[From Beirut, Lebanon]
Baseball Quiz: Walter Johnson is 9th all time in strikeouts with 3,509. Give me the top 8, all modern-era hurlers, 5 of 8 of which threw some in the 1960s, another started his career in 1970. Answer below.
NFL Draft Quiz: I can’t say I’ve spent too much time on the draft, which starts Thursday, while I’ve been overseas, but it sounds like Sam Bradford is going first, not Ndamukong Suh, barring the usual pre-selection chaos. But, whereas at one point it was assumed Suh would be first overall, name the only five defensive tackles to be tabbed with the top selection. Answer below.
Beirut, 2010 Edition
I’m going to have an extensive recap of the current politics here, as well as a look back on some history in my “Week in Review” column, not that the guy who writes that one is the same as the anonymous bloke who pens this piece. But some say they are alike in appearance and with the same taste in beer. I’m just sayin’.
Folks, as I mentioned last time I arrived here late Sunday night and I’m writing this early Wednesday evening. It would be exciting for you, maybe not as much so for me, if I told you I had been held hostage for 48 hours by some terrorists (read Hizbullah), but alas, things have been just fine here the first three days. Having been to Beirut before, 2005, I know the better areas, though there are a lot more I want to scout out in my remaining time here, and I’ve yet to be bothered by anyone outside the hotel. The hotel itself is kind of a different matter, which we’ll get to.
But speaking of 2005, some of you will recall I purposefully came here two months after the assassination of former prime minister Rafik Hariri. It was a time of the Cedar Revolution, and Syria being booted out, and it was tense. My room at the Phoenicia Hotel, as it does today, overlooked the bomb site and the hotel itself had just reopened after being heavily damaged.
I also wrote of how I hired a driver to take me to see the Roman ruins in Baalbek, though I really knew what I was there to do. Get a feel for the heart of Hizbullah territory. It scared the hell out of me and once we got into the center of Baalbek, I told the driver I didn’t want to walk around by myself, thank you, so we returned home.
That was then. This is now. On Tuesday, I hired a driver to take me near Baalbek, but we stayed in Christian areas and hit the famous wine country in the Bekaa Valley instead. We were still on the road to Baalbek, which is literally the road to Damascus, but when we could have gone straight, we hung a right and were soon amongst the vineyards; Chateau Kefraya, specifically, where I had a terrific lunch.
Unfortunately, it’s not the time of year for touring the operation because it’s undergoing maintenance (October is best) but the restaurant was open and I was the only one there until a local family showed up. It was a beautiful setting, birds chirping away, me on the patio, trees swaying, about 72 degrees. The waiter comes out and says, “I put on the best music for you; Julio Iglesias.” Ya know what? Can’t say I have any of his CDs, but he never sounded better as I had salmon and beef stroganoff with a bottle of La Rosie Chateau Kefraya. [Mark R., you would have approved.]
In other words, this is the other side of Lebanon. 30-45 minutes away, though, is the dark side. I keep extensive travel folders and throw about ten articles a week into them. Back in August 2009, Melik Kaylan wrote a piece in the Wall Street Journal on Baalbek that gives you an independent sense of what I experienced in ‘05.
“These days, if you visit the Roman ruins of Baalbek in Lebanon you will likely be followed by Hizbullah before, during and after the visit. On the Bekaa Valley main road that runs into the town of Baalbek, your car is likely to be tailed by nippy little BMWs with blackened windows. Aggressively antennaed opaque vans sit parked along the road every few miles – they are Hizbullah surveillance vehicles. Stretched overhead, banners depicting Hizbullah leaders multiply. Entering Baalbek itself, you will pass by a garishly tiled blue-and-turquoise mosque built recently with Iranian help.”
Yup, that’s exactly how I described it to you in 2005. On this trip, though, I had plans to get close to Shebaa Farms, an area I frequently write of, but that doesn’t seem doable, unless I want this to be the last Bar Chat. I hinted the other day I was to meet an interesting individual while in Beirut and we spoke by phone today, Wednesday. Understand, we had only corresponded by e-mail prior to my arrival and he had given me his number. So when I called him, I wasn’t totally surprised when he acted like he didn’t remember. Alas, he then perked up, and said “It would be terribly rude of me, despite how busy I am, not to get together with you while you’re here.”
So…Thursday afternoon we are to meet in a part of Beirut I’m not familiar with. “Meet me at the square, the first of two fountains…near a Hardee’s.” Believe it or not, I’ve seen more than one Hardee’s here. It’s also far and away my least favorite big chain, but I digress.
I do not in any way want to make my meeting sound more mysterious than it is, only I also don’t want to give the guy’s name. The other thing is I’m half expecting him to cancel. But what would really suck is if I get there and I can’t find the rendezvous point, or he doesn’t show. We never even discussed what each other looks like…which goes to prove that he’ll easily be able to pick out the American in the crowd. There aren’t a lot of us here. [He’s British, I think.] As I’ll explain in that other column, I’m really not supposed to be here, which is why if it’s like last time I’ll get a grilling before I get on my Continental flight home.
