Talk Stories
Page 8
Between six and seven, I sit and read women’s magazines. I read articles about Elizabeth Taylor’s new, simple life, articles about Mary Tyler Moore, articles about Jane Pauley, articles about members of the Carter family, articles about Candice Bergen, articles about Doris Day, articles about Phyllis Diller, and excerpts from Lana Turner’s autobiography. I know many things about these people—things that they may have forgotten themselves and things that, should we ever meet, they might wish I would forget also. At seven o’clock, I watch the morning news for one whole hour. I watch the morning news for two reasons: it makes me feel as if I am living in Chicago, and on the morning news I see and hear the best reports on anything having to do with pigs. I don’t know why the morning news makes me feel as if I am living in Chicago and not, say, Cleveland, but there it is. I love Chicago and would like to live there, but only for an hour. Some days, after watching the morning news, my head is filled with useless (to me) but interesting information about pigs. Some of the information, though, is good only for a day. Then, for half an hour, I watch Captain Kangaroo. I love Captain Kangaroo and have forgiven him for saying to Chastity Bono, when they were both guests on her parents’ television show, “Now, let me lay this on you, Chastity.” Surely a grown man, even if he is a children’s hero (perhaps because he is a children’s hero), shouldn’t talk like that.
Then it is half past eight and no longer early morning in Manhattan, either.
—October 17, 1977
Notes and Comment
We have a letter from an excitable young woman we know:
I’ve just returned from a party given to celebrate the publication of a book, edited by Linda Rosen Obst, that is called The Sixties. The subtitle is “The Decade Remembered Now, By the People Who Lived It Then.” I took a look at it. It’s a great book—especially if you only look at the pictures. My favorite picture is one with Muhammad Ali holding Ringo Starr aloft in his arms as if he—Muhammad Ali—were a butcher and Ringo Starr were a leg of mutton. The other Beatles are in the picture, too. My favorite article, by Wavy Gravy, is on the Woodstock music festival. It made me glad I wasn’t there—particularly since I didn’t want to go. My favorite title for an article in the book is “Dylan Goes Electric.” To that I would like to say, “Yes, and thousands cheered.” But here’s the thing about the party for the book. It was held in a sort of high-toned discothèque called New York, New York. I heard many people say that this was a huge irony, because when you think of what the sixties meant and what discothèques mean you reach the conclusion that the sixties and discothèques are horses of such different colors. But actually I thought that the people who gave the party (Random House) provided some nice sixties touches. For one thing, there was a full bar and you didn’t have to pay for any of the drinks you ordered. For another, there wasn’t anybody to take your coat and you had to plop it down in an alcove that was reserved for coats, so there were all these coats in an alcove and if you had a particular nice and favorite coat you just had to leave it and trust that no one would take it. I thought that the leave-it-and-trust part was very sixties. For another thing, they played “Purple Haze” at least once. In fact, they played many songs by groups from the sixties, but not many people danced to them. There were about three hundred people at the party, and I saw six people dancing to “Sympathy for the Devil.” When it was followed by “Love Is the Message,” a disco song by the MFSB Orchestra, the whole dance floor got very crowded. I also heard a group of people talking about Punk Rock and New Wave music, and they talked about it as if it were really important, but I couldn’t figure out if Punk Rock and New Wave were the same thing or two completely different things. Anyway, one man said he liked the energy in New Wave music, even though the politics of New Wave music was offensive. I am sure that in years to come he will write an article about New Wave music that has as stop-the-presses a title as “Dylan Goes Electric.” Later, a woman told me that all those people talking about Punk Rock and New Wave were rock-and-roll critics. She said, “Do you know how Mick Jagger said that he didn’t want to be forty-five and singing ‘Satisfaction’? Well, worse than that is being forty-five and writing about Mick Jagger singing ‘Satisfaction.’” I laughed. That is the only funny thing I heard anyone say at the party the whole evening.
