Close Encounters: William F. Buckley, Jr
February 27, 2008•
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Americans everywhere were saddened today to learn of the death of William F. Buckley, Jr., inspiration for a generation of young conservatives and one of my earliest heroes. Buckley’s erudition and his obvious glee upon encountering real mordancy or wit (he’d skewer either, equitably) is what first drew me to the conservative mindset after a dissolute youth. He didn’t shout-down bad ideas with talking points as so many of today’s radio pundits do. He simply undermined them with an insight so wicked and quick that his victims could only smile at the beauty of their undressing.
I had the good fortune to meet the Chairman a couple of times, most notably at the conclusion of the 1986 Newport-to-Bermuda Race, when I found him holding court in the Gentlemen’s Bar at the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club in Hamilton. The fleet had been trickling into port for more than a day and a raucous party was taking shape in a tent on the grounds above the host club’s docks. I couldn’t find elbow-room to freshen my glass, so I ducked indoors and encountered the Great Man and his shipmates, regaling the bartender with some salty story or another.
Just as I caught the bartender’s eye, all conversation stopped abruptly.
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Close Encounters: Jerzy Kosinski
November 23, 2007•
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A Thanksgiving Day investment board discussion at The Motley Fool turned up a literary reference to Chauncey (Chance) Gardiner, the character played by Peter Sellars in Hal Ashby’s 1979 film adaptation of Jerzy Kosinski’s novel, Being There. A poster in the thread quoted Chauncey to counsel patience during November’s rough patch in the markets. Instead, I was reminded of a “chance” encounter of my own and dashed off this reply. At 2am in a dark bar in NYC, you’re liable to encounter anybody. More liable, perhaps, if your tastes run to famous authors and strenuous conversation.
* * *
Chance is one of my favorite literary characters. Quite a few years ago as a dissolute youth, I found myself at 2am in an empty bar on the edge of NYC’s meatpacking district. It was a long time before that area became a happening place, but this bar was a notable warm spot on a dark street and my buddy and I simultaneously, impulsively ordered our cabby to pull over. The room was empty, but it smelled the way livelier places sometimes do and it had two significant things going for it: it was open and the bartender was a good-looking gal of about 26. There was a good chance she could use the company.
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Local walks: Ralston District
October 1, 2005•
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In good weather, we enlarge ourselves in perambulation. Walking is healthful, slow, determined, invigorating and instructive. When we walk vigorously, we recharge our circulatory faculties and enjoy a lively pulse. At slower paces, it is our minds that race ahead, taking in the countryside in ways that are impossible from a moving car. I have found that walking with a cigar can be particularly salubrious.
It was in just such a mood that I recently set out from Gladstone to walk to Union Schoolhouse in Mendham’s Ralston District. Savoring a bright afternoon, it seemed reasonable to meet the Raritan River at Union Schoolhouse, then follow it up to where it emerges from the Roxiticus Valley beneath Schiff Preserve. From there, it seemed an easy circuit home along Roxiticus Road where the valley views open up below Chester’s hills and Peapack Brook winds gently down into Gladstone.
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Pishwaugh and the Prizefighter
March 30, 2005•
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My unfinished 2004 short story, Pishwaugh and the Prize Fighter, needs some love. Here’s a taste, mostly to remind myself to pick up the thread and actually take these characters somewhere.
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In a little while, O’Malley came back into the bar and took a stool. “It’s all fixed,” the little man said.
“What’s fixed?” Pish replied, regarding him carefully.
“The match. I’ve got it all worked out. ”
The barkeep caught Pish’s eye and, with a nod, set two fresh glasses on the bar. Pish raised his and in a movement, emptied it, eyes damp. O’Malley made a small noise above his whisky, cupping the glass with two hands in the manner of someone warding off chill. The extra exertion seemed to work, as in a moment he brightened visibly and said “Farth round. He’ll take a knee.”
Pish considered this news for a moment and thought that the odds were only slightly better. “Will he come out punching?” he asked.
The little man appeared perplexed. “He’s his father’s son, now isn’t he?”
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