Vignette 1: The Invitation
I don’t know Graydon Carter. Unless strolling past his restaurant in the Village counts. But I liked his turn in Arbitrage with Richard Gere. And I loved three documentaries he produced: Gonzo, The Kid Stays in the Picture, and Public Speaking. Actually, now that I think about it—all three are favorites.
They’re not Battle of Algiers favorites—more like rainy-Saturday-with-nothing-to-do favorites, which, I’ll add, is a heartfelt compliment, as not too many are on the list.
I don’t mean to take you on a detour from the existential drivel that I call writing, but it got me thinking—what movies are truly unforgettable for someone who watches over two hundred a year? Battle of Algiers is definitely on the list.
Off the top of my head, you could add Close-Up, 8 ½, Persona, and the pièce de résistance of American cinema, 2001: A Space Odyssey (and that’s from someone who’d sooner line dance to Achy Breaky Heart than sit through science fiction).
And the drivel continues.
Graydon was involved with a few films I love, so, presumably, we share an appreciation for Hunter Thompson (Gonzo), Robert Evans (The Kid Stays in the Picture), and Fran Lebowitz (Public Speaking).
I got into Hunter’s writing in college and like a lot of young men, I hopped on the Gonzo bandwagon. In my defense, I saw Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas in the theater in ’98 as a teenager, not knowing who he was. I instantly knew I was dealing with someone—something—that was terribly unique. All I knew is I wanted more of it.
Robert Evans, on the other hand, shares a name with my father, but he goes by Uncle Bob at the hardware store where he works.
I had never seen a documentary move at the speed of a bullet train—never skipped a beat while telling a Hollywood story for the ages.
No offense to Mr. Evans, but this film moved faster than the coke he was shoveling up his nose.
Evans seemed like the kind of guy I’d want to hang out with, a brilliant visionary with a massive personality. Identical to my introduction to Hunter, I had no idea who he was, but the attraction was immediate.
Fran? I love her like I love Twain; they both bring tremendous joy to my life. In a world where acerbic wit is in short supply, she fills the void. If someone told me they weren’t a fan of hers, there’s a high likelihood I wouldn’t be a fan of theirs. Plus, we get our shoes shined at the same place, Jim’s on 59th and Park, so there’s that.
If you asked me who I would invite to a private dinner, honest to God, those three would be on the list.
Indulge me for a moment. Let’s assume Graydon and I are friends. We have a habit of chatting on the phone during PBS fundraising drives—usually between Antiques Roadshow and when the horns sound for Masterpiece Theater. Our most recent call unfolded like this:
“Bradley, how are you, my darling?” Graydon asked, his voice dripping with aristocratic charm.
“I’m well. You caught me at an unusual time; I just got home from practicing with the New York Philharmonic,” I said, pretending I had just walked into my apartment.
Graydon chuckled inquisitively. “My dear boy, how faaabulous! I didn’t know you were a musician.”
“I’m not. I lied. I actually just finished a bowl of soup and an episode of Love Boat,” I said with a mischievous grin, knowing it would amuse Graydon.
“You devil,” Graydon sighed. “Then you missed Leigh and Leslie. They found a Seymour Card Table in New Jersey! A splendid original. Well, as it were, I’m hosting a little shindig, a private affair, and I’d like you to invite four guests.”
“Done. I’ll send the names over in five minutes.”
“Oh, okay, my dear. You don’t need to think about it?”
“Where are we hosting this thing?”
“Well… that’s an interesting question. I was thinking…” Graydon’s hesitation stretched too long.
“I got it, don’t worry,” I said quickly, cutting him off.
“Oh! Okay, that’s fine. Wow… um, not to be rude, my dear, but whose party is this?”
“It’s yours, big guy—I’m just doing the heavy lifting. I’ll pick a chef too.”
“Oh, dear God!” Graydon exclaimed.
“Did I say that out loud? I’m feeling verklempt. My palms are sweating.” His voice rattled with concern.
“Pour yourself a G&T and get back to the Keno boys. I got this,” I said, already lost in my own plans.
First things first, where do we host this curiously curated supper club? It would have to be in New York, right? Of course. But it’d be too conspicuous to host it at the Waverly Inn, and since we’re operating outside the bounds of time, we’re gonna hop in our time machine and go back to SoHo in the spring of 1972.
Close your eyes and picture yourself on the corner of Prince and Wooster—before SoHo was in the city's nomenclature.
It’s gritty, the streets are a hodgepodge of dirty cobblestones, dystopian canyons of cast iron factories are full of painters and sculptors without electricity.
There on the corner, where a Marc Jacobs store now sits, is FOOD—an artist-run restaurant, the first of its kind, in a decaying part of Lower Manhattan. And it’s where Graydon and I are co-hosting our soirée.
Now that we have a locale, who’s in the kitchen? Well, it’s gotta be The Colonel—as in the debonair gent behind Kentucky Fried Chicken. I’m a fan of his bird and how he dresses. Plus, I want to talk to him about his cane.
I've wanted one for a looooong time, but since I’m in my 40s and it’s the 21st century, they’re not exactly en vogue. Then again, neither are fedoras, and I wear one of those. A cane, though—it’s practical because I’m a walker. Twenty thousand steps through Manhattan is all in a day's pay.
There’s something transcendent about holding a walking stick—I’d imagine it’s the same with a cane.
With each tap on the ground, it rings a bell in the brain’s creativity department, forging synapses where none existed before, which is fine when you’re in a trance, oblivious to your surroundings.
But when you’re not, I’m sure you can’t help but feel like the Monopoly man tapping his way down Madison Avenue. And with the curls on my robber baron mustache, I may wake up the Occupy Wall Street folks. Before we know it, the Bull of Wall Street has been castrated, and every twenty-something male in a quarter-zip is getting paint thrown on him—all because I emulated the ambassador of Kentucky Fried Chicken.
I don’t quite understand the connection between the brain and holding something while you’re in motion, but it exists. And not just for perambulators—same goes for resting a hand on the gear shifter, even in an automatic.
Anyway, I want to discuss cane culture.
Let’s carry on with the drivel.
I’m already bringing two writers and a producer, so my fourth would have to be a musician. Given my recent obsession with Townes Van Zandt, I may have to choose him. But it’s a toss-up. Syd Barrett of Pink Floyd would be an interesting cat, too, and I can’t forget about Yo-Yo Ma. I’ve wanted to meet him since college.
Alright, time to settle on one: I’m going with Pigpen from the Grateful Dead. Spending an evening with the original frontman of the Dead would be fabulous, and he’d fit in on Prince and Wooster.
Okay, so I’ve settled on my list; invitations were sent, and everyone RSVP’d. We have an eight o’clock reservation at FOOD, and Graydon begrudgingly agreed to The Colonel. I had to sell fried chicken over Michelin-starred chefs, which wasn’t easy.
I, having an iron gut from living south of the Mason-Dixon Line, can handle everything fried; the menu at Commander’s Palace doesn’t intimidate me. Graydon, being a New Yorker, not so much.
In the spirit of curiosity, we put our swords back in their sheaths after agreeing that a lesson in canes was worth the gastronomical risks.
Since it’s 1972, Robert Evans is promoting The Godfather, fresh off its New York premiere with Henry Kissinger; Hunter is writing Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72; Fran, having recently quit her gig as a New York cabby, is starting to write for Andy Warhol's Interview magazine; and Pigpen is touring with the Dead in Europe, in between gigs in London and Copenhagen. Despite everyone’s busy schedules, they all got a hall pass.
PART TWO DROPS MAY 9th
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA
