Dear Lynda, I've known you for a long time and you never mentioned Bob Dylan's Gym. You've done a great job of keeping those experiences hidden... until now in a story. No mention, even when the photo of you in your boxing gear with a bald head appeared on the cover of a magazine.
Thanks for sharing this story with Bob Dylan. Nowadays, there are boxing gyms everywhere and the fact that it has become very popular, I can´t imagine that type of stories ever to happen. I also had the privilege to see him live in Seville, Spain, and it was one of the best experience in my life.
I was trolled by a MAGA for just a comment which stated a fact. I didn't expect that either. There are some crazies on here and lots of catfishers also.
How this conjures wonderful memories for me. Over a long run in New York I had lunch every Friday with Roy Lichtenstein. OK, maybe not with, but for a number of years before his death there he was at Table No. 1 and there we were at Table No. 8, he with his studio assistants and we just having put the paper to bed. I never saw anyone approach him because if you came to Florent you complied with the rules of (non)engagement (although once Flo did sidle up next to us on the banquette and tilt his head toward Susan Sontag and Annie Leibovitz and say, “Did you see our fierce ladies”). It never resulted in tickets to an Aretha Franklin concert, but we were invited to the closing party when an era came to an end with the landlord raising the rent to $30,000 a month. Florent called it “The Last Supper.” It was surely one to remember.
P.S. I have seen the movie and one of my first thoughts was, “Wow, boy did he smoke a lot.” How do you smoke and box?
What a treat when a story begets a story worthy of its own substack post. I also like how we're still such old-school journalists: sticking to the facts. All I've got to say on the smoking is that the abilities of the gods are not knowable by the rest of us.
Love & gratitude for the Bob-Tale. I appreciate a good boxing story. Back in the 1930’s my father and his brothers created a boxing ring in the backyard of their Chicago Italian neighborhood.
I grew up listening to conversations about “the greats”. Uncle Frank became quite accomplished; and there’s an interesting story about how his career took the ten count when it was just hitting it’s stride. Dad became a meat cutter after the war; but hung his navy duffel bag from the rafters in the basement, after filling it with the sawdust they spread on the meat market floor. He took me to see boxing matches and I believe I got more of a thrill watching his unabashed excitement as he took in the action. It makes me think of him, dreaming about when the youthful backyard wild abandon came over his soul as he danced around on the canvas. I never saw him run on his damaged leg that was hit with a 20mm round as he manned his gun mount. But, he had powerful hands and arms; and I would wince when he spent his happy moments giving the sawdust bag a good “talking to”!
I came over to your site when I read your comment on the Dylan biopic review. I felt the synchronistic lead that Bob has always delivered in my human experience: and I’m glad I did. From my perspective Mr. Dylan has been one of my favorite deputies as I ride herd in this dystopian cattle ranch out on the fruited plains. Reading your enjoyable creation was one of the gems that have shimmered in the dust and I’m joyed that I climbed out of the saddle to pick it up. It was a pleasure hearing about your journey and how you’ve overcome many opponents that stepped into the ring with you. You’re definitely a survivor and I’m sure your beautiful daughter sees you as an amazing overcomer of life’s obstacles. Stay well and as Uncle Frank used to holler as I grabbed the doorknob to walk out of his barber shop.....”Hey! Be Happy.” ✌🏼❤️🙏🕉
I am always so happy and grateful when a story I tell begets another story, sometime an even better one. I can see your father in front of me - and their old neighborhood. I’m Chicago born and raised. Thank you for writing all of this out for me to enjoy.
Again, thank you for helping more people find my work. I stand by writing this story now, when, again, the gym is no longer secret and the building appears closed. Please go call out the celebrities who've done TV interviews about boxing there. Also it's my prerogative to delete personal attacks while keeping your identity, which is obvious to me, private. (Three comments, three restacks, this is starting to seem a little unhinged.)
Wrote a loving tribute. Genuinely can't fathom what anyone would be upset about. No nerve struck here. Unlike you, I have the courage of my convictions. You appear to have joined Substack using a fake name for the sole purpose of these increasingly hysterical attacks. You can keep at it. I'm going to enjoy the sunshine now.
Dear Lynda, I've known you for a long time and you never mentioned Bob Dylan's Gym. You've done a great job of keeping those experiences hidden... until now in a story. No mention, even when the photo of you in your boxing gear with a bald head appeared on the cover of a magazine.
