HOW TO LIVE IN PARADISE ... AND FAIL.

                       


                                                PART TWO




                      The Hubble Space Telescope has identified
                       a galaxy 13.2 billion light years from Earth.
                                                                                   NASA
                                                                                 July 2012


                      They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
                           Between stars -  on stars where no human race is.
                       I have it in me so much nearer home
                           To scare myself with my own desert places.
                                                                                 Robert Frost



     Twice upon a time that seems like yesterday, I lived on a pair of mythic islands.
     The first, Mallorca, taught me a lot about people. The second, Virgin Gorda -- decades later -- taught me about myself.

        Virgin Gorda -- in the British Virgin Islands -- stands like a sun-tanned sentinel at the mouth of a channel that leads from the open Atlantic to the capricious waters of the Caribbean. It is a narrow island dominated at one end by a modest mountain and at the other by an extraordinary geologic formation -- house-sized boulders dropped on top of each other as if by a giant hand,  forming grottoes at the water’s edge -- called The Baths. The island also boasts brilliant white beaches, coral reefs teeming with marine life, and seas the color of cerulean crystal.  The sun shines 350 days a year.
        It is -- by almost any definition -- a paradise.

        When I first lived there, the island was populated by a few thousand natives descended from African slaves, called ‘belongers‘; and perhaps sixty or seventy ex-patriots. The ex-pats owned nice homes with glass windows, telephones that often didn‘t work, and TV sets that delivered snow from Puerto Rico.
     The belongers owned next to nothing.
     There were a handful of cars and trucks (and one taxi), but the primitive roads were used mostly as walking paths and for herding goats from one arid pasture to another. No-one was ever in a rush to get anywhere .. and where was there to go anyway?
       The most efficient means of  communication was ‘the message tree’ that shaded the island’s only freshwater well. Bits and pieces of paper -- fluttering like Lilliputian laundry -- were tacked, glued, stapled, taped or nailed to the tree trunk; eventually reaching whoever they were addressed to, whether directly or by word-of-mouth, whether trivial or essential. And if one became unstuck, well … it became unstuck. But rarely did the message -- ‘Janet got boy’ or ‘Alfred go fish’ -- get lost. All in all, life on the island was languid and leisurely; and remained far distant from the daily thunderstorm of strife eagerly reported by the world’s press.
     
      But it did have its memorable moments.
      On one occasion, I had dinner with a newly-arrived, New York couple in the open courtyard of the island’s only pub, called The Bath and Turtle. A group of five or six black men -- each carrying a machete -- was lounging against a nearby wall and talking quietly in the local patois, a truncated and nearly unrecognizable form of English. But what began as a quiet exchange soon evolved into a loud discussion which quickly became a high-pitched, arm-waving argument.
     My companions, unable to keep their eyes off the machetes or their imaginations away from racial incidents in the United States, were looking panicky; and the wife finally asked in a frightened whisper whether we should leave.
      You can if you’d like, I said, but they’re only debating who’s going to pitch in the cricket match on Sunday.
     Early the next afternoon, I ran into the same couple at Teacher O’Neal’s Restaurant and Good Gifts. The husband, like many New Yorkers, was a news addict and was suffering early withdrawal symptoms.
     Do you carry The New York Times? he asked.
     Teacher O’Neal herself was behind the counter: a large, formidable woman who struck me as an amalgam of Aretha Franklin and The Statue of Liberty, with a twist of lemon.
     Yassuh, we do. she answered.    
      Well I’d like a copy, please.
     Teacher sized him up and, with a straight face, said:
      Do you want today’s Times .. or yesterday’s?
     Confused and wondering whether she might be a bit backward, he said:
      I want today’s Times, of course.
      Teacher’s face was expressionless, but the Cheshire Cat was lurking in her eyes.
     Well in dot case, mon, she told him, you got to come back tomorrow.
      And only then, after having set and sprung the trap, did she smile.
   
       Now and then there were also more dramatic moments.
      A middle-aged British couple (I’ll call them David and Dolores Dragon) was famous on the island for having tectonic arguments which -- fueled by alcohol and mutual loathing -- could last for days. Since their house was on a ridge in a well-populated area, their screaming insults provided better entertainment for the natives (and many ex-pats) than anything offered elsewhere. But one night, after a particularly vicious exchange, Dolores drove David from the house with a butcher knife and threatened to kill him if he came back.
     For the next week, an ominous silence descended on the Dragons’ lair. Although  Dolores was seen moving about the garden, she made no visits to the local market; and there was neither sight nor sound of David, not even the sound of his elephantine snoring. Their neighbors eventually became concerned; and one ’friend of the family’ even had the temerity to knock on their door and ask about him. Dolores dismissed the inquiry with two words: He’s gone.
      That’s when rumors began to spread like fleas in a dog park: Rather odd, isn’t it? Do you think he’s all right? You don’t suppose she .. no, silly of me. I’m sure everything‘s just fine. Don’t you agree?  Hmmm.
       The implication was as clear as the cobalt sea.
       A few mornings later, early, The Voice of God began shouting at me from above, and saying things -- foul, repellent things -- that I couldn’t understand. So I forced myself awake and peeked at the morning light, but The Voice refused to stop. It thundered through the shutters and careened back and forth off the walls, driving me out of bed and into the yard, stumbling and squinting at the sky. Vaguely, I noticed the sun had just risen and was waking the hibiscus blossoms in my garden.
       Then my eyes focused on a tiny Piper Cub flying in a tight circle over the near ridge -- no more than a hundred feet over the rooftops -- and moving so slowly I thought it might stall. Leaning perilously out the passenger door was a figure holding a huge loud-hailer --a bullhorn -- and blasting it toward the earth.
   
      GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU GODDAM WITCH!
      YOU HEAR ME?
      GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU FILTHY PIECE OF DUNG … YOU                          
      FUCKING PILE OF GOAT SHIT .. GET OUT!
      YOU HEAR ME, YOU DRIED UP COW?
     
      David Dragon’s voice shattered the morning, and rained invective down like Agent Orange on an innocent village. People awoke everywhere and rushed from their houses, their huts, their shacks, their hovels. Tourists came out of their rooms frightened and  dressed in next to nothing. And the voice thundered on and on for what seemed like forever.
     
      YOU DESPICABLE PIG FUCKER .. THAT HOUSE IS MINE.
       DO YOU HEAR ME?
       GET OUT, YOU STUPID, MOTHERFUCKING WHORE.
       YOU’RE UGLIER THAN DOG VOMIT.
       GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, UGLY BITCH. LEAVE .. GO .. JUST FUCKING
       GO!!!
       
     
     Dolores Dragon, it was true, was not an attractive woman. But in her own way, she had presence. According to several neighbors, she stood rigidly in the middle of her garden throughout the assault, absorbing her husband‘s sonic bombs, bare-footed and wearing only a nightie; with her right arm raised high in a fist and her middle finger extended toward the sky … until the little plane peeled off and headed toward the rising sun.
   
