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The
Empire State Building. 10:30 PM. Photo: JH.
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It was another
beautiful early autumn weekend in New York. Sunny and very warm.
The sunbathers were out in the park.
I ran into a woman I’ve known as an acquaintance for many years.
She had been spending less time in New York and, for personal reasons,
more time in the South. She said the Southerners were so much more
courteous than New Yorkers who she thinks are getting “worse
and worse.” I took small issue with her assessment, tactfully
suggesting that she’d just been away too long and had forgotten
about the vagaries of living with seven million other souls on a
small island of concrete and glass towers and canyons.
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My
first exposure to the hibiscus was when I first
moved to Los Angeles in 1978. It was a big bush
growing wild outside my bedroom window, covered — all
the time — with silky, fragile scarlet blossom.
I bought a plant three years ago when I saw one
festooning in front of a neighboring building's
door. The first year I got a blossom every other
day. One at a time, replacing as the other expired.
Last year I got nada. However, after giving it
some plant food, just to see what happened, it
returned to blossom, and last week, as if to celebrate
the end of summer, it graced me with FIVE blossoms
in one day! In the next week or two, in it comes
for the winter, blossom-less, of course; a desert
this place ain't.
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She then told
me in passing conversation that she used to be a “journalist” and
had returned to writing after many years. The word “journalist” had
a kind of hushed sanctity in her delivery, one which can be heard
frequently, especially in self-reference by talking heads on television
and radio, and just about everybody else who writes (not books) for
a living. Or doesn’t. Supercilious, at best.
My acquaintance had enrolled in some writing classes to get herself
started again. I concurred that it might be a good idea after being
out of the habit for many years. Well, yes, but actually….,
she explained it was because this was a very painful story she was
working on that needed some other’s guidance of “serious” writers,
and that it was a “big book.”
She was obviously anticipating something that would be garnering
the proper acknowledgement, like a Pulitzer (or a Nobel?). This was
a woman who had acquired her wealth in a long and costly divorce,
and so I wondered if it were about her former marriage. Although
I did not ask. Marriage break-ups are deserving of “big books,” at
least in the minds of the beholders.
Then she asked me if I were “still doing what you were doing?” Meaning,
the Social Diary, I guess. Yes, I answered. “And you don’t
get tired of it?” she asked with a kind of pitying smile. I
recalled a moment long ago when she revealed to me what was “serious” writing
and what was not. (Mine was not, natch.) I told her (truthfully)
that I didn’t… get tired of it, that it was ever changing
and ever challenging, especially since I had to do it every day.
She smiled tolerantly, as if to say “poor dear.” Or,
isn’t that nice? Yes, isn’t it.
The notion of writing about society, of writing a social column is
frequently regarded as doggerel by all kinds of people – the
financially well-fixed, the down-at-heels freeloaders, the intellectually
superior, of course, including “writers” who don’t
write. It ranks somewhere far beyond the boundaries of literature,
naturally, and is popularly considered possibly right down there
with pornography – which, god knows, is infinitely more profitable.
This weekend was the Jewish holidays – Yom Kippur – which
began Friday at sundown. And because New York has a large Jewish
population, as it is is with Christians (and even non-Christians)
with Christmas and Easter, the town gets much quieter for about fifteen
minutes because many people are either at temple or at home.
I made my weekly journey across town to Zabars, stopping first in
their “takeout/diner” for a Cuban panini (ham, cheeese,
pickle and garlic). The place was very quiet for a Saturday noontime,
obviously because of the Jewish holiday. In fact, it was so quiet,
the staff was relaxing a little to the point where I had to ask someone
to wait on me.
I was surprised, therefore -- although I shouldn’t have been
-- when I then went next door to the deli/store and found it was
packed with shoppers. Although I don’t mind the crowded emporium,
am used to it – New York and all – I was sorta disappointed.