—January 16, 1978
Pippo
One recent morning, we noticed an advertisement at the Forty-second Street station of the Sixth Avenue subway. The advertisement was for a beauty salon called Pippo of Rome. It said “WE MAKE EVERYONE LOOK THEIR BEST!” and “14 INTERNATIONALLY FAMOUS HAIRCUTTERS. ALL UNDER THE PERSONAL SUPERVISION OF PIPPO OF ROME.” After peace and justice, there is nothing in the world we like more than for everyone to look his or her best, and, after some of Richard Pryor’s jokes, there is almost nothing we find funnier than Internationally Famous Haircutters and any noun followed by the words “of Rome.” Encountering the advertisement, therefore, impelled us to visit Pippo of Rome, which proved to be a unisex beauty salon. We met Pippo himself—Mr. Pippo Guastella—and thought he was great. He looked like pictures we remembered seeing some years ago of Carlo Ponti, the Italian film producer who is now married to Sophia Loren. Pippo was dressed in sky blue: pants, shirt, and sweater all exactly the same shade. He introduced us to some of the internationally known hairdressers. He told us that he had studied hairdressing in Rome and had worked there in a shop on the Via Veneto; that he had worked in Rome for a man called Frank the Neapolitan; that Cary Grant, Gregory Peck, Rosalind Russell, the President of Italy, and other famous people used to have their hair done at Frank the Neapolitan’s place; that he himself had twice given Gregory Peck a haircut; that he had come to New York because everybody comes to New York; that he had opened his first salon in New York in 1959 and by 1960 it had taken off; and that he changed the furniture in his salon every two years. The furniture that he now has is in the Chesterfield style.
Pippo then showed us an Italian men’s magazine called UOMO. As he showed us pictures of snappily dressed men with precision-styled hair, he said, “In Italy, it’s different from here. As you know, there is a lot of art over there, and this makes everybody—hairdressers, designers—very conscious of personality. When a customer comes in, you take everything into consideration. Face, personality—everything. I get all Italian magazines, because they keep me on top of things. In America, everybody wants to look the same. Same haircut, same clothes. But I give all my customers something different, to fit their personalities. I used to do the hair of Joe Franklin. You know, his face is puffed out like this!” Pippo made a face like a balloon, and then made a sound like air escaping from a balloon. “He would wear his hair flat on top, making him look even puffier. So I styled his hair so that he looks all slimmed down. He’s a very nice man. Then, I do Barry Farber. He is more philosophic, and these philosophers don’t take care of themselves. I first saw him as a judge in a Miss America pageant. He was wearing a nice suit and he looked nice, but his hair was a mess. Then, one day, I see him in the lobby of the WOR building and I tell him what I think of him, and since then he has been coming to me to do his hair. In other words, I brought out his personality. A long time ago, I styled the hair of Tony Lo Bianco, but then he went to Hollywood. Now I style his brother John’s hair.”
We watched Pippo wash and style a man’s hair. He had introduced the man to us as a special and long-standing customer. Pippo washed the man’s hair once with a shampoo called Superstar Professional Shampoo. Then he cut the hair by dividing it up into very small sections and cutting off a half inch or so. Then he massaged the man’s scalp, fluffed up his hair, and trained some hair-drying lamps on it. After Pippo was done, the man looked just like a celebrity on local television.
—March 6, 1978
Honors
One miserable afternoon last week (it was the weather, and it was raining), we went to a great party for J. Barney Ferguson, who was this year’s Grand Marshal for this year’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Here are some of the
things that made it great: It was held in a really big room, and this really big room was filled up, mostly, with big, flush-faced gentlemen, not one of them wearing a leisure suit, and all of them holding a glass of whiskey and telling each other what sounded, from the laughs, like really funny jokes; the real name of the guest of honor, J. Barney Ferguson, is James Bernard Ferguson, and he is a policeman, in homicide; we saw two priests in the room, and, except for their priests’ clothes, they were just as flush-faced and just as jovial as the other gentlemen. J. Barney Ferguson wore a gray pin-striped suit, a white shirt, and a green-and-gold striped tie. He has a good grip of a handshake and a big smile. We liked him, and so did all the other people in the room. They all went up to him, exchanged anecdotes with him, and told him jokes. He laughed a lot. Then a number of these people lined up to have their picture taken with J. Barney Ferguson. Patrick Cunningham, Bronx County Democratic Chairman, had his picture taken with J. Barney Ferguson; the editor Dennis Flanagan had his picture taken with J. Barney Ferguson; Monsignor Jack Barry, who is a monsignor with the Police Department, had his picture taken with J. Barney Ferguson; Michael Maye, the former president of the Uniformed Firefighters Association, had his picture taken with J. Barney Ferguson (Michael Maye was wearing the best loud jacket of any loud jacket we have ever seen—it was red-and-gray big plaid); William Twomey, an inspector with the City Department of Consumer Affairs, had his picture taken with J. Barney Ferguson; two people from Rumm’s, a tavern in Manhattan, had their picture taken with J. Barney Ferguson; Jerry Fitzgerald, a policeman and J. Barney Ferguson’s partner on the squad, had his picture taken with J. Barney Ferguson; Denis Carey, of the Red Blazer Pub, had his picture taken with J. Barney Ferguson; John Keenan, New York State’s Special Prosecutor, had his picture taken with J. Barney Ferguson; and John and William Ferguson, foremen with the New York City Highway Department and J. Barney Ferguson’s brothers, had their picture taken with J. Barney Ferguson. This was a five-to-seven party, and at around half past six people started to make speeches about what a great man J. Barney Ferguson really is. Then they gave him, as a token of their appreciation, a beautiful walking stick. This seemed like a good idea and a good gift, because J. Barney Ferguson has three broken bones in his back. It happened last year while he was chasing a murder suspect.
