STAR REVUE THE AMAGANSETT
Will the Queen of Cups prevail?
by George Fiala
Last month when I was running around distributing the StarRevue to local stores, I noticed a highly interesting, and for me, disturbing display in the window of Newtown Lane's Monogram Shop
For the past six elections, they have not only sold personalized plastic cups for each presidential candidate, but have kept a daily sales tally on the front window. The disturbing part for me was the fact that Donald Trump was outselling Joe Biden about about four to one.
And this was just after my Brooklyn newspaper published a story where we asked locals at random who they favored. Brooklyn is generally assumed to be full of progressives and politically-correct voters, yet about half were favoring Trump, with others wanting someone more to the left of the generally progressive Biden.
I've been a big Biden supporter - in my opinion he brought the country back from a President who could care less for traditional norms.
I had no idea about voting patterns out here, so I looked it up. I found the vote totals for Suffolk County for presidential elections since 2004.
Republican George W. ran for a second term against John Kerry that year, and Democrats won Suffolk County 49.5% to 48.5%.
The next year was Obama, running against John McCain. This time the Democrats won 52.5% to 46.5% Obama won reelection against Mitt
Romney in 2012, and around here he tallied 51.25% to McCain's 47.5%
In 2016, Trump ran against Hillary, and in a change of direction he won Suffolk County 52% - 45%.
In 2020, a race in which the Democrats prevailed, around here the Trump/ Biden race ran about even.
So it's not like this is a heavy Republican area, at least in voting for president. Yet Biden was outsold by 2717 to 851 cups - about 3 1/2 to 1.
Harris crushes cup polling
The next day, after I had already returned to Brooklyn, Biden dropped out of the race, turning things over to Kamala Harris. What has followed is a pretty unbelievable turnaround, one that started with optics (the amplified energy that someone 22 years younger can harness), and has continued to soar so far with a well run campaign that hasn't even had their convention yet.
From July 24 through the end of the month, Monogram cup sales turned around — 1550 Harris cups to Trump's 857. August 1 was just 17 Trump cups against 114 Harris cups. August 2 went 79 to 277, August 3, 91 - 325; August 91 - 325; August 4 was a Trump day by a sliver, 291 - 262; but the next day Harris again outsold the Donald by 163 - 50.
There are plenty of people in the Hamptons that open up their estates to political fundraisers. Whle I haven't as yet been invited to any, I'm guessing that these cups make their appearance at these events..
It's a fact that Republican administrations typically are business friendly, with tax breaks for the ultra-wealthy that can save some millions of dollars. It generally doesn't matter who represents the Republican party, and many of the ultra-wealthy have summer homes out here. A recent Trump fundraiser was reported to have clogged traffic for hours (see the invite)
While it doesn't look like Kamala will make the scene here this time around, her running mate is appearing in Southampton along with Mumford and Sons at $50,000 a ticket, according to the NY Post.
You can make your choice known for the much smaller price of $3, which is what the cups cost over at Monogram, on Newtown Lane, just next to Gucci.
The window last week at the Monogram Shop
32 Winding Way
Amagansett, NY 11937 gbrook@pipeline.com
Editor
George Fiala
Publisher
At
The
(917) 652-9128
Merry Band of Contributors
Joe Camacco
Joe Enright
Taylor Herzlich
Julie Evans
George Grella
Kelsey Sobel
Dante Ciampaglia
Michael Quinn
Kurt Gottschalk
Community Directory
Amagansett Library
215 Montauk Highway, Amagansett 631-2673810
Amagansett Public School
320 Montauk Highway, Amagansett 631-2673572
Marine Museum 301 Bluff Road, Amagansett 631-2676544
East Hampton Chamber of Commerce
44 Gingerbread Lane, East Hampton 631-5372900
East Hampton Town Offices 59 Pantigo Road,
East Hampton 631-3244141
Southampton Hospital 240 Meeting House Lane, Southampton 631-7268200
Worship
First Presbyterian Church of Amagansett 350 Montauk Highway, Amagansett 631-2676404
First United Methodist Church of East Hampton 35 Pantigo Road, East Hampton 631-3244258
St. Michael’s Lutheran Church 486 Montauk Highway, Amagansett 631-267-6351
St. Peter the Apostle Roman Catholic Church
286 Montauk Highway, Amagansett 631-324-0134
St. Peter’s Chapel 465 Old Stone Highway, East Hampton 631-3290990
St. Thomas’ Episcopal Chapel 102 Montauk Highway, Amagansett 631-267-3080
The Jewish Center of the Hamptons 44 Woods Lane, East Hampton 631-3296654
Pizza Fini Pizza Amagansett 237 Main Street, Amagansett 631-3945654
Springs Pizza 841 Springs Fireplace Road (631) 907-4039
SUN SIGNS AUGUST FORECAST
Julie Evans
The month of August opens with us still reeling from the effects of last month’s powerful Mars Uranus conjunction. When Mars met Uranus in Trump’s natal Chart it triggered a star called Algol, whose meme is the severed head of the Medusa of Greek mythology. While the assassin’s bullet came very close to Trump’s head, he survived the assinsination attempt. The young assassin did not and was the only one whose head was severed from his body. If President Biden is suffering from a brain related condition it is still unconfirmed, yet suspected by most. But we know he will not run for a second term. He was cut from the presidency due to the insistence of the Democratic Party. Vice President Kamala Haris easily slipped into the role of presidential candidate. As the planets and stars continue their movement above we can expect another eventful month here below. Most likely during the August 19th Full Moon. This Full Moon marks the beginning of the Democratic Presidential Convention in Chicago. You may remember the Democratic Convention in Chicago in 1968. It was plagued by protest and violence that spilled on to the convention floor. August, normally a time for vacation and relaxation for many, will demand a critical review of words both written and spoken in July. Mercury moved into Virgo on July 25th when the need for precise details prevailed over vague spoken rambles and fluctuating emotions. Soon, Mercury will come to station retrograde, slowing down around the New Moon on August 4th. Expect the Messenger of the Gods to grow in power over the the next week or so as he appears to retrace his steps and finally move back into the sign of Leo on August 14th. Mercury will once again become stationary on August 28th and begin the process of moving forward returning to Virgo in September where it will be for most of the month. This makes Mercury’s almost three month trip in Leo and Virgo extraordinarily long. Think about your personal communications in July because these talks are not over yet. In fact if you think that extreme moments of last month are behind us they are not.
