Are friends and co-workers always borrowing pens from you — and forgetting to return them? And don’t they always have a good excuse: “I don’t know it was yours.” Well, they’ll know who owns these. The collection of eight pens is called Borrow My Pen. The pens are embossed with the names of uniformly stupid businesses (Dr. Lance Hughes, Proctology) and their equally dumb slogans (Turn your head and cough, 301 South Main. Please use rear entrance). I’m thinking: gift to loved ones trapped in offices.
Water, water, everywhere? We like to think so. But our most important resource is our most endangered resource. If you don’t know this from Susan Leal’s book, Running Out of Water, you might want to show up at the Council of the Americas (680 Park Avenue) on Tuesday, November 16th, for an 8:30 AM (yes, AM) conversation (ending at 10 AM). The experts are Ms. Leal and Alex Prud’homme. The moderator is — gulp — me. It’s free, but you must register. Which you can do here.
In a blog on “The Smart Set,” Paula Marantz Cohen recently “leveled my gaze at the men’s buttoned shirt in the hope that it might yield insight into the subtle expressiveness of the male wardrobe.” One aspect mystified her — the detachable collars on men’s 19th century dress shirts:
As originally designed, the collar was detachable, like the tie. One could speculate on why this was and why it changed. Perhaps the 19th-century man only needed to give emphasis to his head in public settings; at home, he could disregard this part of his anatomy, either because he deferred to his wife’s judgment or, contrarily, because brute force could serve him in lieu of brain power. Whatever the reason, in the 20th century, the collar ceased to be detachable. Public and private became less differentiated.
Paula Marantz Cohen is, according to her bio, “Distinguished Professor of English at Drexel University and host of The Drexel InterView, a talk show broadcast on over 275 public television stations across the country. She is author of four nonfiction books and three bestselling novels.”
Is it possible that a “Distinguished Professor of English” really knows nothing about the Industrial Revolution? How England, in particular, heated homes and offices with soft coal?Has she not read Dickens? Or Macbeth: "Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.”
And “filthy” was not dramatic exaggeration. From a fog monitor’s 1902 report: "White and damp in the early morning, it [London] became smoky later, the particles coated with soot being dry and pungent to inhale. There was a complete block of street traffic at some crossings. Omnibuses were abandoned, and several goods trains were taken off.” And the disgusting pollution persisted — in 1952, a soot-laden fog killed 4,000 Londoners.
Why were collars detachable? Because white collars quickly turned black. And so — as often as three times a day — gentlemen changed their collars, and for that matter, their detachable cuffs.
Even before I read the I-didn’t-really-love-it-but-who-wants-to-piss-her-off New York Times review of Nora Ephron’s new book, I knew she had one coming out — she has many fans among Head Butler readers and some of you have written to say, “You didn’t review I Feel Bad About My Neck, which was really terrific; are you going to review this one, which looks like more of the same?” Short answer: No. The long answer…well, got time for a story? In 1983, when she published Heartburn, a thinly disguised novel about Carl Bernstein’s infidelity and the breakup of their marriage, Nora and I were, in a New York kind of way, friends. That is, we lived in the same building, we went to some of the same parties, I had even been in the horse-drawn carriage with her and Marie Brenner and Liz Smith the night that Carl Bernstein, more than a little drunk, decided to jump onto the driver’s seat and take us for a ride, only to tip us into the street outside the St. Regis Hotel. So when I heard that Nora had written a novel, I told Edward Kosner — editor of New York Magazine, where I was a contributing editor — that I wanted to profile her. His response: a splendid idea. I called her. Her response: not a splendid idea. She was, she said, only planning to talk to local newspapers in the cities where she’d be promoting the book. Her exact words: “I forbid you to do this piece.” I told Ed Kosner. His exact words: “Who do you work for, her or me?” Well, now that he’d put it that way….I called Nora and told her I was doing the piece and that I’d inform everyone I called that she wasn’t participating. Of course her friends all talked — and their contributions weren’t as warm and wonderful as I would have expected and she might have assumed. A few weeks later, New York’s readers drooled over Scenes from a Marriage. Nora never spoke to me again. Twenty-plus years passed. Nora, the piece, the bad feeling — the episode faded for me. Then we ran into one another at the Aspen Ideas Festival. In less than a second, we had a moment out of a silent movie. (Imagine the subtitles, please.) Nora jerked back, horrified. Me: Really? No statute of limitations? Nora: No, never. So, given our history, I’m not rushing to review I Remember Nothing. But if one of you wants to do a Guest Butler stint, please raise your hand.
So there you are at the biker bar, drinking the local brew but still feeling badly under-decorated. Or you’re at an airport terminal in a state that allows residents to carry concealed weapons, feeling like everybody can tell you’re a Volvo-driving, latte-swilling Yankee Democrat. No need to play the part of a wimp — not when you’ve got an instant tattoo up your sleeve.
That’s right, friends. Just slip on a Fake Temporary Tattoo Sleeve and — instantly — become One of the Boys. Amazon offers a bargain package: 10 sleeves for $15.99, with free shipping. And for women who like to strut their stuff, there’s a tattoo sleeve set for ladies decorated with birds and flowers, just $3.99 (plus $3.04 shipping). Righteous!
Thanks to the Internet, I can honestly say something that sounds crazy — I’ve never met some of my best friends. So I was skittish about accepting Christopher Hirsheimer’s invitation to a surprise lunch for her business partner, Melissa Hamilton. I “know” Chrisopher and Melissa because I was an early fan of their Canal House cookbook series; now that they’re up to #5, “admiration” has morphed into “awe.” And they like me a bit too.
In that situation, if you were slated to meet, wouldn’t you think: “Downhill from here.” But it was a group lunch, with me as some kind of surprise guest — and did I say that it was being held at Prune, the Lower East Side restaurant launched by Gabrielle Hamilton, Melissa’s sister? Prune is small, idiosyncratic, beloved. I’d never been. Well, why not experience two novelties at once?
If you have read Hamilton and Hirsheimer’s books, you know they like cocktails, smart talk, fresh ideas. In “real” life, that’s just who they are. And attractive in the way that real women are attractive. So I was, by turns, stunned, relieved and thrilled to have two hours with them.
And then there was the meal. The main course was a smallish piece of chicken, a carrot, a turnip and a parsnip, served in an inch of clear broth. The foodie next to me: “Gabrielle is the most audacious cook in New York.” Ok, we’d had a drink, but she had a point — this was as elegantly simple as the glorious dinners that A.J. Liebling describes in Between Meals.
The next day was the Jon Stewart/Stephen Colbert rally for sanity/fear in Washington. I watched it with one eye for 2 hours; it was so boring it didn’t demand my full attention. But it caught fire at the end, and Stewart’s summation of the event struck me as generous and smart and sincere — I think “decent” is the word. And he certainly misted the eyes in this household. If you were otherwise engaged, here you go:
I’ve been listening a lot to the Dylan demos from wayback 1962-1964. If you’re of a certain age, you can’t help flashing back to old times, old causes, old friends. That lunch, that rally — I thought of “Bob Dylan’s Dream.” Know it? Here’s the Judy Collins version:
But nostalgia’s a trap. Only now matters. “I feel strangely good,” Stewart said. Me too. Thanks, Christopher. Thanks, Melissa. Thanks, Gabrielle. Here’s to seconds for us all.
On three Mondays — November 1, 8 and 15 — Buckyballs will donate 100% profits from Buckyballs online sales to The Buckminster Fuller Challenge! (It’s an annual $100,000 prize awarded to solve humanity’s most pressing problems.) What are Buckyballs? Where do you buy them? Click here.
If not, why not? If yes, you know: It’s probably the smartest, most thrilling — certainly, the most provocative — movie you’ll see this year. Enjoyable? Merely delicious.
On November 13, I’m going to Lincoln Center for the American premiere of Arvo Pärt’s “Stabat Mater.” (For tickets, click here.) The New York Times is all over the Estonian composer, with a big piece in the Times Magazine. But if you’re a longtime reader of this site, you’ve had the cheat sheet on Pärt for years.
You’ve seen the news stories: gay teenagers, pushed by bullies, are killing themselves. In response, gays celebrated and not are making a series of videos on the theme of "It Gets Better." In our house, the female residents are addicted to "Project Runway," hosted by Tim Gunn. They admire him because, they say, he’s the only reality show host with a beating heart. And now there’s this….
