Thursday-Friday, April 4-5: Atlanta, Days One and Two

1) As soon as the papers started reporting on Monday a nor’easter on Thursday, my long-scheduled flying date, I was anxious about what might happen. Long story short, my direct flight to Atlanta was delayed three hours due to high winds, de-icing, and wind-related ground transport issues. At one point they announced that our plane, which still had to be towed to the gate, was stuck behind a UPS plane that also had to be towed.

1a) The high winds also kept them from catering the plane — but at least they announced it in advance so I could snag a sandwich and water.

1b) I got to Atlanta safely. Grateful for all the flight personnel who made that possible. Bonus: I spotted my bag on the carousel as soon as I got to baggage claim. That never happens.

2) Thursday evening, to keep me from being on my own, my cousins Diane and Carol, and Carol’s husband Wally, joined me for dinner at a little noodle house near Piedmont Park. And as always when Dimmicks get together, there was a lot of talking!

3) After having been up since 4 AM, it was no surprise to have to turn out the lights before 9:30. I slept like a stone.

4) Friday morning my friend and hostess Jane arrived after some unexpected travel, and we had an hour to catch up over some strong but subtle black tea before Carol and Wally drove up to spirit me off to Dottie’s. Jane and I renewed our friendship at our 40th high school reunion in 2022; I suddenly described it as “a late-blooming flower,” and that’s an apt way to describe it — something both refreshing and nostalgic in the garden of one’s life.

5) My visit caused Dottie to corral her two sons who live locally, Alex and Sam, and Sam’s wife Shane, to join us for lunch where she lives, and there was a great deal of conversation about family, carpenter bees, cats, clearing out houses full of stuff, and pretty much just what on earth everyone has been up to in the last year. There has been a lot going on.

Crash!

5a) With this branch of the family it is important, when getting together, not just to get a standard group photo, but also a “crash pose” photo. When they introduced this at one of our family reunions, Mother was, um, surprised. She really liked standard smiling pictures the best, whereas I am usually more than ready to ham it up.

6) Carol and Wally drove me back into the city (where they had other appointments) and we ended up talking a lot about architecture, Wally being an architect. They pointed out the astonishing Mercedes Benz stadium as we drove near it, and I was able to talk about some of the distinguished women architects that went through MIT.

7) Jane and I had a marvelous little dinner at a restaurant near the symphony: beet salad and smoky roasted chicken for me with asparagus and potatoes au gratin, followed by a layered chocolate hockey puck with raspberry coulis and some dangerously strong coffee. The waitress admitted the obvious, that she was excessively overcaffeinated (not from the coffee, she arrived that way), which led her to chirp in a bit more than necessary. I forget who said “We hate most in others what we hate most in ourselves,” but I had occasion to remember many conversations in which I was the over-talkative party.

We had wonderful seats at the symphony.

8) My first Atlanta Symphony concert included Brahms’s Variations on a Theme by Haydn and his Symphony No. 1 in C Minor, with one of my favorite pieces in between: Mozart’s Sinfonia concertante in E-flat Major for Violin and Viola. My parents had stacks of classical music LPs when I was growing up, including this, and I loved it from the first time I heard it. I hadn’t heard it live in over 20 years. This was marvelous not only for its own sake and for the soloists — both masterful — but also for its associations to an earlier part of my life.

8a) Atlantans clearly love their symphony, and they love a standing ovation.

8b) Atlantans are also absolutely delightful, and Jane introduced me to several friends and colleagues throughout the evening.

9) Comfortably changed into sweatpants, I enjoyed a nightcap with Jane of some chocolatey South African liqueur as we unwound the events of the day, and the days to come. I really feel that, as a civilization, we value good conversation less and less, whereas we really need more and more of it.

Wednesday Afternoon, 27 March

1) That Man is now hawking a Bible (!) which includes America’s founding documents. Where is the outrage from devout Christians over this blasphemy? Someone on Bluesky suggested that this would “Make America Prey Again” — clever! — which reminded me of what a college-era friend once said: “If He had not meant them to be shorn, He would not have made them sheep!”

1a) After several weeks, I have resumed the habit of morning devotional, and wouldn’t you know it, today was Matthew 21, which includes verse 13: “And he said to them, It is written, My house shall be called the house of prayer; but you have made it a bandit’s cave.” Fitting, in this case.

2) Today happens to be Gloria Swanson’s birthday (knowledge also gleaned from Bluesky), so we can all weep with tender appreciation over her singing of “Love, Your Magic Spell Is Everywhere.” (Start the video above at 00:23.) The single she recorded is here. Arden and Ohman’s lushly orchestrated version is here. And Ben Selvin’s two-step/march version here.

3) I am having a little trouble pressing the reset button in my life — not least because the immediate becomes more urgent than long-term things — but that doesn’t mean I’m sitting still. How I change direction, and to what, is the question.

Monday, 11 March -- New York, Day Five

1) Up early after a beautiful night’s sleep, I remembered that the Algonquin had self-serve coffee in an obscure lobby niche — and also that I had a cache of Sweet ‘n’ Low in my laptop bag.

2) Oh, were the Oscars last night? Did Mary Astor win anything?

3) At a loose end, I decided to visit MoMA after breakfast at the Red Flame next to the Algonquin. The Red Flame, a classic New York diner, can always be relied on for a good omelette!

4) Off I wandered like a baby duck to MoMA, naively thinking I could just waltz in and buy a ticket when they opened at 10:30. Imagine my surprise at the line of hundreds of people, including large groups of high school students, stretching around the block. And I said to myself, “Robert, of course people want to get into MoMA! Can’t you use your noggin?!”

5) So I retraced my steps back to 47th Street, thinking to browse the jewely windows. And almost immediately I got sucked inside a store at the corner with the kind of hard sell I very much dislike. My God, these people treat an honestly delivered “No really, I’m just browsing” the way a bull treats a matador’s cape. But I was shown some very interesting jewels, got to share the story of the Duchess of Devonshire’s star ruby, and got out of there as graciously as I could without providing any personal information.

5a) Outside I had not moved two steps down the street when someone from the next store called “Are you shopping today, sir?!” I muttered “No,” and just kept walking.

6) Having checked out, I spent the rest of the morning writing in the Algonquin lobby. Not such a bad way to spend the day!

Delicious old architectural details exposed at some 44th Street theatre.

