This past weekend CBS Sunday Morning conducted an interview with Dick Cavett that revealed very little. Basically, we learned that the former TV talk show host had a beautiful house on Long Island, rebuilt in the style of the original after that one burned down, and that, at the age of 80, he was planning to sell it.
Fans of the old Dick Cavett Show of course have their own memories. Mine is of watching him in 1980 interview the great travel writer Jan Morris and hearing her talk about Alexander Kinglake and his classic Eothen. I wrote down the names, marveling that I had heard them on a major network’s talk show. Today it seems almost incomprehensible.
My friend David, who spent the beginning of the month in Portugal, told me that, on arriving home, it took him about a week to recover from jet lag.
"But you flew business class, didn't you?" I asked, surprised.
"Only going over," he said. "Coming back I flew toilet class, as my Brazilian friend calls it."
I was at the mall the other night and wandered into Williams-Sonoma. Serving plates with sayings on them sat up on the checkout counter. One read: "Do what you love and people will love you."
Probably true if you cook, I thought. Probably not if you write.
I pulled Sports Illustrated out of the mailbox Friday, eager to see the cover shot of Roger Federer celebrating his record 8th Wimbledon title. Just kidding. I’ve been reading the magazine long enough to know the editors’ priorities: There would be a picture on the cover of a man in helmet and pads, as football season is less than two months away.
So imagine my surprise when I saw a picture of Russell Westbrook, an athlete from a sport that is not in season. You could guess that from the fact that he was not wearing a uniform; he was dressed instead in a hideous, striped, faux jumpsuit. The caption next to him read: “The Fashion MVP.” For our premier sports magazine, fashion MVP (whatever that is) trumps tennis GOAT.
The New Times’ Best of Miami issue, which we picked up a few weeks ago at Savor Cinema in downtown Fort Lauderdale, listed the Hollywood Art Walk as the best in South Florida, better than Wynwood’s and better than FAT Village’s. So Saturday evening we drove down to Hollywood Boulevard. Booths were set up to the south and north on 20th Avenue, selling cookies and various crafts. When we reached Harrison Street, we asked a policeman where we might find art. He pointed to the block to our right, where, he was sure, there was at least one gallery.
There were two. One was closed – for the monthly art walk – while the other featured mostly pottery. We checked a few places for dinner, settling finally on A La Turca.
While waiting for our food – stuffed eggplant and Beyti kebab – I noticed that the music was emanating from a DJ station in the back of the restaurant. The DJ was about four decades older than most people in that profession. A sign below him carried a list of languages: English, Spanish, Portuguese, Hebrew. He picked up the microphone and sang an old Spanish ballad. Then another. And another. After the fourth one, a few diners applauded. I walked up to give him a tip.
“Where are you from?” I asked him.
“I grew up in Bulgaria and then lived in Israel,” he said. I noticed now that the sign included even more languages, including Bulgarian and Russian. He sang Moscow Nights and then Kalinka. The table of Georgians next to us applauded loudly.
Often at restaurants the music is overpowering and resented, because it intrudes into people’s conversations. This gentleman’s singing was just the opposite, mellow and appreciated. It made up nicely for the absence of art.