LEO - Happy Birthday! August will bring unexpected surprises especially if you love a powerful female. She will yield a lot of spiritual energy that will not be easily contained. Use the Leo New Moon on August 4th to plan your entire year. Make a ritual, say the words and light the candles and invoke your angels.
VIRGO - Venus visits your sign for most of the month. Expect that the words you use will be taken seriously even if you are not. The Full Moon on August 19th will add more heat to the fire. Up until the end of the month you can expect the tempo to increase and old stories to reemerge.
LIBRA - Time to think about using your extraordinary balancing skills on rekindling a love of your partner, or for a forgotten skill or perhaps becoming reacquainted with a child or parent. If you cultivate a love for making money you may want to take
a deep dive into the cryptocurrency market. Bitcoin could rise dramatically this month.
SCORPIO - There is a lot to think about. Just don’t let your internal voice persuade you to one side of the decision or another without consulting a trusted impartial friend or counselor. If you are unable to make up your mind, write it down. Knowing what you want is the major piece of the puzzle.
SAGITTARIUS - Should I stay or should I go? Your sign likes to go far whenever they can. Where will it be this winter? The spiritual push for you can be strong but the pull to finish a project will win out. Better to take the time this month to make sure you have done a good job before heading off to Bali.
CAPRICORN - There are bound to be misunderstandings this month that should be addressed as soon as possible before the conversation
spins out of control. Things left unsaid could potentially blow up to the point of no going back. You might use that sense of humor to build a bridge to understanding and avoid going in too hot. Some say life is but a joke.
AQUARIUS - With the Full Moon in your sign, any new found sense of power should be directed toward the benefit of the people. There is potential for self harm if your motive to act is without integrity. Once again we know the democrats do not have an astrologer. An astrologer would never schedule their Presidential Convention on the Full Moon in Chicago at this moment. There will be some sort of out of the blue event in the days leading up to and at the convention.
PISCES - With Neptune at a crucial degree in your sign we must address the possibility of major storms both at sea and along the coast. For seafarers check safety gear on all vessels before leaving the docks. A wind turbine blade broke apart coming off of a Nantucket wind energy area causing Nantuckett beaches to be closed because of fiberglass
shards. Large floating pieces of fiberglass continue to cause a hazard to navigation in our waters. Saturn in Pisces is peeling back the weaknesses in the plan for offshore wind that fishermen knew about all along. ARIES - There will be a time to heal some of the wounds you carry this month. If you can acknowledge that there are wounds, whether they are physical or psychological, put yourself in the mindset to make sure things get better. It is the start of a journey. Investigate alternative forms of healing that may cross your path.
TAURUS - Uranus remains in your sign until early next summer. Expect the unexpected. The ground may shake below you and storms may rage, or you may get a sudden windfall. The bull does not like change much, but once the bull gets going it is best to give him a sandwich and get out of the way.
GEMINI - You are undergoing a period of expansion. You have the energy to work with the expansion easily while the Sun is in Leo. Take advantage of the lucky boost that Jupiter brings to your sign as this opportunity will not become available again until 2036. If you know where to find Jupiter in your chart it will express what part of your life is now expanding. Need a chart? Email me jevansmtk@gmail.com
CANCER - Your protective outer shell is working well to protect you and your loved ones from being tossed around this summer. Make sure you continue to block any threats that come your way. Chilling by the ocean in the intertidal zone is the best way for you to spend your time. Next month will require more energy expenditure.
We are continuing to stand in our own light and meditate on bringing more love to our planet. We are doing this world wide at 2 pm every Sunday. Join the rest of the world as we do a fifteen minute meditation in your home or on the beach. Please read both your Sun Sign and your ascendant sign, if you know it. If you would like to know what sign your ascendant is in or more about the promise of your natal chart, please contact me at jevansmtk@gmail.com for more information.
Copyright Julie Evans Astrology 2024
Iwalked into a men’s shop in East Hampton and was immediately smitten with the beautiful shopkeeper who looked so real, kind and beautiful, it could make me weep. I had opportunities with a few women like her in my robust past but I’m starting to doubt my memories, as deep middle age overrides the disk drive in my brain, the thought of getting laid now as seemingly remote a possibility as the Mets winning a World Series or me knocking the surf trip to the Seychelles off my bucket list. Of course, the corneas in my eyes were nearly scorched by the ROYGBIV prism reflection of the
Multiple Choice – Answer D (None of the Below, for Me)
by Joe Caccamo
sunlight bouncing off her wedding ring. Her man is clearly no dummy. I’m convinced diamond wedding rings are as much about warning off would-be predators like me as they are about delighting the lady in the ultimate symbol that theirs is a love that would last forever. The honest women won’t hesitate to tell you: size does matter.
As I was flashing in and out of the dressing room, trying on $300 pants I knew I would never buy, we fell into quick and easy conversation about how bizarre the whole scene in Downtown East Hampton is.
“It’s a hilarious and sad bubble,” she
said. “Everyone is working so hard to conform to this … ideal … it must be exhausting.”
There are five uniforms everyone wears in East Hampton:
1) The tennis player who never played tennis (all whites with a cashmere sweater “effortlessly” tied over the shoulders, a cashmere so impossibly soft and thin that the goats who produced the wool must be on a Gwyneth Paltrow/Goop-sanctioned diet.
2) Palm Beach uber-Mom dripping in gold pendants and Lilly Pulitzer 3) Russian mobster/middle-aged
British football hoodlum in highend sweat-outfit who just won the lottery and whose G-Wagon is hauling a trailer full of machine guns from Brighton Beach
4) James Perseona middle-aged man (typically short, salt-and-pepper) wearing a $300 black or aqua vneck t-shirt, $500 jogger pants and $600 white leather sneakers … the effect being a sea of handsome, Jewish guys looking like they are scrambling to get to a Thievery Corporation concert
5) Bethenny Frankel.