     And finally, for contrast, there was the day I met the most beautiful woman in the world: a day I will never forget.
     My house -- one of the nicest tropical homes I’d ever seen -- overlooked a pristine beach near The Baths that could only be reached by anchoring a boat offshore or by finding a hidden, boulder-strewn  path from an adjacent area. People rarely did either. So the beach -- about three hundred yards long and lined with coconut palms -- was for all practical purposes, mine.
     It was usually my habit after lunch to take a swim with my chocolate Labrador, Quincy; and then to read under the palms for two or three hours. Quincy would lie next to me guarding two tennis balls (he always carried a spare) and watching sea birds, probably wishing he could fly.
     On that fateful afternoon, I’d been reading for an hour when I sensed him going on alert; ears at attention, tail beginning to wag. When I looked up, a woman -- a breathtakingly beautiful woman -- was jogging along the waterline, perhaps twenty yards away. Since we were in deep shade, and she in brilliant sun, she appeared not to notice us. It was as if she’d come out of nowhere. Magically.
     Yes, magically. And for me. From the gods.
      Go get her, I said to Quincy who instantly was up and running.
      They played happily in the wavelets at the shoreline; she throwing his ball, he retrieving it and chasing her, until finally they turned and romped back toward me. She was wearing a string bikini that said this is what bikinis are made for: a slim, perfectly proportioned body, an exquisite tan, and a luminous day when anything and everything is possible.
      I stayed in my low beach chair, pretending to read and trying to rein in my pulse, until she was standing directly in front of  me. As I lifted my eyes to her, she flashed the most stunning smile in the most beautiful face I’d ever seen, and said:
      Izz dis yu-wah dawg?
      Never has a fantasy so quickly -- so irreversibly -- plunged to its death on the rocks of reality. This was hideous. Hideous!  How could this creature of dreams ask if Quincy were my dog with the worst, the coarsest, Brooklyn accent I’d ever heard? IS DIS YU-WAH DAWG.? It was as if Gwyneth Paltrow or Nicole Kidman had the voice of Bugs Bunny!
      What’s up, dawg?
      I was, of course, crushed. But you never really see people objectively after the first instant. From that moment on, whatever they say, however they dress, whatever mannerisms they have, changes their appearance and, in turn, what you think of them. The fates proved it to me that day; sending me a verbal joke disguised as an angel.

     In all, I liked Virgin Gorda; although it often seemed too slow and too small, and certainly didn’t offer much culture. But the laid-back pace was helped by an ever-changing cast of tourists, gullible and otherwise; and spiced up by the foibles and eccentricities of its ex-pats. So, on balance, its beauty and its quirky appeal kept me diverted for a time from a sense of emptiness -- a feeling of unknowing -- that still asserted itself in the midnight of my thoughts.
     I’d had a great career in the business world; I’d successfully raised two sets of kids; and I’d earned enough to live a life of leisure. Yet that lovely island yielded no real knowledge for me except to underline that many of us spend our lives searching for something we can’t define and settling -- often with relief -- for something we can. Call it contentment, happiness, security, whatever. But for me there was then -- and still is -- something missing:  a reconciliation of some kind, possibly to ’aloneness’ or to  some other feeling as difficult to articulate as it is to admit to.
     I’ve known many people who consider themselves to be the center of the universe despite whatever exists billions of light years away. Sometimes I envy their egocentrism, more often I pity it. But I’ve learned finally not to worry much about such issues. Not even a paradise (or an ego) can trump the universe.
     So instead I try to sit in the world -- in its immediacy -- just where it touches me and hope that my desert places become less alien, less scary, in the mysterious and expanding universe that I call Self.
       And so far, thank you, with a sense of cosmic humor, that seems to be working.


                                         
                                            AFTER DINNER MINTS


Virgin Gorda is today dotted with multi-million dollar homes with infinity pools overlooking the sea and tennis courts hidden in palm groves. There are several five-star hotels, good restaurants, internet access and cable television. Almost everyone --belongers included -- has a cellphone. The message tree is empty..

The war of the Dragons lingered on for several years, in the tradition of a medieval siege. It ended finally with Dolores’s death from cancer. David, for reasons that seem almost funny, committed suicide a few months later.

My home -- which I’d named Sol y Sombra -- was eventually sold to an American lawyer who tore it down and built a glitzy house worthy of the Intracoastal Waterway in Fort Lauderdale. I’m told he left the beach untouched and the boulders unmoved.
     We must be thankful for small favors.

       



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                                       Happy Holidays to all.

HOW TO LIVE IN PARADISE ... AND FAIL

                         

                                                      PART ONE
                           





      Twice upon a time that seems like yesterday, I lived on a pair of mythic islands.
      The first was Mallorca, mountainous and magnificent, in the Mediterranean south of Barcelona. Conquered over the millennia by countless violators, it remained always angry, beautiful and unbowed.
      The second was Virgin Gorda, narrow and parched, with brilliant white beaches fondling the azure Caribbean. When it was first seen on the horizon by Christopher Columbus, he said it looked like a fat virgin at rest. Thus, the name.    
     He’d been at sea for a very long time.
   
     When I think of Mallorca I think first of people: of Tod and Lee Minisch and one of the strangest sights I‘ve ever seen; and of Colonel Gerald Patterson, epitome of imperial arrogance. And I simultaneously visit in my mind terraced villages clinging like lichen over the sea and ancient olive groves saturated in sun and salt and history. But somehow I also find myself remembering the loneliness and sense of separation I felt while living there, and never understood.
     And when my mind turns to Virgin Gorda, I remember Teacher O‘Neal‘s Good Gifts and Restaurant; the huge ‘message tree’ that shaded the island‘s only freshwater well; the incomparable smell of night-blooming cactus; and the day I met the most beautiful woman in the world. But again, I’m visited by a residual memory of  personal emptiness, of estrangement, that defied definition.
     But that’s for later. Or maybe not at all.
     
     Let’s begin with Mallorca; with laughter, and with the obscure fishing village of Puerto Andraitx where my wife and I rented a tiny house near the village square.
     As we all know, news in a small town travels at the speed of light. So it wasn’t a surprise when -- on only our second morning there -- a guy about my age (late twenties) hailed me by name and introduced himself: Tod Minisch. He was sitting at a sunlit table in front of the local tavern and drinking black coffee mixed with a foul-tasting local hooch called algarroba, made from the seeds of St .John’s Bread trees. With dark and disheveled hair topping a lanky frame, heavy horn-rimmed glasses, careless clothing to match a broad, generous smile, and a faint Southern accent, I liked him immediately A beaten-up copy of  Camus’ The Stranger was at his elbow.  
      We’d begun the usual ritual of where-you-from-and-why when he told me without  embarrassment that he was paid a monthly stipend by his family to stay away from his ancestral home in Kentucky. So he and his wife -- after wandering around Europe for a while -- had chosen Mallorca as a semi-permanent ‘pit stop‘..
     I’d never met a ‘remittance man’ before and was about to ask what he’d done to be sent into exile, when two huge Afghan hounds -- beautifully groomed with coats nearly to the ground -- came out of nowhere; joyously leaping all over him, spilling his drink and knocking him half off his chair. Right in back of them came a stunning girl; tall, tanned, leggy and dressed only, it seemed, in long, semi-diaphanous scarves that yielded glimpses of a beautiful figure. She was walking fast and talking fast, but not to us or to the dogs. She was just talking. Something about learning the sexual nicknames for turnips and scallions in Mallorquin, the local dialect. And soon the local ladies were going to teach her onions, tomatoes and (best of all) carrots and cucumbers!
     Tod, arms flailing to fend off the Afghans, blurted: Lee, this is the new guy who just  moved into the ….
      Never breaking stride, she said: Oh hi. Welcome.
      And walked right past us, still talking, but now -- I thought -- about fishing or about flowers. Maybe a mix of both. In any case, the Afghans ran after her, unfettered and raucous, while Tod  and I watched her recede toward the harbor, scarves flapping like  loose spinnakers and her voice fading to a slow dissolve.
      That’s my wife. he said finally. She talks a lot.

