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Saturday, July 27, 2013

PRECIS OF "write some numb's, bitch!" SCREENPLAY

 PRECIS

Note that the Introduction to "Write Some Numb's, Bitch!" has been published at:

http://www.workliterarymagazine.com/submission/michael-roloff-6302014/



For ACT I]
It is early on a Friday morning, on a June day in Seattle, still foggy, though the fog will burn off a half dozen or so telemarketers – most of whom know each others, some not yet - are assembling outside the offices of The City of Troy’s Police Guild Circus Tele Marketing offices to get to work. The “picker” [see terminology], a lanky Romanian, is there already, sprawled asleep in a beat-up Isuzu. So is Cal the Trudger a sixty something once laborer, as “the writer” appears to take in the scene. Cal and the writer commiserate with each other; when “Rocky”, the hideous thalidomide dwarf, drives up in his van. Rocky maneuvers his near paraplegic being out of his vehicle and instantly asks for a light from “The Writer” and then boast of how much money he has made that week, twice that of his usual take at the preceding job where “The Writer” and he also worked together, and they have a mutual reverie of what that office was like in all its vastness, and of its night room with three dozen telemarketers on line and the susurrus of the music of voices begging for a sale. Rocky goes over to Ilju, rousts him and discusses the order in which Rocky wants the picking to get done as The Writer’s friend Mike the Bogbeast drives up in another beat-up Isuzu, this one a teensy pickup. The Writer expresses surprise at the Bogbeast being so early, Bogbeast says he wants to make sure his “picks” are set properly, Rocky comes up and goes through his boasting act “how’d you do this week, I made $ 1500” – they too worked at the same firm, Cain + Able; however, Bogbeast already worked at the City of Troy when this new promoter in town did the Nile Shriners, he has more experience with Troy and all the promoters and deals in the entire city, yet he is an ex-flower-child, perhaps he has reasons other than picking to be early; after all, Rocky sets the picks and is best at that for the “day pros”. Next to show up is Richard the Trader, a suave Westerner, in a five year old immaculate Coupe de Ville, which he backs in, brand new in kind donation tires and all, to open the trunk to display the goodies he has bought to give away to kids, he is a circus drifter and has drifted up with the City of Troy up the coast with the Circus for which the City of Troy is the marketer. Rocky does his usual thing, the writer spots some pogo sticks in the trunk and makes believe he is a child, hopping up and down on one of them. Zeno, Hector Troy’s 28 year old side kick, a speed addict, shows up in his car, with the other circus drifter, Pork Pie Hat, a magpie, and joins in the pogo sticking. Sergeant Casey, the Police Guild Circus chairman, drives up in his cruiser, German shepherd K-9 Beethoven in back, and inquires what’s keeping Hector Troy who seems to be running late. The Writer approaches the car and intones the Chuck Berry tune, “Roll Over Beethoven;” Beethoven in the backseat does so, and everyone laughs, but laughs in such a way that it is clear that this act is a routine. Casey leaves saying he will be back, as Georgette, a 300 pound woman who used to impersonate a nymphet on a Playboy re-subscription deal, appears, for her first day at City of Troy,
also in a lousy car. She and the writer know each other from the Playboy deal, and they explain it to the rest of the crew – a flashback reverie of Georgette in great pain as she impersonates the bunny, and is asked for a date by a guy from Michigan. The Writer and Zeno are back pogoing as Hector a 30 something blonde ex prize fighter, a blonde Sugar Ray Robinson, cut lines and all, in punk trunks, drives up in his red brand new Mustang convertible with his wife Maria, their two kids aged si and four, and two Mops, and his younger brother Helenus, a ferret like creature. Maria it appears has been crying, and a black eye shows through the rouge over her Latino features. Not only is there trouble in the Troy family, Troy is upset at the business side of it: he goes up to Bogbeast and inquires what gives with Victor Bonnellie who runs a sub office up the road in Everett – Bogbeast claims not to know, but makes successful telephone contact, and the situation appears allayed. Hector tells Ilju the picker to drive to Bonnellie office in Everett to make the pickup instead of their driver coming down.
Rocky is hugely upset at losing his best picker, Hector attempt to calm him down by saying he will try to get one of the others to come in earlier. Rocky says he will do his own picking in the afternoon if not earlier.

