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.
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.
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!
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.