       A week or so later, a dinner invitation (more like a summons, actually) arrived from the self-appointed leader of the town’s English-speaking ex-patriots: Colonel Gerald Patterson whose grand villa sat on a hill overlooking the harbor. Long and white with chocolate shutters and two central domes, it reminded me of a banana split .. and I hadn’t even been at sea for a long time.
       According to Tod, with whom I’d been having coffee every morning, the Colonel had been chief of police of Alexandria, Egypt (at the time a British protectorate), before retiring. But he still had a penchant for investigation and liked to ’vet’ new arrivals in town. Lee, Tod’s wife, hated him. But Tod himself -- a gentler and more accepting soul -- simply described him as a ’another Brit asshole’. I decided to reserve judgment.

      So then came the dinner: four couples at a large round table being served a wonderful paella by two Spanish maids. There were the Pattersons, another British couple, a Canadian couple, and my wife and I. The British couple seemed limited to a two-word vocabulary: ‘uumm’ for approval, and ‘quite‘ for agreement. The Canadians were more interesting. He wrote episodic thrillers for BBC television and hovered over his wife like a hawk. After she and I exchanged glances, I didn’t blame him. She was very attractive and clearly bored.
      And then there was the Colonel, a near-stereotype: blustery and overweight with a florid complexion and a handlebar mustache, wearing a pressed khaki shirt, and pontificating endlessly on the sorry state of the world, of England, of Spanish wine and of local plumbing.
      His wife’s name, apparently, was ‘Yes, Gerald‘.
      Sometime around dessert, he looked over at me like a great white hunter about to interrogate a native bearer.
     So... Tell me, young man. he said. How are you finding our little community?
     Knowing that my debut was at hand, and after saying we loved it, I launched into an anecdote about the retired local schoolteacher I’d found to teach me Spanish. He’d lived in the United States for eight years as a boy and returned to Mallorca after World War Two. As a result, his English was sprinkled with long-forgotten slang like ‘You’re a card.’ and ‘Tell it to the Marines, kiddo!’ and ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships’.
     He’s just great, I said, grinning. … it’s like listening to a time capsule.
     Uumm, rather amusing I‘m sure.. the Colonel replied. But why in heaven’s name do you want to learn the language? I mean .. it’s silly, really. Quite useless.
     The Brit couple doubled up with an ‘uumm .. quite’.
      I suspect my face went blank with incomprehension because he shifted his chair to face me more directly. Then he picked up a knife from the dinner table and held it at arm’s length for all to see.
      Look here. he said. You see this knife?
      Everyone nodded almost involuntarily.
      Well, in Spanish it’s called  … a cuchillo.
      He paused, looking slowly around the table. Everyone was focused and waiting.
      Simply ridiculous. he said disdainfully .. A cuchillo! Can you imagine? Why any damn fool can see it’s a knife!
      I didn’t see much of the Colonel after that lesson in colonial linguistics. He probably thought of me as ‘just another American asshole’ .. or whatever the polite British equivalent is. Nor did I even consider returning his hospitality
 
      During the following months, I settled into a comfortable daily routine: coffee in the morning at the tavern, reading the Paris edition of The Herald Tribune (always three days late), snorkeling and spear fishing, lunch and a siesta, writing until dinner (almost everybody -- including me --was writing a novel), and then back to the tavern after dinner for whatever it might offer.(It had the only TV in town; a smallish box that got snowy reception but which was kept at maximum volume on Sunday afternoons for the bullfights from Barcelona.)
      As I got to know Tod better, and to a lesser extent, Lee, I marveled at their tolerance for each other. He seemed to endure her non-stop chatter with grace and a degree of amusement; and she seemed to accept his off-beat intellect and the light alcoholic fog that usually encircled it. As an ex-model, she loved clothes and dressed flamboyantly. He cared nothing for clothes and could have passed for a bum. She was an excellent cook; he barely noticed. In sum: he drank quietly, she sipped noisily.
      Their loyalty to each other was never better illustrated than on the evening of Bobby Somerset’s party. Bobby was a Brit and a sailor, and unlike the Colonel, could never be blamed for England’s loss of empire. He was gregarious, intelligent and engaging. His yacht -- a sizable schooner -- had a permanent mooring at the end of the town wharf: a long, stone pier that sheltered the town’s little fishing fleet.
      Every year he threw a cocktail party on board, attended by an eclectic mix of ex-pats  as well as a few local characters like the tavern owner -- a fan of the dictator Franco -- and a sour-faced but shapely widow whose husband died in one of Franco’s prisons. Bobby’s yacht, however, was considered to be like Switzerland: neutral with requisite civility.
      In any case, on the night in question, the party ended after dark just as a misty rain began to fall. Lee was dressed to the nines in a flowing, flowery skirt and Gypsy blouse, in full make-up with her long brunette hair carefully coiffed. Not wanting to dampen her artful image, she dispatched Tod to get their Land Rover -- parked in the town square -- so he could back it down the wharf to the yacht’s gangplank.
      A few minutes later, while several of us waited under a tarp suspended over the deck, Tod’s taillights appeared as he backed slowly toward us. His brake lights went on near the gangplank and he stopped.
      Open the door. Lee shouted.
      And that’s when it happened.
      He reached around to open a rear door and suddenly the Land Rover shot backward right off the end of the wharf. After floating for a few seconds, it sank toward the harbor bottom with its headlights beaming upward like subterranean eyes. We blasted up the gangplank, but when we reached the end of the wharf, there was no sign of Tod. Only those eerie eyes staring at us from the depths.    
      Lee screamed and tore away from the arms of Bobby Somerset who was trying to hold her back. She ran without a sound to the edge and leaped off.
     A split second before she hit the water, Tod’s head broke the surface. I imagined her desperately trying to reverse gravity, but to no avail. She landed fully clothed and instantly uncoiffed.
     Tod swam easily to the wharf’s stone steps and climbed to the top with a silly, embarrassed grin. Somehow, he was still wearing his glasses. Seconds later, Lee appeared. She had seaweed hanging from her hair and looked like a Dali portrait: limp and dripping, but hissing with anger.
     She ripped a lit flashlight from my hand and hurled it at Tod…who ducked.
     You stupid son of a bitch! she screeched.
     We watched the flashlight fly past his head and describe a graceful arc into the harbor. Suddenly a third eye was beaming at us from the depths.
      Tod said: Are you okay, honey?
     And then he giggled. And then Bobby Somerset giggled. And then viral laughter attacked everyone, even Lee who looked at first volcanic, but who finally started talking and laughing and hugging her sappy and saturated husband.
     It was, everyone agreed in retrospect, a wonderful party.

     In a village hidden from the pulsing arteries of progress, time is different. Rather than passing in measured cadences --in hours or days or weeks --it drifts in a current you never really feel until you bump into an unavoidable reality.
     We’d been in Puerto Andraitx nearly a year -- using it as a base and as a home -- and abroad for nearly two years. We’d traveled together through most of Europe and parts of the Middle East, and done what we’d set out to do. But our savings, which we’d been living on and which had lasted longer than I‘d hoped, were nearly depleted. The drain was showing at the bottom of our financial tub.
     It was time to go home.

     A few nights before we left for good, a going-away party was thrown for us at the tavern, attended by ex-pats and locals alike. It was a noisy, drunken affair that lasted deep into the night and at which lots of promises were made, knowing they’d never be kept. But such is the nature of things in a impermanent and capricious world.
     And then finally --on our last night -- we were having dinner at home when Tod, as was his habit, walked in without knocking. He looked a bit downcast and I sensed he’d come to say a final and more private goodbye.
      Hi, Tod .. I said. Where’s Lee?
      He seemed puzzled for a few moments until, with the shyest smile and with his spirits lifting, he said:
      I think she’s home discussing something with me.
   
