Shark Alert, and I struggle to remain calm, knowing that a panic stricken swimmer will excite the huge, unseen predator’s natural instinct—its instinct to cull the weakest of our species from the briny deep domain and to have lunch at my arm’s expense.
I like my arm
August 2, 2007
It has been as though a veil has dropped over my head. Everything is a shade darker, and I find myself sighing every once in while. I keep looking back at my mistakes, the same mistakes I made forty years ago—not buying certain real estate, not investing in the stock market on a more regular basis, remaining at KDS all those boring years, not finding a business partner with whom to work, not following up on many ideas that ran through my mind at various times…
Now I regret not having the money to have two homes, to take vacations, to travel. Money is too short even for going to NYC, and I am stuck here, in Florida in this luxurious apartment—but surrounded by people so different from me, that even when I am with them at the office or on the beach I am lonely, unsatisfied, unhappy, discontent. There is no laughter here—except with M—and if it weren’t for her I’d be a bum on the road, or dead. I’m lucky to be here, with here, but it isn’t really enough.
Why has money become so important here, at the end of my life?
August 3, 2007
I learned last summer that I could live over a store in Cold Spring, in a tight one bedroom apartment with M and be happier than here. It was the guys I met at the Foundry, a coffee shop on Main Street. I could be with them, chat, felt accepted, felt on their level and they were on mine. Again, this summer, M and I spent a short time in a small house in Westhampton. It was fine. Of course, there is no money for a small house in NY. If we sold this apartment we might end up with $600K or so, but that wouldn’t bring much in NY, and then there are the higher living expenses there. Taxes would probably be lower, especially if we were to buy an apartment in NYC. But then, the temptations of NY living would easily outrun my wallet. And then, M needs something, anything, here in Florida, so here would be two sets of expenses. We can’t do it.
M says I should have more male friends here. Yes, I should…and I know that I exaggerate when I say that no one in Florida has any brains, or that I have no interests in common with anyone. It’s an exaggeration, but still it describes the problem.
August 11, 2007
In the days before Jaws I was something of an ocean swimmer, but since 1975, I swim accompanied by an undertow of anxiety , an unspoken, and until now, unacknowledged fear of swimming alone, especially far out where I used to swim as a child and later as a young man.
In those days I never would have thought of encountering a Big White, but now, always in the back of my mind, one swims close by waiting for its chance. The fear never leaves me even when I summon, somehow, the courage to swim by myself past the line of buoys that mark an invisible dividing line between swimmer and boater about a hundred yards out.
Any nearby splash, or even a bit of foam ten yards away, puts me on Shark Alert, and I struggle to remain calm, knowing that a panic stricken swimmer will excite the huge, unseen predator’s natural instinct—its instinct to cull the weakest of our species from the briny deep domain and to have lunch at my arm’s expense.
I like my arm
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
For the neverborn children
.
.
"Hush, hush little children
No cradle shall hold you,
In no clothes can we fold you,
Dead that the living cannot mourn,
Untimely, lost and never born."
.
From The Dybbuk, Polish-Yiddish Film, 1937.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To a few friends regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Bourne Ultimatum
MOOD: Irritated
The Woman brought me to see this WoT. (Waste of Time) I guess it's sort of a very noisy, travelog, Kung Fu hybrid Superman movie with hi-tech paraphernalia.
Where does Bourne get the money to fly around the world? Who does his laundry? Where did he keep that passport that had been one of twenty issued to him when he was first inducted into the Company? How did he access it so fast? When he was in Tangier why couldn't the cameraman keep the camera still? Buy him a stedi-cam. And the cuts were so short that I thought that they kept running out of film. Oh, those bean counters -- let them bring some film next time. Why would he call the Evil Task Master to tell him that he was in his office rifling his safe? Okay, I can accept that he could make a ten story leap into the water and survive, (ten stories is only 100 feet) but how did he jump across the FDR Drive? Why doesn't the American Olympic Committee recruit him? Who is going to cure him of the skin diseases he will contract while swimming in the East River?
If you go to see this in spite of this warning, bring your ear protectors.
