Manhattan Memories

Chapter 15: Soho Confidential

Party Circuit
Manhattan phone book
JW'S Secret Diary

1979

Mon, Feb. 12: ML called to invite me to a $20 benefit at Plato’s retreat because he needs the money to fight a court case. “We were having a wild party up in Providence, RI, and the police came and took custody of the children” was the suspicious tale he recounted. Went instead to Books & Company where author Michele Wallace, in crocheted white dress, was celebrating the release of “Black Macho & the Myth of Super Women” (Dial Press) reported by Ishmael Reed to have “delighted and angered thousands”. Flanked by DNews book critic Judson Hand, Stephanie Mills of The Wiz, debonair Peter McCabe of Harpers, the flame-haired agent Maxine and assorted corn-rowed lovelies, she was giving an interview to WLIB. “It wouldn’t matter if the book was about potatoes,” raved provocatively,

St Valentine's Day: On this appropriate day, Bruce Jay Friedman partied at Elaine's to launch his book Lonely Guys (McGraw Hill). Deena reminded Jules Feiffer it was she who sent him to the V Voice with his strips in 1956. I was there when he brought them in and we all flipped. Among other Elaine's celebrants here are Gilda Radner, Pete Hammill and Arthur Frommer--BJF's college roommate in Missouri--who spent all the party beside the payphone making business calls. Next, the Whitney museum opening where chief honcho Tom Armstrong stood in the doorway handing out buttons reading BIENNIAL I ? U. "Give me two, one for each side" cracked Hannah Wilke, owner of Soho's most famous nipples, who complained the crowd made it look like "a children's museum". It was a young show, but exciting and comparable to the MOMA's first pop art show in the mid-60s. Last time Hannah was here was for Claes Oldenburg's Ray Gun collection of plastic toys. "Hannah never got credit for sending him all those things when they were lovers" remarked Vicki (Girl Friends) Polon whose new movie is called Hearts. Veteran Voice photog Fred McDarrah ppz'd away as wife Gloria appraised the work of Lucas Samaras (b. 1956). "He's obviously into punk rock". Club Mudd is where that crowd usually hangs out. "It's the next best thing to Club Med" riposted Marcia Resnick. Artrite's Edit Deak, in leopard cape, admired the horses sculpted from mud & twigs by Deborah Butterfield (b. 1949). Vernita Nemec appraised Rodney Ripps' (b. 1950) drab flower pastiche while Allen Tannenbaum admired Vernita's metallic pink pants. And everybody agreed that all the rubbing and squeezing in the tightly-packed basement bar made it the best frottage event of the season.

Mon, Feb 19: James Clavell, a penpal whom I'd never met, wrote from Paramount's Hollywood lot to say that they'd start filming Shogun--the best novel of the past decade--as a TV miniseries in Japan from June 4 for 120 days. "If you happen to be passing through Kyoto...", he invited, "we'll be there". Ah, if only I could. Japan has become so expensive that my book on that country which used to sell 40,000 copies each printing, has been defunct since 1974 because nobody can afford to go there.

Thurs, Feb 22: All the literary heavies donned black tie etc to attend the award dinner for Allen Ginsberg at the National Arts Club. John Ashbery spoke as did Norman Mailer, William Burroughs, Ted Berrigan and Henry Geldzahler, but it was only when Ginsberg got up to read some of his latest poems--"Punk rock...get on the floor & eat my grandmother's diapers...fuck me in the ass...eat out the FBI with your big mouth" --that the waiters stopped eating their dinner in the rear and came over to watch the action.

Afterwards there was a pleasant party in one of the upstairs apartments where a famous poet got drunk & nearly fell downstairs. Pete Hamill was present with the latest of his famous ladies, Agnelli (Fiat)'s daughter. Obviously all Daily News readers are not rednecks. How does Pete do it? I wrote to DNews editor Mike O'Neill offering my own services as a columnist but a reply from one of his minions said (in effect) that even if they wanted any more writers, my type would be the last thing they were looking for.

