IMAGINE A landmass of twenty-three square miles, and imagine that every day some two million people work within those twenty-twenty square miles and that the majority of those people have as a primary focus one thing: success. That landmass is Manhattan, which draws upon a financial- and talent-resource pool of a magnitude enjoyed by no other city in America.
CONGRATULATIONS TO David Freeman on his well-written and evocative portrayal of Alfred Hitchcock’s final days (“The Last Days of Alfred Hitchcock,” April). As a devout Hitchcock admirer, I reveled in the poignant account of the evasive Hitchcock.
Can it survive the age of the financial supermarket?
SOME YEARS ago, CBS produced a television special about Wall Street and I was enlisted in the process. We went to the office of a senior distinguished Wall Street figure, Roy Neuberger, and the camera panned lovingly down the walls that displayed some of his quite fabulous art collection.
A FEW summers ago, I played for two softball teams. One, called Radio Sports, was made up of athletic, serious guys. We wore uniforms and prepared scouting reports on other teams. But though we won most games by fifteen runs, we were unhappy.
You’ll know them by their smiles, their enthusiasm, and something in their eyes
IN PRIVATE Dining Room No. 9 of Chicago’s Palmer House hotel, twenty men and women are playing a game. They are playing with a certain degree of passion,^ the room is filled with shouts and groans and shrieks. On the surface, this is surprising.
“NATURAL CHARACTER of the tract preserved” is how the developer’s prospectus put it. The plans promised that the trees would stay and that the houses would be built between them. But it didn’t work out quite that way. One day a small fleet of yellow bulldozers appeared at the construction site and the trees started coming down.
Unprecedented in recording history—the complete and definitive collection of great jazz performances
A collection that only the Institute of Jazz Studies could assemble: □ The best of over 60,000 records from the Institute’s archives and the vaults of every great jazz label. □ Including rare out-of-issue pressings, unreleased recordingsand studio “takes” just recently discovered.
One morning last year, a stranger wishing to sell a pair of splendid nineteenth-century globe lanterns appeared at Urban Archaeology, the Spring Street emporium specializing in bits and pieces of New York City architecture and ornament.
As if to prove you don’t to live in New to know and love it, the most comprehensive guide to the city these days was compiled by a resident of Salem, Oregon. Gerry Frank originally put up his own money to publish Where to: Find It, Buy It, Eat It in New York ($9.95) after New York publishers rejected his idea for a guidebook.
New York has more jazz clubs than any other city in the world, but since they are among the few vestigial reminders of an era when swank nightclubs were a major source of urban entertainment, they exist under a misapprehension. It is often assumed that a jazz club is the ideal place to impress a client, romance a date, conduct a stag party, or play pocket Scrabble.
The cheesecake so beloved and respected by New Yorkers is suicidally rich, dense, solid, heavy as lead, delicious. The smooth, silky, moist texture is chewy enough that part of every bite sticks to the fork and the roof of the mouth, and the flavor is at once sweet and sour with just the right hint of vanilla and citrus.
My idea of a drinking bar is a place where there are limited attractions, a plain place. You want to have your attention focused right in front of you, on the liquor and the talk. You don’t go there for strawberry daiquiris or quiche and white wine, for rockabilly bands, or for girls in tight jeans and short jackets.
There are few headier experiences than finally taking possession of the apartment or house for which you’ve been negotiating. There are few moments more disconcerting than turning the lock on the door and confronting the empty space to which you are now committed.
If you’re smart, talented, and ambitious, NewYork is where you get lucky
STAND AT THE INTERSECTION OF PARK AVENUE AND FIFTYfourth Street in Manhattan and look south down Park. Within the space of several hundred yards—about the distance between the house and the bam on a Texas ranch—are the headquarters of probably two dozen major corporations (ITT, Pan Am, Seagram, Bristol-Myers, Lever Brothers, to name a few) as well as countless top law firms, accounting firms, management-consulting firms, investment-banking firms, architectural firms, publishing firms, and many other kinds of enterprises.