Lebanon, and Beirut, are to me the most fascinating places in the world, politically. Russia has the best history, but Lebanon, despite its often seeming tranquility at times, is a powderkeg that could go off literally at any minute. All I do to be reminded of this is look out my hotel room. [Terrific statue of Hariri, by the way.]
OK, this is supposed to be Bar Chat. Let’s talk women, guys. As in I happen to be staying in the best hotel in town (look it up, Intercontinental Phoenicia), paying an ungodly amount for a very nice room with a great view, but spotty Internet service (more slow than anything else).
When I was here five years ago, just two months after the bombing that killed 22 (other reports say 23), this hotel, having just reopened, let alone because of the tension, was probably 25% occupied, if that. There is a huge, lavish lounge area and I recall it being like a fifth full at best the first trip.
But now Beirut is hopping with record tourism and when summer starts, which is officially around June 15 here, it will be more so. My hotel is jammed…and whereas before the 1975-1990 civil war, Beirut was known as “Paris of the Mediterranean,” with a huge Western following, today’s it’s almost entirely Arab, with a smattering of clueless European girls. [I say clueless because you can tell they really have no idea that the beautiful structures they are looking at could be blown to bits in a heartbeat by the Israelis, or in another Syrian-inspired attack.]
My hotel, in other words, is 99% Arab. And you talk about people watching. Goodness gracious. So without a doubt I’m the only American in the joint, and I’ve seen one or two who seem like Germans, and that’s it. There are about 14 rooms on my floor and all I hear is pacing up and down the hall, guys on their cellphones wanting private conversations, away from their “wives” sequestered in the rooms.
Later at night, though, the wives come out, dressed to kill. Oh, all kinds of looks. You have the women all covered with just an eye slit (the niqab that President Sarkozy is thinking of trying to ban in France), yet they are carrying garish pocketbooks and wearing rings that Paris Hilton would be proud to display (though hers would be on loan…these women own ‘em because hubby bought them). You have the women who are covered except their face is exposed (the burqa) and they have the incredibly expensive sunglasses (yes, some even at night). And then you have the others who dress more or less European, with shoes that you know cost a fortune and almost all in very, very tight jeans. [Some, I hasten to add, would be better in a burqa.]
You also have the mistresses, or rich girlfriends (on vacation together) from Saudi Arabia and Kuwait just spending someone else’s money. I asked my driver, Charbel, how much time does it take for them to get ready? Two hours? No, he said. They have it down to a science. They can make themselves beautiful in 15, 20 minutes max. I can’t gawk because I might be beheaded (at which point admittedly I wouldn’t have to talk to Continental Airlines), but multiply Kim Kardashian (who is Armenian, which has a large population here in Beirut) by 40. As in but a single day, just at this hotel, I have seen 40 of her.
Granted, they never smile. Hubby, Sheikh Whatshisname, is out planning the next office tower, hooking up with wife/mistress number 8, or working on an arms deal, so the women have an attitude. They can’t be the least bit happy, plus they learned at an early age that Americans suck, or so they were told.
Now I’m on the 18th floor and in taking the elevator I’ve seen lots of women just getting on and off. You know how you always smile at someone entering…at least make eye contact? In the Midwest by the time you go from floor 5 to the lobby you are lifelong friends and are planning family vacations together. Here, the women look straight through you, to the mirror, where they proceed to check everything before they hit the ground floor. It’s a show and a half. Beirut is the Arabs’ playground and the Phoenicia Hotel is where it all starts.
But just a word on the guys. Some dress up like Sheiks, and I’m sure there are some here. You know, the whole flowing get-up. Others, though, are total slobs. Rich, spoiled, freakin’ slobs. Until last night at the bar, I couldn’t get one to smile, let alone talk to me. Then out of nowhere, this guy goes, “You headed to London? Think you’ll make your flight?” It was a brief chat, but it was a start.
The hotel staff, I hasten to add, is terrific. Very accommodating, not that I’m difficult to please. Keep that mini-bar stocked with Almaza Beer, kids, and I’m good to go.
Well, I’m rambling big time but I needed to put a dent in before I get prettied up myself to hit the lounge scene. I have my flowing New York Mets robe….just kidding!
Back to earlier in the week. On Monday, after filing this column, I went to the main town square where all the cafes are and sat down next to six fully-covered women in black, though they had at least part of their face visible, the better to show off their $5,000 designer sunglasses. There were actually a few scenes there, but only one of which is easy to describe…the others you had to be there.
As I’m going to my seat, one of the women with her back to me, not knowing I was approaching, reached back to stretch and whacked me smack in the groin. Thankfully, it wasn’t a “Down Goes Frazier! Down Goes Frazier!” moment; your editor was just fine, and they all laughed, as did I. That is they giggled for about five seconds before they realized they were laughing and then they stopped and recommenced hushed chatter about how their husbands are dirtballs.
OK, one of the other moments occurred when this European family was strolling through the middle and a bratty kid was playing with one of those wind-up flying saucers. This is major trouble, I thought. Sure enough, the kid fires it at the feet of some classically attired women at the restaurant across the way. They were not amused. The kid’s parents didn’t even apologize.