I replied to the lovely clerk that someone once told me that if you never lie, you never have to remember what you said, and that I too would find living a life of lies, keeping up with appearances and Joneses, curating and maintaining an image, an exhausting, soul-sucking experience.
Shoes as therapy
I suggested that putting such intense focus on the external is surely a form of avoidance of doing the hard work of self-examination that frees one from suffering, but that the endorphin hit is so much easier and more tangibly satisfying in buying a pair of $700 Golden Goose shoes than sitting on the beach in meditation and working through what is often generational trauma.
A man (Uniform #4) opened the door to the shop, asked if they carried Cartier sunglasses (No) and shut the door.
The lovely shop clerk was raised and still lives on the North Fork, making the two-ferry commute several times a week. I pictured her husband, probably her high school sweetheart, as an annoyingly tall, ruggedly handsome Nordic-looking dude who wears Carhart pants and Blundstones and works an honest trade as an electrician or organic wine grower. They probably have a ten year-old black lab named Cody, or the husband’s name is Cody, or they have an adorable 2 year-old named Cody. Any
which way, it pisses me off.
“This dynamic isn’t isolated to the Hamptons,” I told her. “I’ve lived in Santa Monica, Marin County and New York City and this dis-ease of keeping up with the Michael Rubins is epidemic there as well.”
I immediately realized what a douchebag I sounded like. I might as well have thrown Aspen, St. Tropez and South Beach into the mix.
I also realized I’m as guilty as any of these people. I’m a #4 too, granted my jogger pants are not from James Perse but from some Instagrambrand knock-off whose algorithmic genius and handsome, man-bunned spokesmodel had me clambering for my Amex card like my credit was about to expire.
Actually, I straddle the line. I choose to live in this toxic stew, sometimes, oftentimes, get caught up in the game of it, but I don’t have a gorgeous, tanlined wife or even girlfriend to show for my efforts. Truth is I’m zero-forthe summer, and that’s plain sad.
Speaking of sad, I harken back to my solo trip to Bilboquet in Sag Harbor last Saturday night. Standing at the bar, I was miraculously making good time with a gorgeous Venezuelan woman when another woman burst in between us, said something to the Venezuelan, and scampered to the bar.
Poor by Hampton's standards
“Oh my God,” the Venezuelan exclaimed. “That woman just said, ‘Be careful honey, he has no money!”
I turned to the bar to see that the woman who made the proclamation
was someone I had dated a few times last year but essentially jilted because a) she lives in Water Mill and I live in Amagansett and did not feel like doing a 40-minute commute b) I just wasn’t that into her and c) therefore, although I do have money but am poor by Hamptons standards, I didn’t feel like spending $300 taking this woman out.
I turned back from the bar to the empty space where the Venezuelan had just been standing and now spied her across the room engrossed in conversation with a #3 (Russian mobster, in case you’re not paying attention).
Back to the present and the gorgeous, cool and incredibly unavailable shop clerk. I lied and said I’d probably be back for the pants but wanted to check my wardrobe first to see if I already had a similar pair, as I was still in the process of consolidating wardrobes from my recently relinquished Santa Monica “home” (closet-sized apartment).
I retreated to my 1983 AMC Gremlin and put my head down on the steering wheel and cried the cry of the eternally rejected, and then drove
myself the 30 minutes to Carvel in neighboring Bridgehampton and devoured an entire Fudgie the Whale, after which I smoked a pack of Marlboro Reds and fell asleep in my car, listening to my Christopher Cross Greatest Hits cassette tape, awaking several hours later to a beautiful sunset casting its glow on the glorious Montauk Highway.
Okay, the last three paragraphs are utter fiction. A) The Venezuelan only blew me off later in the evening, allowing sufficient time so as not to appear a crass money badger B) I’m a Cookie Puss guy, not Fudgie the Whale. C) B) I drive an exhaustedlooking 2011 Ranger Rover whose locks and entertainment system don’t work and whose dash perennially beeps with the words “Performance Restricted.”
That’s me … performance restricted. I need to work on my A Game if I’m ever going to be like 1, 2, 3 or 4.
Looking for the Remote: Play by Play $, Ralph Kiner & Choo Choo
By Joe Enright
Watching drivers who seemed to be auditioning for Mad Max: New Jersey Turnpike Thunderdome, I needed a ball game to calm me down…Punching buttons… Ah, there it is, the Yankees. Prefer the Mets, of course, but they’re off…First inning, good. Don’t recognize the voice. Sounds too stiff. Gimme bozo John Sterling and his home run calls: “It is far! It is deep! It is…and Jeter drifts under it to make the catch. Two away.” Long pause. “The wind is blowing in today, Susan,” John tells his faithful sidekick, Suzyn Waldman, hoping she’ll cover his gaffe. “Not especially, John,” she replies. Miss you,
Mr. Sterling. Now we got Mr. Stiff.
Mr. Stiff: There’s a fastball, strike two. Suzyn: And the first fastball of the game is brought to you by the Vision Zero Initiative. Throw hard but don’t drive fast.
Mr. Stiff: Strike three!
Suzyn: The first strikeout of the game is brought to you by V C Clothes.
Mr. Stiff: And there it goes! Another homer for Aaron Judge!
Suzyn (Shouting Over the Fan Noise): The first homer of the game is brought to you by your KIA Dealer!
Hmmm...Call me crazy, but I noticed a trend. Here are just some of the additional info nuggets that were matched with a sponsor:
• Someone in the on deck circle
• A line drive
• Every additional homer
• Call to the bullpen
• The next day’s pitcher
• The next game’s opponent
• The start of the 8th inning
The defensive play of the game
• A double play
• The paid attendance
• The Audi drive of the game
The Wendy’s turning point
• The Dunkin run recap (enumerating the innings in which a run was scored)
By the end of the game, I expected Suzyn to announce: “And the next play called by Mr. Stiff will be brought to you by Play Doh.”
As I drifted off that night, I started thinking of some of my favorite baseball announcers. Jim Kaat, Phil Rizzuto, Howie Rose, Ken Singleton, David Cone, Keith Hernandez, Bill White, Red Barber… and especially Ralph Kiner.