7) But about 1:30ish I gathered my luggage from the doorman and strolled off to to the station. Today was what Winnie-the-Pooh would have called “a blustery day:” bright, sparkling, and with a very brisk breeze down 44th Street. At points the trailing end of my big white scarf snaked about my arm like a cobra.

8) The Metropolitan Lounge at Moynihan Train Hall is my Manhattan Taj Mahal. Anyone who remembers the dreary old Club Acela in Penn Station will know how wonderful this spacious sunlit room is. I was able to stake out an enormous yellow velvet wing chair by the windows, plug into my etiquette course, and then 90 minutes before my train, comfortably participate in a course webinar.

8a) I am really enjoying this course, and its roughly three webinars every two months. But the number of students logging on to the webinar (as opposed to viewing it later) is dwindling. And that’s sad, because there’s something to be said for group participation and interaction.

9) In the lounge, after trial and error, they have beautifully worked out how to get first class passengers to the train without confusion. They now call everyone to the front of the lounge, and an attendant ushers everyone down in single file right to the escalator to the track, before it’s announced generally.

10) The train was just pulling away from the platform when I heard a woman call out “Wait, I forgot my coat!” And no lie, the train was stopped on the platform while she retrieved it! Later, I think after we had popped out of the tunnel, I heard that another passenger, a man, was on the wrong train; he was supposed to be going to Washington! The train did not turn around for him.

11) Now I am enjoying my bourbon and soda after my lamb tagine, and we should have a lovely ride back home to Boston. Farewell, New York! It’s been lovely, and I hope to be back soon.

12) By the way, Lisa — if you’re reading this, whoever you are — the woman sitting in row ahead of me on a work call thinks you’re a significant part of the problem.

Sunday, 10 March -- New York, Day Four

1) Have you ever been awake for the passage of Daylight Savings Time, when one hour suddenly skips to another? I was sure I would sleep solidly after all the stimuli of the day before, but I was wide awake for a good two hours in the middle of the night — which was actually three hours, and I saw the clock change before my eyes. It must have been that midafternoon coffee on Saturday . . .

2) This morning I forced myself to visit the Russian Turkish Bath on East Tenth for the first time and have my first Russian platza. It was a quiet New York morning — as quiet as New York can ever be, that is — with the fresh sunny chill of earliest spring after the previous day’s rain. My journey on foot from the subway was about three times as long as necessary because I used the wrong exit. The surprise benefit was passing by the Merchants House Museum, which I visited in 2022 — and which is in danger of destruction thanks to a boneheaded Landmarks Preservation Commission decision. If Jackie Kennedy was alive today she would not stand for this nonsense!

3) Up the front stairs to the baths to be greeted by a delightful Slavic woman who loved my winter white as she locked up my wallet in a lockbox and assigned me a locker. Learning I was there for the first time, she immediately put me in the hands of a man named Mukhtar (I learned later), and after that I was basically led about like a confused sheep from locker to steam room to treatment cubicle to the superheated Russian Room to the plunge pool.

3a) First he handed me a pair of size 12 plastic sandals, three gray towels (the color gray, not gray from overuse), and a pair of green polyester shorts which looked and felt absolutely ridiculous. Four years of junior high school trauma mean that I’m never at my best in a locker room, and on this first visit, I felt it expedient to obey. But after ten minutes in the steam room, I got rid of those stupid shorts as unobtrusively as possible and made do with a towel, as God intended.

3b) There were two types of men in the steam room: elderly Slavs in swimsuits they brought from home and thick pointed felt hats, and younger (meaning my age and younger) non-Slavic men mostly in towels.

3c) There was a joke in Daddy’s copy of The Bennett Cerf Joke Book about the Hollywood actress on vacation incognito in small town Mexico who didn’t speak Spanish. “Don’t worry,” her agent told her. “Just say ‘Sí sí’ when anyone asks you anything.” Unfortunately her true identity was discovered and a big local hubbub ensued. The actress is sí sí-ing all over the place when her agent cries out. “What happened?” she asked. The agent told her “You just married the mayor!”

3c.i) This is a long way of saying I didn’t quite know that I was getting not only a platza but also a mud bath and a salt scrub.

3d) Eventually Mukhtar beckoned me into a treatment cubicle, took my towel, sandals and locker key and directed me face down on the table. I was rinsed and then smeared top to toe with mud, directed “Face up,” and the process was repeated. My face was covered with a towel, he told me “Relax ten minutes,” and left. I was grateful to have an idea of what was going to happen next. So I just lay there listening to the voices of men throughout the floor, gossiping or (briefly) singing in Russian, or talking.

3d.i) Or yelling at people not to misbehave. A friend who had been before told me his experience had been marred by a baths attendant yelling some speech about ahem over-familiarity. Having been warned, and not actually having to be in the same space with this guy when he started, I wasn’t overly alarmed by it. Later, when I was changing, there was an attendant grumbling in the locker room while gathering towels; I’m pretty sure it was the same guy.

3e) Mukhtar returned and scrubbed me down and rinsed me off. I have never felt so detoxified or so smooth. And then he summoned me into the Russian Room for my platza. The Russian Room is, as far as I’m concerned, Satan’s oven. Through a wooden door set in a rough granite frame, you enter a dark but well-lit low-ceilinged room. To the left is a narrow extension with a wooden bench that is hot to the touch. To the right is a small square room ringed with two tiers of stone benches surrounding a square stone cistern. Mukhtar directed me to lie face down on a pad of damp towels on the upper tier. I was petrified that my flesh would touch the walls and burn off. He covered my head with a towel soaked with cold water and proceeded with the platza, soaping me up and then rubbing me down with bundles of oak leaves, directing me face up and face down, lifting and lowering my arms as needed. Never has my body felt so dangerously hot; I could not wait for it to end.

3f) He directed me to sit on the lower shelf, poured a bucket of cold water over me, and then another, and then sent me into the plunge pool immediately outside the Russian Room. Welcome as that was, I could stand it for about 45 second. Then he hosed me down, brought me to a bench, sat me down, threw a towel over my head, another over my waist, told me to sit for ten minutes . . . and that was the end of my platza.

3g) Exhausted, all I could do was just sit there with my eyes closed. And then open, wishing this one old Russian dude would just stop talking so much. One can watch people walk back and forth only so much, no matter how handsome. And the place was beginning to fill up as the morning progressed. My claustrophobia kicked in sufficiently to let me know it was time to leave, so I staggered upstairs to dress and depart.

3h) But I’ll return . . . just not to Satan’s oven.