Frid, Feb 23: Marvin (Fables at Life's Expense) Cohen was philosophizing for some of his fans at the Studio of Creative Movement in an evening that was equal parts of mordant wit, non sequiturs and semantic jests. "A sophisticated expatriate of the doctrine of original sin" was how his foil Maurice Edwards described him. Marvin's often anti-climactic punch lines are reached by following the logic of literalness. "So repetition keeps things the same?" he was asked. "Yes, that's all the progress there is, so enjoy it". One of his pieces was entitled, "If the Lights Are Out, the World Is Still On", and another ended; "Time's function is to keep everything from happening at once".

Sat, Feb 24: Richard Pryor must be the only comic in the world who can get humor out of somebody having a heart attack, one of the routines of his concert performances, now on film. Apart from his perceptive observations about how carefully somebody carries a urine sample, why blacks don't get bitten by snakes & whites do, and the way a woman takes a piss in the woods, He also imitates a stuttering Chinaman with a drunk Japanese friend, re-evaluates the Ali-Spinks fight while reminiscing about his own boxing experiences ("Did you ever hear the air leave your body?") He recounted the tale of a hunter stalking a deer by playing both roles in turn. Bob Singer dropped by to bring me a copy of his PickUp Times, a chauvinistic publication about meeting women which--for all the progress in Femlib--seems as necessary as it ever was. in these days of the liberated lady. It’s the rare woman who ever initiates a relationship, so most men claim they have to be as aggressive as they ever were, just more subtle about it.

Sun, Feb 25: Charlemagne Palestine, three days into a new beard, sometimes plays the same two or three chords for a couple of hours or more but tonight's concert—Dark & Light Premiere—was uncharacteristically short. The CP style was unchanged: walls of vibrating sound from a Bosendorfer piano that kept playing after the pianist stopped. Charlemagne said he'd been taking flying lessons in readiness for his planned sky events. What kind of events? "Miracles". Did he care to amplify? "No, wait till afterwards and let the religious mystics explain it". Afterwards to a boring CBS Records party at the garage-like West 12 disco. All around were bearded men kissing each other, flashbulbs popping for unknown stars and 99% of those handed silver masks wore them on their arms.

Ishmael Reed

Mon, Feb 26: Author & publisher Ishmael Reed (who came up with the title for NYC's first u/ground paper, The East Village Other, 13 years ago) gave the best party of the month for a new poetry book, Snake Back Solo by Quincy Troupe. Among the beautiful mostly black artists & writers filling the Pegasus disco was hair stylist/filmmaker Agnes McGill who credited Cicely Tyson with being the first in the U.S. to popularize corn-rowed hair, from Senegal. It certainly looked great on Agnes whose last film was Shakespeare's Love's Labor Lost, the 16th century treatise about liberated women.

Ishmael introduced me to the stars of a new, nitty gritty black soap opera in the works, Personal Problems, which aims to be super realistic. What's it about? "It's about love" replied Veeta Mae Grovesnor. "It's about truth" explained Jim Wright, a sprightly actor who was with Orson Wells' Mercury Theatre back in WPA days. There was lots of literary talk. Barbara Lowenstein, a charming agent, said it was one year ago this week since her client David Rorvick got the publicity over his book about cloning which eventually made him a millionaire. And now in the works, she said, is his latest book about genetic engineering which will probably generate just as much controversy. Doubleday's Calvin C. Reed told me about a new book, Cooking for the Champ by Muhammed Ali's personal chef Lana Shabazz. "Ali likes lots of curries and is definitely not a vegetarian" he revealed.

Tues, Feb 27: A quotation from Citizen Kane about its contradictory hero (liberal & reactionary, honest & crooked, friendly & exploitative) closes Marc Eliot's biography of Phil Ochs--Death of a Rebel (Anchor Books)--whose publication was celebrated (where else?) at Gerdes' Folk City. And that's pretty much how Phil's friends gathered here today still feel about him: a prickly character who was always trying to change the world. He was hard to cope with, but what a pity there aren't a lot more like him.

Wed, Feb 28: It was still snowing in Swissair's window on 5th Ave. but at Holbrooks, 3rd Ave., eager photogs almost pursued Deborah Raffin into the blazing log fire prior to the screening of her TV movie Willa. One leather jacket even read PAPPARAZZI along with "YOU'RE NEXT" framed by a carefully drawn lens. Neatly dressed ppz Gene Spatz snapped Paul Sorvino who was being quizzed by WWD's Ann Pinkerton and Cue's Elizabeth Salomon. Several columnists were there including the Post's Jack Martin and Susan Rakowski of The Star, along with ex-Inquirer hagiographer George Bernard who's writing a novel about it all. The guests were a bit too snobby. "That producer over there spends too much money on haircuts" observed Robert Dunham.