Ralph would mispronounce words longer than a syllable, including everyday players’ names, and use the wrong adjectives to describe the action, so that every sentence was an adventure. He had a postgame show for decades on WOR-TV called Kiner’s Korner but Ralph wasn’t much of a raconteur. He would throw a question out and hope his guest would run with it. The most painful live interview I ever saw was in 1962 when
Choo Choo Coleman made his one and only appearance on the show. Coleman was a back-up catcher for the Mets during their first two years, when they lost more games than any other professional team on any level in sports history to include other star systems. Chooch, as he was called, didn’t talk much. After giving one word answers to a series of openended baseball questions that would normally get even camera-shy players to gab away, Ralph got desperate and decided to switch topics.
Ralph: So Choo Choo, are you married?
Chooch: Yes.
Ralph: What’s your wife’s name?
Chooch: Mrs. Coleman.
Ralph: What’s she like?
Chooch: She likes me.
Choo Choo also had trouble remembering names, like his roommate during his rookie season, the Mets second baseman, Charlie Neal, who he couldn’t quite place when he saw him the next Spring.
Chooch’s short term memory was even worse. As he crouched behind the plate, signaling the pitcher with his fingers, he’d sometimes take a peak to recall the kind of pitch that would come flying his way. That’s why he had so many passed balls: in between calling the pitch and trying to catch it, he had forgotten what he had called, so he constantly crossed himself up. One opposing
player in the on deck circle swore he heard Choo Choo muttering as he ran by, chasing yet another passed ball: “Man, I forgot I called a curve!” The great George Vecsey of the Times (back when the paper actually had a sports section) once wrote that Casey Stengel gushed: “I never seen a catcher move so quickly to get those passed balls!”
After his second season, he bounced around the minor leagues. In 1969, he signed with the Tidewater Tides, the Mets Triple A farm team, and played with Art Shamsky and others who got called up to help the Amazin’s win the World Series that year. But not Chooch, who retired with a lifetime average of .197 and despite his speed, got thrown out trying to steal most of the time. As Casey used to say, you could look it up.
Since Sylvio Berlusconi’s death on June 12, 2023, his memory has become a delicate subject in Italian politics. Back then the recently established Meloni cabinet chose to declare a day of national mourning and to organize an enormous funeral in Milan’s cathedral, Berlusconi’s birth place. Afterward, there have been several proposals to commemorate the former PM, each of them causing a huge backlash in the public opinion. Silvio Berlusconi was a businessman and a politician, whose history has some pretty shady parts. There have been several proven links between his inner circle and Mafia mobsters. Marcello Dell’Utri, a long time political adviser to the former PM, was sentenced in 2004 for external complicity in mafia association. Berlusconi’s gardener in 1973-75, Vittorio Mangano, was indeed a Mafia fellow and was probably there to ensure protection to the then rising star of Milan’s financial scene. Of course, the Meloni cabinet denies all these allegations to Berlusconi and instead promotes several initiatives to build an image of him as a father of the Nation. The cabinet announced in April the decision to issue a new post stamp and in July to name Milan’s airport after Berlusconi.
The Cabinet is composed of three main parties, Meloni’s Fratelli d’Italia, Salvini’s Lega and Forza Ita-
Hot and Cold on Berlusconi
by Dario Pio Muccilli, Star-Revue EU correspondent
lia, the latter being the party Berlusconi founded when entering politics in 1994. Surprisingly the latter has not been the one more active in the post-
It is for many unimaginable that the name of the two judges will be associated, even just on a plane ticket, to a politician whose relationship with the Mafia is still unclear.
mortem propaganda. Matteo Salvini, leader of the Lega, is by far the one exploiting Berlusconi’s memory the most for electoral reasons. It is easier now, one would say, as the two leaders never really liked each other. Berlusconi saw Salvini as an idler and immoderate person, while Salvini always blamed him for having joined some governments with the centerleft. Nevertheless, it was Salvini an-
nouncing the new naming of Milan airport and making it official last July 11, and Forza Italia could not do anything but be watch.
Meloni is a bit colder about Berlusconi. She does not deny support publicly, but she had begun to distance herself from the tycoon way before his death. Actually, since the Cabinet was born in October 2022, the divergence of the two about the Ukraine war ripped their relationship apart. One of the last public images of Berlusconi is him writing rude comments about Meloni while seated in the Senate. So, it would be hypocritical for Meloni to now hide everything that passed between the two of them and to be in the front line of the memory-building
operation, as Salvini instead does. The main point however is that creating an official memory of such a controversial figure as Berlusconi way before the historical memory is established can ruin Italy’s image among the citizens and abroad.
Several observers have noticed how from Milan’s airport you can go to Palermo, Sicily. The airport of this city is named after Paolo Borsellino and Giovanni Falcone, two anti-mafia judges, brutally killed by the mafia in 1992. It is for many unimaginable that the name of the two judges will be associated, even just on a plane ticket, to a politician whose relationship with the Mafia is still unclear.
Rome, Italy - September 09, 2011: Italy's Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi and Giorgia Meloni attend the Atreju political meeting.
Quinn on Books
Girls on Film
Review of “Desperately Seeking Something,”
by Susan Seidelman
The genesis for many of director Susan Seidelman’s movies starts with scribbled notes on subway rides, capturing the essence of strangers who fascinate her. After observing people’s behavior, sketching their outfits and jotting down their words, she tucks these notes in a drawer, waiting for the right moment to use them. Out of this jumble, she crafts many fine films.
Now on the other side of 70, Seidelman reflects on her storied career in her memoir, “Desperately Seeking Something.”
The book details how she honed her vision to tell stories about women through a female lens, navigating the highs and lows of critical and audience reception. Refreshingly, her memoir emphasizes persistence over drive.
Born outside Philadelphia in 1952, Susan is the oldest of three children in a cheerful Jewish family. Her father’s successful hardware business allows them to move to the nicest house in the secondnicest suburb. “My father had the letter ‘S’ for Seidelman etched in fancy script on the glass shower door,” she recalls, reflecting on the suburbs as a state of mind—clean and safe, but reinforcing uniformity and sameness, “a safety net that could also feel like a noose.”
