Here's something you might be interested in.
Wednesday night saw the first of what I hope will be many appearances at the annual Reader Christmas party. Once I remember what happened, I'll never forget it. The bartender must have seen Written on the Wind. He had the Kyle Hadley recipe for martinis down pat: don't pour the Vermouth, just pretend you're pouring it. The next morning, the alarm went off and I couldn't open my eyes for three hours. I'd have bled to death.
This was to be the initial face-to-face with my wiseguy editor, Ernie Grimm. The first time ever I heard his voice was on a message he left in an attempt to clear up a point of confusion. "You'll have to forgive me," he began. "I haven't had much sleep in the past fifteen years." With a name like Grimm, you had best come equipped with a sense of humor.
It was love at first fright. Ernie has a crush on my hair. A post-party email arrived that contained the following:
"Recognize the hair?"
What is that supposed to be, some kind of follicular swipe aimed at impugning my haircomb? Momma always told me, "Son, if you ain't good looking the least you can do is look good." Everything from the scalp down is a mess, but I do have me some good hair. I fired back:
"Right church, wrong pew."
Look at the head of hair on that kid! Marone! Compared to Bobby Rydell, Fabian looks like he sleeps standing under a griddle.
I come by it honestly. My late parents both had impressive coiffures, even though mom frequently found it difficult fitting her head through doorways.
My parents, Hymie and Sadie Marks.
Sadly, no photos were taken of me during last night's Christmas party -- a lampshade obscured my face -- so we'll have to go with this artist's rendition from the pencil of my pal and colleague, eleven-year-old film critic, Perry "Elmyr de Hory" Chen:
Wednesday night saw the first of what I hope will be many appearances at the annual Reader Christmas party. Once I remember what happened, I'll never forget it. The bartender must have seen Written on the Wind. He had the Kyle Hadley recipe for martinis down pat: don't pour the Vermouth, just pretend you're pouring it. The next morning, the alarm went off and I couldn't open my eyes for three hours. I'd have bled to death.
This was to be the initial face-to-face with my wiseguy editor, Ernie Grimm. The first time ever I heard his voice was on a message he left in an attempt to clear up a point of confusion. "You'll have to forgive me," he began. "I haven't had much sleep in the past fifteen years." With a name like Grimm, you had best come equipped with a sense of humor.
It was love at first fright. Ernie has a crush on my hair. A post-party email arrived that contained the following:
"Recognize the hair?"
What is that supposed to be, some kind of follicular swipe aimed at impugning my haircomb? Momma always told me, "Son, if you ain't good looking the least you can do is look good." Everything from the scalp down is a mess, but I do have me some good hair. I fired back:
"Right church, wrong pew."
Look at the head of hair on that kid! Marone! Compared to Bobby Rydell, Fabian looks like he sleeps standing under a griddle.
I come by it honestly. My late parents both had impressive coiffures, even though mom frequently found it difficult fitting her head through doorways.
My parents, Hymie and Sadie Marks.
Sadly, no photos were taken of me during last night's Christmas party -- a lampshade obscured my face -- so we'll have to go with this artist's rendition from the pencil of my pal and colleague, eleven-year-old film critic, Perry "Elmyr de Hory" Chen: