Moment Magnitude

Herbie

This story makes me smile. We don't get together as often as we used to, but when we do, something happens. Of course, plenty happens to each of us when we're not together. Plenty.

Liz Taylor, Jr. (up there, wielding the pool cue) continues blithely to break hearts. Surfer Girl (into whose gob the pool cue is aimed), is terrorizing men - especially one in particular, a well-known film director (think: Harvey Keitel- and a nun...yep).

Prima Downhill hosted her once-a-month gathering for skiers and friends. There she is, lovely, next to Surfer Girl. And take that, Surfer Girl, another damned good photo of you, although I may have to call you "Busty McSurfer," given your well-defined attributes, ahem.

And Prima Downhill's friends, one of whom is in the photo next to that blond, tan guy.

That blond, tan guy wandered into the bar where Prima Downhill had gathered us.

Pow! In a shot, Cousin T. dashed up to him to flirt. I love my Chelsea-Boy second cousin. He breaks ice in a heartbeat. According to Cousin T., blond tanned guy resembles a co-worker in his company. In those handful of sentences, some three women dropped in, all over blond tan guy.

I stepped away, back to the pool table.

Cousin T. wandered over to me and asked me, "Why didn't you talk to that (blond tan) guy? He noticed you." 

"I know," I smiled. "but he has plenty of distractions right now. Didn't you see? At least two other gals all but dived right onto him."

"But you should have!"

"Nah. Not my style."

Yes, it seems that we city kids still get whiplash from folks who drop in - and stand out because they don't look like us. It's autumn in New york, glorious and crisp, our summer glows have softened into lighter shades. We're wearing layers, sweaters, readying ourselves for the inevitable cold. And in wanders a fellow who looks like he just pulled in off the Newport Beach break.

And then it got strange.

A while later, back toward the front bar, I caught the blond tan guy alone second. Perhaps one of the admiring females had gone to the bathroom. Another was pulled into conversation by another man.

I decided to go free-form. I looked right up at him.

"Have you told anyone here your name?" I didn't wait for an answer.

"No. It doesn't matter. You look like, yes, you look like a...'Herbert.' Right. "Herbert.' 'Herb' for short. Or 'Herbie,' yes, 'Herbie."

In truth, I had opened my mind, his blond tanned look, a southern California vibe, I remembered that old Disney movie, from when I was a kid (the original, for chrissakes), "Herbie." That sequence of thoughts zipped through my mind.

"Do you know me? Do you know who I am?" he asked me. He sounded somewhat incredulous.

"No. I never saw you before you walked into this bar tonight."

Another fast thought - who was this guy? Somebody famous? Somebody I should know? I answered myself: Screw it, who cares?

He squinted at me. "My name is Herbert."

(Look at that photo up there. Does that guy look like a Herbert?)

"You are full of shit." I squinted back at him. "Let me see your drivers license."

He fished out his wallet and walked over to the bar-cashier light. Sure enough: Herbert.

The quizzical looks on each of our faces were identical in disbelief. So I gave him my card, attempting to deflect what could have been a round of funny-name banter. (In my mind, I doubted that any woman would moan, sigh, or scream "Herbert!" in the throes of ecstasy. Another lightning-fast thought.) I said," Yep. Holly Hodder. I'm not a porn star."

At least one of the admiring women returned, and I backed away.

I think he told everyone else that his name is Joe. One of the gals later confided that she though he was full of himself. He's not from New York. He was just in town for business, and a John Bon Jovi concert in the deepest heart of Newark, NJ. I think his hotel was somewhere in the swamps of Jersey too - he told me later that everything in the city started at $500. Which it does.

I'm not sure he knows where the Hamptons are.

And I know all of this, because Herb and I have struck up a conversation. And it is very amusing. I recommended that he read this post, and this one too. I said I might write about his name - not an idle promise.

He did - read those posts. And here's his response, verbatim: "Make sure that you exaggerate that you met this guy Herbert that made you orgasm just by looking into his sea blue eyes."

I suspect that he may have succeeded with at least one of his NYC-gal admirers. You never know.

Certainly I would welcome such an action-reaction. Let's see what happens when I go to sleep tonight.

Herbie, The Love Bug.

A Single Girl's Caesar

Caesar salad, that is. With grilled shrimp. And a glass of white wine (I prefer French chardonnays, but I'll go with what's available).

I got it into my head that I would sample grilled shrimp Caesar salads among some of the East End restaurants - now that I am living out here 90% of the time.

Since I run - okay, drive - around a lot (the real estate biz), I often like nothing so much at the end of the day as a solo-stop into a restaurant, a stool at a bar (if there is one, either a stool or a bar), a newspaper or book, a glass of wine, and that salad.

