There’s a slew of books, out now, written by millennial (barely 30 years old) ladies, that are supposed to be funny. So far I’ve read:
Both these books are collections of autobiographical essays, so their subject matter is limited to: middle school, college, drinking, being 20-something broke, being a child in a dysfunctional family, and quite a lot about weight. Scaachi Koul is “chubby”, and Samantha Irby is “fat”. Samantha Irby is the better writer, but she uses a lot of F-bombs. A LOT. And she has digestive issues that she mentions almost every other page. Saachie Koul is Southeast-Asian Indian, and she needs to learn how to cut her word count in half. They are both very frank about bodily functions, and no indignity is off limits. Does that make them funny? They both make me miss Nora Ephron immensely.
Top Cat and I went to the movies, together, and saw The Big Sick. It’s a modern romantic comedy. You can tell it’s about millennials because the tag line includes their very favorite word of all freaking time: AWKWARD.
For me, there were four big laughs in it, but I can’t recommend it because the actress playing the girl friend has acute vocal fry. And OMG, what is it with millennials that they all have to be so grubby??? The lead guy has an apartment that is so grungy I’m amazed that a girl consented to spend the night there! I swear, the whole time I was dating (in real life) — which was many years, over my 20s, 30s, and 40s — I never had a date with a guy who had an apartment that scuzzy. And if I had, I would have made excuses and shot out of there like I had Crohn’s disease. (Thanks for that, Samantha Irby. I could have lived my life quite happily without ever knowing the details of chronic bowel inflammation.)
But I promised you a Barbara Sinatra story last week, and here it is:
Barbara Sinatra, Frank Sinatra (Old Blue Eyes, Chairman of the Board — in the olden days they used to give famous people fun nicknames) died on July 25. She was 90 years old.
The Washington Post had the best obituary. I think the Post caught how down to Earth, and un-Hollywood she was.
In the Fall of 1994 I spent an afternoon in the Sinatras’ house in Palm Springs, CA because I was the Faberge expert for Christie’s auction house and the Sinatras had a Faberge collection they wanted appraised. For some reason, Christie’s decided that it would add glamour to the house call if I took the European Faberge expert wth me, a twerp who was supposed to be some Russian Prince. Actually, Alexi wasn’t as bad as some of the other Russian “nobility” I’ve met in the course of my work in Faberge, which has left me with a profound skepticism that the words “Russian” and “nobility” ever make sense together.
P.S. Most of them are broke and dumpy, but very impressed with themselves.
Mrs. Sinatra greeted us, and sat us in her living room, where the Faberge was kept in a glass-topped showcase/end table (all small bits: gold boxes, stone and crystal statues of animals and flowers, some nice enameled picture frames, if I remember correctly). I got these pix of Frank’s Faberge from the internets:
And then Mrs. Sinatra did something that no one in her position ever does, when Christie’s people are appraising: She offered us coffee.
She was the very rare client who did not make us Christie’s people feel like The Help.
I thought that was uncommonly gracious of her, I accepted, as did Alexi.
And I don’t even drink coffee. In fact, that cup of coffee in 1994 was both the first and last cup of coffee I’ve ever drunk.
And the other thing that impressed me about Mrs. Sinatra: In every, and I mean EVERY collection of Faberge, there are going to be fakes. It’s just a fact. So, of course, I spotted two or three fakes in the Sinatra collection and gently explained to Mrs. Sinatra that Christie’s could not catalogue those times as Faberge.
And Mrs. Sinatra just nodded in agreement and said, “I was sure there were a few fakes. More coffee?”
THIS NEVER HAPPENS. Usually, people are so personally insulted when you inform them about fakes that they turn on you. They tell you that, why, just last week someone offered them tens of thousands of dollars for that very piece; or that they have a deep, deep feeling that I’m wrong; or they snatch the time out of my hands and tell me that I can’t possibly know what I’m talking about even though appraising Faberge is what I do for a living and they, on the other hand, are dentists.
Mrs. Sinatra sat with us, making nice small talk until Alexi and I finished our appraisal. I remember she told me about having been married to Zeppo Marx before Frank, and how one of the older ladies in the California Christie’s office was an old friend of hers from their show girls days. She went into her bedroom, or maybe it was the vault, to fetch the diamond necklace that this old friend of hers calls the “Oh Shit” necklace, because whenever she (Mrs. Sinatra) wears it, people look at it and go, Oh, shit! It had a lot of big diamonds on it.
Then she asked if we’d like a tour of the grounds. Of course I said yes, and NO, we did not run into Frank. She took us into the office, and we were able to stand nose-to-nose with Frank’s Oscar for the Best Supporting Actor, 1953, From Here to Eternity.
You know, all these years I’ve been puzzled why I swear I remember seeing TWO Oscars on that shelf. I knew about the Supporting Actor one, so I’ve always assumed that my memory was wrong about that second Oscar. Just now, thanks to the internets, I have discovered that Frank DID win a second Oscar, in 1971, when he was awarded the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award.
Thank you, you glorious series of tubes.
The trains resided in a replica of an actual railroad station that was located in Ramsey, N.J. Sinatra crammed his station from the floor to the rafters with wooden display cases and shelves brimming with trains of every type and manufacturer. The huge layout dominated the center of the room. Five trains could be operated simultaneously on the layout while others ran on separate loops or around the ceiling. A prominent area of the layout depicted Frank’s hometown of Hoboken. Another area of the station served as a library nook for Sinatra’s many train books and periodicals.
Who knew that Frank loved model trains? Mrs. Sinatra pointed out the most recent bequest, a Japanese bullet train presented to him by some important person in Japan. The Prime Minister?
Anyhoo, I left Christie’s a year later, so I was not involved in the Dec. 2, 1995 auction of about $2 million of Mr. Sinatra’s household goods.But the Faberge estimates where all mine, baby.
Here’s how the Faberge did:
There were some 30 objects by Karl Faberge, all of which sold for a total of $818,685. Among them were two jeweled gold presentation boxes, made in St. Petersburg, which were bought by an unidentified Russian buyer for a total of $291,000.
And that’s my Barbara Sinatra story. Thank you all who voted to hear it.
Thank you for all you reading recommendations last week. I have already finished one of the books (The Cake and The Rain — AWESOME title!) that I might tell you about next week, so long as I don’t fall into any bushes and break an arm or something. I do have a Liz Smith story also, which I will have to tell you because it’s helped me decide what I’m going to do with my life, now that I don’t seem to be writing books any more. Next week, Dear Readers.
Have a great weekend, whether it’s Summer or Winter wherever you are.