4) By this time Daddy was hongry, and my leisurely walk led me to someplace called Little Ruby’s which had an amazing green eggs bowl for breakfast: soft-cooked eggs with spinach, kale, pesto, peas, some sort of lovely soft cheese, and smoked salmon. Absolute heaven.

The little red sticker says “Thank you.”

5) Walking to the subway, I deflected a sidewalk pollster who asked “Would you like to see more Democrats on the ballot?” Waiting for the light to change, I heard her next interaction behind me, a man’s outraged voice saying “We’re not Democrats! You don’t see us wearing masks!” And I thought “That is such a 2022 remark to make.”

6) I reclaimed my luggage and walked the 15 blocks to the Algonquin, taking in all the human interactions on the street: the large tour groups listening (or not) to their guides, a father and young daughter carrying a large tote bag emblazoned with “I Like Big Books and I Cannot Lie,” other people with luggage (like me) who didn’t know where they were going (unlike me).

7) Manhattan or no Manhattan, Daddy needed a NAP, and it was lovely to settle into my comfy Algonquin bed for a couple hours. And then I started the cocktail hour at the bar in the lobby. What they have done with this “renovation” is nothing short of criminal, taking a distinctive, historic, and well-known interior and transforming it into . . . a Marriott.

7a) But the Algonquin’s real crown jewel now is its staff, every single one of them, and I enjoyed my drink and my sojourn at the bar before sallying forth into the night for my next engagement.

The view from Ophelia.

8) My Flickr friend Julien and his boyfriend Ken had suggested we meet at Ophelia, atop the Beekman Tower, née the Panhellenic Tower. While I was walking there Julien texted me that they’d be an hour late, having forgotten about the time change. I used the time to enjoy the amazing views of the city over another manhattan. It’s a delightful venue! The elevator pops you out into the central bar, from which entrances left and right lead you to narrow rooms with giant window views and a couple outdoor terraces. I’ll want to return here on future visits.

8a) The men’s room is on the floor below, and I was alarmed to walk in and encounter — an open window! On the 20-somethingth floor! My acrophobia encouraged me to leave that room as quickly as possible. Ken told me later that there’s a terrace only one floor down, but still . . . aigh!

8b) Julien and Ken arrived, full of life and excitement. After we got a table and drinks, we toured all the various spaces, and then ordered savory lamb chops and other dainties. One is never at a loss for a topic with Julien, who always has something engaging to share.

Another view from Ophelia.

9) And afterward, he suggested we take an Auntie Mame pilgrimage to Beekman Place, only a block or two away. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that there is no Three Beekman Place! The numbers skip from One to Five, so no wonder Patrick Dennis chose Three for Mame’s address! I took my picture in front of One as a consolation prize.

9a) We then poked about to look at other architectural features of the neighborhood. New York really is full of delicious quirks, architectural and otherwise, and Julien is so knowledgable his enjoyment is infectious. But soon it was time to hail a taxi and bring this day of stimuli to an quiet end.

In front of One Beekman Place.

Saturday, 9 March -- New York, Day Three

1) Well, I had a ticket to the Met. I did not get to the Met. In fact I stayed in my room almost all morning, so wiped out was I. Eventually I headed to the breakfast room for a large coffee and a little nibble.

2) Turned out my hotel was quite close to the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT), where I knew they had an exhibtion of Statement Sleeves (I ask you . . . ) so I ducked in, and they had some pretty incredible gowns on view from this century and the last two, in every color and shape you can think of.

Dainty!

2a) They also had something on bows, Untying the Bow, with all sorts of stuff, including this unusual pair of evening shoes.

These rainbow stripes are made from reclaimed satin blanket edgings.

3) After a quick bite, I explored the galleries along West 22nd Street, knowing that I would end up at 2 PM at the DC Moore Gallery to view their Paul Cadmus exhibition with Austin and Vance. The piece that I wanted to share most with Mother was a tapestry created by a Native American artist, Marie Watt, out of reclaimed satin edgings from blankets. It’s quite ingenious!

Jared French by Paul Cadmus.

4) The Cadmus show, Paul Cadmus: The Male Nude, sparked this trip to New York. I said to myself, “Robert, if you rented a car to drive all the way to Williamstown for the day to see Orientalism in America at the Clark Institute back in 1996, you can damn well buy a train ticket and go to New York to see this show!” And I was not disappointed. Some of the works I knew from Lincoln Kirstein’s book about Cadmus (who was also his brother-in-law), others were completely new to me. I was especially impressed with a pencil portrait of Cadmus’s lover Jared French, who I recognized instantly.

Y.M.C.A. Locker Room, by Paul Cadmus.

4a) Possibly the most famous painting in the show was Y.M.C.A. Locker Room of 1933. (Oh dear, writing it that way makes me think it could be a follow-up movie musical to Gold-Diggers of 1933 . . . with a Village People soundtrack, of course!) Seeing reproductions of paintings in books or postcards never does give you a true idea of the size of a painting. How surprising to see that this busy scene of many men does not take up so many square inches — which contributes to its intimacy and its sense of community.

4b) The work that surprised me most was this etching of a hurricane-blasted building as seen through the halo/porthole of the ruined seat of a chair. Who would have thought of this?! How marvelous! It took me awhile to realize exactly what I was seeing.

5) Vance had targeted some other galleries for us to see: Japanese Abstract Expressionists, mid-century photography and other things. There’s a famous photo by Weegee (I think) of a larger older woman with lots of jewelry and “smoky eye” makeup — it was pirated by Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic as “Madame Bijoux” — which was on exhibition, and I blurted out “It’s Sarah Huckabee Sanders!” before I could stop myself. Because that’s not very nice — but then, neither is Sarah Huckabee Sanders.

6) The afternoon was filthy with rain, and we retreated for coffee, carbohydrates and conversation for awhile — including professional life, Paris, the Opéra Garnier, and postwar French cinema — specifically Les enfants du Paradis and Le Collier de la Reine.

7) Then more galleries — and it’s worth noting, they all had umbrella stands on this filthy day — and then we had to say farewell. I barely managed to snag a cab to head across the island to my next engagement. Mystifying, frustrating delays — it’s one thing not to be moving, as we know, but quite another not to know why. And on a black rainy evening in a low-ceilinged taxi, what is there to see from the back seat?!

8) But then, the happiness of the comrades of Youth! I splashed out of the cab and into the Holiday Cocktail Lounge and the arms of Anthony (my high school crush) and Drew, and Anthony’s husband Pedro, for black manhattans and a long overdue catch-up. And Holiday’s amazing deviled eggs.

