The Mariel boat lift began 40 years ago this month when a bus driver drove his bus through the gates of the Peruvian embassy in Havana. The Herald ran a story a couple of weeks back that contained a photo of the driver, Héctor Sanyustiz, looking like a matinee idol. I wonder why Hollywood hasn’t made a movie of this event, with perhaps John Hamm playing Sanyustiz, who could serve as a consultant, being as he now lives, according to the story, in Miami.
I spent part of the weekend reading online the 10,000th issue of The Spectator, the oldest magazine in the world. One of the columnists, Douglas Murray, could have been writing of the magazine’s enemies when he wrote of those of the journalists he admires: “Boredom. Predictability. Obviousness. Humourlessness. Dullness. Staleness.” A few issues ago the New Yorker asked a handful of writers for their thoughts on the pandemic. This issue of The Spectator contained the feature, “Spectator writers in lockdown – by the people stuck with them.”
Last night we watched two episodes of “Shtisel,” a show that takes place inside one of Jerusalem’s ultra-Orthodox communities. Shtisel is a rabbi teaching in his father’s school and looking for a wife. Both he and the show are understated and engaging. It seems the shows everyone talks about – “Succession,” “Derry Girls,” “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel” – are invariably disappointments, while those that get no buzz I frequently enjoy.
Speaking of the Mafia, Saturday we saw Marco Bellocchio’s The Traitor. It’s about Tommaso Buscetta, the Mafioso who became an informant in the 1980s, helping judges Giovanni Falcone and Paolo Borsellino indict nearly 500 members of the Cosa Nostra. Both judges were killed by the Mafia in 1992, while Buscetta lived until 2000 in the witness protection program in Florida. According to Wikipedia, he is buried under a false name in North Miami.
The cover of the October 1949 issue of Holiday – reproduced in the new book about the great travel magazine – carried an illustration of the interior of a Pittsburgh steel mill.
The closest I came to that audacity at the Sun-Sentinel was a cover of black-and-white photos (by the great Mark Chester) of the Mayo Clinic.
The day after Christmas I went to throw out the garbage and saw a tree standing next to the dumpster. It looked naked and forlorn not even 24 hours after the holiday. Had its owner never heard “The Twelve Days of Christmas?” Why the rush to conclude the holiday? For me, it isn’t over until I’ve read the Christmas issue of The Spectator, which won’t appear at Bob’s News for probably another week.