As a teenager, Seidelman keeps a diary, formally signing each entry with her full name, and becomes interested in bad boys. Her decision to attend college defies the expectation of settling for being
pretty and finding a husband. She drifts away from her fashion studies when they become too technical and finds herself drawn to the feminist movement. A film appreciation class blows her mind, leading her to New York University’s graduate film program. She can count the other women on one hand.
The best part of reading this was that it piqued my interest in Seidelman’s movies
Film school provides a student crew and access to equipment. Her short film, “And You Act Like One Too” (1976), shot in her parents’ house, earns positive attention and encourages her to continue. Supplementing her education in New York’s movie houses, she absorbs foreign films, old Hollywood gems and cult classics. “Cinema is a language that I needed to learn,” she says.
After a bad breakup and her grandmother’s death, Seidelman uses her inheritance to make “Smithereens” (1982), a gritty film about a groupie in the downtown music scene starring Susan Berman and Richard Hell (lead singer of the Voidoids). Shot with a 16-mm
camera and a small crew, the film is selected for the Cannes Film Festival and picked up for distribution by New Line Cinema.
Her Hollywood break comes with “Desperately Seeking Susan,” a screwball comedy about mistaken identities featuring Rosanna Arquette as a bored housewife infatuated with a charismatic freeloader—Madonna, in her breakout role.
Seidelman’s subsequent films, like “Making Mr. Right” (1987) and “She-Devil” (1989), showcase her ability to tell unique stories with strong female leads despite mixed receptions. She later ventures into television, directing the pilot for “Sex and the City” (1998). Her Carrie Bradshaw has brown hair, wears mostly black and lives in a thirdfloor walkup with a flashing neon sign illuminating her window. Seidelman’s version of the city is almost noir-ish.
She wonders, “Can you be ordinary and still have something extraordinary to say?”
Seidelman’s memoir is a bit like her drawer full of notes, offering snippets of ideas. She still seems to be casting about for what they all mean. She started writing the book during the pandemic’s lockdown phase, holed up in her New Jersey home with her husband, and a bit of that bored housewife peeks through.
The best part of reading this was that it piqued my interest in Seidelman’s movies. They show you things she feels that she struggles to find the words for in her book. Yet both reveal her interest in exploring women’s interior lives and externalizing them on screen. Review by Michael Quinn
BOOK SERIAL: Fishes, Purple,
Last Month
Zak leaves Susan Kemp's apartment and spends a little time in Manhattan before going back to Brooklyn. On his way home, he encounters a Frankie Nod and gets high with him. Talking to Frankie he realizes he left his books with Susan. He gets a slice and finally gets home and to sleep. The next day he thinks about not going back to school, but then, while feeling that something has changed within him, he heads back to the City.
10 – You talkin’ to me?
The N express was jammed during the morning rush. Zak, along with five other riders, held onto a pole in the center of the car. They swayed together as the train went through the tunnel at a good pace. People who managed to get a seat read fat paperbacks. Some of the pole grabbers read folded newspapers held in one hand. Others, like Zak, stared blankly ahead. It felt good being in this crowd, but the strange voice in his head continued. He tried to ignore it, pretend it wasn’t there and get back on track. He was gonna go to college, stay connected.
“AND BE INHALED BY THE LIVING ORGANISM OF NEW YORK CITY.”
Fuck, there it was again! He was…
“JUST A MOLECULE OF OXYGEN FEEDING THE STEEL AND GLASS TOWERS.”
“OK, I’m a molecule, I get it, now would you just SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
11 – ICH BIN, DU BIST
Herr Eizenzoph, in a corduroy jacket, glasses and jet-black hair, parted and combed severely, stood in front of the blackboard. With a yard stick he pointed at words for the class to repeat.
ICH BIN (I am) pronounced eeek bean DU BIST (you are) pronounced doo beest
HER, SIE, ESS IST (he, she, it is) pronounced er, zee, ess eest “Weider?” (again) sagt (said) Herr Eizenzoph.
And the lesson continued, but the voice of Zak’s, let’s call it MIND 2.0, began asking:
“WHY ARE YOU HERE? WHY ARE YOU HERE?”
Mind 1.0 had no answer.
“I’m here, I’m here.”
“BUT WHY… WHY ARE YOU HERE?”
“I don’t know, please shut up.” MIND 2.0 continued “WHY
DON’T YOU LEAVE, WHY DON’T YOU LEAVE?”
Which caused Zak to stop droning along with the class.
Herr Professor noticed Zak wasn’t repeating the conjugations along with the others. He held up a hand, halting the recitation. He looked down at the attendance sheet.
“Excuse me, Herr Wozny, are you not interested in the exercise?”
Zak, not ready to be noticed, pointed to himself.
“Me?”
“Yes you, Herr Wozny, because if not, you may leave.”
“I can leave?”
“Of course you may leave – in fact, I suggest that you do.”
Despite the continued stares of the teacher and class, a sudden calm came over Zak Wozny
“You’re right, Herr Eizenzoph, I may leave.”
MIND 2.0 chimed in “SEE, I TOLD YA.”
Zak left the class, moving slowly at first, but in the empty hallway went into a fast walk, then a slow jog, and at the sight of the double exit doors, a sprint. Out on 68th Street he turned left and ran west, across Park…Madison…Fifth Avenue – into Central Park, where after almost a mile of running he stopped, asking himself: “Why am I running? Where am I running to?
12 – MISTA KURTZ, HE DEAD
There are sections of Central Park where the ancient bedrock, known as Manhattan Schist, breaks through the green designs of Olmstead and Vaux, creating small plateaus of grooved black rock.
After an hour of wandering, Zak Wozny sat on one of these outcrops. The blue October sky is big, the nearest skyscraper a quarter mile away, on the park’s perimeter. Words would vanish, but visual images became stronger to Zak. From the slight elevation on the rock, he observed New Yorkers: nannies with carriages, tourists strolling with guidebooks in hand, men in suits, hippie types, cops on their beautiful horses, bums laid out on benches, private school kids in blazers and ties. He felt disconnected again, but not bothered by the disconnect. He was in the middle of the organism, but it was OK. He thought to himself, “Hey, I just dropped out of college.”