8a) Our talk reminded me a little of Fanny and Agatha’s friendship in F. Tennyson Jesse’s brilliant The Lacquer Lady: “There would always be between them the strong bond of a youth shared . . .” And I feel like we all got to know more about each other than we had hitherto.

A tiny, dainty hibiscus margarita the waiter brought in lieu of dessert.

8b) The club grew more active as the evening went on, and after a second round Anthony and I headed out for a Mexican dinner right next door. My first plate of enchiladas verdes in years. Every time I find a good Mexican restaurant, they take it off the menu!

9) Another dark, rainy and disorienting cab ride ended my third day in the city, and day full of art, rain, footsteps and friendships renewed.

In front of a large white paint chip in a West 22nd Street gallery.

Friday, 8 March -- New York, Day Two

1) I slept like the dead, and rose . . . like the dead. The way a stone rises from the riverbed.

1a) Exactly.

2) Once again, it proves that, unless I plan something to happen, nothing happens. But I didn’t beat myself up over it, spent some time writing, and then strolled leisurely to a late lunch with a friend.

3) That leisurely stroll took about 25 blocks, and the panoply of New York is there for all to see. New York is full of people who (check all that apply):

• . . . are doing the best they can.

• . . . don’t realize they are in the way.

• . . . realize they are in the way and do not give a good goddamn that they are.

• . . . wear whatever they want. (This includes me.)

• . . . want your money.

• . . . will treat people better than they have been treated.

• . . . walk with assistance.

• . . . are probably reconsidering some choices.

4) Lately I’ve become interested in mandarin garnets, so called because of their orange color. So I passed through 47th Street to look in the jewelers’ windows — Insert Typical Adjectives About Jewelry Display Here. But I only saw one, quite beautiful but set into a ladies ring, surrounded by tiny diamonds. Not for me.

5) My friend had suggested Casa Lever for lunch. I wasn’t familiar with it, or with its location, Lever House — one of the triumphs of mid-century Manhattan architecture. And the dining room was right out of a Jet Set airport fantasy: warmly plain blond wood panels and cream walls (if neutrals are ever lush, these are lush neutrals) contrasted with large paintings of butterflies against bold backgrounds. You know I’m a maximalist, but this was a beautiful room.

5a) At a nearby table I saw a quartet of martinis blossoming like crystal lilies with green centers. But my order did not include such decadence: caprese salad, pomodoro risotto, and a glass of sauvignon blanc, followed by cappuccino.

5b) Our conversation ranged everywhere, from the previous night’s State of the Union speech to Feud: Capote vs. the Swans, travel plans, matters of manners, and the changing restaurant scenes in our cities.

6) Lunch began at 1:45 PM, but I was still surprised to realize it was 4:15 when we parted company. I’d originally thought of going to the Met, but impulsively returned to my hotel instead. En route I passed Trympe Tower — and a man in a rubber Trympe mask directing traffic!

6a) Then almost immediately afterward I realized I was passing St. Thomas’s Church, so I stopped in for a quick peek.

The organ bar at St. Thomas’s.

7) I am starting — horrors! — to weed through my library and pass on books that I know I’ll never read again. On this trip I’d picked out Fokine’s memoirs to give to my friend Austin. I’d gotten this at Avenue Victor Hugo years ago, and never actually finished it. To pass the time on the subway, I started reading his chapter about the creation of the ballet The Firebird with Stravinsky and Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes. It was quite interesting! But so many theatrical (and other) memoirs are about settling scores, justifying choices, and making sure people know how things were really supposed to be.

8) Austin and I had our first dinner at Cafe Luxembourg ten years ago last month. It was bitterly cold and icy that February, and I remember gracelessly picking my way over the icy sidewalks in my hiking boots like a timorous old lady — only to discover Austin witnessing my performance from the restaurant’s entry. This year the weather is truly like early spring; climate change is real!

9) We had a beautiful little dinner: oysters and cod and profiteroles for me (I can’t remember what Austin had), and a bottle of brut rosé.

10) Austin suggested we check out the Wallace Lounge a few blocks away, a wonderful choice. A quartet was playing — piano, drums, sax, singer — creating the perfect sophisticated and unhurried atmosphere of a good club. We started manhattans while standing at the bar, and continued them when they were able to seat us at a table. When I recognized the tune they were playing as an upbeat version of “Smile,” I reacted as happily as a small child.

10a) One of the numbers they played later was Nancy Wilson’s “Guess Who I Saw Today?” which I hadn’t heard in a long time.

11) And then back to Midtown on a 2 train to close a day of good conversations and happy feelings.

Thursday, 7 March -- New York, Day One

1) It’s been such a long time since I traveled (last July), that I’d forgotten I sleep badly on the night before I leave! And so it was this time, tossing and turning until I finally just started the day 5:15. Oof.

2) It takes guts, or just an absence of brains, to wear winter white for travel on a rainy day. After my walk to the subway, though, I was indoors until I popped above ground in Manhattan. Still, one looks at station benches and paper coffee cups differently! I’ve spilled coffee on this coat before, and the benches at the far end of Back Bay Station Track One are grimy with old pigeon poop.

Track One at Back Bay Station may not have been cleaned since World War II.

2a) There is a special place in Heaven for drivers who slow down and avoid (as much as they are able) puddles so that they don’t splash pedestrians.

3) This trip I was not in the quiet car. And that was made very obvious by the two women (of my age or a whisper younger) sitting directly behind me creating a profile for a dating website (!) and sharing Dreary Suburban Gossip. Worse, their tickets were not together, but they sat together anyway, which created trouble with the conductor (“You told the wrong guy, lady”) and inconvenience for others — which one of them simply did not understand.

3a) So I spent most of the trip catching up on my etiquette course (yes, I’m a student again!) with my earbuds, and daydreaming.

4) On arrival I had just enough time to drop my bag and dash uptown to Dempsey & Carroll to meet one of the nicest and kindest etiquette professionals on Instagram, Old Soul Etiquette. She and I settled in for tea down the street at Orsay and had a really absorbing talk about all things manners. She was so generous with her time, and — well, she is the one of the people I wish I could truly be more like.

An art installation using clouds of colored tulle in Madison Square Park.