From St Eve regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Stronghart: what I think is that your response was antiamerican.
First of all everyone loves matt damon and everyone sympathizes with someone who has had his mind altered by albert finney dr villian who forgot the hippocratic oath and is bad bad bad.
And jasonbourne besidesforgetting everything had his shatzie murdered by thecia and thats not the culinary institute of america.Where is your heart man. And besides he is everymanfighting to get his brains back from the evil doers.Stronghartwhere is your rockmunis?{questionable spelling}.Thismovie isBRokeback Mountain for straight guys.Stronghartwake up andsmell thegefilte fish. you too Malkin dont you know aRT whenyou see it and he is in such great CONDITION and really has GAME. More enthusiasmfor jumping though windows and into the east river andkillingthe muslim hit man. Don't you want us to win inIIraq.and randelmanit just not just about money its about the soul ofthis great nation. Gross see this movie and dont be afraid to like it.Boldly embrassthe medium and the message and the messenger if youknow what I mean. Cinema is like tootsie popsdifferent flavours and different ways to get to thesweet center. and take along merle to get the womensviewpoint but remember its a guy movie and your a guy.I wonder what schuffy thought of the movie.And dontforgetmost theaters are air conditioned.ss
oh and I have a tea shirt that says "born to be bourne"on the front and I run through the aisles of the supermarketmisdirecting everyones cartand telling them that the CIA is watching in a lowthreatening voice. ss
To a few friends regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Bourne Ultimatum
MOOD: Irritated
Where does Bourne get the money to fly around the world? Who does his laundry? Where did he keep that passport that had been one of twenty issued to him when he was first inducted into the Company? How did he access it so fast? When he was in Tangier why couldn't the cameraman keep the camera still? Buy him a stedi-cam. And the cuts were so short that I thought that they kept running out of film. Oh, those bean counters -- let them bring some film next time. Why would he call the Evil Task Master to tell him that he was in his office rifling his safe? Okay, I can accept that he could make a ten story leap into the water and survive, (ten stories is only 100 feet) but how did he jump across the FDR Drive? Why doesn't the American Olympic Committee recruit him? Who is going to cure him of the skin diseases he will contract while swimming in the East River?
If you go to see this in spite of this warning, bring your ear protectors.
From St Eve regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Stronghart: what I think is that your response was antiamerican.
First of all everyone loves matt damon and everyone sympathizes with someone who has had his mind altered by albert finney dr villian who forgot the hippocratic oath and is bad bad bad.
And jasonbourne besidesforgetting everything had his shatzie murdered by thecia and thats not the culinary institute of america.Where is your heart man. And besides he is everymanfighting to get his brains back from the evil doers.Stronghartwhere is your rockmunis?{questionable spelling}.Thismovie isBRokeback Mountain for straight guys.Stronghartwake up andsmell thegefilte fish. you too Malkin dont you know aRT whenyou see it and he is in such great CONDITION and really has GAME. More enthusiasmfor jumping though windows and into the east river andkillingthe muslim hit man. Don't you want us to win inIIraq.and randelmanit just not just about money its about the soul ofthis great nation. Gross see this movie and dont be afraid to like it.Boldly embrassthe medium and the message and the messenger if youknow what I mean. Cinema is like tootsie popsdifferent flavours and different ways to get to thesweet center. and take along merle to get the womensviewpoint but remember its a guy movie and your a guy.I wonder what schuffy thought of the movie.And dontforgetmost theaters are air conditioned.ss
oh and I have a tea shirt that says "born to be bourne"on the front and I run through the aisles of the supermarketmisdirecting everyones cartand telling them that the CIA is watching in a lowthreatening voice. ss
Monday, August 06, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To a Friend Getting Ready for Cancer Surgery:
Hal:Gross' remarks bring to mind the question of what to wear in the event that a last, final gathering of your friends is necessary after the operation..
I wouldn't want to come dressed in a manner that might offend; and yet I have no idea what is worn in Beverly Hills Adjacent these days -- or any days, for that matter, as my experience in such neighborhoods has been severely limited. I was thinking of a hound's tooth sport jacket, Would that be okay? Let me know.