   Hector tells pogo-kangaroos to get off their sticks and get to work, what would Casey say if he saw that, Ilju rolls two brand new tires from the trunk of his Isuzu to a garage door as Hector opens it; full of TV’s , car radio sets, other tires: in kind donations. He walks up the stairs to, say, the second floor of the wrap-around balcony of this rather ordinary two three building housing a lot of dental office suites of which he has rented one, and his troop enter and go to their respective desks and rooms.
==============================
 PRECIS FOR ACT II - THE DAY ROOM

Hector, Maria & Helenus enter their mess of a main office. Cal the Trudger is off to make coffee; the other marketers all take their seats as they banter: Bogbeast into an S shaped contraption on the floor for a bad back, a small police siren by his side; Georgette into a huge chaise that Maria has bought to support her weight who proceeds to rouge herself as she does before each call; Maurice is late but builds his small African shrine and with a set of musical instruments that make up an small band; Rocky sets the order of the picks and curses that he has no picker; the writer keeps his notebook and makes one call to a water bottle plant owner and then proceeds to go through the complicated process of dressing the paraplegic Rocky into the world of being on-line via the telephone. Richard starts his smooth suave calling at once. Pork Pie Magpie drifts around the main office and other rooms – there are two for calling purposes, he and Richard occupy one with a coxie; and Zeno lives in a sea of “taps” in the room with the Xerox machine- eyeing other folk’s taps and deals.
Maria comes in with her dogs and kids and says they are all her family and hand out cookies; Georgette thanks her for the chair.
There is a set of steak knives in a trophy case on the wall.
Bantering the day pro start making their calls, the telephone begins to hum, sales are being racked up, boasts and sighs and curses.
Hector enters for his first performance: two fists full of one hundred dollar bills in his boxer’s hand going around the office in punk boxer short sticking his fists in his “writers” faces and dicking them with his dick, his perpetual hard on, saying: “Here, smell this, write some numb’s bitch.” “Smell the Franklins.” To which only Rocky, the four foot six near paraplegic dwarf with the head of a serious gaslight lantern, the most brutal on the phone, takes serious offense. No one would hit a paraplegic dwarf as the dwarf knew only too well.
   The Writer talks to Hector about the water company deal, that the owner wants a personal guarantee that he can sell his water and banner. Hector tells him just to lie.
Zeno, flaked out on his desk, drugged, is taken into wrestler’s headlock and walked into the bathroom, there is a tortured cry.
The writer follows Hector into his office, gives him the invoice and says he cant do it, Hector calls him a loser, faxes the invoice, writes “guaranteed” as Sergeant…Casey shows up who tells him he smells a rat and hoped neither Hector or his men take in-kind donations, say tires, and get an envelope full of checks which he will deposit. He and the Writer go out into the main room where Casey repeats his warning. He’s been a cop for 18 years and he can smell  a rat. The writer fetches a doggie bag with a steak bone. After they leave, Richard the trader takes the set of steak knives out of the trophy case, the day pros’ uproarious laughter as Richard throws the knives into the door and as the repeat in chorus the words: “No in kind donations. Hector appears and shouts “Break time you bitches and bastards. I’ve got a smoking office, I’ve got a smoking deal, go outside, smoke.”

================================

Act III – BREAK-TIME

AT Officer Casey’s cruiser The Writer gives Beethoven his daily bone; as Casey pries what The Writer [“You seem an odd ball out, almost like you’re undercover.”] might know.” Yes, I feel odd all right, but I’ve been doing this part time for about a year because I’m broke” the TMs are smoking up a storm and boasting about and comparing a good Friday mornings work while the coxie” [the greenhorn trainee] is looking in fascination at the decals on Hector’s Fire Red Mustang while in his office is vainly trying to reach his picker Ilju who ought to have returned by now with the take from Everett: Victor Bonnellie assures Hector that he left more than an hour ago. Hector rushes out of the office to the smoking area underneath the overhang where The writer” who knows some of the stories that go with the decals tells one or the other wild tall tale to the coxie. Hector berates Mike the Bogbeast for Bonnellie, tells him they are going to go to Everett together and pay him a visit: Hector smells a rat, Ilju doesn’t answer his cell phone. Bogbeast objects, Hector says they will be back by 4 PM, payday paytime.

Rocky tells Hector that he will do his own picking and takes Mike the Writer along.

Troy and Bogbeast off to Everett

TM’s picking their noses as the walk back into their office.
---------------------------------
ACT IV- THE PICKS and the CHASE AND THE HEISTS



Tuesday, July 23, 2013

ROGER STRAUS-ROBERT GIROUX-JONATHAN GALASSIE ETC.


