Some delay at LaGuardia awaiting ground transportation to the City. Talked to an older lady who divides her time between Atlanta and NYC as a tour guide. She (naturally) gave us sightseeing tips: one was to take the Staten Island Ferry roundtrip from South Seaport, which she said provides an impressive up-close view of the Statue of Liberty in passage. As the wait stretched into 30 minutes, the three of us pooled resources to rent a limo into town, rather than spend more time queued up on the sidewalk. Just about that time the Grand Central shuttle lumbered into view and we boarded that, leaving the limo driver without a fare.
Still, things have gone so smoothly since we left home this morning, if they were always this painless I would travel a lot more.
Cruising into NYC via the turnpike, there was a young kid sitting behind us. Judging from his accent he was from Texas or thereabouts. He was on his cellphone to a friend long-distance, bemoaning how let-down he was on 1st impression. He was saying things like, "I wish I hadn't come here." "I don't like what I've seen so far." "I can't wait to get back home." I must agree the route from LaGuardia thru the Holland Tunnel is depressingly grim, but untold riches await anyone with a little patience and a sense of adventure.
Of course the goal of this visit was to see and hear author and bon vivant Gore Vidal, who has just turned 80 and published the second -- and presumably final -- volume of his memoirs this very day. Such accounted for the urgency of our mission. He can't have much time left. Or does he?
After check-in and other touristy housekeeping accomplished, our next bit of good luck was getting mis-directed to a "Members Only" line of patrons waiting to be seated for the Vidal event at the 92nd Street Y that evening. Two old ladies in front of us -- savvy native New Yorkers both -- were being hassled by the usher for not having clearance to be in such an exclusive queue. While she was engrossed in this melee with the seniors, we presented our tickets and floated on by into a nearly empty auditorium with our choice of seating. As we made our way to the front of the stately theatre, we could hear the old ladies giving the usher what-for ("You let those 2 people in and they aren't even members!")
Due to a last-minute substitution (or false advertising), Dick Cavett did not conduct the interview with Vidal as promised. Instead Jay Pareni, a college prof and voluminously-published writer -- although obviously not in Gore's league -- was the host, yet an able helmsman was he. Vidal was helped on/offstage by a young acolyte in coat and tie who looked to be college-age, maybe slightly less. Vidal walks with a cane and is sadly feeble, but once he was seated and began speaking, his regal (although that wouldn't have been Gore's choice of words -- he believes in regicide) and commanding diction flooded the room.
After a short reading from Point To Point Navigation, he brought the house down with an anecdote from his last visit to the Y, "on this stage, in this very chair". It involved a maddening housefly that kept buzzing in front of his face. He kept grabbing at the fly, shadow-boxing as it were, then recalled a scene from the original Fly movie with Vincent Price where the human fly is caught and plaintively squealing "Help me!" He is, as I had hoped, a marvellous raconteur, not surprising from his many appearances over the years on film, TV and in public. It was very moving to be in the presence of someone who has witnessed so much of American life as a participant and chronicler. He talked of how his grandfather, Sen. Thomas Gore of Oklahoma (b. 1870) had known Robert Lincoln, son of Abraham. With a background like that, he said, "I had all the subjects I needed for a literary career". He struck another chord with the audience when he responded to Pareni's question of how do we get out of the mess we're in? "Restore the Constitution", he said to thunderous applause. Returning to his squabbles with Capote, he said the latter died "tragically" in the home of Johnny Carson's ex-wife, and that he -- Vidal -- wished to die in Johnny's house. This brought out an amused response, as Carson himself has predeceased Gore by years. He talked for the better part of an hour, brimming with tales from an amazingly productive and colorful life: published novelist at 19, candidate for political office, MGM screenwriter with Ben Hur and Suddenly Last Summer to his credit, on and on. When asked