Because getting around Zabars on Saturday noontime is always a little
like moving through traffic on the Place de la Concorde in Paris
midday midweek. I understood the reason for the crowd, aware that
these hours (before sundown on Saturday) were the day of fast, and
I could see the enthusiasm and excitement people were enjoying anticipating
the moment of “breaking” that fast. Later, a close friend
of mine who is an “observant” Jew told me that those
people shouldn’t have been out there buying. Uh-oh; naughty-naughty,
like all those high-minded Christians who don’t follow the
rules and rituals of the church. Aha!
Nevertheless. Continuing on my own consumer-foodie-ritual, I purchased
my goods, stopped at the shop on the next block to buy some fresh
flowers and then hailed a cab to take me home.
As is
my habit, because my cabdriver spoke English with a bit of an accent, I asked
him where he was from. He was, he told me, born
in Pakistan but grew up in Nigeria because his father was a professor.
Nigeria was a nice place to grow up for him, he said, with a climate
year round that was like this particular day – sunny and warm.
I asked him why he came to America. Because of a girl, he confessed
with a laugh. Fifteen years ago. And what happened? Her mother never
approved – because he was Muslim and she was Buddhist, so eventually
they broke up. However, he soon fell in love with another girl and
he married her. That was eight years ago. Now they have two small
children. He held up his opened cell-phone with pride and showed
me on its face the picture of his two small children, a boy and a
girl.
I asked him why he was driving a cab. It was a new experience. He
worked in the travel business at 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue for
several years, and “it was very nice.” But “the
internet hurt the business and September 11 killed it.” He
said driving a cab was really getting to him however. I asked him
what he’d like to do if he could have his wish. He told me
he had a Masters in chemistry from a university in Nigeria and that
he’d like to work for a pharmeceutical company in sales. He
said he liked selling and with his educational background he understood
the product. He then told me he’d sent out a number of resumes
but “so far” had got no response. He was disappointed
because he didn’t know how much longer he could take driving
the cab. I told him he needed someone to help him. He agreed but
of course didn’t know how to meet that someone.
I wished I knew someone who worked in pharmaceuticals although alas,
I don’t. I could tell by this man’s attitude and answers
that he’d be a good candidate for success. His foreign background
is, however, a disadvantage. He didn’t say this, but he didn’t
have to. I took his name and number and told him that if I heard
of anything, I’d connect him. There are times when we all need
a little help. Giving it is not only blessed but deeply satisfying
for the soul. |
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Next
Monday night between 6 and 9 PM is the first annual
Fete de Swifty to be held on the entirely tented over block of
East 73rd
Street between Lexington and Third Avenues. It's going to be the
chicest block party in town and everyone's welcome.
Proceeds will
benefit the Parks AfterSchool Program of the Mayor's Fund to Advance
New York City. This free program serves 3000 kids ages six to thriteen,
80% of whom receive public assistance, in 33 recreation centers
in all five boroughs.
The kids stage plays, build web sites, and warm up with their soccer teams. With
a staff ratio of ten to one, the Program gives every child quality attention
for as many as three hours a day, five days a week, all year long. For any of
us who've ever had a working mother and nobody home after school, we know how
important this is. And in New York City, where day to day life can be even tougher
for kids than adults, this Program is a gift.
It's going to be a big rousing cocktail party with hors d'oeurves, entertainment,
music, celebrities and auction both Silent and Live (conducted by Sotheby's Jamie
Niven) with all kinds of interesting items including spending a day
with Bette
Midler helping clean a park her Restoration Project is fixing up, Dishy
dinner
at Le Cirque with Liz Smith, Billy Norwich, Linda Stasi and Jess
Cagel, another
dishy dinner at Swifty's with Dominick Dunne, Dinner with Victoria
Gotti at Rao's,
a Sports package — golf with Ray Floyd, fishing with Peter
Duchin, an
appearance
on Law & Order and many many more unique items.
