Thursday, November 21, 2013

The line at the newspaper kiosk

I remember first hearing about it.

I remember those long three days that followed, watching the TV spellbound, even those who still thought TV was beneath us.

I remember the pictures of the motorcade. Blood on Jackie's dress, Cronkite delivering the news, Oswald being shot, the long lines at the bier, little John John's salute, DeGaulle walking proudly at the head of the cortege journeying with Blackjack and the boots turned backwards, to Arlington. And the beat of the drums on that solemn Monday morning. 

I remember JFK almost every day of my life, the turning point in politics, a Catholic who allayed our  fears, a colorful guy full of wisdom and humor and not afraid to be himself. A game changer.

But for some strange reason I will also always remember the guy ahead of me in the long line at the newspaper kiosk on that Friday afternoon at 42nd and Broadway.  The Post and Daily News were out with big headlines. When he got to the aproned dealer he hesitated.  While all of us were brushing back the tears he alone had something to say.  And in my own sorrow this, verbatim, is what I heard.

"Is this the stockmarket final?"


Friday, November 8, 2013

OUR AUSTRALIAN FRIEND



Our dear friend Imre Molnar was an Australian, provost of a major art college, artist, lecturer, dynamic influence upon the U.S. automobile industry--and motorcyclist practically raised on trips through the outback.

In  the final pages of my novel THE DEADLY BUDDHA, I wanted the major male character, a Welsh movie star, to hop on his Ducati and take a motorcycle trip through LA's Topanga Canyon, during which he would confess to the reader his involvement years earlier in the death of a young college student trying to interview him.  The scene took four pages.  And the writing was terrific--except for one thing. I had never been on a motorcycle. I gave the pages to Imre and  by return mail he had added just the touches I needed.

Imre visited with Rita and me during the Christmas vacation last year. On January 2nd he was visiting friends in the California desert when he suffered a heart attack that was instantly fatal. It was the same day the novel was published.