      It was a great line and we laughed hard and with tears, as only good friends can.
But I couldn’t help but sense in that sentence a hint of loneliness.. It wasn’t an acute feeling, exactly. And not necessarily conscious either. It seemed to me as if he were grasping quietly for something he couldn’t identify and wasn’t even sure existed.  But somehow I empathized and understood .. because I myself felt in my most unwilling moments a similar emptiness: a barren place inside.
      But how could I?
      Tod and I were different personalities, totally. Different backgrounds, different values, different futures. And given the moment, it seemed silly of me to be morose or self-analytical. After all, hadn’t I been living in Paradise? Hadn’t the last two years been nearly idyllic?
       And there was still last-minute packing to do, a plane to catch, a job to find and yet another life to explore. So I packed all unspoken questions away with my socks and my half-written novel and forced them into their own exile, thinking foolishly they’d stay there.

     
       
       Until Part Two and Virgin Gorda … I wish all my readers well.
                                                                                   



                                         
                                         AFTER DINNER MINTS

In the next few years, I wrote to Tod a number of times but never heard back and thus have no idea how he fared. But since his was a soul without malice or spite, I hope he fared well; with or without the chatter.

No-one who lived in the village ever published a word, including myself. In fact, not long ago I found a few yellowed pages of my novel; and remembered one particular sentence that I must have written a hundred times. The prose was labored, artificial and pretentious. In other words, terrible.
     So much for the Great American Novel.

Finally, Puerto Andraitx is now dominated by condominiums that block all access to the water. The village square boasts a modern pharmacy, an expensive boutique, two gift shops, and a disco. The tavern has been renovated and offers cappuccino and hi-def TV. On weekends, its outdoor tables are crowded with tourists gawking at the power yachts moored against the wharf and speculating about how much they cost.
     Very few seem to enjoy -- or even to notice -- the splendid anamoly of sea mists in the mornings mingling with the scent of orange blossoms.


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ONLY IN KEY WEST ...A TWISTED TRIBUTE

                             





   

     Panamah Peat died recently. (Yes, that’s how he spelled it.) His liver gave out on him long after his family gave up on him, and that’s why he disappeared for six months after his death. His real name was Peter Hill, and no-one seems to know how old he was; although -- with his bird’s nest beard and hurricane hair -- he looked like a desiccated old pirate for as long as anyone could remember.
      Panamah was widely-known in Key West as a talented jewelry designer, a skilled photographer and a hopeless drunk. What makes him cogent to this narrative is that he was also a founding member of The Chartroom Gentlemen’s Club and Occasional Choir, known locally by the acronym CGCOC (which is commonly understood to mean ’Fuck You’ in Klingon).
      But before acquainting you with the club and its members, I should introduce you to The Chartroom Bar and to James ‘Whistle’ Cox. Also a drunk. Also deceased.
     
      Imagine for a moment that deep in the intestines of a big resort hotel  -- a hotel replete with beach bars, pools, and lush tropical gardens -- there is a dingy low-ceilinged room that could pass for a large storage closet. You enter and find -- parallel to one windowless wall -- a heavy mahogany bar with seven battered bar stools ending at a popcorn machine last cleaned during the Carter administration. On the wall opposite are two windows blocked by louvers and a small door leading to an empty hallway. Crowded into one corner: a round table with sagging chairs; an old TV mounted from the ceiling like a monument to obsolescence. The floor is carpeted with shells from a huge barrel of peanuts; the walls are covered with cracked and fading photos of patrons past, and the air is permanently saturated with the acrid essence of booze, beer and cigarettes. No sunlight has ever intruded here.. ever.
      Welcome to The Chartroom.
       In the late 1970’s, this darkened retreat was the socio/political center of the city and was frequented by an egalitarian mixture of bankers, artists, shopkeepers, fishermen, politicians, treasure hunters, real estate developers, cops, street musicians, smugglers and occasional tourists. But by the early 90’s -- as the city began to emerge from a long catatonic stupor -- the bankers, politicians and big dealers deserted it for the privacy and prestige of the Key West Yacht Club; leaving behind a poorer but more interesting bunch of inebriated eccentrics of whom ’Whistle’ Cox was one.
      ’Whistle’ -- nicknamed after the tiny whistle he attached to each pair of  ’cabana pants’ he made for local clothing shops -- loved to sing, and lubricated his vocal chords each day by consuming a quart of Smirnoff vodka. His was the original idea to start an invitation-only, once-a-month dinner for Chartroom regulars and irregulars. The Dutch-treat dinners would be held at whichever restaurants he could persuade to feed twenty-five or thirty unruly misfits. It would culminate with the entire group standing (if they could) and singing songs a capella from lyrics Whistle distributed. He himself would conduct the choir with dramatic sweeps of his arms that occasionally caused him to lose his balance and sink from view.
       The Chartroom Gentlemen’s Club and Occasional Choir proved to be a great success; although -- as time passed --  more and more persuasion was needed to get restaurant owners to host it. But the dinners nonetheless grew to be quite famous; and invitations became highly-prestigious and sought after, even by the traitorous yacht club defectors.
      And then, suddenly, shockingly, Whistle Cox, only in his mid-forties, died. And although everyone swore the Club would continue, everyone knew it would not and could not without his leadership.
      His family -- which had repudiated him long ago -- came to Key West to attend a memorial service and a reception at the Chartroom before taking his ashes back to a Midwestern town he was known to hate. To them, despite decades of being detached, it seemed ’the right thing to do.’ But to the Gentlemen‘s Club, it seemed a sad, undeserved and unjust end to their friend’s life.
      Until …
      Someone somehow got into one of the hotel’s guest rooms while the memorial service was being held. And that someone somehow knew that Whistle’s ashes were in an urn in that room. Yet the intruder, whoever he was, took nothing that anyone would notice and left without a trace. In fact, the room’s occupants never knew he’d been there.
       A week later a second service -- very private and attended by only a few people -- was held in The Chartroom. The louvered blinds were shut, the door closed and locked, and the lights made as dim as possible. A plug was drilled and withdrawn from the mahogany bar rail and a whisky glass full of ashes poured into the empty hole. The plug was then refitted, sanded and re-varnished. A moment of silence was observed.
       Finally, a brief but satisfying toast was proposed because Whistle Cox was home …  and properly buried.

        As expected, the monthly dinners became bi-monthly, then quarterly or worse, and finally petered out entirely. Although a few old regulars like Panamah still drank at the Chartroom, Whistle’s saga and his myth slipped quietly from the local consciousness.
       Not much of a surprise, really. Alcohol fogs memory; and Key West in any event is a town of transient passions and temporary people.
       But one night years later, I stopped for a drink at the Chartroom. It was as dim and dingy as ever; and presided over by Rosie The Buxom Bartender, a self-proclaimed witch of a certain age who owned a hundred T-shirts and managed to display her cleavage in each of them. The bar was quiet; only a little knot of locals, a few tourists and Panamah. He was regaling one of the tourists with a story about the good old days of catching ‘square groupers’ (floating bales of marijuana) in the Gulf Stream and was scratching absently into the bar rail with a jewelry tool dangling on a chain from his neck.
       He finished the story with a twisted smile, took a sip from his empty glass and looked expectantly at the tourist. I suspect he was waiting for the man to offer him a drink. But instead, the man said:
      What are you doing?
       Panamah looked puzzled, then followed the man’s gaze to the bar rail and realized  he was still scratching into it. He dropped the little tool and studied his hand for a few moments as if it belonged to someone else. Then he nodded to himself and ran his fingers through his tangled hoary hair.
       Finally, he met the tourist’s eyes.
       I think I might be digging my grave. he said.