—March 27, 1978
Dinosaurs
This is one of the nicest things to do in New York on a Sunday afternoon: Have a good late breakfast (something like a bowl of porridge, some scrambled eggs, some smoked herring, toast with raspberry jam would be just fine), and then put on some comfortable clothes and some comfortable shoes and go over to the American Museum of Natural History. If there are children in your family, by all means take them along. While you are there, don’t miss the redwood-tree exhibit in the Hall of North American Forests, the worm exhibit in the Hall of the Biology of Invertebrates, the early-man exhibit in the Hall of the Biology of Man, the Mbuti Pygmies of the Ituri Forest in the Hall of Man in Africa, and the bird-watching exhibit in the Akeley Gallery. This is just what we did on a recent Sunday afternoon. We saw all the things we liked best and then a few of the things that are interesting anyway. It was while we were looking at a few of the things that are interesting anyway that we came across, in progress, a lecture on dinosaurs. The lecture was being given by Sidney Horenstein, a paleontologist on the museum’s staff, and was sponsored by the New York Paleontological Society. Sitting on some yellow petroleum-by-product chairs, listening closely to him, and watching some slides he showed to accompany his chat were lots of moms and dads and their little children. Some other little children were in strollers. Mr. Horenstein said that dinosaurs were around two hundred and ten million years ago; that at that time the earth’s atmosphere was warm; that as a group they lasted for one hundred and fifty million years, compared to our (man’s) measly two million; that most dinosaurs were plant-eaters except a few, like the great Tyrannosaurus rex, which apparently ate smaller dinosaurs; that one bite for a T. rex could probably feed a human family of four for one month; that the Megalosaurus was the first dinosaur to be described scientifically; that the word “dinosaur” means “terrible lizard”; that dinosaurs that had lost their teeth stole dinosaur eggs and ate them; that T. rex had small hands, and no one knows what purpose its hands served except that maybe after it slept its hands helped it get up; that one genus with a bony crest on its head was called Kritosaurus, which means “chosen lizard”; that maybe dinosaurs became extinct because an interstellar explosion caused the earth’s atmosphere to cool and the dinosaurs died of exposure, but then again maybe their extinction was caused by something else; that no one has ever seen a dinosaur or knows what dinosaurs really did. While Mr. Horenstein talked, he showed slides of dinosaurs doing things, and almost always the dinosaurs were in a swamp or near a swamp. He showed slides of dinosaurs with long, swanlike necks. He showed slides of baby dinosaurs just emerging from eggs the size of large avocados. He showed slides of dinosaurs attacking egg-stealing dinosaurs. He showed slides of dinosaurs eating no-longer-alive dinosaurs. He showed slides of dinosaurs with big teeth and slides of dinosaurs with little teeth. He showed slides of dinosaurs whose mouths looked like duck bills, and said that these dinosaurs were called hadrosaurs (meaning “bulky lizards”). He showed slides of dinosaurs with two horns and slides of dinosaurs with just one horn. He showed a slide of two dinosaurs battering their heads together. He showed slides of pink dinosaurs, blue dinosaurs, and green dinosaurs. Mr. Horenstein made it clear that it would be just wonderful to be one of these creatures, standing around in a gooey, warm swamp with your friends.