    • ·Dear Mr. G.,
      I am approaching you at the suggestion of Tom Wallace, a friend dating back to my earliest  days in NY publishing; that is, the 60s.
    • The matter  in which I ask whether you can assist is the following.
      In 1966 I signed a contract with Farrar, Straus & Giroux as Scout and editor for books in the German language. The contract called for participation on my part once a book had sold in excess of 5,000 copies of 1 %, and in the event of paperback and book club sales of 2 %.

    • Things went well initially. Two of the first three authors were Nobel Prize winners. Nelly Sachs, whose OH THE CHIMNEYS selection of poetry and one play and introduction by Hans Magnus Enzensberger I put together translating 65 poems myself; and a ten book contract for Hermann Hesse where three of the translations (done previously for the deceased editor Roger Klein at Harper & Row) were ready to be published: Ursule Molinaro's of NARCISS & GOLDMUND, and mine of PETER CAMENZIND & BENEATH THE WHEEL. All of these first ten titles were sold to Bantam Books for handsome advances, NARCISS for $ 500,000. CAMENZIND and BENEATH THE WHEEL for 250,000. however, as it turned out, I received accounting and the agreed royalties only on the first five of the first ten book contract ..as  I discovered only recently.
    •  I recall buying a Napoleon style raincoat in Paris and turning it over to author Peter Handke in 1971 when he was in need and was indeed an early conqueror of sorts and how we (his wife and buddy Kolleritch of SHORT LETTER, LONG FAREWELL fame,  and I) were amused how well the coat suited him and how excellently he struck the emblematic pose).

    • Shortly before leaving Farrar, Straus in 1969 to represent Suhrkamp Verlag through the literary agency of Lantz & Donadio  Roger Straus and I negotiated a second 10 book contract with Suhrkamp.  The selection was mine, especially keen I was on Hesse letters many of which advised those who had approached him to find someone but not him as a leader preferably to become inner-directed (a selection which FSG eventually published). Since I knew of F.S.G.'s reluctance to commit large amounts to advances I managed to get both parties to come together at the sum of $ 5,000 per title on signing, that is, a total of $ 50,000; and this was the one time I had lunch at the Four Seasons - the Suhrkamp New York agent, whom I had no idea I might replace on her resigning the account, was the Berliner Joan Daves, whom I much liked for that 30s stylishness, and whose husband Ashton I would later use as translator for Adorno as senior editor at Continuum Books; but I paid no attention to the tip however chintzy that Roger Straus left - this detail is an allusion that will become clearer upon reading my comments on Roger Straus on the occasion of Jonathan Galasie's review of Boris Kachkas recent biography of Farrar, Straus & Giroux
    • http://artscritic.blogspot.com/2013/07/roger-straus-robert-giroux-jonathan.html
    • Leaving FSG in 1969 with so many titles I had been instrumental in acquiring still to be published meant leaving as it were mid-pipeline.
    •  One question that was never addressed was the accounting for authors whom I secured for the firm and who subsequently published numerous books through that firm, of which  one, Peter Handke, was especially productive and remunerative.
      Within the year of representing Suhrkamp I had a call from Roger Straus saying I ought not to double-dip the second Hesse contract (which actually was not running over Lantz-Donadio yet though it was expected to do so), and after consulting with Candida Donadio (who agreed with Straus who represented this as an ethical matter), I agreed. Near simultaneously Straus suggested why not take a snap shot of the books on which you are then {that is, in 1970) receiving royalties, and since there was no particular reason to say no to that we signed  a list of that kind to that effect.  piece of paper which, (for all I know I know  since the firm refuses to reply to my queries) I believe was a trick, although I never conceived that someone who was making millions from books I had brought him would actually screw me; a wishful delusion since in fact I had had  two warning signs that all might not be well on that score.
    •  However, the 2nd 10 book Hesse contract then never ran through Lantz-Donadio, and so I did not even manage to dip once. When I called Roger Straus' attention to that state of affairs once I returned from Mexico in mid-90s  he refused to answer, as has his successor Jonathan Galassi or Holzbrinck, the new owner, and John Sargent the head of Macmillan U.S.A. who overeas the U.S part of the conglomerate. 