       When Panamah died in a Veterans’ Administration hospital early this year, no-one claimed his remains until a loyal female friend contacted the ex-wife from whom he’d been divorced for thirty years. The VA was planning to dispose of him in whatever way it disposes of the unclaimed dead. So, in the nick of time, the friend and ex-wife intervened; and after months of bureaucratic haggling, the hospital agreed to release Panamah to them. They took him back to Key West and divided his ashes among old friends and relatives. But his obituary, published shortly afterward in The Key West Citizen, said: ‘one of the urns … will be buried at an undisclosed location …’
      You know, of course, where that location is and where Panamah’s remains now rest.
   
      And here this narrative ends: two men .. two Key West characters .. two lives revealed and resolved. If there’s a positive lesson to be taken from their odd and often alienated lives, it’s one we all accept and understand, but sometimes forget:
      Be thankful for true friends, whoever and whatever they are and for whatever form their friendship takes. They, more than anything or anyone you’ll encounter, last … if you’ll excuse the word … forever.
     

 
                                       
                 
                                                      AFTER DINNER MINTS


In all, five gentlemen are now interred in the Chartroom bar rail, the most prominent of whom is Mel Fisher who discovered the Spanish treasure ship, Atocha. In addition to Mel, Whistle and  Panamah, there’s also General Geof -- commander of the Conch Republic army -- and someone named Bob Smith. Rosie the Buxom Bartender probably knows who he is, but she is long gone; retired to the safe boredom of rural Oregon.

The present bartender/sexton of the Chartroom bar/cemetery is a charming local pixie named Emily who suffers fools gladly, as all bartenders must, but whose dainty velvet glove nonetheless hides an iron fist.

Finally, as of this writing, two other men have had the foresight to reserve burial space in the bar rail; and holes have already been drilled to accommodate them. The first -‘Che’ Kohen - is a fast-talking, gravelly-voiced New Yorker who is also a founding member of the CGCOC. The second is James Cox, Jr.; a banker in Houston, Texas, who apparently and improbably is Whistle Cox’ only son. So just think of that!
      One day in the indeterminate future, the Chartroom can celebrate what will be one of the most unusual reconciliations of father and son since Jesus Christ pushed aside the rock and ascended.
      Can you imagine?





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     Until next time, salud, cheers, and down the hatch.

PBS IS DEAD ... AN OBIT FOR THE FREEZER

                   
                                       


   


     As you probably know, big newspapers and wire services usually write the obituaries of famous people in advance of their deaths. So when someone prominent bites the dust, the pre-written story of his or her life is pulled from the ‘freezer file‘; and defrosted by adding who announced the death, where and when it happened and, usually but not always, the cause.
     As you probably don’t know, there is also an organization called The Society of Professional Obituary Writers that bestows annual achievement awards on its members  Among recent winners was “’Tatooed King Of The Runway’ Was A Tough Act To Follow.” by Tom Hawthorne of the Toronto Globe & Mail; and “Claude Miller,104, Sawmill Master And Proud Moonshiner “  by Holly Crenshaw of the Atlanta Journal Constitution. There have even been a few books written on the skills and creativity of what is called The Dead Beat. But unlike the movie Oscars, the television Emmys, and the music Grammies, the obit awards have no nickname; and one’s imagination bursts into flame at the opportunity to create one:
     The Reapers?
     The  Peters (as in Saint)?
     The Pearlies (as in Gates)?
     The Hannibals? Well, no.
     Perhaps there should be a naming contest and an annual gala. (It would of course be black tie.) First prize could be, say, the honor of writing an obit for The New York Times which not infrequently carries one on its front page. Come to think of it, The National Association of Funeral Directors could sponsor the whole celebratory shebang. Maybe even a cable channel like Discovery or The History Channel could …
     But I drift and digress .. and I haven’t even begun. Please forgive me.
   
     Since I was present at the birth of the Public Broadcasting System, and will probably be present at its death in the near future, I’ve decided to write an obit for the freezer file. You, my readers, should feel free to defrost it at the appropriate time:
   
    Washington, D.C. (date) The Public Broadcasting Service, commonly known as PBS, died yesterday after a long struggle with cancer of the unimaginative and the irrelevant. The death was announced by a spokesman for the United States Congress which voted to take PBS off its life support systems, otherwise known as tax dollars.
      “We finally gave up hope.“ said the spokesman who asked not to be identified because of his close affiliation with several well-known lobbyists. “So the decision to terminate, while heartbreaking, was inevitable and nearly unanimous.” (Only Representative Michelle Backmann of Wisconsin abstained for reasons unclear to her staff but consistent with her voting history.)  
        PBS was born on October 5, 1970 to The Carnegie Foundation of Pittsburgh (father) and the Ford Foundation of New York (mother). It was baptized the following year in Washington D.C ; with The Corporation for Public Broadcasting acting as both godfather and wet nurse, a new gender concept in federal bureaucracy.
       Taking up the cause of ex-FCC Chairman Newton Minow who accused commercial  television of being a ‘vast wasteland’, PBS was to provide alternative programming to the American public. The nation’s options at that time were limited  to three program sources: CBS, NBC and ABC. And although a sprinkling of educational stations -- many operated by universities -- was scattered here and there, they had little or no impact on the American consciousness. Thus, at birth, PBS was hailed as the messiah to bind those stations together in pursuit of enlightenment and the higher good.
      Observers agree that in its infancy, PBS showed great promise; buoyed by two of its initial offerings, Sesame Street and Masterpiece Theatre. As it grew, it also offered highly-praised programs like Nova, Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, Electric Company, Great Performances and the McNeil Lehrer News Hour. But as it passed through adolescence into adulthood, some critics began to suggest that certain genetic defects -- overlooked at birth -- were beginning to show.
       They pointed out that PBS was not, after all, a true network. It did not own stations, did not produce its own programming, and did not control the broadcast times of its member stations. Thus, with few exceptions, it was unable to build audiences on a national level; making it more akin to a conventional program distributor, but with government paying for its extensive technical and administrative bureaucracies..
        In addition, during the period of its maximum success and visibility, it failed to diversify its programming into two major areas: comedy and sports. It did, however, import  a number of moronic British comedies ranging from the rarely funny ‘Have You Been Served?’ to the music hall trash of ’The Benny Hill Show’; presumably on the theory that excreta with an English accent smells and sells better.
       Sports was also denigrated by the system. Its attitude was embodied by John Jay Iselin -- the preppy, bow-tied president of WNET (New York) -- who claimed that his station’s coverage of lawn tennis and of Ivy League football was quite enough sports, thank you. When asked who cared about Ivy League football, he said: ‘Our audience cares.’ Hence, in three words he defined the birth defects that plagued the system throughout its life: elitism and a smug sense of superiority.
       In the final stage of its illness, those characteristics perhaps more than any, led PBS to overlook (or underestimate) the changes accelerating all around it. Hybrid competitors had entered the arena; obviously aligned against the commercial networks, but also -- by default -- against public television. HBO, Showtime, TNT, Nickelodeon,  Discovery, The History Channel, A&E and others began offering high-quality programming that ignored political and semantic propriety (Difficult language and explicit sex were never allowed on PBS, no matter how artistically presented.) and began to draw major audience segments away the traditional channels, including public television channels. The result was an amoeba-like splitting of the broadcast media into hundreds of new parts.
     During its last few years, PBS did try to rally by announcing several initiatives in search of a new ‘business model’; including a satellite channel in Great Britain and a policy of broadcasting  ‘institutional’ commercials at fifteen minute intervals in the United States. Unfortunately, a new ‘programming model’ was never considered as a treatment for its increasingly dire condition.
     The Corporation for Public Broadcasting has asked that in lieu of flowers. contributions be sent to local public stations in the hope of shortening their interminable pledge weeks. No date has been set for a memorial service.
      It is believed that PBS died comfortably surrounded by its family of apologists.



