New York, New York

I arrived in New York a few days ago. In the van on the way to the hotel, an Austrian lady was talking about how she got stuck in Havana since her credit cards were from US banks. She said they ate breakfast rolls and drank wine, "We were starving!" and barely made it out of the Hotel Nacional, with just enough cash to pay the hotel incidentals and get to the airport. I told her I'd stayed at the same hotel and had that problem last March--for two days I ended up eating boiled eggs that I stuffed into my coat pocket from the breakfast buffet until things got resolved and I scurried off to the airport. Funny, staying at the historic Hotel Nacional and starving!

Last night I went to see Arthur Miller's, "All My Sons" on Broadway. John Lithgow was incredible, and Katie Holmes was pretty good.

I grabbed a $10 vodka on the rocks, downed it, and took my seat. The play started out OK, but soon got real intense, with line after line of great dialog. By the end of the first act I was completely drawn in and wiping some tears while my body overheated.

It got better and better and I began to get a little depressed. I thought, "How can I ever write that well?" Usually, when I read a book by a notable writer I think, "I could probably do that. " Maybe I'd even make some changes to make it better. What a pompous ass I am. But this script totally overwhelmed me. I was sitting in an aisle seat, about 20 rows back, next to two youngish women. I noticed the attractive girl next to me adjusting her position when I would sit up or cross the other leg. I would wipe my brow, trying to hide that I was wiping away tears, and she would wipe her brow too. So I felt there was some nonverbal communication there. It was almost like a date, but I couldn't bring myself to speak to her. I was mostly focused on the play.

I left during the ovation to hide my flowing eyes. What a script, what a performance.

At the bar upstairs at Sardi's, I ordered an Absolute martini, wet, and scanned the brimming crowd. Soon, a seat opened in the middle of the bar--so I grabbed it. I overheard some man say he was from New Orleans and that started a conversation, and his wife joined in. Then, it turned out the girl next to him was from New Orleans too! So there were four New Orleanians there on that particular night at that particular time. We talked and laughed and drank away.

A tall, 50-something blonde woman breezed in and ordered a martini. She has a restaurant in L.A. and also a place in NYC. We had a nice chat, but couldn't help but notice the fuzz growing on her neck. The light hit it just right.

I excused myself around midnight since I had to be in Jersey in the morning for business.

Drinking with Codrescu

In New Orleans when I decided to get serious about writing I started hanging out at the Goldmine Saloon in the French Quarter. Every Thursday night Dave Brinks hosts the "17 Poets" poetry readings. Sometimes it's spoken word, sometimes it's performance art and sometimes a musician will accompany a reading, which can make for a dreamy experience. You should go, it's great, and there's a surprising amount of talent.

That's where I met Andrei Codrescu, the Romanian-transplant poet who comments on NPR in his inimitable tone. He also teaches at LSU. His readings are riveting, and when he's in the audience he's about the most enthusiastic supporter of the artists, especially if it's one of his students.

Over the next 3 or 4 years I'd run into Andrei in the Quarter, we'd chat a bit, maybe have a coffee or a drink or two if we were at Molly's (probably his favorite bar). I used to get some cache by introducing literary wannabe women to him. He'd humor them and they'd fawn and giggle.

When I was in San Miguel de Allende a few weeks ago at the Tom Robbins workshop I ended up relaying messages between Andrei and Robbins in between workshop sessions. "We used to run around together a little," Robbins said. "His essays on NPR are great. I love listening to them. Does he still drink J&B?"

Robbins eyesight is going -- he can only stand to read or write for about 20 minutes at a time now -- so Andrei is sending Tom a DVD of his latest work.

Andrei's real funny in person, and, of course, real smart and witty, and his dry humor cuts through the syrupy New Orleans air like a cleaver.

And he's a lot of fun to drink with.

Mr. Henry, James Dean & Tennessee Williams

A few years back in New Orleans, probably five now, I was at Harry's bar in the French Quarter working on my book (novel) manuscript. It was pouring down rain outside, and I was sitting at a table by an open window for inspiration. A man came over and started reading it and then offering his suggestions on edits. He turned out to be a PhD who oversaw many doctoral projects at Tulane. He invited me to come to his house for a little party--he was just stopping in to grab a couple of six-packs.

We stopped at Verti Mart on Royal for some vodka and went to his place on the lower end of Royal Street. There were a few old men there. We started drinking vodka on the rocks and they were telling stories. One old man was terribly drunk and he was going on and on about "Tennessee." I faded into drunkenness as he droned on. Was he talking about Tennessee Williams?

The next day I tried to re-hash the conversation. If he was really talking about Tennessee Williams, then I needed to hear his stories with a clearer head!

