The Party Scene

A dusting of snow. Photo: JH.

The Party Scene. Last Wednesday night, the Writing Center at Hunter College celebrated its 3rd Anniversary with a dinner at Doubles, the private club in the Sherry Netherland.

The Writing Center is the baby of a guy named Lewis Frumkes, a writer, editor and promoter of the art of writing. The Center is a “school.” It’s the kind of thing you might expect to find at a great university but no university is great enough to compare with the University of Little Ole New York – and in Lewis Frumkes’ case, with a landing strip called Hunter College.

Lewis Frumkes and Honoree Linda Fairstein

Lewis has also been an acknowledger of and encourager to this writer. I was invited to this party and even got a call from Lewis about attending or attending the cocktail. I said I’d come no matter what my sked was like, partly because they were honoring Linda Fairstein, another esteemed friend I’ve made in these canyons of Manhattan. Linda is a hardworking writer – turns out a crime novel once a year – and does everything with good cheer and all around hail-fellow-well-met.

On the night of the party, I skipped the cocktail hour since I can put that time to other use (like putting tomorrow’s together).

So, I got out of the house just minutes before dinner was supposed to start at 8:30. Friends aside, I look at this sort of evening as an assignment. There is something to tell about. Get pictures, get the message to convey.

The Glad Girls: Joan Jakobson, Helen Handley Houghton, Barbara Ascher, Anne Wazelle, and Jeannette Watson. The Glad Girls are the Park Avenue version of the Supremes goes The Chordettes (you had to be there); and they can rock!

As it happened I arrived about 8:50, and naturally the evening had begun, as well as the dinner itself. However. The young woman at the receptionist desk had the Guest List and it didn’t have my name on it. Nor was there a place card awaiting my arrival.

There was something missing in all of this. It could well have been my acceptance. It could well have been that I never actually made it but just thought I’d made it. This happens frequently with me. I tend to analyze these inactions about myself. With this I came up with two possibilities: I’d rather lie down and take a nap; or, I’m losing my mind. Lets hope it's the former.

However, I knew I’d have a good time at this dinner. Jennifer Raab the President of Hunter always brings out the kid in me. I like to kid her. She has a big sense of humor and she’s one of those Indefatigables that you can often meet in New York. We met several years ago in Abu Dhabi, along with her husband Michael Goodwin who writes for the New York Post. A Postian political commentary. The only reason we aren’t best of friends (as far as I’m concerned) is because: Who has time?

Tina Flaherty, and Malachy McCourt, and Jennifer Raab

Another guest, Daphne Merkin is a new acquaintance but one of those acquaintances where you could become lifelong friends if you had another life to go with the one you’ve got (at this age). Daphne is a distinguished writer in the New York literary community besides her audience in the New Yorker and other current periodicals. She’s effortlessly fascinating to talk to. For me anyway. She also teaches a Writing Workshop at the Writing Center. It’s an “intensive Master Class in the art of writing a memoir.” Intensive, Master, Art and Writing are all you need to know about Dahpne. (*The class is four sessions, 7- 9 , $300 – when it’s occurring.) www.hunter.cuny.edu/thewritingcenterce

Not finding anything, the woman at the reception desk said she'd just seat me. There were a few unclaimed name cards on the desk and obviously an extra plate. But it was too late and frankly, I would have been embarrassed walking in at that hour, even though I’m sure I would have felt welcome; that is the nature of the hosts.

So I went home. And that was good too.

Alana Frumkes, Lewis Frumkes, and Nabila Khashoggi

Dr. John Rodman and Dr. Herman Rosen

Denise LeFrak and Randy Schatz

Alex Sanger and Jeannette Watson

Ben Cheever, Judith Greenburg, and Dan Greenburg

Sidney Offit, Norman Straker, and Elinor Tatum

Alana Frumkes with Michelle and Sabrina Kleier

Lewis Frumkes and Lee Child

Lewis Frumkes and Kitty Pilgrim

Lisa Schiff and Linda Fairstein

Judith Kelman, Dr. Peter Scardino, and Jennifer Raab

Rochelle Ohrstrom and Lewis Lapham

Nabila Khashoggi

Dr. Harold Bornstein, Melissa Bornstein, and Amber Daspin

Jerry McCallion, Regina Peruggi, and John Calicchio

John and Joan Jakobson

Dan Rose

Timothy Frumkes, Grace Chang, and Stuart Venner

Last Week was St. Patrick’s, as everyone in New York knows unless they’d left town. There were numerous parties, and of course the parade and what me mither always referred to as the “folderol” that happens afterwards at bars and bars and bars across town. My father was a Brooklyn born Irishman transplanted to New England around his fortieth year – a matter of great misfortune in many ways to a Brooklyn born Irishman. You can take the boy out of, etc., but ...

He was born at the very beginning of the last century and his parents had come over in the early to mid-'80s, so there was a bit of a brogue in his Brooklyn accent (which is unlike the common Brooklynese today). He did not drink – never touched the stuff/one lesson learned early in his life – but he had an Irish temper also. Horrible. Violent. Noisy. I have sort of one, but not like his (thank God). However, I don’t have the issues he had. That was his gift to me. Also thank God. Nevertheless, it’s true about the Apple Falling From the Tree.