But, allow me to digress, if you will: Martinis. I have been giving them a lot of thought since arriving in Florida, since, as you know, in summer those in the real know, drink only white, and Florida has no spring, fall or winter detectable to Northern sensitivities. It's always summer.
So I have been drinking martinis exclusively. It was only through your careful and generous instruction that I have come to consider myself to be an expert at Martini construction, but you remain the Master in my mind, as well as Chief of Protocol.
I have moved away from Vodka to Gin. Hendricks, to be specific. Its powerful juniper fragrance is the first of its pleasures, for even as the bottle is opened the martini experience begins. The juniper fragrance is like an appetizer leading to the forthcoming martini.
I use a previously frozen glass shaker filled with ice cubes. I usually pour two and half ounces of Hendricks and add a small amount of vermouth, only the driest, of course, but, to quote you, I am not afraid of vermouth, so I probably use more than most people would approve.
The glass jar is shaken furiously, so that small slivers of ice form. There are people who believe that shaking the shaker is vulgar--but why would it be called a "shaker" if not because it is made to be shaken. Anyway, I crave those ice slivers. I pour the very cold martini into a frozen martini glass. A single plain olive is added, sometimes two, if I am hungry.
Yes, I know of today's fad for "dirty" martinis....talk about "vulgar." I am astounded when I see that Gross and St Eve have both fallen for that fad. You may have noticed me slowly moving a seat or two away from them when they order it dirty. You must also have noticed the look of disapproval on the bartender's face when he takes their order. (By the way, do you know that the bartender at Henry's has taken to calling himself "Randy" in homage to you, the Master?)
I know that you have used spicy or pimento filled olives, but I believe that they, somehow, take away from the true martini experience. And what else is there, but Truth? And I prefer the martini to be a martini, not lunch.
Hoping to hear from you--before it's too late.
m
To a Friend Getting Ready for Cancer Surgery:
Hal:Gross' remarks bring to mind the question of what to wear in the event that a last, final gathering of your friends is necessary after the operation..
I wouldn't want to come dressed in a manner that might offend; and yet I have no idea what is worn in Beverly Hills Adjacent these days -- or any days, for that matter, as my experience in such neighborhoods has been severely limited. I was thinking of a hound's tooth sport jacket, Would that be okay? Let me know.
But, allow me to digress, if you will: Martinis. I have been giving them a lot of thought since arriving in Florida, since, as you know, in summer those in the real know, drink only white, and Florida has no spring, fall or winter detectable to Northern sensitivities. It's always summer.
So I have been drinking martinis exclusively. It was only through your careful and generous instruction that I have come to consider myself to be an expert at Martini construction, but you remain the Master in my mind, as well as Chief of Protocol.
I have moved away from Vodka to Gin. Hendricks, to be specific. Its powerful juniper fragrance is the first of its pleasures, for even as the bottle is opened the martini experience begins. The juniper fragrance is like an appetizer leading to the forthcoming martini.
I use a previously frozen glass shaker filled with ice cubes. I usually pour two and half ounces of Hendricks and add a small amount of vermouth, only the driest, of course, but, to quote you, I am not afraid of vermouth, so I probably use more than most people would approve.
The glass jar is shaken furiously, so that small slivers of ice form. There are people who believe that shaking the shaker is vulgar--but why would it be called a "shaker" if not because it is made to be shaken. Anyway, I crave those ice slivers. I pour the very cold martini into a frozen martini glass. A single plain olive is added, sometimes two, if I am hungry.
Yes, I know of today's fad for "dirty" martinis....talk about "vulgar." I am astounded when I see that Gross and St Eve have both fallen for that fad. You may have noticed me slowly moving a seat or two away from them when they order it dirty. You must also have noticed the look of disapproval on the bartender's face when he takes their order. (By the way, do you know that the bartender at Henry's has taken to calling himself "Randy" in homage to you, the Master?)
I know that you have used spicy or pimento filled olives, but I believe that they, somehow, take away from the true martini experience. And what else is there, but Truth? And I prefer the martini to be a martini, not lunch.
Hoping to hear from you--before it's too late.
m
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