    • And, as I discovered recently on checking the Hesse bibliography and what accounting I did receive, I did not receive an accounting or the payments due on the second half of the first ten book contract either. Moreover, FSG is now halving the 1 per cent on some titles, and the person who makes out these statements, Victor Wernicki, has not replied to my queries either.
    • Victor Wernicki
    • Nor have I received accounting ever on Nossack's THE IMPOSSIBLE PROOF, which went into a second printing, nor on the Nelly Sachs OH THE CHIMNEYS   which sold in excess of 7,500 copies and had book club sales, nor on Christa Wolf's THINKING ABOUT CHRISTA T. , which had paperback sales, nor on Handke's RIDE ACROSS LAKE CONSTANCE & OTHER PLAYS, which though in the works in 1970 was not published until the mid-70s, and consists entirely of my translations. Nor of any of the Peter Handke titles, even though many of them were sold to paperback in many editions,
    • I myself left the Lantz-Donadi agency and the representation in 1971, chiefly because Dr. Unseld, the head of Suhrkamp, had made himself unrepresentable by seeking to breach the agreed upon terms for mass paperback splits between Suhrkamp and Farrar, Straus of the first Hesse contract; and that was the main reason the 2nd Hesse contract had not been finalized, and so I did not get to dip a single time on that; and the contract then ran I believe over my successor, the now deceased Kurt Bernheim, a matter easily ascertained by contacting the person who handles rights at Suhrkamp Verlag, Dr. Petra Hardt.
    • Hardt, Petra
    • So much for the background. 
      One problem, caused by an act of God, is that all my contracts were inundated during the 2006 autumn storm that hit Seattle and flooded my basement room. Thus you would be flying blind but for the copies of  statements I receive bi-annually unless you could obtain a copy of the underlying agreement from Farrar, Straus, although I imagine they would have to produce them. There exist of course the Suhrkamp contractual records  I believe the Lantz-Donadio records fell victim to a warehouse fire. I don't know the status of the files of Kurt Bernheim's records, the now deceased fondly recalled agent who succeeded me in representing Suhrkamp. and through whom the second ten book contract then finally ran.
    • The other problem is that I am living on appr. $ 1,000 a month - a small legacy disappeared while I was in Mexico in 1994 and if I had it I probably would not bother, even though I am obviously out hundreds of thousands of dollars going back to the 70s.
    • Thus all I can offer you is that you sue for all you feel you can sue for, plus compound interest and penalties, and Saudi Arabian lashes! and if there is anything left over give me half and the other half to the P.E.N. USA. They were designated already in my now disparu legacy upon my demise.
      I have a number of books to sell and complete, and film scripts, and berate myself for not pursuing placement of one especially feasible screenplay while I was in the Los Angeles  in the early 90s.
      If I were in New York I would bring suit myself; and have the hunch that a judge would be more sympathetic to my case if I brought it per se. i mean I brought huge riches to that firm and lack the finances to repair my teeth. I would pillory that firm and its current editor in chief, Jonathan Galassi, like me a translator and scholar and poet, for failing to make good on my contract.
    •  Even if I were in New York I would have to pay $ 10 K to bring suit in Federal Court, a sum I have not had in my account for more than ten years; although NY State court would be the way to go since the contract was drawn and executed there. 
    •  I quite understand about time and that the proposition might just be too iffy, in which case you might be so kind as to provide one or the other suggestion if you have any.
      Very truly yours,
      Michael Roloff

