Waiting for winter

Upper West Side sky. 5:30 PM. Photo: JH.

November 19, 2009. Waiting for winter. Yesterday was sunny and almost brisk in New York. Very mild weather for mid-November. I say that with the atavistic (really now) with a yen for the overcoat, scarf and gloves weather.

When I lived in California my New York friends would say they could never live there because they needed “the seasons.” I couldn’t agree more. So ...?

I spent a good part of yesterday reading Nicky Haslam’s memoir which is called “Redeeming Features.” I’m lunching with him today at Michael’s to interview him about his book. But I wasn’t just being responsible (by preparing myself). More spurious than curious. The nosey kind.

If you didn’t know: Nicky Haslam is an Englishman born at just the moment of the outbreak of the War in Europe, into an upperclass British family with all kinds of titled connections. He grew up to be a bon vivant, a post-modern Wildean character and eventually an international interior decorator of certain renown among the spending classes.


	Click image to order.

I don’t know him although I’ve met him a few times. He is charming in that he’s easy to meet (welcoming, no airs, lots of curiosity, enthusiasm) and everything I ever hear about him, everybody likes him. That’s quite a tribute coming from this part of the stratosphere with its high propensity for green eyes.

I’m not going to report on the book yet because I’m nowhere near through. He talks a lot about his family, his childhood, his childhood life. It’s always enlightening to me because I tend to think all the explanations for the future are there. I’m not sure if the guy is a “writer” although these British are so able with the written word that it doesn’t matter. What he is is literate, clear-headed and retains the child’s fascination for the Big World.

He belongs to a society that as Truman Capote once put it, “knows about five or six thousand people.” I am not a member of that society although god knows I’ve come in not always infrequent contact with more than five thousand people of this world. A guy like Nicky Haslam has probably been entertained or partied with at least half that number and maybe more. And he doesn’t know everybody either.

Who are these people I’m referring to? The five thousand ... maybe ten thousand? How could I define it? What stimulates my interest is that many of those “5000” are not known to the world in general but are known to each other (and their relatives and servants) at the top of the heap, if I may be so bold.

These people, as a class (wrong word/right idea), are at the center of the financial system. That is not to say they are rich – although rich is the underpinnings of it. They are close to the center of the Power not only in my country but in our world.

Paradoxically, it’s a crowd rife with penny pinchers, self-promoters, fast-talking entrepreneurs and glittering grifters. And bankers and movie stars and lawyers and doctors and layabouts and models and horsebreeders and politicians and kings and no-account-countesses; and you name it. They can drop names with the best of them.

The best of them are men like Nicky Haslam – a working man, a charming man obviously judging from his literary; a curious, interested man and good company. Because at the end of the day, that’s what we all want (if we want it at all): good company.

I took the night off from my rounds last night. Three black tie in one week is enough for this social reporter. There was much going on in New York, as there always is. And much of it is important and maybe more important now than ever before. Sometimes I regret that I don’t get to cover it all, to laud all those individuals who make things happen to make things happen for others. Charity moves New York now more than ever.

Nevertheless, I read Nicky Haslam and then went to Swifty’s to dine with friends and talk about the state of things.

I don’t hear much gossip these days. The gossip I do hear is horrendous. I can’t even print it here. Not because I’m being coy but because it’s all about the worst side of people. The good gossip is when you hear a marital tale that mirrors Boccaccio’s Decameron Nights where you can have a laugh at the denouement. Or a good cry. As soon as I do, so will you.

Last night at Brooks Brothers.

Meanwhile, back at reality: Last night at Brooks Brothers, the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund had a shopping night at the Brooks Brothers Women’s store at 7 East 44th Street. Cocktails, hors d’oeurvres and shopping – a 15% savings on purchases made during the event with 10% of the evening’s net donated to the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund.

I bought my first Brooks Brothers shirt when I was in college. For a kid from a little New England town, I thought that was hot stuff because the nearest Brooks Brothers was in Boston or New York – both many hours away.

In those days (early 60s) you could go into the store at 346 Madison, pick out what you wanted and open a charge by telling them to send you the bill. They took your name (maybe checked your driver’s license – mind you I was out-of-state), and sent you the bill. That was it. All that changed not long after.

The shirt was a white oxfordcloth that was a pullover but had a buttondown collar and a long placate so that when you tucked it in your pants, it looked like a regular white dress shirt. Very cool. Brooks’ shirt also had no vest pocket.

I took it back to college with me and the first time I put it on, right after I put it on, I got a phone call in the fraternity house. The phone was in the second floor hallway in booth-like closet. Taking the call, I had the receiver in my left ear and was lighting a cigarette with both hands. After the first big (to make sure it was lighted) puff, a spark dropped off the tip and landed on the breast of the shirt, burning a nice small round hole and leaving the burn mark. Ruined.

My first Brooks Brothers shirt. I never had another one like that. They had a great variety of styles in those days. Great styles. Their next door neighbor on Madison Avenue was Abercrombie & Fitch which bore no resemblance whatsoever to the current version of A&F. Brooks and Abercrombie’s and you were set for any WASP(like) haven anywhere. “The Bethren” a lot of its customers liked to call it. The clubbier ones.