The President’s review: "Here’s what I love about Dylan: He was exactly as you’d expect he would be. He wouldn’t come to the rehearsal; usually, all these guys are practicing before the set in the evening. He didn’t want to take a picture with me; usually all the talent is dying to take a picture with me and Michelle before the show, but he didn’t show up to that. He came in and played ‘The Times They Are A-Changin.’ A beautiful rendition. The guy is so steeped in this stuff that he can just come up with some new arrangement, and the song sounds completely different. Finishes the song, steps off the stage — I’m sitting right in the front row — comes up, shakes my hand, sort of tips his head, gives me just a little grin, and then leaves. And that was it — then he left. That was our only interaction with him. And I thought: That’s how you want Bob Dylan, right? You don’t want him to be all cheesin’ and grinnin’ with you. You want him to be a little skeptical about the whole enterprise."
Maybe it’s the elections, coming closer, closer, like the monster in a bad sci-fi movie, with media amplifying every stupefying footstep. Maybe it’s the weather. Whatever, I’m in the mood to punch stupid in the face. Or just crank the volume high for a classic from the Pleistocene — “Wild in the Streets,” by Garland Jeffreys.
Some of you may recall a wonderful video by the Poozies of “There’s Another Train.” (Click here to watch/listen.) The same friend who sent that instant generator of tears and gratitude has done it again. The group is Red Molly. The songwriter is Susan Werner. Nine bows to them all.
David Brooks is not my favorite op-ed columnist, but not because of his politics. It’s his reporting. If you happen to know anything about the subject he’s writing about, you often have to rub your eyes — he twists the facts to make his case. So it was with his column about Jonathan Franzen and Franzen’s new novel, Freedom. I was thinking about dissecting his column, on the theory that no facts are easier to check than the facts in a book a great many people are reading. Happily, my wife beat me to it, and, I think, nailed the flaws in his analysis. So let her have the floor:
Brooks: “Richard is an artist, but we don’t really see the artist’s commitment to his craft. Patty is an athlete, but we don’t really see the team camaraderie that is the best of sport.” NOT TRUE. Richard is a pure artist, building decks for the rich instead of taking an office job. And Patty was a college basketball star — Franzen takes an entire chapter to show how her team was her real family.
Having misread the characters, Brooks is now free to attack the novel for not being a different book.
Brooks: “There’s almost no religion. There’s very little about the world of work and enterprise. There’s an absence of ethnic heritage, military service, technical innovation, scientific research or anything else potentially lofty and ennobling. …The serious parts of life get lopped off and readers have to stoop to inhabit a low-ceilinged world.” NOT TRUE. Most of the middle class would regard Franzen’s concerns — the quality of everyday life, the search for meaning, compromising and living with it — as serious. Just as serious, to them, as tours of duty in the Army are to Brooks, who never served in the military.
Brooks: “’Freedom’ is not Great Souls Seeking Important Truth. It’s a portrait of an America where the important, honest, fundamental things are being destroyed or built over — and people are left to fumble about, not even aware of what they have lost.” For Franzen, as for everyone from progressives to Tea Party conservatives, the unraveling of traditional America is today’s number-one topic. Because his characters see what’s happening, they struggle to avoid being crushed by a heartless, failing Empire. But Brooks has no compassion for these people. His heroes are imaginary Americans who regard crisis as a great opportunity to buck up and reaffirm classic conservative values — just as he does.
I was once on a panel with David Brooks. Something I said was something he’d never heard before — and wasn’t likely ever to think. I wish there were film of that moment; he all but rocketed out of his chair. Jonathan Franzen produces somewhat the same reaction in Brooks. Obviously, his column will make more sense if you’re read Freedom. But if you haven’t, the Brooks column on Franzen in the New York Times may still be worth your time.
Her sister sent her my way. Lucky me. Lori Lieberman is not only the writer behind the classic “Killing Me Softly,” she ‘s a singer-songwriter of uncommon sensitivity. And then lucky Lori — friends at the excellent “Concerts at the Crossing” series picked up on my rave, and now she’s performing there, Thursday, 9/25, at 7:30 PM. Where’s Washington Crossing? 40 minutes from Center City Philadelphia, 15 minutes from Princeton and 25 minutes from New Hope. In short, near some of you. For information & tickets, click here.
On Thursday, Secretary of Defense Gates had what’s been described as "a very brief" conversation with the Florida minister who was planning to burn the Koran.
How brief?
I like to think he said just three words: "Google Salman Rushdie."
Paul’s Spanish guitar intro….at the one-minute mark, the smile before they sing together…and then….just the music. Transcendent — and more so because, at the majestic age of 69, with the years in their voices, they’re better than ever. Great wine does this. Matisse. Very few others. We are so lucky to have them.