5) Then it was whoosh! back downtown on the 6 train to Apotheke NoMad, a plush basement speakeasy, to meet another IG follower — who quite took my breath away with his deep knowledge of food and travel, his razor-sharp tailoring, and his general presence. He was, I think, genuinely shocked when I mentioned I was 60; I told him my skincare secret was good lighting. Apotheke was wonderful; I forget what I had now, “Oh, the essence of a few woodland herbs and flowers, tra-la, tra-la” no doubt, but it was light and involved gin. I was going to order something called Clouds of Gold until the waitress explained that it was a foamy drink. It would not be very elegant to risk a foamy mustache.

6) It was noisy at Apotheke (but I would go again), and eventually we each had to go on to our next engagments. Mine, later that night, was the Green Fairy Society, an absinthe-oriented group, which had a tasting and cabaret/burlesque show on the third floor of an old building on East Fourth. I had not really had dinner (or lunch, for that matter), and you know how I am about being late. After taking a cab down to the bar, I killed time over a couple slices at a nearby pizza joint (being very careful to keep grease spots from my winter white) and a saunter around the block.

7) As it was, they didn’t open the doors until ten minutes after the stated time, and I had to kill some more time over a G&T in the Red Room itself. But what an amazing evening! People really took the trouble to dress, and I saw some incredible suits, ties and hats (not on inside, as is proper) on the gentlemen, and some remarkable cocktail toilettes on the ladies. A sleek black sheath, nearly backless with the backline accented with a double row of pearls. A 1950s wide-skirted royal blue off-the-shoulder gown worn with a disk of blue feathers topped with a smaller disk of white feather that looks like a chrysanthemum; the overall agreeable effect was of elegance married to one of Mae West’s chorus girls in She Done Him Wrong. The bartenders know how to make a perfect Sazerac, too.

7a) I wore my black suit with pink accoutrements and one of Gramma’s Mexican silver filigree brooches. It got so crowded I was glad I didn’t tear anyone’s clothes with it.

7b) Everyone present was a) straight, b) knew everyone else in the room, and c) did not cease talking loudly even during the absinthe experts’ remarks, which made me feel bad for them.

7c) Before the festivities officially commenced, the burlesque girls kept moving back to front through the long narrow crowded room in scarlet shorty kimonos, finishing whatever tech prep they needed I guess. A fierce honky-tonk pianist bashed fire and blues out of the upright on the tiny stage, we had the absinthe remarks, and then the burlesque got started. Most impressive, sultry, salty, provocative. The legacy of Betty Page lives!

8) As engaging as it all was — truly incredible! — by 11:15 I was fading after all the events of the day. I made a new best friend by giving up my barstool (from which I had as good a view of the action as possible), grabbing a cab and heading back to my hotel. I fell into bed just after midnight feeling — well, to be honest, feeling old and provincial — but happy with the events of the day, all the good conversations, and the energy of Manhattan.

How it ended.

9) It’s now early Friday afternoon and I still haven’t left the hotel — which just goes to show that if I don’t schedule something, I tend not to do anything!

Monday Evening, 4 March -- Music, Doom and Mrs. Slayden

1) Two songs dueled for current musical obsession last week: Lynn Anderson’s “Rose Garden” and the Old Wedding Standard “Oh Promise Me.”

1a) The former I vaguely recall from The Lawrence Welk Show, but it had not crossed my mind in decades. Why, then, should Miss Anderson present herself now? Why should the lyric “I could sing you a tune and promise you the moon on a silver platter//But what would it matter?” absolutely captivate me? I prefer this version to the “official” recording.

1a.i) “Come along and share the good times while we can” takes on a more ominous cast in this election year . . .

1b) “Oh Promise Me” came up while I was researching my weddings talk, but also because it can be heard in the wedding sequence of Weekend at the Waldorf (1945), which some Xavier Cugat fan has shared on ye Fycebykke. A standard for so long (I think it was only supplanted by “Evergreen” in the 1970s), it has become the parody anthem that leaves all the elderly ladies and that One Aesthetic Cousin weeping in tender appreciation during the wedding. Here is Jan Peerce’s recording, complete with lush orchestra and chorus. Bring your own hanky.

2) Today was a day for doomscrolling, something in which I don’t indulge much . . . but one must keep informed. The malicious use of AI is, I fear, only the beginning.

3) Last week I had to go rummaging through Ellen Maury Slayden’s diaries, too, and found her complaining about the deference a Congressional wife wanted to show to the wife of the Speaker of the House. (That part is long and boring, never mind.) But Ellen said “One often hears of Northern or Western women in the [Congressional Club] speak of the President as ‘Our Ruler’ That and the unctuous phrase ‘Our beloved Presadunt,’ so dear to female orators, try my soul. I see no occasion to love a President. It is quite enough to respect him — if he’s respectable. To love a new man every four years is not seemly, and to say that you do is hypocrisy and cant.”

Thursday Morning, 15 February

1) This morning’s Scorpio horoscope made me laugh out loud when I read “Today you’re likely to be feeling especially energetic and decide to give your house a thorough cleaning.” Why? Because I was reading it in bed with my second cup of coffee after a night of such rare good sleep that I actually forwarded the alarm half an hour to keep enjoying it. “Especially energetic” does not describe my current mood.

2) My energy is all mental today, crackling like lightning that can’t find a target. Alive but diffuse. Which is . . . unhelpful. The Magician card in the tarot is about making divine inspiration manifest in the physical world. Something is blocking my transmission abilities right now.

3) Whereas there is much to be done on many fronts; yesterday was unusually active, like working in an office again. I need to sharpen a point onto this reverie and get going.

Tuesday Afternoon, 13 February -- Research and Random

via GIPHY

1) Yesterday, researching my upcoming talk at the Massachusetts Historical Society, I was thrilled to come across not only an invitation to the wedding of Consuelo Vanderbilt to the Duke of Marlborough, which I did not expect, but also its accompanying card of admission to the church! (Because they couldn’t just plan to let in anybody, especially considering that rubberneckers were lining Fifth Avenue for 20 blocks . . . )

2) Later that afternoon, entering the supermarket, I got the Full Impact of red and pink flowers and shiny hearts massed at the entrance for Valentine’s Day. My first thought was the words of the late Crystal Allen: “They’re not gonna get me out on that limb again ever!” And then I was really surprised that that was my first reaction.

3) Everything seems to be happening in a compressed time frame today, from many different directions. For a moment it felt like being in the office . . .