I love that I never mentioned it - and am surprised at my own stealth with one of my greatest friends.
You kept the Fight Club oath.
Damn straight.
Thanks for sharing this fascinating story!
Thank you!
Thanks for sharing this story with Bob Dylan. Nowadays, there are boxing gyms everywhere and the fact that it has become very popular, I can´t imagine that type of stories ever to happen. I also had the privilege to see him live in Seville, Spain, and it was one of the best experience in my life.
Thanks for sharing, Lynda.
It was a secret except for those in the know. Loved the cafe. It was a great hang and nice outdoor patio in my neighborhood.
It is missed, that's for sure.
Sorry for your being trolled.
Thanks, it happens, although I didn't expect it to happen on Substack.
I was trolled by a MAGA for just a comment which stated a fact. I didn't expect that either. There are some crazies on here and lots of catfishers also.
How this conjures wonderful memories for me. Over a long run in New York I had lunch every Friday with Roy Lichtenstein. OK, maybe not with, but for a number of years before his death there he was at Table No. 1 and there we were at Table No. 8, he with his studio assistants and we just having put the paper to bed. I never saw anyone approach him because if you came to Florent you complied with the rules of (non)engagement (although once Flo did sidle up next to us on the banquette and tilt his head toward Susan Sontag and Annie Leibovitz and say, “Did you see our fierce ladies”). It never resulted in tickets to an Aretha Franklin concert, but we were invited to the closing party when an era came to an end with the landlord raising the rent to $30,000 a month. Florent called it “The Last Supper.” It was surely one to remember.
P.S. I have seen the movie and one of my first thoughts was, “Wow, boy did he smoke a lot.” How do you smoke and box?
What a treat when a story begets a story worthy of its own substack post. I also like how we're still such old-school journalists: sticking to the facts. All I've got to say on the smoking is that the abilities of the gods are not knowable by the rest of us.
Love & gratitude for the Bob-Tale. I appreciate a good boxing story. Back in the 1930’s my father and his brothers created a boxing ring in the backyard of their Chicago Italian neighborhood.
I grew up listening to conversations about “the greats”. Uncle Frank became quite accomplished; and there’s an interesting story about how his career took the ten count when it was just hitting it’s stride. Dad became a meat cutter after the war; but hung his navy duffel bag from the rafters in the basement, after filling it with the sawdust they spread on the meat market floor. He took me to see boxing matches and I believe I got more of a thrill watching his unabashed excitement as he took in the action. It makes me think of him, dreaming about when the youthful backyard wild abandon came over his soul as he danced around on the canvas. I never saw him run on his damaged leg that was hit with a 20mm round as he manned his gun mount. But, he had powerful hands and arms; and I would wince when he spent his happy moments giving the sawdust bag a good “talking to”!
I came over to your site when I read your comment on the Dylan biopic review. I felt the synchronistic lead that Bob has always delivered in my human experience: and I’m glad I did. From my perspective Mr. Dylan has been one of my favorite deputies as I ride herd in this dystopian cattle ranch out on the fruited plains. Reading your enjoyable creation was one of the gems that have shimmered in the dust and I’m joyed that I climbed out of the saddle to pick it up. It was a pleasure hearing about your journey and how you’ve overcome many opponents that stepped into the ring with you. You’re definitely a survivor and I’m sure your beautiful daughter sees you as an amazing overcomer of life’s obstacles. Stay well and as Uncle Frank used to holler as I grabbed the doorknob to walk out of his barber shop.....”Hey! Be Happy.” ✌🏼❤️🙏🕉
I am always so happy and grateful when a story I tell begets another story, sometime an even better one. I can see your father in front of me - and their old neighborhood. I’m Chicago born and raised. Thank you for writing all of this out for me to enjoy.
Again, thank you for helping more people find my work. I stand by writing this story now, when, again, the gym is no longer secret and the building appears closed. Please go call out the celebrities who've done TV interviews about boxing there. Also it's my prerogative to delete personal attacks while keeping your identity, which is obvious to me, private. (Three comments, three restacks, this is starting to seem a little unhinged.)
Wrote a loving tribute. Genuinely can't fathom what anyone would be upset about. No nerve struck here. Unlike you, I have the courage of my convictions. You appear to have joined Substack using a fake name for the sole purpose of these increasingly hysterical attacks. You can keep at it. I'm going to enjoy the sunshine now.