  • Just as I reach the part in a postscript to my most peculiar self-analytic novel memoir IDYLLIC YEARS AND NOT - that incepts at the toddlers competition at the Berlin Olympics 1936 (#1) and ends at my momentous ABC OF READING-inspired decision at a McCabe & Mrs. Miller night in 1960 on Chena Ridge, Fairbanks, to enter the literary fray - and in that postscript describe the moment that I first set eyes on Roger Straus's "brutal pockmarked face" and his "twelve-ply suits" I  come on Jonathan Gallassi's take on Boris Kaschka's biography in Vulture
  • http://www.vulture.com/2013/07/farrar-straus-giroux-jonathan-galassi-on-hothouse.html and want to state that my apprehensions, my gut instincts, a greenhorn's, could not have been better founded: Roger Straus was indeed chintzy and the more surprisingly so in light of his origins in the world of great all around wealth, not just chintzy but, as chintz foretells, a chiseler, even of those who bring his firm Nobel Prizes and millions (# 2), the kind of person whom no number of Nobel prizes will ennoble, so that, therefore, Robert Giroux's statement that he could never write a history of the firm at the thought of Roger (see http://www.nytimes.com/2004/05/27/books/27STRA.html & http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/05/books/06giroux.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0) then makes the best of retrospective grim sense to someone who, sitting in-between, kept wondering during his  years with the firm why Giroux didn't take his stable of high class breeds to a more propitious stable -  the answer of course being that even a major mother hen like Bob Giroux had really no other hen house  - the spirit suffers as it is at least suffered - and I just a small cuckoo laying a few good eggs wherever I might find a nest.                   However, it is that discrepancy, between Runyanesque flamboyance - that lives off and in the reflection from what brightness emanates from the forever dimming spirit - and the difficult caring to ensure the reception of these communications from sometimes so far off seeming stars - that indicates the superfluousness of Roger Straus's twelve ply suits and ostentation.                      Straus was not a writer's editor as you find so many publishers on the continent and as Joathan Galassie appears to be.  E.G. Straus completely fucked up the publication of Peter Handke's work in this country, his personal responsibility, not that of some hapless editor, all it took was to keep your eye on the ball, and not as easy as publishing Tom Wolfe’s comic strips that can connect with the country’s forever superficial nerve.
  • Straus never developed the Cecil Hemley-founded Noonday Press into the kind of quality paperback line that characterizes the great development in the post WW II democratization of American publishing. He ran through no end of editors in chief, he was a cherry picker (but picked, best as I can tell, a good one in Galassi) and then neglected them, bought up all kinds of small firms and didn't integrate them. In the great and some lesser political controversies of his time, McCarthyism, the Vietnam War, etc.he was m.i.a. – they might spill some egg on his fine suits. The firm might acquire credibility, he himself never did.
  •  
  • Galassie mentions Straus' friendship with the equally flamboyant but serious Susan Sontag, who, oddly, looked like his twin sister at her death, but I don't think ever did any of the many interests she championed, money losers of course most of them! Smart would have been to give someone with such ranging interest her own line of books. The apparent need to be in a position to pay huge sums to satisfy grandiose egos redounds to the detriment of the many fine others, and thus to that of the culture as a whole. You can decide not to play that game.   
  •  
  • Jonathan Gallasie, perforce of his position, has little choice but to traffic in muted truths, yet I am surprised that his enumeration of the ups and down omits the twenty Hesse titles I brought to the firm in the late sixties; those half million dollar Bantam paperback sales certainly helped the alleged living at the edge while having a country estate and Mercedes and all that. And fails to list among current author the furriners among them!
  • # 1) Where six month olds from all participating countries lined up at the starting gate, looking at the Hitler-penned banner  "and who of you will survive the horrors I am about to wreak?" before toddling off in their pampers once around the track!

  • # 2) In my instance, arbitrary  abrogation of contractual obligation, utterly dishonorable actions, Straus was no gentleman or of his word, and this has real consequences, say for my teet, and where you have instance of that kind it has been my experience the tiger does not change his stripes.  


Sunday, July 21, 2013

RACHEL KUSHNER FLAME THROWER NYRB + LARB + FRED SEIDEL

http://lareviewofbooks.org/article.php?type=&id=1852&fulltext=1&media=#article-text-cutpoint


I think Rachel Kushner is a pretty writer, but so was John Updike. One pretty sentence after the other, but she is also, especially from a writerly point of view, a “dumb” writer - just the way the motel owner makes a pass at the Gucci-driving protagonist on the road to Winnemucca and the way the handyman then proves to be a nice guy. Or the way the author imagines the dawning awareness for revolutionary potential in her Telex from Cuba. Ms. Kushner has clich├ęs inculcated in her about certain recent pasts, of which she has heard rumors, inculcated in her and prettily seeks to realize them in prose. As an editor I would pass on the manuscript, but have no objections to a colleague wanting to publish it. Her work contains nothing hateful, but also lacks the imprint, the breath, the real stink of individuality. Mr. James Woods rave, one of my favorites, for once disappoints. Not of interest to any Harley Mamas I don’t think.
Fred Seidel and Robert Silvers have known each other since their Harvard days in the 1950s. It is most unlikely that the esteemed NYRB editor did more than glance at Kushner's novel prior to publishing Fred's take  - he might of course read it if the review leads to a major controversy! Nothing makes an editor happier! Nothing like a meretricious controversy to get readers interested in the more interesting parts of the rag.