about America at the dawn of a new century, he noted how so much advertising -- on radio as well as TV -- is consumed (apt phrase) with borrowing and debt, mirroring our national decline. Then he grew very conspiratorial, rubbing his palms together and imitating a lender ("Hello, friend, are you a homeowner?"), cackling at the mock prospect of raping another victim in the mortgage money shell-game. Sensing his guest was becoming enervated, Pareni ended the talk and the boy reappeared to help Gore from the stage. There was a moment when Vidal appeared very unsteady and in danger of falling, but he got his equilibrium back and rose to full height -- Caesar-like -- and got a warm and enthusiastic sendoff from the soldout crowd. The line to purchase an autographed copy of his new book was interminable and didn't budge for what seemed like an hour. Kathy ferried back and forth between the reception room where Vidal was rumored to be exitting through, and the lobby where I was queued. She had my 1st edition of The City And The Pillar ready to be signed if an opportunity presented itself. And it did, from the same young man assisting Vidal onstage. He whisked my book backstage where Vidal was holding court with some Y patrons who had no doubt paid big bucks for a private audience. While waiting in line, Sting of all people mosied through the hallway with a kind of hang-dog look on his face, shuffling like he didn't have any definite purpose at the moment. Part of the allure that is New York: a rock star showing up at a high-toned literary feast. I would not have pegged Sting as a Vidal fan, but this visit was to be full of shocks and surprises. We spoke with a schoolteacher from New Jersey who, like us, had been galvanized into action from the minute he heard Vidal would be in town. We were among the hard core of committed Vidalians waiting for a possible brush with the great man of letters. He was rejoicing at Vidal having signed his copies of Lincoln and Burr during the same foray Vidal had signed my copy of City. The schoolteacher noted that Vidal signed my book on the title page, increasing its value exponentially. Finally the Y stage manager, a stocky hypertense fellow, came out and asked if we were waiting to see Vidal come through the lobby. When we all answered in the affirmative, he revealed that Gore was exitting by an outside entrance and wouldn't be coming our way. With some haste we small band of Gore cogniscenti left through the front doors of the Y and made for the corner of Lexington and 92nd St. Looking eastward we uttered a collective gasp as we saw Vidal being pushed up the sidewalk in a wheelchair to Lexington where a taxi awaited. Gore in the flesh! At arm's length! I admit to being transfixed to my spot on the sidewalk in his presence, frozen, as it were. Kathy prompted, "Well, this is your chance." I approached and shook Vidal's hand as his ubiquitous young handler whispered, "This gentleman came all the way from Alabama" (Atlanta, actually, but who's quibbling?). I thanked him for previously signing my copy of City and blurted out something along the lines of, "If we still have the freedom to come and hear you publicly criticize the government, I feel there is hope left for America". Vidal replied "We are at one in that accord". While Kathy digitally documented the occasion, I stood in his aura as others clamored to have their own mementoes certified, as it were. Then he got in his cab and was gone. There was a definite afterglow to "being there". We walked north up Lexington towards the metro station alongside the schoolteacher, chatting excitedly about the event. He tipped us off to a street vendor who sets up at the corner of 53rd and Sixth Avenue between 8pm and 5am, who reputedly has the best and cheapest gyros or falafel or something, in town. He also recommended the just-reopened J. Pierpont Morgan Library, which turned out to be a couple of blocks south of our hotel on 41st. Finished off the night with late dinner at P.J. Clarke's, a perennial favorite. The fortyish -- fiftyish? -- bartender in striped shirt, suspenders and bowtie pulled me a Brooklyn Lager draft just as he did the last time we were here almost a year ago. Same barkeep, same lugubrious expression on his face. DAY 2... First stop, the Morgan library with -- to hear the schoolteacher tell it -- an awe-inspiring collection of antiquarian books, furniture and art. The Gutenburg Bible regrettably had been temporarily removed for some purpose