St. Patrick’s Day. Back up in New England growing up, people wore something green. End of Story. I don’t ever recall my Irish father getting into it – even the wearing of the green. You didn’t have to wear anything to show you were Irish. You just were. Irish was serious; always would be. It’s the poetry remember.

But those were the days when Americans lived differently (at least in a small New England town). And there was a different attitude in the land. These days, in New York, in the post-Modern Age, in the Land of the Kardashia and Hedge Fund Billionaires, it’s another chance to party like there’s no tomorrow, or at least tomorrow morning. It is funny to see ... sometimes ... but otherwise I’d rather be home with a good book.

That said, there are other ways of approaching this very Irish holiday in New York (noise, maestro please). Some people have civilized St. Paddy’s Day parties and they do it for the fun of it. In the crowd I’m referring to in these pictures below, they do it so people can enjoy the chance to get together at a good old fashioned cocktail party on Park Avenue seeing old friends, familiar faces, neighbors, New York nightlife compatriots. I didn’t make this party although the host and hostess were kind enough to invite me. After hearing my rap on what I think of St. Patrick’s Day, you get the picture; I’m a seasoned grouch.

Nevertheless, palaver aside, last Thursday night, Jean and Martin Shafiroff hosted a party at their New York home to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. You know Jean, don’t you? If you don’t, you haven't been looking at NYSD Party Pictures (that’s okay, there will be more). Martin is her congenial investment banker husband who can almost keep up with his wife.

Antonino Buzzetta, Shannon Hales, Viktor Luna, Dr. Penny Grant, Cole Rumbough, Dawne Marie Grannum, Victor de Souza, Michael Conlon, and Kathleen Giordano

Cocktails, hors d’oeuvres and shamrock-shaped treats. Guests wearing the green included Sharon Bush, Felicia Taylor, Kathryn Chenault, Erik Bottcher, Flo Anthony, Randi Schatz, Dr. Amelia Ogunlesi, Alex Donner, Dr. Frank Weiser, Maggie Norris, Marc Rosen, George Gurley, Ike Ude, Chiu Ti Jansen, Roy Kean, Madame Mayhem, Victoria Wyman, Lady Liliana Cavendish, Lucia Hwong Gordon, Michele Gerber Klein, Bill Sclight, Cheri Kaufman, Ann Rapp, Michael Gross, Amy Hoadley, Campion Platt, Dawne Marie Grannum, Margo Langenberg, R. Couri Hay, Tia Walker, Cornelia Bregman, Spencer Morgan and Alexis Bryan Morgan, Gail Karr, Marcia Levine, Nicole Noonan, Steven Knobel, Dr. Robert Grant, Debra Halpert, Gregory Speck, Leesa Rowland, Brendan Lyle, Benjamin Le Hay and Bill Cunningham. And their friends, lovers, partners, mistresses (just kidding). All thanks to St. Patrick himself, Martin Shafiroff’s wife Jean.

I’ve just shared the magic ingredients for a good cocktail party in New York. All too rare, and gives you something to talk about, or someone to talk to about it. Talk talk talk. Buzz buzz buzz. That’s the natural state of the New York beast.

Jean and Martin Shafiroff

Madame Mayhem and Consuelo Vanderbilt Costin

Kathy Reilly, Randu Schatz, and Liliana Cavendish

Sandra Long

Lauren Day Roberts, Patricia Shiah, and Lucia Hwong Gordon

Victoria Wyman, Sharon Bush, and Gail Karr

Amy Hoadley and Paola Rosenshein

Margo Langenberg and Alexis Bryan Morgan

Anita Sarko

Arnold and Anne Jurdem

Liliana Cavendish and Felicia Taylor

Ann Rapp and Roy Kean

Randi Schatz and Kathy Reilly

Suzanne Murphy and Ike Ude

Dr. Robert Grant and Alison Minton

Campion Platt and Cassandra Seidenfeld

Michele Gerber Klein and Chiu Ti Jansen

Bill Sclight and Cheri Kaufman

On this past snowy, slippery late Monday afternoon down at Swifty's, on East 73rd Street and Lexington, a group of friends celebrated the Art opening of an exhibition of paintings by Cuban born artist Ana Guerra. Guerra's painterly expressions of glazed color and layered surfaces on panel brought warmth to a drab winter dusk. So did the mouthwatering Cuban hors d'oeuvres.

Dinning room at Swifty's art opening

In attendance: Evelyn Tompkins, Alyce Cleese, Karen Tompkins, Sarah Woolworth, Mrs. Nancy Baker, Michael and Rebecca Silver braved the gloomy weather to celebrate Ana's art and chat with others of like mind. Cade Tompkins of Cade Tompkins Project and Patricia Attoe curated the show which will be on view through the month of April.

I saw the paintings at dinner there Monday night. They’re very affecting and add another dimension of interest to the atmosphere of the room. That last sentence sounds like some pompous, supercilious would-be ham art critic. Well, if the shoes fits ...