—April 24, 1978
Kenya
Kenya is the most beautiful place in the world. Some of the first men and women to live on this earth lived in Kenya. Kenya lies on the equator, but most of it is a high plateau—an ideal atmosphere for all kinds of plants, animals, and people. Early Stone Age Kenyans were hunters and gatherers. The Dorobo, a tribe of people who live in Kenya, think that they in particular are the descendants of the first men and women who lived in Kenya. The great Masai tribesmen, who live on the plateau, are interested mainly in raising cattle and fighting wars to get more cattle. The Kikuyu are the largest tribe in Kenya. The Mau Mau mostly belonged to the Kikuyu tribe. The great explorer Vasco da Gama was probably the first European in Kenya, though possibly the Greeks were there in the first century. Da Gama landed at Mombasa in 1498. The great railroad in Kenya that runs from Mombasa to Lake Victoria was built between 1895 and 1901; it cost the British government over five million pounds. It was built mostly by Indians from India, and lions ate twenty-eight of the builders near the Tsavo River Bridge. Johann Ludwig Krapf and Johannes Rebmann, two German missionaries, were the first white men to see interior Kenya. In 1848, Rebmann was the first white man to see Mount Kilimanjaro, which is now in Tanzania. In 1849, Krapf was the first white man to see Mount Kenya. Charles Millet, of Salem, Massachusetts, was the first American trading captain to visit Mombasa. This was in 1827, and his ship was named Ann. There are thirteen million people in Kenya. It is almost the size of Texas. In Kenya, you can buy a Reuben sandwich, a boneless steak, or lobster thermidor in a restaurant.
We learned all this from a man—a Kenyan—at the first Kenya Trade Fair, which we visited while it was at the Coliseum. As he talked, we walked about looking at stalls displaying goods made in Kenya. We saw a stall displaying coffee beans, roasted and unroasted. We saw a stall displaying three different kinds of tea. We saw many stalls displaying wood or stone carvings of animals, birds, trees, and people. We saw the stall of Ideal Farm, the largest mushroom grower in black Africa. We saw the stall of Kenya Orchards, producers of fruit juice and jam. We saw the stall of the House of Manji, Ltd., makers of Buitoni pasta in Kenya. We saw a stall displaying canned corned beef and canned ox tongue. We learned that in Kenya there is a brand of cooking fat called Cowboy. It comes in a can, too, and the label on the can is a photograph of an incredibly handsome and incre
dibly black man wearing a white cowboy hat. We learned that Lady Gay is a brand of talcum powder and that Tusker is a locally made beer. Then we saw a fashion show. In the fashion show were many styles of clothing that can be found in any old store, such as a bikini, a suit, pants, and dresses, but then there were other, very fine-looking garments—all different ways to wear a bright-colored, boldly patterned sheet. From everything in the fashion show, we could see that it has never occurred to the average Kenyan to dress up in clothes that could in any way be called demure.
—June 5, 1978
Cheese
At a luncheon the Dorman Cheese Company gave the other day, at the Sky Garden Roof of the St. Moritz, in honor of Mary Anne Krupsak, the Lieutenant Governor of New York; Carol Bellamy, the New York City Council President; John Lindsay, the former Mayor of New York City; Lewis Rudin, an influential New York real-estate man; Alan King, the comedian; and Sandy, a dog and a star in the Broadway musical Annie —because the Dorman Cheese Company thinks they are all good New Yorkers—here are some of the people and things we saw and heard:
Alan King wearing a brown herringbone sports jacket. Carol Brock, a food columnist for the News. Avram Dorman, the president of Dorman Cheese. Carol Dorman, the wife of Avram Dorman. William Dorman, vice-president of Dorman Cheese. Phyllis Dorman, William Dorman’s wife, wearing a roomy maroonish dress. Jeff and Ned Dorman, their sons. Carol Bellamy wearing a smartly tailored blue suit. Alice Weiss, Phyllis Dorman’s friend from Scarsdale. Carol Bellamy sipping water. John Lindsay buttering bread, then eating the buttered bread. Sandy the dog wearing a black bow tie and lapping up water from a water glass. Phyllis Dorman saying, when she saw Sandy the dog lapping up the water from the water glass, “Oh, my God!”