Moon Beaver, Petite Powerhouse, The Gates
I began this long, four-day weekend yesterday (Sat the 19th) by sending Rosie Evitt an email. Visiting from Herefordshire but we hadn’t connected since a short phone conversation a few weeks ago. Something abstracted about her…as though she’s five years away from diagnosis. I gave Rosie my mobile number but she didn’t ring back, not yesterday anyhow. Today she phoned up on the landline. It looks as though I have dodged a bullet, won’t have to do much entertaining or putting her up at Keith’s.
Just after noon, met Keith and Sylvia at the Boathouse in the Park. Chilly day, made bitter and snappy by bright sun and strong winds. They’d gone to see The Gates, and I insisted I snapping photos of them, so Sylvia would have some shots for the album. The Boathouse being crowded—some celeb there, Woody Allen?—we moseyed to Third Avenue where we found J.G. Melon also crowded. Then up the block where there is a clutch of Italian and French bistros. And so lunch or brunch at Le Bistro Steak or whatever it was called. Then back to the Park because I hadn’t taken any photos yet. More delay: the battery was down on my Leica. Walked down to Carlyle Photo. Finally, success; 15 or 20 frames. Walked back down to the Boathouse where K went to the men’s room. Through the Park and to Henri Bendel, where I went to the ladies’ room. M1 bus to 8th St. I lost a glove. K bought me a new $5 pair of red Thinsulates from an African vendor at 8th and University. Path train to Hoboken (Sylvia to JC). Frozen Monkey Cafe for a half-hour. I phoned the Petite Powerhouse, who was on her way to the fluff ‘n’ fold and suffering from strep. We’d pencilled in a possible get-together that afternoon, but didn’t follow up. Still it was good to talk.
Then down the street to the Symposia Bookstore to see Andrew Hook, colleague of Tim Lees and newly published novelist. Friendly enough fellow but the packaging of this softcover book is wretched. Perfect binding, laminated cover. The sort of thing a smalltime fringe publisher gets printed up when shopping for offset printing and lowballing the production (1000 copies for $1000! You supply the CD-ROM, we do the rest!). The title of the book is offputting too, Moon Beaver, but then it turns out this comes from a solicitors’ firm called Moon Beever in England (or ‘in the UK’ as Andrew puts it) which turns my opinion right around. Afterwards we repaired to a Greek place up the street (three venues in three hours, all a stone’s throw from each other!) where K and I stayed too long. Andrew’s publisher, Olga, is a small Russian woman, disturbingly exothalmic and I fear not long for this world. I sat across from her and got used to the bulging eyes after a little bit. Her husband, Jim Galvin, reminds me of the Vincent D’Onofrio character in The Salton Sea (in his bulk and gentle movements, not because he’s mad as a hatter or has a plastic nose or any of that). He has had a career as a scene-shifter, a movie grip, and best boy. Currently gives tours of NYC, according to his ordered-on-the-internet business card.