So I went back to the place that afternoon and the old men were at it again. This time I listened to Mr. Henry carefully. It seems he was a Barrymore on his mother's side and he'd done a fair bit of acting and directing in his day. His wife was Miss Lily, who used to play the piano and sing requests nightly at LaFitte's Blacksmith Shop on Bourbon Street. And Tennessee just adored Miss Lily.

Henry went to New York when he was 18 and did some off-Broadway shows. He said he and James Dean used to meet at Jim Downey's and drink 15 cent beers. "I never saw it, I never thought Jimmy was anything extraordinary. He would sit and complain about how much they'd cut his part. He wore glasses, and wasn't particularly good-looking, so he seemed unremarkable to me -- just another struggling actor. But when I saw him on the silver screen I knew Christ had walked on water! Oh, Jimmy! He was magnificent up there on the screen--and Kazan, Elia Kazan the director was an absolute genius who saw it in him! But poor Jimmy, he left us so young, and he had so much more life in him."

Then the man who I'd originally met started telling his Capote story. It seems he was at a dinner with a group along Cannery Row. "And Truman just kept going on and on about Marlon Brando's sex life, and the men they both had slept with, and heads were turning and he was getting louder and drunker and it was just embarrassing, so I stood up and slapped him across the face to shut him up. Later, I was driving him back to his hotel and he thanked me for that. Then he got out a picture of James Dean he kept in his wallet. He was obsessed with him, and he wanted me to take him to the scene of the crash. He threw a fit, so I took him there. Of course, there's really nothing there, just a plain intersection."

I got this from an AOL discussion site:

California State Highway 46 streaks eastward from the city of Paso Robles, near the northern edge of San Luis Obispo County, and cuts across gentle rolling hills and sweeping fields dotted with an occasional ranch.

It is a desolate, windblown vista, broken only by the squatty, weather-beaten buildings that make up the hamlets of Whitley Gardens, Shandon, and Cholame.

Almost twenty-five miles from Paso Robles, and less than a mile east of Cholame, the highway cuts through a gap in the Temblor Mountains, so named because the San Andreas Fault runs at their base.

Here the highway splits: 46 continues eastward to Bakersfield, and its branch, Highway 41, turns northeast toward Fresno.

This junction near Cholame was the epicenter for a shock that reverberated around the world over two decades ago, but not because of the constantly shifting San Andreas Fault.

Actor James Dean, idol to millions of moviegoers, was killed in a violent automobile accident at the junction.

Cholame, population five, consisting of a Chevron gas station, a small store, and a tiny post office, changed for all time since Dean’s death on Friday, September 30, 1955.

Tijuana Bullfights

I went to the bullfights yesterday at Tijuana's bullring-by-the-sea. I like the sport of it, the cheering fans, the showy matadors, but I'm not crazy about what inevitably happens to the poor bull. He almost never stands a chance. But yesterday was different.

Gabriel-the-Tequila-Man (he has a tequila factory in Guadalajara) brought a fresh bottle and we all drank up (Jaime, Yolanda, Luis, Isabella and me). Problem was, I'd just had two beers and an overtopped vodka martini. So I was well on my way when we got there. We bought Cuban cigars to smoke while we watched the action from about four rows back.

The bull comes charging out, crazed and powerful, snorting and balls swinging, greeted by cheering fans and taunts of matadors. He's a beautiful half-ton of muscle, soon to become a heap of dead flesh. They just keep sticking him and sticking him in the back until he's worn out and bleeding to death, then a sword is thrust fully into him, between the shoulder blades. Usually the bull runs and bucks a little more, then his legs give out and just as he is succumbing to death, a knife is jabbed into the base of his skull. Then there's a last kick or two and he goes stiff. The vaqueros tie him up and three harnessed horses are whipped and slapped as they drag the carcass out, leaving a blood trail. Groundskeepers come out and rake dirt over the blood and they start fresh again.

But yesterday was different: The last bull gave such a fight that they let him live. At one point, he stopped and stared directly at me. Jaime was joking that he was going to come at me, like Pajarito (see below). We all laughed. I cheered wildly as they let the wounded and battered bull back into a gate.

Finally, a fair fight.

One of the coolest things I have ever seen is the video of "Pajarito" or "little bird" the flying bull. You should see him fly up into the stands! This was only a year or so ago, in Mexico City. The bull landed in a lady's seat -- the only fight she'd missed in years. He ended up breaking his legs in the stands and they killed him right there.






In 1930 Hemingway published a knowing essay on bullfighting in Fortune magazine, which two years later became the amazing Death in the Afternoon. The critics hated it but it was a huge success. In 1959, just as I was being born, Hemingway returned to Spain with, as Michener puts it, "two handsome and charismatic young matadors" who were about to go mano a mano, They were also brothers-in-law. Evenly matched, they battled all summer and put on a show of skill and bravery. Hemingway later used these events for his series, A Dangerous Summer.