I was a Big-Disco virgin until tonight, never having been to 54 or even Xenon, site of Leo Castelli's benefit for the Inst. of Art & Urban Resources. "Leo's doing it to whitewash his Iranian art collection" was a snide comment I hesitated to repeat because the Duveenly Leo--arguably the world's top art dealer--is a charming gent who's doubtless embarrassed by the Peacock Connection. And besides, it was LC who invited me. NYC's Cultural Commissioner HG left early thereby missing most of the interminable laser show. "Very '69-ish" sniffed Vogue's David Bourdon. "If it was '49, it would still be embarrassing" added Ron (shaped canvases) Gorchev, one of the 350-member Artists' Committee whose names form a Who's Who of NYC artists. Laser eventually gave way to neon & at last I knew where all that obsolete stuff from Tokyo’ Ginza had gone. Then the disco began and everybody had a great time. Lured from his seat by Holly Solomon even Les Levine danced. And if I haven't mentioned Andy Warhol tonight it's only because, if you were around the Dom in the '60s, you'd already know that's where discotheques were invented.

Oscar Brand

Thurs, March 1: Oscar Brand, folk-singer extraordinaire, showed me round the Songwriters’ Hall of Fame (George Gershwin’s desk, Duke Ellington’s piano, Fred Astaire’s top hat/etc.) at One Times Square.

Curator Oscar does most of his radio interviews there and had just taped Peter Ustinov which turned out to be fortuitous because when I crashed the party for Ustinov’s book (Rainbow Room) later, security was ridiculously tight and it was only by invoking Oscar’s name that I was able to get in. I might as well have saved my time. The party was lifeless and the usually witty Ustinov bored & languid, unlike the first time I met him (Newcastle-on-Tyne, 1950) when he regaled the English press with sharp imitations of U.S. tourists in Europe. Soho Weekly News’s Michael Goldstein sat at the bar declining comment on the rumor that British press Lord Vere Harnsworth has bought the rest of his weekly (for $1.3 million) giving Goldstein a reputed $60,000 a year till 1984. SWN’s battle against the Village Voice is about to begin and its internal union battles will seem minor compared to the obvious shake-up that’s coming. Jaakov Kohn, the Ayatollah of the East Village, is reported to have predicted: “They’ll all be out on their asses before long.”

Frid, March 2: It’s not everyday that the NY Times drops over to write about one’s apartment but it was yesterday that they wrote about Sarah Rentschler’s (which also happens to be an art gallery) and the divine Sarah looked suitably pleased at today’s opening for the art of Deborah Freedman and Ron Janowich. Seated on the couch sipping Bardolino, I got into conversation with purple-sweatered Barbara Lebensfeld whose description of herself as a sculptor led to the revelation that she makes her own paper (which she then draws or paints upon) by creating a mulch (“You can use almost anything – in India they’ve used bananas”) which is then squeezed thru a screen & pressed. Her next project; a series of watermark pictures. People tell me such interesting things: “90% of what I know is not from personal experience”, I told Diane Talan. “Some people call it hearsay,” she riposted, adding that her own next show would be at Sarah’s penthouse in May—a series of hands. “The hand is the external reservoir of our most acute sensations”, she said, quoting novelist Tom Robbins.

Sat, March 3: While calling to tell my doctor—a longtime classical scholar—that the cortisone shot he’d given me had eased the pain in my shoulder he referred to a recent diary in which I’d quoted Tuli (Kupferberg). Did I know (my doctor asked), that Tully was another name for the famous Roman orator Cicero (106-43 BC) who was a lifelong enemy of that macho Roman, Mark Anthony, whose dalliance with Cleopatra ended with Anthony’s suicide? Shortly after our first meeting (in an elevator) I gave a copy of my book, Magical and Mystical Sites (Harper & Row) to Dr. Pinto and our encounters since then have been at least as magical as medical. After this call I looked up Cicero in the encyclopedia and learned that it was Anthony who had had him killed. Later that night I was watching The Rockford Files in which James Garner was getting advice from a friendly racing driver: “When you go into a curve, disengage and let centrifugal force take over.” It seemed like a good motto for anybody’s life.