Thursday Night, 1 February -- Anniversaries, Condescension, and Disco

1) Mother died five years ago today. Perhaps my mind hasn’t fallen into the usual (preferred) furrow of anniversary thinking because she is with me so much? Yesterday I found in some old scrapbooks from her family her engagement and wedding portraits, and the newspaper clippings from when she and Daddy got married in 1955. Mother was always so much herself to me — I mean, she’s my mom! — but looking at these photographs now, years later, I see my sister and my niece, and even my great-niece.

1a) I come from families in which the female genes are strong. Now when I look in the mirror I see more of my father than my mother. But my father took after his mother, and anybody who met Granny or any of her many sisters knew that they were in charge. Always.

2) Call me a fussy old queen — you won’t be the first! — but I will not be condescended to. I may not know everything, but I know more than you credit, and my experience is greater than what you allow. Don’t forget I’m a Scorpio, dahlings — I love you, but I will cut you.

2a) Tallulah Bankhead’s moon was in Scorpio . . . and not just because she didn’t wear underwear . . . so look out!

3) Last week I watched Fame for the very first time since high school. Astonishing, considering how much that movie impacted my generation. And tonight, rediscovering the importance Donna Summer had in those years for me. I had that On the Radio two-record set with all her hits on it . . . and that music has just not been present for me — I have not made it present — for such a long time. So, because I just read Barbra Streisand’s memoirs in December (you notice no one’s still talking about it, yes?), the era-defining “Enough Is Enough.” “And I won’t waste another . . . tear!”

Saturday Afternoon, 20 January -- Mother's Birthday and Other Things

1) Mother would have been 94 today. This was Daddy’s favorite photo of her, a candid he took one morning without any warning. (Mother did not prefer candids; she liked everyone posed and smiling best.) He just said her name or “Look up,” and this is the result. And we really see her at her best here.

1a) This was taken during her morning devotional, which would end with the newspaper, a practice I’ve added to my own routine over the last few years — little realizing I was imitating her. And seeing this photo again makes me doubly glad I chose to take her Lamsa Bible, with which I begin my own morning devotional. Of course my selection of devotional literature is broader than hers; while I sometimes include the C.S. Lewis daily readings she gave me, I also range through Baltasar Gracian, Walt Whitman, Henry Beston, Marie Kondo, always finishing with Mason Currey’s Daily Rituals: How Artists Work.

1b) And also my cousin Roger Hutchison’s The Art of Calm, which came out last year. Today’s reading, “Friend,” included this: “While true friendship is one of life’s greatest gifts, ceasing to be friends with a person is one of its most challenging moments. Why do these endings hurt so much? And then there are friendships that you thought were everlasting. They sometimes end too, and you don’t know why . . . But, like with anything, friendships change and grow. Friendships end. Friendships have a life of their own.” This hit me poignantly as I adjust to someone’s change toward me which I don’t understand.

2) In other news, I continue to plough slowly through my dozens of unread or partially read books. I have finished M.F.K. Fisher’s Here Let Us Feast, which really was a delightful feast; its most lasting image, I’m afraid, was the fascinating, horrifying dinner in Booth Tarkington’s Alice Adams. And I also polished off 21: Every Day Was New Year’s Eve by H. Peter Kriendler, his memoir of his family’s fabled elite Manhattan restaurant (which I was surprised to learn was a victim of the pandemic.)

2b) I don’t quite know how I ended up with a collection of Manhattan nightspot memoirs, but the 21 Club now joins my books about the Stork Club and the Algonquin Hotel and the Colony Bar in the High Society section of my library.

2b) I’ve now snatched off the stack Begin Again: James Baldwin’s America and Its Urgent Lessons for Our Own, by Eddie S. Glaude, Jr. This will be a very different sort of read altogether! But necessary, and not just for me either.

3) This afternoon will probably be passed in searching for Mother’s bride’s book and other family wedding paraphernalia (news clippings from my grandparents’ weddings, specifically), in anticipation of National Weddings Month next month. And for dinner, recipes from the Pirate’s Pantry, which pleased her so much to give me for Christmas many years ago, and from which I’ve gotten some good recipes.

Tuesday Morning, 9 January -- Random

1) God smacked me in the face this morning with Psalm 69:5: “O God, thou knowest my foolishness; and my sins are not hid from thee.” Gurrrrrlllll, you can run, but you can’t hide.

2) I cannot possibly define carbohydrates as a sin, but they seem to be taking a prominent part in this January. Partly that has to do with leftovers from New Year’s — that pear cake, those lemon squares (next year I won’t bother with those lemon squares — the cakes made a better presentation) — but partly impatience and indulgence on my part.

3) Today I will probably take down the Christmas tree and any remaining decorations. It’s been lovely, but part of me is ready to have the house back in order — not least because I have lunch guests on Sunday.

Monday Morning, 8 January -- Quotes of the Day and Other Things

1) It’s the second day of Universal Letter Writing Week, so how appropriate that this morning’s devotional should include I Corinthians 16:21: “This salutation is from me, Paul, in my own handwriting.”

1a) On the sharper, more pungent side, that was followed up with #29 from Baltasar Gracián’s The Art of Worldly Wisdom: “Be righteous and firm. Side with reason and do this so steadily that neither vulgar passion nor tyrannical violence will make you stray from it. But where will we find such a Phoenix of equity? Few are devoted to righteousness. Many celebrate her, but few visit her. Some follow her until things get dangerous. In danger, the false disown her and politicians cunningly disguise her. She is not afraid to set aside friendship, power, and even her own good, and this is when people disown her. Clever people spin subtle sophistries and speak of their laudable ‘higher motives’ or ‘reasons of security,’ but the truly faithful person considers deceit a sort of treason, is prouder to be steadfast than clever, and is alway found on the side of truth. If he differs with others, it isn’t because of any fickleness of his own, but because others have abandoned the truth.”

2) This house is finally beginning to look like itself again after the holidays. The tree is still up, and the candelabra with the stubs of white tapers from New Year’s, but the towering vases of holly in half the rooms have been tossed, making those spaces look as usual, but blank.

3) Anno Domini 2024 sparkles with possibilities and plans — research for new Etiquetteer programs, a couple small events, travel ideas, books — but this morning my sparkle feels dimmed, even with two cups of coffee in me. And that’s OK.

Saturday Morning, 30 December -- Baking

1) Again this Christmas, my old upstairs neighbors sent me a lovely box of pears, and I knew I needed another recipe. Happily Laura has been going through Mother’s old cookbooks and other recipes, and shared this from our Auntie Mef, which looked like something I could achieve.