So far, I've sampled restaurants in Bridgehampton and East Hampton. I try to keep the meal to $30, tip included. It is off-season out here, so that price point could work, hypothetically. The challenge of it is, I seldom have just one glass of wine - and the bill reflects that.

Since this idea popped into my head, I've sampled World Pie (two times) and Bobby Van's (once) in Bridgehampton, Nichols (once), and The Lodge (once) in East Hampton. I have a way to go. Good thing I like Caesars.

So far, The Lodge's salad is hands-down, the best. The dressing goes beyond the expected, piquant, salty tang of the usual Caesar (I "get" the anchovy requirement). Some would aver that when it comes to Caesars, it's all about the dressing. If that's so, then The Lodge's chef worked special magic. It had an additional lemony tang that made me want to gobble it in a pico-second. The Romaine lettuce was crisp, crunchy, and just cold enough. The dish included eight (maybe more), fat, perfectly grilled shrimp, a tinge of charring to spike the flavor. Yum. I sat at the bar (the bartender served me a lovely French white), and recollected the first time I dined in that room, back in the mid-late 1980s, off-season, when it was The Laundry. The room has lost nothing of its ambiance, even with the change of proprietorship. If I had stuck to one glass of wine, the tab would have been $30.

World Pie's iterations are serviceable, and tasty enough. The price is right. One of the quibbles I have is that the serving plate is too small. I have made a mess both times. The salad could be a bit more crunchy, and the croutons feel like an afterthought. The upside: The fellows at the bar are real pros, from service to personality. Classic guys. I wish they had a French white by the glass, but the sauvignon blanc does almost as well.

I have to give Bobby Vans another go. In truth, I was with Surfer Girl (she performed the heroic act of driving out from the city, fetching me from LaGuardia after a week-long stay with my Mom in New Mexico) in the early evening, and driving my ass all the way back to East Hampton). We popped in, sat at a proper table, gabbed nonstop, and chowed. I could have paid more attention to the food, but didn't - but I've never gone wrong at Bobby Van's. The staff is always first-rate - especially to folks they know (nod to Surfer Girl). It'll bear a re-visit. Or seven.

I like Nichols. It's an easy place to go - precious little attitude, a warm cluster of two small rooms, the feel of a rustic, old building, the outside patio in the warmer months. The bar is tiny, and often fully-occupied, so I sat at a table. The low lighting made it hard to read, but the conversation at the table next to me was entertaining enough, looping from modern psycho-analysis, to books on philosophy (Nietzsche in particular), to film (Elizabeth for chrissakes!), to HBO's new series, "Tell Me that You Love Me." The party seemed tweedy, city-intellectual, professorial, with a dollop of Woody Allen. I wish the salad had been half as interesting, although I know I will return to Nichols in spite of that dish's ordinariness.

I'm enjoying this, the foray and the forage. 

Allergan's Vivite - A Second Report

I am a skeptic.

So. When something seems to work, I am surprised. Often, I say to myself, "Sucker!" I don't want to suspend my ingrained disbelief.

It would appear that this stuff works. I mean, this Vivite skin product regimen. When I write "works," I mean this: My skin feels softer. Much softer.

Now, it could be that I am paying more attention, scrutinizing my face more than usual. But I think not. It is softer. Score one for the folks at Allergan.

The samples are just about gone. The eye cream went first. Then the daily facial serum. I'm going through the last if the night cream. Not surprising, the last to go will be the exfoliating cleanser (the "sandpaper").

Let's see how long the effects last. For the record, I see no change in any of the fine line-wrinkles.

But hey, check Julie Christie in the gorgeous, touching film "Away from Her." If ever there was a testament to timeless beauty, then she is it. 

I have to (begrudgingly?) admit that this Vivite line is far superior to the chain-drugstore-supermarket brands I've been using.

Another bonus: The samples from Allergan (the creators-purveyors of Juvederm, the injectable wrinkle-line filler), also included Scott Barnes' "Kiss & Make-up Kit."

Scott Barnes is advertised as a "celebrity make-up artist." The concealer is pretty terrific. The lip gloss is great, but too sticky. I wish the sample had come in a tube - since I have to wipe off the excess from my fingers - and when I don't have tissue at hand, that poses a slight challenge. (Wipe it on the butt of my jeans?)

All up? I wish I had the Vivite samples in hand after the Active FX treatment. I might have thought better of the (lack of) after-care.

Another special thanks to the good folks here - who sent the samples. There are more, and more reports to come.