This was true, he’d never to back to Hunter. What would he do? Zak got up off the rock and headed
south toward Brooklyn. He wasn’t high but he felt high, joining the New Yorkers on the winding paths with a certain lightness in his step. Something had been dropped, or maybe it just slipped off like dead skin.
Or maybe it was Jimi singing: I’ll have to die when it’s my time to die … So let me live my life the way I want to.
Yeah, it was Hendrix, not the nuns, brothers, parents, priests – they never got through to him.
Turn off your mind
Relax and float downstream.
That was the stuff that got through. Zak was an unconscious believer in the 60’s zeitgeist. “Peace and Love,” “Right On!” etc. Next week he would turn 18, and without a college deferment be classified as A-1 for the draft. “A-1… almost like the way they rate meat in the supermarket.” Something to think about. He would think about it later.
13 – Suppertime
Zak was back at 451 by 3 pm. The apartment was empty, his father still at work, his mother out somewhere. Four plastic wrapped hamburgers were on the formica kitchen table thawing . In his room now Zak was glad to have a little time alone. He put Jefferson Airplane’s Surrealistic Pillow on the pull-down stereo. Hit his pillow and was asleep by the second track, Somebody to Love. Zak liked to sleep with the music on loud. It would take him deep and far away.
The album had long finished when his mother’s voice through the door awoke him.
“Zak.”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“Are you here for dinner?”
“Oh yeah, sure.”
“Havin’ hamburgers.”
“Yeah, great.”
Zak had awoken to some good news – his voice was back in his body. He wasn’t floating outside watching himself do and say things. The room was back to normal.
“Dinner’s ready” came through the door.
“Be right there.”
He got up knowing he’d have to tell his parents about dropping out. Should he do it now? Should he put it off? The kitchen was small, with an oval table set against one wall. Zak’s mom and dad were seated at each end, he took his place in the middle.
“Hey Dad.”
“Zak, how you doin’.”
“I’m good Dad.”
His father Frank was a broad shouldered, South Brooklyn native who worked on the docks of Gowanus Bay.
“How’s school?”
“Yeah, it’s… uh…”
What do they call it, “Force Majeur, Act of God…”
Just as Zak began a stumbling answer to his father’s question, the wall phone in the kitchen rang.
“Who’s calling at dinnertime?”
Helen Wozny asked as she got up.
“Hello, yeah, yeah, ok, hold on.”
“Zak, it’s for you. Some woman.”
Frank Wozny glanced up from his burger as Zak got up to take the phone.
“Hello, hello Zak, it’s Susan, Susan Kemp.”
“Oh hi.”
“Sorry to bother you, if you’re wondering how I got your number, well, there are only a dozen Woznys in the phone book – you were my fifth call.”
Zak nodded into the phone, raised a hand to his mother who was watching him. Susan continued:
“I missed you in class today.”
There was a silent pause during which Zak continued nodding.
“Zak, are you there?”
“Yes, the test will be tomorrow,” he finally said.
“Oh, you can’t talk.”
“Right, chapter 12.”
“Ok listen, here’s my number –Butterfield 8-7261. Please call me, alright?”
“Ok, no problem.”
“BU 8-7261.”
“Right, bye.”
He hung up, went back to the table repeating the number in his head. His father poured some Coca-Cola around.
“Who was that?” asked his mother. “A girl from geography class.”
She picked up her burger.
“Sounded like a woman.”
Continued Next Month
Author Bob Racioppo is a founding member of the Shirts, a New York-based American punk band that was one of the seminal CBGB bands. After signing a record deal they toured the US and Europe. In addition to music, Robert is an accomplished fine artist. This is his first novel. He grew up in Sunset Park and now lives in Windsor Terrace. To order a copy of the full book ($15) text 917 652-9128 with your address.
The Queston of College
by Kelsey Sobel
When I graduated high school in 2007, college was the only option. At least this was my perception growing up in a small but affluent town in southwest New Hampshire. All of my parent’s friends had gone to college, my extended family had gone, I would be going, no questions asked. As far back as I can remember, my mom assured me I’d also want a graduate degree. Education wasn’t something I had to work for or even consider - not only was it a guarantee, it was an expectation. In the mid 2000s, where you were going to college also carried weight and heftthe fancier the better. Middlebury? Fantastic. Brown? Even better. SATs were a very real and present barrier or potential addition to your college resume. At eighteen, money was an abstract and distant concept to me. Sure I had a part time job (working as a gas station cashier) but I also had $300 to my name at any given time. I was privileged enough to find the idea of making money something to worry about in the very distant future. As someone who was vague about my professional aspirations, (teacher? writer?) and a reluctant scholar during my high school days, (my primary concerns: boys, friends and dance) I just knew I wanted to get out of New Hampshire. I spent a year in Zagreb, Croatia, which, retrospectively, didn’t make my transition to college any easier. When I returned from my European travels, viewing myself as impossible worldly and sophisticated, I struggled my way through four years of undergraduate work, crushed that my family didn’t have the finances to send me to Emerson College where I could finally be who I wanted to be: a writer. Instead, I morosely shuffled around the University of New Hampshire campus, judging all of the fraternities and people I viewed to be incredibly basic in leggings and UGGs. I had nothing in common with these pedestrians. I connected with Edith Wharton and dreamed
"The difference between having staggering college debt and none at all is perhaps one of the most divisive factors in today’s economy. It might mean the difference between having one child or multiple children. It might mean the difference between the towns you can afford to buy in. "
about moving to New York.
The one good thing that occurred for me in college is that I realized, if I tried, I was quite good at school and enjoyed learning. Looking back, I wish I’d had a better attitude at UNH which is a beautiful campus that provides everything a young person could need. As an adult, I’ve met many like minded individuals who also graduated from UNH. I simply lacked the gumption or positivity to make an effort at building meaningful community during my time there.