1a) In the past I’ve attempted a pear upside down cake in a skillet, which is just far to advanced for me — once you’ve poured the batter into the skillet there is no evening it out! and I am not enough of a showman to slice the pears so perfectly — and an absolutely wonderful chocolate pear cake that few people touched because they’re implacably opposed to combining fruit and chocolate. Ah well, Knowledge is Power, and . . . more cake for me!

2) So to the soundtrack to Kiss Me Kate preparations have gone splendidly (I am just about to start on stage two), but then . . . wait, what’s a tube pan? Where is a tube pan? Is there a tube pan? Not even a bit of one! A kitchen inventory reveals about four round cake pans (why so many?), one springform pan I may never have used, a shallow ring mold (wonderful for Russian cream, but not cake), and what I will end up having to use, an elaborate bundt pan I got at a thrift store for $3. It will just have to do!

3) I will have to put a cookie sheet on the bottom rack of the oven to catch any overflow. Wish me luck!

Tuesday Evening, 12 December -- Dark Days for Historic Houses

Three old houses — one in private hands, two museums — are facing Dismal and Surely Destructive Prospects.

1) First up, 84 Harbor Avenue in Mahblehead, beloved by the community almost since it was built, purchased by Exceedingly Wealthy People Who Already Live in Town — and of course they want to tear it down and build something else. I was made aware of this by an Instagram friend; read this November news article for the details. The clincher is here: “The owners propose the demolition of the existing home, and the construction of a new single family home, moved back on the lot and set within the setback requirements,” the Planning Board application reads. “The foundation of the existing home will partially remain, as it is integrated with the seawall. The project has been designed to respectfully address the neighborhood, town infrastructure and natural resources ….” My initial response: Wickedness!

1a) What is beautiful must be preserved, and this home is clearly not only beautiful, but beloved. That the new owners are not prepared to adjust their Design for Living into this existing home indicates to me an Absence of Imagination. My Instagram friend is kinder; he would be content for them to leave the seawall and seafront façade intact. I am not so merciful — which of course may count against me later.

2) Next up, the Nathaniel Russell House in Charleston, South Carolina, is set to be sold by the Historic Charleston Foundation. (Read more about that here.) Surely there are other ways for the foundation to achieve its mission without divesting itself of its first, and possibly chiefest, jewel.

3) But the worst story is yet to come. In 2022 Carl gave me a private tour of the Merchant’s House Museum in New York, with which he’d been affiliated for many years. Today, December 12, the Landmarks Preservation Commission voted to approve (!) a development next door to the museum, which would result in guaranteed irreversible damage to the house and especially to its intact early 19th-century plasterwork. The Commission voted to approve this, while “allowing no testimony from the Merchant’s House or [their] engineering team.” Again, I say: Wickedness! Small-minded people want to put up a hotel next door. There is plenty of room in Manhattan for a hotel — elsewhere!

3a) Like my beloved Gibson House here in Boston, the Merchant’s House is a unique and precious collection of an entire family’s possessions over a century or so. (Like my mother, they never threw anything away.) Carl also explained to me that the Merchant’s House was very much the basis for the sets of William Wyler’s The Heiress (1949) starring Olivia de Haviland. And that was immediately apparent in the main staircase.

3b) PLEASE: read their Call to Arms and contribute to their legal fund if you are able. The crux of the matter: “Shockingly, landmark status does not guarantee protection from adjacent construction.” And in this particular case, adjacent construction would inevitably lead to irreparable damage at best, and collapse at worst.

3c) What the hell are these Preservation Commissioners thinking?!

Dining Room of the Merchant’s House, March, 2022.

Thursday Morning, 30 November -- Portents

1) This morning’s devotional brought me to Luke 12:2-3 in Mother’s Lamsa Bible: “For there is nothing that is covered that will not be uncovered; and hidden that will not be known. For whatever you have said in the darkness will be heard in the light; and what you have whispered in the ears in the inner chambers will be preached on the housetops.”

1a) I guess Kissinger learned that the hard way. One point made in his NYT obituary (which I read last night) was that he lived so very long that things he had written in confidence in Nixon’s day had become declassified.

1b) It is also a cautionary tale about how the internet is used, though that is surely not a new observation.

2) You may remember that a couple weeks back my order of Christmas cards had been stolen from my front porch when it was delivered in the middle of the night. Imagine my surprise finding it on the hall table yesterday afternoon — open and mangled! One of my neighbors found that way on the front porch yesterday. So the thieves, undoubtedly upset they hadn’t stolen technology, returned the box!

2a) But I notice that they returned it without the packing slip/invoice, so they may be retaining my personal information for further skulduggery. 😬

2b) Happily ye Vystypryntte had already replaced my order, so . . .

3) Finalmente, I have finished Red Orchestra, a sad, terrifying, but courageous story.

Monday Night, 27 November -- Horoscopes, City Life, and Books

1) My Libra horoscope really smacked me in the face today: “An important person, someone who acted as your touchstone, no longer figures prominently in your life. This is a difficult adjustment for you. Make an extra effort not to turn inward as is your tendency in times of trouble. Force yourself to socialize and you may find a new friend.” It just underscores more my interest in forging more of an in-person community, as opposed to an online community.

2) Walking through the South End to the barber’s this morning, a rat ran across my path on Clarendon Street. A rat, in broad daylight! Faugh!

3) Now of course you want to know how I’m getting along with that enormous stack of books, aren’t you. Well . . . I just finished a book I added to the pile only last weekend, "Vivien Leigh: An Intimate Portrait, which is really a brief biography with some stunning photographs. Beautifully done, and I had forgotten that her last stage role was a fictional version of my beloved Marchesa Casati.

3a) Finalmente, as of today I am within 50 pages of finishing Red Orchestra: The Story of the Berlin Underground and the Circle of Friends Who Resisted Hitler, by Anne Nelson. I knew it would be heartbreaking, but when I read that one member, after imprisonment by the Gestapo, confided the names of other conspirators to an allegedly sympathetic woman in her cell — which of course led to their capture and eventual death — it was a twist of the knife.

3b) Really and truly, I had no intention of reading Barbra Streisand’s memoir. But when I saw it on the rack of new books at the Athenaeum last week, I picked it up on impulse — and I must say, it’s quite something! So far I’m up to the making of On a Clear Day You Can See Forever (which I have never seen).

