Truth in details is not required.
More, truth in trivial details often destroys the truth of the story.
Or at least diminishes the telling.
And that the listening.
And if no one’s listening, where’s the truth in that?
Ever hear of TMI?
So, I’ve been outed regarding the inaccuracy of reporting the lineup of movies I’ve been watching.
That’s a truth.
But who cares?
If I saw it Thursday and not the Friday I reported?
Worth your comment?
That the blog has a following who appreciate that it’s eclectic?
That it’s interesting?
I care strongly.
An axiom explained in “The Newly Revealed Hierarchy of Truths,” by Any Man and Every Woman, reads “Respect Me Enough to Lie About it.”
And a corollary of that is “Who gives a flying fuck?”
And for those afflicted with the necessity of objective truth in every niggling piggling detail,
Don’t forget to take your anti-pedantic pills.
Ask your doctor if it’s time to increase the dosage.
Today is Saturday, June 2, 2018
Good morning, my friends.
This is my fifty-sixth consecutive daily posting. What if it’s really the fifty-seventh?
It’s 12.45am and sleep is eluding me.
Have no idea about today’s weather.
On TV: “Touch of Evil.” Can you be sure? So what? To fans of “Get Shorty” who don’t remember “Touch of Evil,” it’s the movie J Travolta went to where he knew every word of the dialogue.
I’m at my desk.
Dinner is leftover Chicken and Artichokes.
From Sally C:
What prompted this historical narrative today? (The Confederate Inquirer wants to know.) You continually surprise me with the way you reveal y our varied interests to your friends, gradually meeting them out in post, in prose, and in person.
Web-Meister Responds: One of my sons reminded me of a habit I had when they were young, amplified by my much younger daughter. The habit? A daily regurgitation to them of what I had read yesterday of my own reading book.
The moment I took that idea, I was, and am, reading Bruce Catton’s impressive “Grant Takes Command.”
Bruce’s work is very well written but too detailed for our purposes. You have instead a narrative weaving Bruce and Wiki and other Internet sources.
CHRIS AND FAYE
She beheaded? or not?
In college I counted Doug Parker among my friends, he a talented artiest enrolled in BU’s School of Fine Arts, he overlapping the last year of Faye Dunaway’s studies there, she a talented actress.
One night Doug and I went to a school play she was in to see a friend of Doug’s, Georgianne Boyle, who had a small part in the play. I forget the name of the play. I want to say Ibsen’s Brand, but I won’t since I know it wasn’t. My wife, Toni-Lee had one of our first dates attending that particular play.
Georgianne came at the beginning of my freshman year; I met Toni-lee in the spring semester of that year.
Anyway, Doug and I in the audience, the already famous Faye Dunaway on the stage, Act II, enter G Boyle. With her long fingers she slowly brushed her auburn hair, her large brown eyes searching me out, finding me, her mesmerizing voice dreamy and sexy, I fell instantly in love. how could I not?
Doug and I went backstage to meet her. We also said something complimentary to Faye, of course, who offhandedly returned our greeting while she scanned her well-wishers for anyone who meant something to her.
I didn’t mention that dismissive incident to her in the year we became friends near two decades later.
In the 1970s Dom’s restaurant had become enmeshed in the rock and roll scene and we hosted virtually every major group that came into the city. Peter Wolf being a native Bostonian, was a regular at the restaurant. We’re talking visits that began after midnight. Long after the restaurant closed to regular diners. We’re talking subdued but regular police presence, to ensure the safety of the stars.
Peter was married then to Faye Dunaway, she also a patron and a friend. From time to time I permitted my three young sons to come downstairs after bedtime to meet one or another of the stars. We lived above the restaurant. They became friendly with Faye D., she being solicitous of them.
Faye’s “The Four Musketeers” newly-released, we naturally went to see it, en famille.
The boys were 9, 7, and 5, Chris being the five-year-old, and quite literal-minded, taking everything at face value. So when he saw Faye beheaded, Chris began to bawl. Nothing any of us said could deprive him of the “I’ve seen it with my own eyes” belief that his friend Faye D. was now without her head. Disconsulate.
Months later, the incident by now a just a memory, the boys in bed and asleep, Faye calls me at the restaurant. Peter is on tour but she’d like to come in for dinner. Would I have time to join her for dinner? That’s an “Of course.”
She ordered a bottle of Schramsberg Blanc de Blanc, an excellent California sparkling vinified in the style of Champagne, she poured the glasses, and we said hello. It only took a couple of minutes for the idea to form.
I told her Chris’ story and asked if she would take the time to prove to little Chris that she still walked among us. Of course.
He was fast asleep when I lifted him from bed and still mostly asleep as I carried him down the three flights of stairs to the dining room, to Faye’s table. I sat and waited as he struggled in my lap to find a comfortable niche to return to sleep. As he tried to figure out where he was and why. As he tried to see through the blur at the person across the table from him.
He opened and closed his eyes several times to clear them.
It was she.
With her head.
She smiled at him.
God! She was beautiful.
He looked up at me for an explanation, saying, “But we saw them chop her head off.”
“What we saw was pretend. You can see, sweetheart, she’s fine.” Faye took him from me and gave him a long hug and kiss.
Back in bed, peace and reassurance (and fatigue) brought immediate sleep to the big guy.
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