                                       AFTER DINNER MINTS


Given the ratings of leading cable channels, many of PBS’ most popular programs could easily be transferred to commercial television. TNT or A&E would welcome the audience that  the best of Masterpiece commands; The Discovery Channel would be happy with Nova; CNN -- which is slowly leaking audience -- would benefit from The News Hour; Nickelodeon would probably welcome the world of Sesame Street; etc. And each of those would be strengthened by the ability of its carrier to advertise and promote nationally across all media. Just an idea, but ….

My opinion is that PBS was doomed from the moment its first president., Hartford Gunn, decided to headquarter it in Washington, D.C. where it would be subject to the political pressures that its parent -- The Corporation for Public Broadcasting -- was supposed to protect it from. The long term result of trying not to offend anyone in power, particularly those of a conservative bent, was to lose the battle for survival.

After further research, I’ve learned that The Society of Professional Obituary Writers does indeed have a name for its awards. They are called ‘The Grimmies’. Yuck!
Ugh!



Thanks for reading these opinions. Next month’s post will be titled HOW TO CREATE A CEMETERY .. KEY WEST STYLE. Please share any and all my blog posts with friends and acquaintances. The link is http://keywestwind.blogspot.com. Or you can Google keywestwind and click on the header. Again, my thanks.
     

HOW TO BE EJECTED FROM A WORLD-FAMOUS RESTAURANT ... A SMUTTY TALE FROM THE 'MAD MEN' ERA

      If dirty stories make you uncomfortable, or if you’re offended by vulgar jokes, this blog entry is not for you. But if you believe as I do that anything goes (short of downright malice), then ….

       Read on, my friends, and you shall hear
            Of the silly saga of Prudence Devere
       It began on an evening in Sixty-seven
             In a quiet restaurant whose food was heaven..
        When an issue arose from out of the blue…
              And manners were abandoned, and good taste too.

       When I first met Pru Devere, she was in her early thirties, attractive in a conventional way, articulate, intelligent and well-educated. She was already a successful copywriter at a big New York ad agency, had won industry-wide  recognition for her work, and was about to become the agency’s first female vice-president. Not satisfied, however, with what she’d already achieved, she was determined to start her own agency; a nearly unheard-of goal in a business so thoroughly dominated by men.
       But all in all,  she was much like her male peers:  bold, talented, ambitious and driven.
       Yet despite having so much going for her, Pru had one major flaw: she believed she could manipulate people without them ever noticing. And although she was charming and persuasive, she was nonetheless a serial manipulator; addicted to using anyone and everyone to her advantage. Which is why she ran through boyfriends faster than a bicycle messenger through red lights and why I found her to be fun … in small doses.
        For example, whenever she had a serious business problem, she would call one of a coterie of ‘qualified friends’ and offer lunch at a decent mid-town restaurant.
        ’We haven’t seen each other for so long.’ she’d coo. ‘Let’s just get together and chat. And this one’s on me, okay?’
         I myself had gotten several of those calls, and in some ways looked forward to them. The lunches gave me a chance to hear gossip about which agencies were pitching which clients, and who was pulling the sneaky on whom. (Also, a free meal on her expense account was welcome at that stage of my self-employment.) Eventually, of course, we’d get to her problem which was usually one of agency people or politics, and then I’d offer my opinion for her to disparage and ignore, but somehow absorb.  In truth, I came to suspect she considered me a better ‘sounding board’ than anything else.
       So I was stunned one day when she called and invited me to dinner at Lutece.
       Lutece for dinner? I said to myself. I can’t believe she’s serious. Lutece is the most famous French restaurant in New York! What am I saying? …it’s one of the most famous restaurants IN THE WORLD!  Holy Christ, it’ll cost her a fortune!
       And, of course, that’s when my suspicion gene snapped awake.
      What does she want? I asked myself … and then figured that whatever it was, it would cost me something. Nobody like Pru Devere does Lutece without a big payout in mind. So what would  I be paying out? Did she want me to join in some conspiracy that she‘d profit from? Did she want to pitch someone I knew and needed inside info? Or maybe she was secretly starting her own agency. But would she do that without an anchor client?
       If so, we’d be eating at Katz‘s Deli, not at Lutece.
       So it was with anxiety and salivary anticipation --along with those natural twins, curiosity and wariness -- that I met her on the appointed evening.

       Lutece was located in a converted brownstone on East Fiftieth Street and was easy to overlook if you didn’t know it was there. But once inside, there was no doubt that you’d entered a special place. The ambiance and the décor were, of course, French and perfect in detail. But what was different was how subdued the dining room was. In a city whose restaurants were often deafening, even bordering on raucous, everyone at Lutece spoke in near-whispers. The atmosphere was as reverential as might be found in, say, the Sistine Chapel; and for a moment I wondered whether only white smoke came from its kitchen chimneys.
      In any case, my strategy with Pru was to insist on small talk for as long as possible so I could enjoy a few of the dishes made famous by Andre Soltner, the chef/owner. And I succeeded through the Alsatian onion tart (wonderful) and got halfway through the braised baby lamb (even more wonderful) before Peggy knocked lightly on my hand and said:
      I have a fantastic opportunity at the agency.
      Congratulations. Tell me about it later. I replied.
      No. That’s no good. You need to think about it now.
      I’ll think about it over dessert. I can’t think and eat at the same time.
      Then just listen, she demanded. It’s a big deal for me.
      I must have nodded my okay because she plunged into it.
      Warner Lambert is giving us a new product .. something so amazing that .. I dunno’ .. just amazing. And I’ve been given the whole thing. I mean EVERYTHING .. packaging, design, marketing, promotion, publicity, the ad campaign .. the works. Isn’t that great? I even get to name it! And if it’s successful … WOW. The sky’s the limit. Don’t say anything, but I think I could become creative director of the whole agency .. Or maybe even a bigger agency like Y&R or BBD&O. Great, huh?
        Yeah, sounds wonderful. I said. Could I have a bite of your trout almondine?
         Don’t be so wise-ass, she chided. I’m serious, dammit! And I need a name for it.
         Aha! There it was. She knew I was good at labeling things .. and people (‘Masterpiece Theatre’ would be a case in point) ..  and wanted to bounce some names off me and maybe get some suggestions. But I was still more interested in the food; so when I asked casually what the product was, I wasn’t listening too carefully
      First, you have to promise not to laugh, she said. It’s .. uh .. different. So promise. No laughs, no jokes!
      Her look was so intense, her eyes so serious, that my taste buds skidded into stop.
      Okay, so what’s the product? I asked.
      Promise me! she insisted. Cross your heart and hope to die .. and you will die because I personally will kill you.
       Oh for Christ’s sake, Pru  I promise. What’s the product?
       It’s a vaginal deodorant.
       A WHAT?
       Sensing that I was about to burst, her jaw tightened and  she hissed at me through gritted teeth.:
       You heard me, goddamit .. it’s a vaginal deodorant.