For adman John Ferrell it all comes down to hard work and Jell-O
JOHN FERRELL thought it would be helpful for me to have a brief summary of his career since he had arrived at the Young & Rubicam advertising agency in New York City. So, on a three-by-five memo pad with his name embossed on the bottom, he had typed out the milestones, with his age preceding each event:
On an island of choices you can go out or stay home. Either way you pay a price
You never hear much about the people who drink at the bar at Elaine’s. Here at the fabled uptown salon they’re a respectable bunch, good-looking and fit, junior account executives, department store buyers, secretaries and receptionists, a sprinkling of tourists.
A COLLEAGUE AT CBS calls her “the perfect woman, ” but she isn’t. She’s considerably intelligent, gracious, politically astute, diligent, loyal, inquisitive, well-read, witty, hardworking, pretty, and a nice dresser. But she isn’t flawless.
It’s a family effort, keeping the weirdos from blowing up your back yard
FORTY-EIGHT YEARS BEFORE the Moffitts arrived on Liberty Island, a young man named Ralph Gleason squeezed through a window in the Statue of Liberty’s crown, glanced off the statue’s breast, and landed a few feet from a workman mowing the lawn.
New Yorkers are quick-quick to size up a job, quick to assess the competition, quick to make decisions. In a city as fast and noisy as this one, how you look often communicates louder and more articulately than words, and being well dressed in a place where the wrong-sized lapel is akin to a faux pas at a dinner party can be a tricky business.
The meeting was held in Dunne’s writing office at his home in Brentwood. Behind his desk hangs a bulletin board full of colored cards, notes for the screenplay he and his wife, Joan Didion, are writing from his novel Vegas. Beneath the skylight of the cathedral ceiling are neat rows of the couple’s books—his arranged on the left, hers on the right.
I OWN A small chain of theaters, nine screens in all, in the northern part of New York’s Westchester County. And like any small-business man, I do two things: I employ people and I secure my product, which is movies. When I’m booking for my theaters, I look at a picture a couple of ways.
<p>HOLDING THE NECK of a whiskey bottle wrapped in a brown paper sack, Robert Duvall stiff-arms the comer fire hydrant, then weaves across the street. He is in Palmer, Texas, at the intersection of Main and Jefferson. His boots are scuffed, jeans faded, and he wears a rodeo-style belt buckle that dangles unfastened over his fly—a nice touch.</p>
IN LOS ANGELES, everyone knows everything about the movie business. At bars all around town, directors are cursed for wastefulness, producers for dishonesty, and executives for cowardice and ineptitude. Hollywood observers are still known to squeal with delight at the unhappy fortunes of Michael Cimino, and Cimino is only the most notorious victim of their rapturous indignation.
WHEN MY PLANE landed, I drove to Hollywood and checked into the Château Marmont, a hotel where screenwriters leaf through scripts in a sunlit courtyard and where the guests who rent the poolside cottages make certain to keep the curtains drawn.
MY LAST full summer in the Midwest passed so slowly that I began to measure the days by how much the corn had grown. Nothing else seemed to happen. The corn grew and the days passed. The flies bred and swarmed around the screen doors no matter how frequently I mucked out the stables.
AS THE song said long ago, I’ll take Manhattan. Well, only that small and narrow part of it that chic observers of such matters refer to as the Upper East Side. I do cross into Queens occasionally while on my way to the airport or the Hamptons. Otherwise, I find going to the remaining boroughs that are part of the Big Apple as inviting as a trek through the Cambodian jungle.
A selection of paperbacks to tuck into your suitcase or beach bag
WHEN SUMMER rolls in on the surf and striped umbrellas begin to dot the beaches, book columnists often recommend paperbacks that will help pass the time between smoothing rub-ons of suntan oil. Usually the books are big, thudding time wasters—sagas about immigrants chewing on one another’s nerves as they cross America in covered wagons (“Lars, liddle Sven-Sven has got de colic”), cutesome cartoon books about overfed cats and preppies, or Scruples-type pulp novels about rich nymphomaniacs who do their most ardent moaning in the back seats of limos.