Neither as reader nor novelist would you consult the NYRB for astute coverage of fiction, although - as an in some respects private shop - the NYRB will run positive reviews of one of its own, such as Susan Sontag's novels, that find less kind  receptions elsewhere.  The NYRB runs many many marvelous things under the aegis of its patron saint Isaiah Berlin. However, the NYRB is scarcely immune to letting the human right carnivore and democracy drum majorette out of their cage when it so suits, i.e.
and then commits lasting damage among the pret a porter intellectuals who regard it as bible.

Fred Seidel's interest in FLAME THROWER was, I suspect, elicited for being a unique opportunity for one Gucci Motorcycle to review another. I myself have known Fred since the late 50s and published a hunk of poems from his first book, FINAL SOLUTIONS in Metamorphosis, about 1964. Once I lived in Tribeca, as of the early 70s, as one of the publishers of Urizen Books, I could never get Fred to come down from his upper East Side aerie. If I had advertised how easy and forward the distaff side was in this then thoroughgoing heterosexual enclave he might not have kept changing his mind at the last moment. Yet, it was not difficult to find Fred, at Elaine's, where I also maintained one of my several happy hats on a rack.
FLAME THROWERS is set, in part, in the highly transitional venue of downtown NY of the 70s. This world is for Kushner, born in 1968, a myth, a rumor of times recently past, and she even lacked access to rumor until she lived there in the 80s, working for BOMB, one of the major entries to “downtown sewer time.”  
Downtown Manhattan was in the 70s a transitional area in the sense that subsequent to "the destruction of Lower Manhattan" and the construction of the WTC, there still were a few greengrocers and  cheese and shrimp mongers left, the others having moved to the Bronx. The Fulton Fish Market still existed along the East River, the Landfill for future Battery Park City and the World Financial Center created a beach with anthracite fished out of the Narrows. It was interim time while the tectonic plates shifted according to the wishes of what has moved Manhattan since its beginning, the NY real estate industry, and republican mayors and prosecutors like Guiliani and Bloomberg completed the necessary cleaning of the cesspools in the East Village and its spillover. Initially, during the interim, the vacated venues were occupied, reclaimed by artists and certain other odd folk.

Let me give a hint of the kinds of women you might find in that variegated bohemian quarter – by way of addressing the matter of repressive male chauvinism in downtown Manhattan in,  say, 1975. There were the remnants of the 60s communes and movement women, pretty independent and salt of the earth types by then, wised up. There was a good percentage of stubborn successful women artists of all kinds, older. There came a heavy influx of younger artists from the art schools all over the country, contiguous to the East Village, hungry beasties, promiscuous as hell, entirely different ethos from their Vietnam War predecessor.  By 1980 you started to find women who had gone to Ivy League type colleges, potential trophy wives, the nefarious of whom had taken Entrapment 101. As to the meat rack side of an area that is just south of the Gansevoort Meat Market, the young women I recall knew which rack of lamb they preferred and tossed it aside just the way men of course still did unless they wanted more.  Putting the matter less unkindly and crudely, you could say that the area was one huge Orgon Box and the majority came out happier for the experience. It was a friendly area, I recall only one truly chauvinistic male, a fantastically good looking Columbiam-Irish American stud, the heartbreaker par excellence, and cruel. No end of turtle-doving couples who you thought would never split up, however, then did, with the customary all around heartache and drama.  Thus as to women being run over or not being listened to, which Nicholas Miriello feels is the major theme of FLAME THROWERS: not in downtown Manhattan of that period anyway. I recall Kathryn Bigelow coming to see me the first U.S. publisher of George Bataille, because she wanted an option to make a film based on his Ma Mere. We know what kinds of films she ended up making. Perhaps it took hooking up with a powerful male director first, although I suspect it only helped. Others start out as “Mother Courage” at the Yale Drama School and in no time direct Miami Vice type T.V. and then buy their daughters red lacquered cowboy boots. Some it appears can eat style and some are left hungry.

 A woman I lived with and I bought an 4,000 loft on Duane Str. for 10 k in 1975, it is now worth 4 million, to give an idea of the interest there was in appreciation of value. That is the only American value that matters. By 1980 the part of Wall Street that likes to walk to work and live bohemian style began to make its presence felt. SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER and discos brought an entirely different crowd from Long Island and New Jersey. Uptown restaurateurs started opening up their places. And I will never forget a blonde bunny, in the early 80s, in one of the classy restaurants as they were finding great spaces downtown, the Brass Moon, shouting at the top of her voice“ all these asshole dogoodders.” 



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