       My laugh must have sounded like a gunshot because every conversation in the restaurant stopped. Even at the furthest end of the dining room, people turned to see if anyone had been hurt.
       You sonofabitch, Pru said. You promised!
        She was trying to make the best of it, looking embarrassed and smiling apologetically at people sitting nearby. Meanwhile, I’d brought myself back to semi-control with a series of gasping giggles.
        That’s crazy, I said finally. Who the hell wants a vaginal deodorant?
        Teenage girls, she told me. They’re very self-conscious about their bodies; and the company’s research says it’s a massive potential market. In fact, even post-teen women worry about .. uh, odor. It could be a very hot product.
         Wonderful, I said, you can call it ‘Cherries in Bloom’ and give it a scent. You know, like a room freshener or those pine tree things that hang on rear-view mirrors?
          She gave me that hard look again.
          Or how about ‘Serene”? … but spelled s-i-r-e-n-e so the teenies will think it’ll make boys happy.
          You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you? she said.
           Yup, I sure am.
           I must have been making too much noise again because the hostess/major domo --who I later found out was Andre Soltner’s wife -- captured my attention from her command post with pursed lips and a slightly upturned eyebrow. Very French and very pointed. I got the message
          Okay, let’s get serious, I said.; meaning it but knowing I was barely holding on.
          So is this a spray of some kind? I asked.
          Yes, that’s right.
          All wrong, I said.
          All wrong? What’s all wrong?
          It should be a roll-on.
          What the hell are you talking about? Pru demanded.
          A roll-on, dummy … up and down, up and down.
          She still didn’t get it so I hummed the melody to the Doublemint Gum jingle. Then she understood and, much to my surprise, laughed with me. Together, we sang ‘Double your pleasure and double your fun …’ as Mrs. Soltner headed our way.
       I lifted my arms in surrender and put a forefinger to my lips in the universal sign of silence. She nodded curtly and turned away.
       Pru said: We really have to behave or they’ll throw us out.
       I agreed and we settled back to our meal, smiling and occasionally giggling quietly at the absurdity -- and the paradoxes -- of the world in which we lived and worked. So the next minutes passed without incident, the dining room went back to its air of respect and gentility, until, as we were looking at the wondrous desert menu, I had an inspired and thoroughly unexpected vision.
        I’ve got it! I said. I’ve got the perfect name.
        What?
        It’s even got its own tag line .. the name itself says it works instantly.
        Oh for God’s sake, Pru said. What IS it???
         I looked both to my right and to my left to see if anyone was listening, and I beckoned her closer to me.
         Are you ready?
         She looked ready to kill.
         In a half-whisper, I said: we should call it …Lickety-Split.

         And that, my friends, is how all restraint was lost, all etiquette shattered. In short, that is how to be ejected from a world-class restaurant.


                                         
                                         
                                              AFTER DINNER MINTS
     
           
Warner Lambert finally named its product ‘Pristeen’, a name that was possibly too cute. It was advertised nationally, and promoted heavily, but lasted only a few years before being withdrawn.

Pru Devere continued to have a successful advertising career, but never started her own agency. The only woman of the ‘Mad Men’ era to do so was Mary Wells of Wells, Rich, Green who married her biggest client. She lives today in Manhattan and on her yacht in the Meditteranean.

Andre Soltner sold Lutece in the early 1990s to an upscale restaurant chain. It closed in 2004 when its old customers refused to adjust to a new menu and its new customers considered it past its prime. But it is still referred to, not infrequently, on ‘Mad Men’. Sic Transit Gloria Mundi.

Vaginal deodorants in the form of sprays, wipes and suppositories are still available in most drug stores. Some are scented with aromas described as ‘Sheer Tropics’ and ‘Fresh Island Breeze’. They seem to sell for reasons beyond reason.

And finally .. although Pru Devere and I remained friends, I never received another invitation from her .. not even for breakfast.



      Thanks for reading my ramblings. I hope you’ll share them with friends by sending them the link: http://keywestwind.blogspot.com.

HOW TO SELL A SOW'S EAR .. AND THROW A GREAT PARTY

           




     Okay, after months of sloth, I’m back to speculate about bad ideas.
     It’s often said that good ideas are a dime a dozen. But if that’s so, wouldn’t bad ideas be even cheaper?
      Nope.
      In 1958 the Ford Motor Company decided to name a new automobile after Henry Ford’s oldest son. It flopped big-time; and the name ‘Edsel’ became a synonym for failure. Bad idea.
     Decades later, the Coca-Cola Company inexplicably decided to re-name the world‘s most famous product. They called their regular Coca-Cola ‘Coke Classic‘, and replaced it with a different product called (can you believe it?) Coca-Cola. It went flat instantly and the company quickly retreated back to Square One. Another bad and very costly idea.
      And remember recently when Hewlett-Packard brought out a Touch Pad to compete with the iPad? If you don’t, it’s okay. The poor little thing was euthanized after only forty-eight days on the market:  very much like the Blackberry Playbook, another ballyhooed baby barely born when it was flushed with the bathwater.
      And how about the Netflix debacle in 2010? After announcing that it was unbundling its service, its customers rose up en masse and smote the company a mighty blow. Red-faced to match its packaging, Netflix re-thought, rescinded and retreated. And finally, just the other day mighty Microsoft wrote off $6.2 billion for an online ad company it bought in 2007. That’s over a billion bucks a year down the toilet!
    So no matter how technologically advanced you are, or how deep your corporate pockets, bad ideas too frequently take on a life of their own. I’ll explain why later on.
   
     But first let’s cut to a phone call I received many years ago from a small Michigan company with very big ambitions. The company was called University Microfilms and the caller was its founder and president, Eugene Power.
      Mr. Power believed that microfilm was the wave of the future for information storage and retrieval. Nothing could touch it for convenience, flexibility, easy storage and quick accessibility. If anyone thought otherwise, Mr. Power told me, his head was in the cloud (my present pun, not his). And to prove his point -- and to draw national attention to his company -- he had microfilmed and then reproduced in facsimile form every issue of a magazine I’d never heard of, bound them in ten fancy hardcover volumes and was selling them in a limited edition of 1000 sets for the astronomical price of $1000.
        Now that was my idea of a bad idea; breathtakingly bad.
       The magazine was called Vanity Fair and, as I subsequently learned, it had once been a cultural icon with regular contributors like Dorothy Parker, Aldous Huxley, T.S. Eliot, Thomas Wolfe, and P.G. Wodehouse. It was also the first magazine to reproduce the fine art of icons like Monet and Picasso. All in all, it molded the tastes of an era and became a cultural star of the first magnitude.
      In its day, that is.
      And its day -- begun as a fashion magazine in 1914 -- ended in 1935!
      No wonder I’d never heard of it. It had been dead for three and a half decades.
      And dead too was Mr. Power’s idea. He and his staff had canvassed  bookstores everywhere -- even in his hometown of Ann Arbor -- and nobody but NOBODY wanted to carry a $1000 facsimile set of old magazines.
      So he was calling in the hope that I could breath life into what he should already have known -- and into what I was sure --was a corpse.
      Sorry, I said, what you’ve got is a sow’s ear. And although I’m good at some things, I don’t have the faintest idea how to make a silk purse.
      But he wouldn‘t take no for an answer and begged me to take a look.
      Since he sounded like a pleasantly sincere, if slightly desperate man, I agreed. In part to placate him and also, I suppose, to confirm my own judgment.
       The set of books arrived a week later and I found myself skimming with delight every eight-pound, silver-bound volume. It was a captivating history lesson, a nostalgic odyssey, a graphic bible, an arrogant, funny and thoroughly wonderful chronicle of values found and values lost. As presented, however, it was nonetheless a dinosaur; a fossil in silver bindings. Nothing, in my opinion, could resurrect it.
       But on a whim, I showed it to my partner, Phil Bloom, an ex-Broadway press agent who was at least twenty-five years my senior. We’d recently formed an odd-couple partnership because I knew the business of corporate writing but knew nothing about publicity while he knew nothing about corporations but a lot about press coverage. The theoretical buzzword in those days was synergy.
       In any case, I figured he might remember Vanity Fair and be amused by Eugene Power’s naïve effort to attract attention to his company.
       
       Several weeks later, after I’d almost forgotten about it, Phil burst into my office beaming like a troll that had just eaten Hans Christian Andersen.
        I sold it! he shouted.
        Sold what? I asked.
        The Vanity Fair books! Can you believe it? I sold ‘em!!!
         Whaddaya’ mean you sold them? I asked.
        Bergdorf Goodman! BERGDORF … GOODMAN! They took it.
        He was literally sputtering with excitement. So I waited him out.
        They’re gonna’ sell the books! Get it? Berdorfs is gonna’ sell the books!
         Phil, calm down. I said. Bergdorfs doesn’t sell books.
         No, no, listen to me. They looked at them and loved them. And they’ve decided to do a huge Twenties thing for Christmas this year. They’re not only gonna’ offer the books for sale, they’re gonna’ feature them in their windows. It’s huge .. I mean, HUGE. They’re giving us all eleven windows for the whole Christmas season!!!
      It was a major coup; and to this day I’m not exactly sure how Phil did it. But I’m nearly certain it was through what I came to call the Society of Tasteful Men (STM):  an unofficial and almost subterranean community of well-educated and talented men drawn to New York for obvious and not so obvious reasons. It had established itself in the arts, music, fashion, theatre and related fields and its members tried to help each other whenever they could. My partner was a member and -- as it turned out -- so was Bergdorf’s chief window designer.
      In those days --unlike today -- successful gay men stayed in the closet. Being homosexual was not only criminal in many states, but was considered -- even in liberal circles --  to be an illness or an unfortunate aberration. Moreover, it was rarely if ever discussed publicly. So the Society of Tasteful Men was discreet, careful and almost invisible except to its members.
      But, of course, that’s how almost all systems work. Gay or straight, it’s who you know.
     

       Unfortunately, just as I’d never heard of Vanity Fair, Eugene Power out in Ann Arbor had never heard of Bergdorf Goodman. So it took a while to light the fire of enthusiasm under him. Once lit, however, he was, as they say, all in; and enthusiastically backed our idea to hold a launch party at the store to unveil the windows and the books.
       Fine. he told us. You know what they say: In for a penny … right?
       I was tempted to tell him New York doesn’t do pennies. And although Phil was thrilled, I was still skeptical about the whole thing. How could an upscale department store that had never sold a book possibly sell a set of books that were really a bunch of magazines that hadn’t been published since the Jurassic age … and hawk them at Christmas time for a price that nobody ever heard of?
     
       Then, much to my surprise, Andrew Goodman -- the owner and king of the Bergdorf empire -- got into the act. How and why I’ll never know. But instead of launching the windows in the usual manner, he decided to hold a big black tie dinner in his private penthouse on the top floor of the store. Phil was ecstatic and I was beginning to think we might at least achieve half of Eugene Power’s objective: namely, some national press coverage.
       And that’s where we hit a snag.
       Who could be invited to the party who was rich enough to actually buy a set of the books? That’s what Eugene Power -- suddenly cautious -- was asking. He sensed that Bergdorf’s traditional client list, while certainly affluent, were not quite what we were looking for. And although he was happily in for a penny, the pounds were starting to mount up. And press exposure, of course, has no calories.
         Being totally unqualified to address the question, I pondered it for several weeks until the Society of Tasteful Men again rode to the rescue. George Trescher -- another of Phil’s  acquaintances -- was Director of Development at the Metropolitan Museum, a right-hand man to Thomas Hoving -- the museum’s adventurous director -- and a frequent escort of Brooke Astor, one of the Met’s great benefactors. In other words, he was as ‘connected’ as anyone could be and was willing to develop an ‘A List’ for us of New York’s  high and mighty
        There was only one problem, he said. We needed a lure to attract them. He loved the idea of the Jazz Age and Roaring Twenties windows, but where was the exclusivity? Everybody walking by could see the windows .. and the people we wanted weren’t just anybody. We needed a ‘hook’ on which to hang the invitation.
      So a meeting was set up with all involved, except of course Andrew Goodman who was above such concerns. A number of ideas were thrown around, none of them inspiring, until facetiously and impulsively I said:
       Why don’t we hire Benny Goodman for the night? Then we could call the party ‘Goodman at Bergdorf’s’.
        The room went dead silent.

         ‘Goodman at Bergdorf’s’ was one of the most memorable nights of my life even though, paradoxically, I don’t remember that much of it. What I do remember vividly -- as I mingled (not very comfortably) with all the wealth and power in that spectacular penthouse apartment -- is sitting on the carpeted living room floor after dinner. I’d taken off my rented patent leather shoes, my black tie was hanging loosely around my neck, and I was literally resting at the feet of the most famous musician in the world; the man called the King of Swing. He and his quartet floated from room to room and the lilt of his clarinet meandered like a musical stream, creating ponds and eddies of warmth and excitement everywhere. To this day, I’ve never seen an audience so rapt; so thoroughly hypnotized. It was magic.
       
        Two days later, Bergdorf Goodman called to say they’d sold the last set of Eugene Power’s limited facsimile edition of Vanity Fair. All forty tons of it were gone.

          The lesson of this story is not that a silk purse can be made out of a sow’s ear.
After all, Mr. Power‘s company, when all was said and done, undoubtedly lost a good penny or two on the deal. It did receive some good press coverage, however, which I suppose is still pasted in somebody’s scrapbook in a dusty Michigan attic or, more probably, preserved somewhere on microfilm.
           No, the real lesson here is that a bad idea takes on a life of its own when the big boss likes it. It’s that simple and that sad.
           So … how soon do you think Microsoft will write off its $5.3 billion investment in Skype?
   
     
                                           AFTER DINNER MINTS


         
Vanity Fair was folded into Vogue in 1936, but was born again in 1983 as a celebrity/public affairs magazine. Its editors have included Leo Lerman, who was an editor at Vogue; Tiny Brown, ex-editor of everything except her own life; and now Graydon Carter who owns The Waverly Inn and The Monkey Bar in Manhattan while journalistically exploring the private lives of celebrities.

My partnership with Phil Bloom lasted only three years. It was oil and water all the way, with the generational difference too great to overcome. And although he taught me a great deal, he was in the end disinterested in my knowledge and skills. So much for synergy.

I eventually repaid George Trescher’s help by introducing him to the CEO of Xerox. The introduction led in turn to the company’s sponsorship of ‘New York Painting and Sculpture: 1940-1970’; the first contemporary art exhibit ever mounted by the Met.

With the analog and digital ages infringing on its hopes, University Microfilms must have taken cover in some small recess of the information warehouse. I can find no record , no evidence, that it ever existed. But at least on one night, in one bright place, its star shone more brightly than a meteor in the firmament.
             I’m glad one person still remembers.




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