head of an oversize ancient Roman statue of Venus, he’s suspended one of Andy Warhol’s portraits of Marilyn Monroe and, in front of the sculpture’s breasts, two of Jasper Johns’s smaller target paintings.
I fired off an email last night, telling Alex, “I’m in the middle of writing a (God we are f-ing old ) memoir” and asking if he had any “letters or notes or whatever from our Wonder Years” that he could scan and send me when he got home from his “completely jealous-making vacation. And happy 2014!”
His reply arrives this morning, right after I log on. “so, hollaender, u trying to cadge my aide-mémoires for yr memoir, huh?;)”
Still calling me Hollaender, like when we were kids, still spelling my name the way I did then, now using the abbreviations and emoticons of an all-lower-case twenty-first-century youth—but also a French phrase, complete with an accent aigu; OMG, so Alex Macallister.
“mega-kudos on the new book! but it’s the chronicle of yr brilliant career, no? practicing law, teaching law, reinventing the law, improving the usa, hear me roar? silly me surely won’t figure into all that important fate of the republic business.”
By which he means: How flattering that I am so fabulous that you intend to name-drop me to spice up the otherwise dull story of your drone’s life!
“btw this is just a *brief* sailing r&r after weeks in kabul—exec producing remake of the 3rd man, afghanistan now instead of ww2 vienna, phil hoffman & daniel craig in the welles & joe cotten roles. also hopped over to qatar. new museum there wants the cars. fun never stops.”
I guess he tries to sound only British when he’s speaking. I begin composing a reply to his reply. ”Oh, Alex,” I write, “ The Third Man in Kabul! That is just brilliant, truly.” We had seen The Third Man together our freshman year of college, Alex for the second time and Chuck and Buzzy Freeman and I for the first, on a double bill with The Battle of Algiers. “This book of mine, for better or worse, is turning out to be a lot broader than the Career. A real memoir, including childhood, including family and friends, a true life, not just the good but the bad and the ugly. Yes, a little about practicing law—but even more”
And there I stop. I was intending to write but even more about breaking the law. I decide that’s too glib, too sudden a revelation, too closing-argument dramatic, and delete everything after the bad and the ugly. “In other words, my dear,” I finish, “over the next few months I’ll just want to fact-check some things with you, Wilmette & college & etc., OK? To help with my memory gaps & blind spots.”
Especially on all the “etc.” stuff we haven’t talked about in almost forty-three years. Ordinarily, I don’t use ampersands, but here I figured they’d strike the right tone, blithe rather than solemn and terrifying like a subpoena.
“I saw my little coyote,” I say to Waverly as I come into the backyard and put down the reusable bamboo water canister she forced me to buy. “He seems to be limping less than he was last week.”
“Cool. How far’d you go?”
I look at the tiny device strapped to my leg that measures my heart rate (102 beats per minute) and distance traveled. “Three-point-sixty-three miles,” I tell her.
I was not sporty or outdoorsy growing up. I sort of am now. I’m still astounded by the huge wild parks and mountain views and 68-degree midwinter afternoons, all the sweet, easy availability of vegetation and sea, of bright sun and blue sky—the unembarrassed sluttiness of nature in Los Angeles. Living here makes me feel as if I’m always getting away with something. Which I now clearly see— note to book clubs —is a major theme of my life. When I was in my twenties, before I’d ever been to L.A., my notion of the place was a Joan Didion construct, all entropy and zombie smiles and luminous dread, hell passing for heaven. Now that I’m in my
I fired off an email last night, telling Alex, “I’m in the middle of writing a (God we are f-ing old ) memoir” and asking if he had any “letters or notes or whatever from our Wonder Years” that he could scan and send me when he got home from his “completely jealous-making vacation. And happy 2014!”
His reply arrives this morning, right after I log on. “so, hollaender, u trying to cadge my aide-mémoires for yr memoir, huh?;)”
Still calling me Hollaender, like when we were kids, still spelling my name the way I did then, now using the abbreviations and emoticons of an all-lower-case twenty-first-century youth—but also a French phrase, complete with an accent aigu; OMG, so Alex Macallister.
“mega-kudos on the new book! but it’s the chronicle of yr brilliant career, no? practicing law, teaching law, reinventing the law, improving the usa, hear me roar? silly me surely won’t figure into all that important fate of the republic business.”
By which he means: How flattering that I am so fabulous that you intend to name-drop me to spice up the otherwise dull story of your drone’s life!
“btw this is just a *brief* sailing r&r after weeks in kabul—exec producing remake of the 3rd man, afghanistan now instead of ww2 vienna, phil hoffman & daniel craig in the welles & joe cotten roles. also hopped over to qatar. new museum there wants the cars. fun never stops.”
I guess he tries to sound only British when he’s speaking. I begin composing a reply to his reply. ”Oh, Alex,” I write, “ The Third Man in Kabul! That is just brilliant, truly.” We had seen The Third Man together our freshman year of college, Alex for the second time and Chuck and Buzzy Freeman and I for the first, on a double bill with The Battle of Algiers. “This book of mine, for better or worse, is turning out to be a lot broader than the Career. A real memoir, including childhood, including family and friends, a true life, not just the good but the bad and the ugly. Yes, a little about practicing law—but even more”
And there I stop. I was intending to write but even more about breaking the law. I decide that’s too glib, too sudden a revelation, too closing-argument dramatic, and delete everything after the bad and the ugly. “In other words, my dear,” I finish, “over the next few months I’ll just want to fact-check some things with you, Wilmette & college & etc., OK? To help with my memory gaps & blind spots.”
Especially on all the “etc.” stuff we haven’t talked about in almost forty-three years. Ordinarily, I don’t use ampersands, but here I figured they’d strike the right tone, blithe rather than solemn and terrifying like a subpoena.
“I saw my little coyote,” I say to Waverly as I come into the backyard and put down the reusable bamboo water canister she forced me to buy. “He seems to be limping less than he was last week.”
“Cool. How far’d you go?”
I look at the tiny device strapped to my leg that measures my heart rate (102 beats per minute) and distance traveled. “Three-point-sixty-three miles,” I tell her.
I was not sporty or outdoorsy growing up. I sort of am now. I’m still astounded by the huge wild parks and mountain views and 68-degree midwinter afternoons, all the sweet, easy availability of vegetation and sea, of bright sun and blue sky—the unembarrassed sluttiness of nature in Los Angeles. Living here makes me feel as if I’m always getting away with something. Which I now clearly see— note to book clubs —is a major theme of my life. When I was in my twenties, before I’d ever been to L.A., my notion of the place was a Joan Didion construct, all entropy and zombie smiles and luminous dread, hell passing for heaven. Now that I’m in my
Similar Books