3b.i) But the one fact that only I, among all the people I know who are truly, madly, deeply Barbra fans (which I can’t really say I am), can geek out over is that . . . she read The Quintessence of Ibsenism in high school. Now, I know exactly what you’re thinking: Whaaaaaat?! But in college I did a lot of reading and research on Ibsen’s plays, including all the books by his British disciple William Archer, and The Quintessence of Ibsenism by George Bernard Shaw. I couldn’t tell you a thing about any of it now, but it was a serious course of study for me once, and I hadn’t even heard that title since about, oh, 1989. So, how lovely to have an uncommon common bond with Barbra!

3b.ii) The only other thing I’ll mention (and this doesn’t give anything away) is the atmosphere she creates writing about the New York years just before her discovery, years of excitement, discovery, learning, energy, enthusiasm. For a brief moment it made me wish I could be 20 again and immersed in what I remember (read: the good parts) of those years when every new fact and personality was exciting to discover.

4) Well, as that old rubber planter Tully Marshall said to Jean Harlow in Red Dust, “If it was the summer of eighteen hundred and ninety-four, I’d play games with you, sister. But life is simpler now.” At least the Christmas tree is up.

Friday Morning, 17 November -- Gallimaufry

Gallimaufry, a word recently introduced to me by a friend, can mean “a hodgepodge” (his intended meaning). But it can also mean “a hash or ragout of liver, heart, kidney, or the like, with edible parts of the head.” Thanks, I’ll have the oysters instead.

1) A Friend Younger Than I, beset by absorbing professional and personal obligations, apologized for not responding at better length to a recent message. My reply to him surprised me more than I expected: “As maddening as it feels, enjoy and celebrate this super-busy time. The comfortable afternoon nap stage will come for you sooner than you think (and while I love it, I accomplish less than I’d like.)” And it’s true!

2) My day started with a jolt, an email (delivered at 12:11 AM this morning) that my Christmas cards had been delivered. They were nowhere to be seen on either front or back porch, which launched an odyssey of automated contact with UPS. I should have gone directly to VistaPrint, as a) UPS ended up handing off my package to the local post office, and b) Arwen, the Actual Person I spoke to was calming and efficient. Long story short (too late!), VistaPrint is reprinting and resending my cards so, like Christina Crawford, “I’ll get the cards out on time, OK?”

3) You are of course interested in what I’m reading now. I’m afraid The Age of Decadence has been put aside again and I am ploughing through two books: Here Let Us Feast, M.F.K. Fisher’s collection of stories of banquets and feasting through literature, and Red Orchestra: The Story of the Berlin Underground and the Circle of Friends Who Resisted Hitler, by Anne Nelson. The former I picked up in September at Montague Book Mill; the latter I bought at Brattle Books sometime during the pandemic and began over a year ago.

3a) I uncovered a stack of books I’d meant to sell or discard. When I shared the titles with a Prominent Used Bookstore, hoping at least for a trade, they courteously responded by email “Thank you but we are not interested in these. We see them all the time and they are hard for us to sell.” Oh well!

3b) And now, like the bombardiers, I should be yelling “Incommmmiiiing!” Wednesday I was given The Crimson Letter: Harvard, Homosexuality, and the Shaping of American Culture, by Douglas Shand-Tucci. I vaguely remembered wanting to read it when it came out (it’s in the same category as Gay New York by George Chauncey, which I also haven’t read yet), but then Shand-Tucci’s Boston Bohemia was so dense I just could not get past Chapter Three — and that was about Ralph Adams Cram, one of MIT’s great architecture professors and the creator of the Masque of Power in 1916, a topic of great interest to me.

3b.i) And Saturday I am being taken back to the Montague Book Mill on a western excursion, so who knows what might come back with me! Like the Collyer brothers, one day I will be crushed to death by all the books waiting for me to read them.

Thursday Evening, 16 November -- George Platt Lynes

1) Last Saturday I caught a screening of Hidden Master: The Legacy of George Platt Lynes at the MFA, part of the Wicked Queer Film Festival which I found out about thanks to the History Project (thanks, History Project, for that email!). It made quite an impression, and you should see it.

2) First, I thought GPL was better known than he actually is. I don’t know why I feel like I’ve always known about him and his work; am I part of some disparate unaware community of cognoscenti? Long story short (too late!) he was one of the greatest (if not the greatest) American photographer of the midcentury, known publicly in his lifetime for his work in fashion and portraiture (everyone from Gertrude Stein to Yul Brynner), but under the radar for his male nudes. He also did lots of fabulous ballet photographs for what became New York City Ballet. I knew he was connected to Alfred Kinsey and the Kinsey Institute, but I hadn’t realized that the largest surviving chunk of his legacy resides with the Kinsey, or that the second largest chunk resides with the estate of Frederick Koch.

2a) This is alarming - I choose that word carefully — because the state of Indiana (where the Kinsey is part of Indiana University) has just defunded the Kinsey Institute this month. Doesn’t that just underscore how fragile non-homophobic history is in America? GPL is too great an artist to have his legacy put at risk by a homophobic, conservative state legislature. There, I’ve said it.

3) The other thing — totally unexpected — was that GPL was known in New York for his splendid cocktail parties. All the beautiful men would be there, along with celebrities from the fashion world like Diana Vreeland. This being the the 1930s-1940s, you know they’d all be beautifully and properly dressed in suits and ties and little black dresses with Lily Daché hats, camping it up with martinis and impressions of Bea Lillie. In the documentary they had home movie film footage (not of one of George’s actual parties) of exactly what I describe. This heavily underlined for me the need we have in the gay community to create in-person community. Online community is fragile and may be snuffed out in a minute. Ever hear of ghosting, or of Instagram censorship that leads to the disappearing of accounts? And during this era (it’s much longer than a period or an aberration, it’s a damn era) of political anxiety, we need community. Dinners, coffees, meetups - hell, breakfasts — but especially cocktail parties from 5:00-7:00 PM (read: 5:30 - 8:30). I am tired of the excuses. Community takes work! And sometimes that means committing to mix up an extra pitcher of aviations for a thirsty crowd. You can do this!

4) The documentary is beautifully, lovingly created. Over the last 13 (!) years they interviewed surviving friends, employees, models (especially Jensen Yow), his nephew, and lovers, including Bernard Perlin, the artist to whom GPL bequeathed the lion’s share of his work (which is the collection that Frederick Koch’s collection now owns). I would have missed it entirely if it weren’t for that email from the History Project, and now I only regret that the house was less than half full when I saw it — and that very few people in the house were younger than I. This film, and George’s legacy, are enormously important. I need you to see it, and to have a damn party! (And invite me . . .)