What I am grateful for, as an adult in my mid thirties, is that both my husband and I emerged from our undergraduate degrees debt free. My parents were sensible enough to know that the cost of me going to Emerson wouldn’t outweigh the reward, and instead, years later my husband and I would be able to purchase our first home and put down a reasonable down payment. The difference between having staggering college debt and none at all is perhaps one of the most divisive factors in today’s economy. It might mean the difference between having one child or multiple children. It might mean the difference between the towns you can afford to buy in. Debt means many things that can be difficult to see at close range. All of these realities remained completely obscure to me as a high school senior. Now, a decade after graduating college, and seven years after completing my
A dozen summer songs. I don’t know
left to fill with their new Talkie Talkie (CD, LP and download out August 30 from City Slang), and more if you allow for the changing seasons of climate change. The Bitchos’s second album is straight-up smart, sophisticated, instrumental loveliness. It reminds me of tracks by the likes of Burt Bacharach or Herb Alpert in that it’s pop pure and simple, but with richer harmonic structures and less predictable turns along the way. But they’re also direct descendents of the surf guitar tradition, the glimmering greatness of the Chantays and the Ventures. The album closer “Let Me Cook You” even includes some Dick Dale stylized speed-picking. Is “surfisticated” a thing? To put the four women of Los Bitchos among yet another male of decades past, they do for tremolo riffing what Ennio Morricone did for twangy western themes.
graduate degree, I’m beginning a new role working for an educational nonprofit specifically geared towards promoting pathways for students beyond their compulsory education. This is my first job outside of the classroom in a decade. What I’m most pleased to see is that the only option is not only college, as I perceived it to be in the mid 2000s. More and more I see young people being logical, pragmatic and skeptical about the entire enterprise of higher education. This is not to say in any way shape or form that I don’t believe in college or higher education. I will always believe education is the answer, the key, the door that needs to be opened. What I do believe in is making the right financial decision at the time to set your future self up for success. This is even more critical if you don’t have the financial support of family to catch you. Completing a recent activity about bias I realized that every single one of my close friends held an undergraduate degree, the majority holding a master’s or more. However, according to data from the Pew Research Center, college enrollment among young Americans has been declining gradually over the past decade. More specifically, young men are no longer pursuing college, dramatically impacting the numbers. In 2022, the total number of 18- to 24-year-olds enrolled in college was down by approximately 1.2 million from its peak
A third of the album has already been released, with adorable videos to match, and the tunes are absolutely infectious. There’s no singing on Talkie Talkie, but with such tightly crafted melodies, you won’t miss it.
The Epic Rock of Gilgamesh. Often when trying to describe a new record, I find myself wanting to use the phrase “but it doesn’t suck.” So many offenses have been created in the name of rock that it’s sometimes difficult to give the basics of a project without making it sound like a list of similar but insufferable projects which have come before. So, Gilgamesh, the debut album by Rubi Ate the Fig (self-released to streaming platforms last month) seeks a fusion of classic 1970s rock and traditional Arabic music, but it doesn’t suck. And with the recent popularity of the Tuareg band Tinariwen, maybe the time is right to cross back over and kiss the hem of the source. Gui-
in 2011. Of course the reasons for this decline are nuanced and complicated. Birth rates have plummeted, the pandemic, inflation, an increase in the need for technical jobs. My husband and I are expecting our first child this coming October - do we need to start financially planning for college? My father-inlaw, ever the frugal Yankee, sent his two children to college completely paid for, due to exceptional planning and saving skills. Part of me wonders, what will the landscape of higher education look like in approximately eighteen years? I find myself thinking more beyond attending college, what options and alternatives can we provide young people? In addition to more information, better planning and smarter financing, how can we help young people succeed in today’s world? Would I like my child to attend college? Absolutely. Am I open to them finding another path to make more money then both of their parents who choose careers in education? Also yes. The evolving conversation has definitely swung far beyond the simplistic idea of creating a college going culture, but with less and less people attending college, this also creates a myriad of issues and blowback. Education remains a privilege. The three years I spent luxuriating in literature during my graduate education changed who I am as a person and as a professional. I would wish that rich experience for anyone trying to find their way in the world. I also know that I didn’t receive a magic wand and gracefully wave my way into a wildly successful career upon graduation. No matter what pathway, the road should be equitable, and all drivers should be informed of the pitfalls and roadblocks along the way. The question of college is perhaps more pressing than ever. As we all face uncertainty in our political future, in our climate’s future, it is only fair to question the necessity of higher education and the ways in which we can support its growth and evolution towards a brighter future.
tarist, singer and songwriter Sharoón Eliashar was born in Jerusalem and raised in the California desert, which works as well as anything to outline of their sound. There’s an assuredness in her vocals and a twinge of exoticism in the melodies that reminds me at times of Heart’s Ann Wilson (who sadly postponed tour dates last month to undergo chemotherapy), and if her songs aren’t quite as catchy, they’re nevertheless just as solid. She realizes them with a five-piece backing band that includes the stringed qanun and saz and a selection of Middle Eastern percussion along with more traditional rock implements. Five guest players expand the palette with oud, ney and other traditional instruments. Fusion of any musical forms is often a bit silly, and Gilgamesh doesn’t break that sometimes rule. But it doesn’t need to, either. Repeat listens unveil the riches of Eliashar’s songs.
why London’s Los Bitchos are waiting until the end of August to release the perfect summer soundtrack, but there’ll still be a good three weeks
Jazz by Grella Nothing But Vibes
The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD (6th edition), introduces vibraphonist Bobby Hutcherson by pointing out that if he “were a saxophonist, trumpeter, or pianist, he would be regarded as a major figure in modern jazz.” That’s no exaggeration, Hutcherson (who died in 2016) was one of the greatest of all jazz musicians of the post-1959 era. He was an extraordinarily musical player, whether inside an ensemble or soloing, and might have had the greatest aesthetic range of anyone. The evidence is in his discography—he is central to Eric Dolphy’s Out to Lunch!, Grant Green’s Idle Moments, Andrew Hill’s Judgment!, Dexter Gordon’s Gettin’ Around, Jackie McLean’s One Step Beyond, and Tony William’s Life Time (all on Blue
"He seems to be focused primarily on the overall ensemble, and it works because the albums he made for Blue Note in this period are never less than outstanding, and a couple can make a claim to being among the finest of the decade."