and that was a letdown. Still, there were copious musical manuscripts by Mozart on display, along with voluminous sketches by Rococco masters such as Fragonard and Tiepolo. Upstairs in a new wing of the library was an exhibit devoted to Bob Dylan, with music, personal belongings of Dylan's and others from the folk era (Woody Guthrie, Ramblin' Jack Elliott, etc.), manuscripts and records. We wondered what the irascible financier J.P. Morgan would think of some of the exhibits being mounted on his home turf, in his name. Spinning? Then it was up to Columbus Circle, where the 59th St. metro station was temporarily closed for a crime-scene investigation. Cops and military personnel everywhere -- that is the bitter legacy of the Bush era, a pervasive feeling of living in a garrison state, your-papers-please, a low-level continuous fear that permeates everything. Just as Gore predicted and has railed against for decades. I concur totally with Vidal, who disposed of Bush in his talk with one well-aimed phrase after another, culminating with "he's a goddamned fool". We marched on our stomachs for most of the day, stopping off at the Times Square TKTS booth long enough to decide we didn't want to spend the rest of the afternoon queued up for half-price theatre tickets. That night we caught the Charles McPherson Quartet at an uptown club called Smoke. Tho' very much a Parker disciple, McPherson disposed of The Bird -- another glorious counterpoint to Vidal's -- with the first number, Au Privave. Most of the set was a showcase for McPherson's own works -- Marionette, A Tear and A Smile -- though interweaved with those originals were alternately moving and blazing takes on Goodbye Porkpie Hat and Cherokee. His band consisted of bassist Ray Drummond, McPherson's stepson Al on drums, and a young turk on piano named Jeb Patton. During Patton's solo on the show-ending "Cherokee", he looked like he almost knocked himself out as he flopped back against the wall directly behind his chair, exhausted from his creative labors. We were surrounded at other tables by Europeans mostly, I overheard French and German being spoken. I guess that made Kathy and me a Maginot Line of sorts. Upon leaving Smoke, we found ourselves still invigorated, although it was almost midnight. We hopped an MTA to the west fifties, where Iridium was hosting a late show by Marc Cary. Having owned a couple of Marc's cd's, I knew he was well worth the nominal $10 cover. Plus the Iridium is a great venue in the tradition of Ronnie Scott's and the Village Vanguard. Marc was fronting a sextet he called Abstrak Blak. They played a heady mixture of jazz, hiphop and rap, but with enough of Cary's straight-ahead keyboard artistry to keep me rivetted. About two-thirds of the way through the after-midnight set, a short black dude, very dishevelled and obviously intoxicated, poked his way through the crowd to stage left and grabbed Cary by the arm. He looked to be your typical maudlin drunk moved by the moment to interfere with the performer. Cary seemed to agree, as he attempted to brush off the pathetic figure. I imagined him pleading with the drunk, "Not now, brother", "Maybe after the show", "Thanks man, now cool it". The fellow staggered back to his table, then almost immediately bounded back onstage, trumpet in hand. Roy Hargrove! Roy proceeded to burn down the house with a fiery solo, then returned to his table, having charmed/knocked the socks off all of us, his erstwhile detractors. The show ended. The crowd was quick to disperse, but Kathy and I hung back as the musicians and their retinue of wives/partners/girlfriends/groupies gathered for photos and camaraderie. DAY 3... West Village day. Flea markets, street fairs, garage sales (literally, a 2-story covered parking deck called The Garage), the last on West 25th St. Lots of other people's stuff, some vintage, some antique, nothing I couldn't live without, although I was half tempted by an autograph dealer with a bunch of signatures by jazz greats (Ella Fitzgerald, Stan Kenton, etc.). But I had to pass on all of them. Like most Boomers, I have way too damned much stuff and am groaning from overstock at home. On previous junkets to NYC, the Time Out guidebook has led us on alternately rewarding and fruitless searches for bars and restaurants that occasionally turn out to be shuttered or nonexistent, but we struck paydirt on one score this trip. Chumley's, at 86 Bedford, is a former speakeasy that retains its Prohibition-era trappings (unmarked double entrances, fake bookcase that opens onto patio) and is steeped in literary lore. Photos of authors and dust jackets of books by same (many of those books no doubt hatched, polished or composed within the confines of Chumley's) grace the walls: O'Neill, Steinbeck, Sherwood, Kauffman. A table in the barroom had a sign indicating it was reserved for a longtime patron which turned out to be an ancient labrador (see below). Tried an Eagle Pilsner with my shepherd's pie. Loved the place. It just oozed history and the ghosts of great American writers. [UPDATE 11-17-07: our visit to Chumley's could not have been better timed. In April '07 a chimney collapse caused the "indefinite" closure of our favorite speakeasy. Sad! We may never again sit and drink up the history (and brews) that make Chumley's a quintessentially American saloon experience.] Later got a nickel tour of Ye Waverly Inn, which was under renovation by a new owner and scheduled for a grand reopening in 4 weeks, altho' the owner himself invited us to dinner if we made reservations then and there (their phone isn't connected yet). Even with workmen ambling about, the place looked ready for the dinner trade. Has a very old-New-York, old-money, insider feel. The Edward Sorel mural gracing the walls was magnificent: off the cuff I recognized Theodore Dreiser, Cole Porter, James Baldwin, Marianne Moore, probably others if we had stayed on. On to Off The Wagon, Biograph Bookstore, Bleecker Bob's Record Store, Peter McManus, Bar 9, all on the west side. These are favorite haunts from past and present. Same with Arthur's Tavern and Zinc Bar. With live music dealt with in a satisfying way, we turned to the theatre for our last night out. We went to TKTS around 6pm, when the lines of ticket seekers had pretty much evaporated...along with any decent cheap seats for the shows we were vying for: Martin Short's Fame Becomes Me, The Vertical Hour (but the interest for me was in Bill Nighy, not his co-star the Hollywood whore Julianne Moore) and Monty Python's Spamalot. As badly as we both wanted to see any of these, SRO was not an option. So we settled on The Little Dog Laughed, a showbiz comedy at the Cort. As we pounded the sidewalks of the theatre district, Kathy was on her cell, calling the box office directly to secure tickets for the next show, which would start within the hour. After a quick bite across the street at Chipotle's, we snagged our tickets at the will-call booth and joined the weekend throng jamming the lobby. The Little Dog turned out to have a heavy gay theme, although it was well-acted by Tom Everett Scott and Julie White. A lot of bon mots ("I couldn't identify my emotions in a police lineup!" quipped the wisecracking but shallow girlfriend) and intermittent humor but, all in all, the product of a cynical worldview with a shabby (surprise!) opinion of the institution of marriage, family and children. Backstabbing, doing anything for money and screwing your fellow man were the values celebrated. Dragged ourselves back to the hotel late again, but ever worth it in the final analysis. New York, New York. We'll be back soon.
In one swift -- Swiftian? -- motion Vidal had tied together his lifelong fascination with the cinema, famous literary feuds and his amazing gift for mimicry, which was in evidence throughout the evening. He had Capote, Tennessee Williams, Reagan and Nixon nailed. He ranged over history, politics, celebrity, film, the "craft of writing", but only a bit as he said, "I don't like to talk about my own writing". He said "If people are interested in my books they will seek them out".
At one point, as McPherson stood just off stage left (which was just a foot-high riser in the front of a cramped dining room) during a sideman's solo, a bulky black patron exitted the men's room adjacent to where Charles was hanging out. I immediately recognized the jazz critic Stanley Crouch. Few public figures in jazz are as...unphotogenic as Stanley, but it bespoke how important a Charles McPherson gig is. 
I approached Roy and told him how much we admired his work, had seen him on numerous occasions, etc. He nodded with a blissful grin, saying, "Right, right". Roy was out of it, not inclined to small talk with adoring fans at the moment so we made our overdue departure. I later saw where he had just finished a weeklong gig with his big band at another NYC club, so he was probably still unwinding from the stress of that endeavor. Still, what a night!