Donor tickets are $1000, Friend Tickets $500, and regular tickets are $350. There
are specially priced tickets for those 35 and under $125 in advance and $150
at the door.
For information and purchase call 212-573-6933. |
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The
Top Dog Gala is the annual fund-raiser for the Animal Medical
Center, the ne plus ultra animal hospital on 62nd Street and
York Avenue. The funds raised (this year, more than $800,000)
go for the hospital’s general expenses.
The theme this year was “black and white” like the
favorite Fido of many dog lovers. The Honorees were Richard
Fisher and his mother Emily Fisher
Landau. The Fishers are an immensely
rich real estate family of long standing here in New York. They
are well known for their variety of philanthropies. Mrs. Landau
is also well known for her far-flung art collection.
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Detective Raymond Clare and Edwin and
Michele Sayres with Winston |
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Co-chairs of
the event were Stephen and Wendy Lash and the Junior co-chairs
were Shoshanna Gruss and Alexia Hamm Ryan. Journal chair
was Emilia Saint Amand Krimendahl and Committee members included
Wendy Carduner, Jackie Weld Drake, Wendy Vanderbilt Lehman,
Alexis Waller and Susan Warner. Music was provided by the incomparable
DJ Tom Finn and there was a special guest appearance by NYPD Explosive
Detection Canine, Winston, who was definitely the Top Dog at this
night’s event, and already written about on last Thursday’s
NYSD if you missed it.
Richard Fisher, in accepting his award, could not resist telling
us about his own personal dog story that had to do with the benefits
of the Animal Medical Center. This, he affirmed more than once
before telling, was a TRUE story.
It seems that he has a dog that is by breed a hunter – although
being a Manhattan canine, he never has the opportunity. However,
Mr. Fisher recently had his apartment re-decorated and during the
process, and his decorators, Jim Aman and John
Carson, purchased
a painting to go over a sofa which was a portrait of a dog with
a rabbit in its mouth. One day when Fisher came home, he found
that there was a gaping hole in the painting where the rabbit was,
which was, it turned out, eaten by Richard Fisher’s dog.
The dog’s consumption of the “painted” rabbit
caused the dog to have lead poisoning, and he was rushed to the
AMC where he was treated and released.
It so happened that the painting was insured, fortunately and so
when Mr. Fisher filed for damages he put down the reason for it
was the dog eating the rabbit. When he submitted the form along
with a photograph of the hole in the painting, he got a call from
the chairman of the insurance company telling him that this was – not
surprisingly – a First for the insurance company and they
were even thinking of turning it into an ad to attest to the completeness
of their coverage. Mr. Fisher was compensated for the damage and
got himself a new painting. Without a rabbit in it of course, since,
as we’ve all heard more than a thousand times, you can’t
teach an old dog new tricks. |
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Joan
Jedell and Cynthia Maltese
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Frederick
Anderson, Debbie Bancroft, and Doughlas Hannant
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Muriel
Siebert and Rosalie Brinton
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AMC
cookie
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Charlie
Allen, Kristen Liberman, and Barbara Liberman
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Nan
Kempner
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David
Cataletto and Shawna
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Kristi
Witker, Frances Scaife, Renee Wood, and Dick Coons
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Nancy
Kissinger and James Marcus
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Wendy
and Stephen Lash
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Philice
and Michael Rosen
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Iris
Love
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Roger
Webster
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Tinsley
Mortmer
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Paul
Wilmot
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Edwin
and Michele Sayres with
Dr. Pidgeon
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Wendy
Vanderbilt, George McNeely, and Pauline Pitt
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Cynthia
Phipps
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Gianluigi
and Adrienne
Vittadini
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Topsy
Taylor, Pepe Fanjul, and Barbara Liberman
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Jackie
Weld Drake
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Wendy
Carduner
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Heather
Cohane and Kathy Rayner
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Daisy
Soros and Ron Grimaldi
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Kathy
Greenberg
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In
the Grand Ballroom of The Waldorf-Astoria
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