Sat. Apr. 14,1984–New York—Looking out the window this morning at 10:00 a.m., it looked cold and deserted as a bad November day. Discouraging weather. One must, however, keep up one’s spirits. What alternative, tell me, has one got.
L.W. called and wanted me to meet H. and J. for lunch. L. said he needed help. So I trudged down to the Trump Tower in the rain and it turned out not to be a cozy lunch but distant relations. A., M. and Mother S, of whom, I’ve never even heard. Anyway, we raced through lunch then they tore off to a play and that was that. L. and H. and I ended up starring at one another as if we’d survived a hurricane on the roof of a house.
I trudged on home in the rain and spoke to L.P. P.C. is house manager for a settlement house on W. 46th play center so Z. K. and L.P. and I went down and met P. C. there. The play was The Shoehorn by Mark Wiston, a pretty dreadful play about marital infidelity among the older generation. Afterwards we went out and had dinner with the sound and lighting people–a nice girl name L.S. who lives in Brooklyn, a nice, nervous wreck of a kid with an earring–an uneasy addition to anybody’s wardrobe so far as I am concerned and another nice guy who reminded me of G.P. with overtones of C.B.
That was fun. Home by 1:00 a.m. in a cab. Englsh cabbie.