Note). He played with Gerald Wilson’s mainstream big band, Archie Shepp’s “New Thing” group; hard bop with Lee Morgan, funk with Donald Byrd, soul with Lou Rawls, organ groove with John Patton, and free music with Pharoah Sanders.
That’s quite a curriculum vitae, and if it’s somehow not enough to establish him as essential to the core of modern jazz, especially in the ‘60s, than the new box set from Mosaic Records, Classic Bobby Hutcherson Blue Note Sessions 1963-1970 absolutely will. This is the last set produced by recently departed Michael Cuscuna and is one of the great triumphs of the label. The ultimate goal of archival collections like this is to reveal something important that previously had been hidden to all but the deepest cognoscenti, and that’s what this set does.
But first, what is it about the vibraphone that has players like Hutcherson so neglected? There have been famous vibraphonists in jazz history, of course; Lionel Hampton, Milt Jackson, and Gary Burton to name a few. The contemporary scene has Joel Ross and Sasha Berliner following their paths and those of Steve Nelson and Stefon Harris. And you can follow the development of modern jazz just by digging the vibes—Hampton playing with Benny Goodman, Jackson with Charlie Parker and then with John Lewis (also ex-Parker) in the Modern Jazz Quartet, Hutcherson’s modal hard bop and free playing, Gary Burton’s post-bop and modernism (and he employed Pat Metheny), the incorporation of funk and soul and rock via Nelson and Harris, out the other side in the synthesis of musics in the styles of Ross and Berliner. But there’s a facelessness to the instrument that can leave the player anonymous. Saxophonists and trumpeters and singers can create their own immediately identifiable sounds and timbres, pianists have a broad ability to apply different kinds of touch to the keys and with ten or more notes available at once can create personal harmonic styles. But the metal bars of the vibraphone sound the same no matter who is playing them, there’s only so much variation in materials for the heads of the sticks the players use, and as a practi-
by George Grella
cal matter you can’t really play more than four notes simultaneously on the instrument.
That leaves the subtle details of musicianship to differentiate vibraphonists, and you have to listen past the instrument to hear them. Distinctions of timing, dynamics, the shape and placement of phrases, rhythmic sense, and of course the expression and articulation of improvised solos are the signifiers and marks of musical skill. Hampton’s swing and the verve of his attack was unmistakable, the same for Jackson’s sightly understated long legato lines and Burton’s way of playing on top of the beat and carving space around each note, no matter the velocity.
Hutcherson had bits of all of these qualities, and most of all a subtlety and musical modesty that is probably the main reason he’s not seen as a major figure. As a sideman, he could be expected to lay out through stretches of tunes, as a leader it’s startling to hear how silent he is for substantial amounts of time. He seems to be focused primarily on the overall ensemble, and it works because the albums he made for Blue Note in this period are never less than outstanding, and a couple can make a claim to being among the finest of the decade.
First chronologically is The Kicker, which features tenor saxophonist Joe Henderson at his brawny, intelligent best (and should not be confused with Henderson’s later album of the same name on Milestone). This is one of the best modern hard bop album of the ’60s. It was recorded in 1963 but only first issued under Cuscuna in 1999(!), which seems to be a measure of how undervalued Hutcherson was, even by Blue Note. With Henderson, Green, pianist Duke Pearson, bassist Bon Cranshaw, and drummer Al Harewood, the rhythms are sharp and punchy, there’s tremendous suavity, and the harmonic conception brings together both the blues and modal ideas. It is the ne plus ultra of the Blue Note sound.
Several of these albums—Dialogue, with saxophonist Sam Rivers and trumpeter Freddie Hubbard, another of the most stylistically capacious musicians of the ‘60s; Components, with James Spaulding at his very best on reeds and pianist Herbie Hancock; and Stick-Up! with Henderson again and McCoy Tyner showing more range at the piano that heard with John Coltrane—are relatively well known and have always been highly regarded. Happenings, which pairs Hancock with Hutcherson, Cranshaw again on bass and drummer Joe Chambers, is percussion heavy, inventive, and fascinating, both tangential and earthy. What these albums do, along with Oblique and Patterns, is establish an unusual and important subformula within the larger Blue Note album approach. Rather than three up-tempo tunes and two ballads, instead there are several grooving, often structurally complex charts that feature invigorating playing, and then one or two abstract tracks, heavy on free improvisation. The albums make an important statement about the directions of jazz during the decade, how developing structures and freedom can be integrated, how musicians don’t have to choose, how jazz can be all and more. Almost no one was doing this, maybe Shepp was close, but not in a way that centered both the mainstream and the avant-garde.
On top of this, the music is stylish, soulful, smart, swinging. Hutcherson plays with clarity and purpose while always integrating his soloing with the ensemble, like a great individual athlete who also values teamwork. He’s never the main focus of the albums until the final sequence of records he made with
saxophonist/flutist Harold Land in his band as coleader. Those four, from 1968 to 1970 are Total Eclipse, Spiral, Medina, and San Francisco, and are the summit of this decade (one album, Now! is missing from here, Mosaic explains in the booklet that because it featured vocals it didn’t fit with the rest). Land is another undervalued musician, and his playing here is fantastic and should be ear-opening.
These albums are not conceptual statements, they are all about the playing. The music often includes odd-numbered meters and world music touches, and is a statement for what was happening—and possible—in mainstream modern jazz at the end of the decade. The musicians had heard freedom, rock, and soul, and there is seasoning of other music, but this is jazz through and through, with the extended bop riffs and modality of “Herzog,” the down-home soul and mellow theme of “Goin’ Down South,” the modernist blues of Chick Corea’s “Matrix”—Corea plays piano on Total Eclipse, later replaced by Stanley Cowell and Joe Sample.
Most of these albums have been in print at one time or another, briefly, but never all at once (nor are they well-collated on streaming services, and San Francisco seems to be missing altogether), meaning that those interested in Hutcherson can now hear all this music all the way through, finally. What one hears is one of the most substantial jazz discographies of the ‘60s, and one of the most unique, from one of the great masters of the music.