Sun, March 4: It’s only a few years ago since gambling was regarded as destructive, a view the state accommodated by establishing OTB to legalize some of it (and siphon off its share). But OTB, like all businesses, had to show growth, and a subtle shift in attitude was reflected by its advertising campaign to create more and bigger gamblers. And now, according to today’s papers, we have NY state legislators insisting that legal casinos here are a must to prevent NJ monopolizing all the tourist trade. Jorge Luis Borges once wrote a story called The Lottery. It was all about a society where everything was a gamble, and a knock at your door could mean death, or a pension for life. Teachers’ union proxy Albert Shanker was ranting & raving away in his usual impenetrable prose in both the News and the Times. It’s a column paid for by the UFT -- -a subsidized ego trip – and I’ve never been able to understand why they finance it. Surely if ol’ Al really had anything interesting to say the papers would pay him for it?

Mon, March 5: Cue magazine was dispensing Dunphy’s Irish whisky at Eamonn Doran, a 2nd Avenue pub too cramped for table-hopping & which puts an excess of herbs in its shepherd’s pie. Over at Avery Fisher Hall, Brazil’s Globo TV showed some of the brilliantly imaginative output with which it blankets the country. (Its titles, credits & logo alone are superior to NBC’s entire programming). The amazing Dr. Robert Marinho who has bossed Globo since his father’s death 50 years ago describes himself as “fundamentally a journalist”. At the lobby party that followed, Carlos Pereira, who runs a NYC limo service, said he was miffed because his pal Helio, Globo’s man in NY, was not included. Why not, Helio? “Because Brazil is all rush, rush, rush. He was not around when the film was made, so no time to wait.” Playful party guests kept climbing up the down escalator, waiters circulated with trays of carioca canapés & the booze flowed like Iguaçu Falls.

Tues, March 6: Something Else Press founder Dick Higgins was handing out yard-long poems down at Franklin Furnace and encouraging his audience to read them, “As loud as possible so that you can’t hear your neighbor.” Assass/ss/ss/ass/ss/sss/sss/glass/ass/ass/glass/ss the crowd chanted gleefully. Its 20 years ago this year since SE Press began printing such as John Cage, Merce Cunningham. No profits yet. At the Institute for Inter-American Relations I assured the lovely Elizabeth (a hotshot Park Avenue lawyer) that no woman was ever turned away from a party. And especially a woman whose 200 cornrows were topped with wooden beads, as were her own. “If you don’t believe me, crash the Chinese UN party tomorrow”, I suggested.

Wed, March 7: The Chinese were pouring drinks (Scotch, Tropicana orange juice, Carlsberg, Coca Cola) at their Mission to the UN on 66th Street, in a room whose thick green carpet was paneled with big, red roses. There were only a few crashers apart from Liz the lovely lawyer who was amazed at how easy it had been. Chinese-speaking Eric J. Francke, a US Customs Inspector said he was there because his parents lived across the street. “Right after normalization they invited 700 to an opening & 1700 turned up”, he said. Sarah Smith was all business, attending with a PBS team, which is trying to sell China 10-years-worth of Sesame Street tapes. “The price varies according to how poor the country is”, she explained. “In the Philippines we practically give it away.” Documentary movies of China followed, during which Liz the LL and I surreptitiously slipped away.

“Why, it’s the Washington Square art show shifted uptown,” exclaimed OJ at the press preview of Art Expo at the Coliseum. Peter Max, Leroy Niemann and other stars of Five Towns’ living rooms appeared to predominate but there was also room for the sales booth of the International Art Credit Co. Ltd. Their card (they promise) has acceptance at the finest galleries and up to $1 million credit or more.” The Collectors’ Card is “for people with exceptional taste who earn $50,000 per year”. Expo’s events continue all week.” I hear the film program’s pretty good,” Edit Deak ventured optimistically.

NEXT:    
Chapter 16: John Wilcock's Secret Diary

Around Soho
Being a columnist
A visit to L.A.

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