Ah, but your editor, ever mindful of an international incident, kept his eye on the snotty-nosed tyke and sure enough he wound that baby up and it went soaring high into the air and wouldn’t you know, it was heading straight for me upon reentry…me and my plate of lamb and my Almaza Beer. So I snapped the thing up just as it was about to create an explosion of unknown proportions. Clearly one of the best catches of my life. The covered women next to me, at first not understanding what had just happened, but seeing me holding a flying saucer, started to murmur. I, in turn, pointed my finger at the offending parents (you’re not supposed to point here, but this was American to European) and sternly said, “No more.” I then had the kid hauled off by the Lebanese Army (two of whom were watching with bemusement nearby), who I’m sure then turned him over to one of the militia groups, and, well, what could have been a major battle among NATO members was avoided.
Sorry to bore you with my travelogue, but in case you haven’t figured it out by now, Bar Chat serves as my diary when I’m on the road. Today at lunch, a joint I went to five years ago high up on a cliff overlooking Pigeon Rocks (famous landmark here), whereas there were like six people in 2005, today there were at least 70, all of whom were seemingly smoking their hookhah pipes (women and men), which since the wind on the patio was blowing it all into my face you’d think would have been a bad thing but it was actually quite pleasant. It mixed well with my Kebbeh meatballs, which are not to be confused with Madonna’s Kabbalah balls.
And here’s something for those of you seeking work. The restaurant’s placemats advertised for jobs. “Recruiting now… petitcafe_petitcafe@hotmail.com”. But just a word of advice. Don’t apply unless you can speak Arabic. Plus the owner, a good guy, can nonetheless be tough. One other thing. This daughter, another Kim Kardashian look-a-like, comes in with her elderly parents. The father is wearing a sport coat…and underneath is an Ohio State sweatshirt. I’m assuming she went there…I’m also assuming she was Homecoming Queen all four years. [To tell you the truth, it wasn’t until now that I realized I might have been able to say something but I didn’t see them when I left.]
OK…gotta do the people watching thing and maybe hit the Hard Rock Café nearby…but only with eyes wide open. This is the kind of place where I could get in trouble. And lest you think it’s all peaches and cream here, security is very tight for vehicles outside, and just a mile away I’ve seen some Lebanese Army tanks (though they are so poorly positioned, and manned, I don’t know what purpose they serve).
Stuff [totally haphazard….in other words, a mess…and written up prior to the above.]
–Just saw Ben Roethlisberger was suspended for six games. Good for the Commissioner.
–I’m always interested what beers make the cut at the nice hotels I stay in. Here in Beirut, it’s Almaza, the Lebanese brew that I drink exclusively, but also Heineken and Corona. In fact Corona was a feature in Albania, too. I’d say Corona is officially taking the world by storm, don’t you think?
Whereas beer in Albania was $3.00 outside the hotel and $4.00 inside, in Beirut it’s $4.00 outside and $5.50 inside. Actually, $5.50 at the bar in this otherwise overly expensive hotel is quite reasonable.
–I see where California now has 40,000 black bears, up from 10,000 in the 1980s, and there is increasing talk of a hunt, though Californians are against it. Once the bear population hits 50,000, expect a full assault on San Francisco, bears being a conservative species that isn’t exactly enamored of the morays of some of the Bay Area’s inhabitants.
–And now your Kim Kardashian update. She posted a photo on Twitter showing her in a skimpy black outfit (never a bad thing) with black gloves (no comment…I’ve gotten in trouble enough) while holding a black cat by the scruff of its neck. Animal rights folks were up in arms, but Kim has assured her loyal public that the owner and a vet were on site for the photo shoot and they told her how to pick it up. So with this explanation we absolve her here at Bar Chat.
–Meanwhile, Lindsay Lohan has $600,000 in credit card debt. I really have zero desire to help her out, seeing as how I’m already running up some debts of my own on this trip (to be paid off immediately upon my return, sports fans…your editor pays his bills!)
–Golfer Lorena Ochoa is announcing her retirement for a second time on Friday. She’s just 28 and this retirement, unlike a Brett Favre announcement of same, may stick. She has a lot of other things going on in her life, positive things. Nonetheless, a big blow to the LPGA.
–Meanwhile, LPGA golfer Christina Kim, who has been a bit of an underachiever on tour with two wins in seven years, has come out with a book titled “Swinging From My Heels: Confessions of an LPGA Star.” Sounds like a breezy read, such as this excerpt from Golf Magazine.
“It’s not easy to get laid on the LPGA Tour. We’re like a traveling circus that barnstorms in and out of a new town every week, and this vagabond lifestyle makes it hard to meet quality people, or get serious with those you do come across. If one of the guys on the PGA Tour is feeling lonely there is always a nice selection of so-called rope-hopers, those pretty young things who show up at tournaments in short-skirts and do-me heels and preen by the gallery ropes, hoping to attract a wandering eye. Even if you are so inclined, it’s slim pickings in our galleries: horny teens clutching Natalie Gulbis calendars, dads with their daughters, or retirees in sandals with black socks.”
Two comments. First, what’s wrong with clutching a Natalie Gulbis calendar? Second, if you ever see me in sandals with black socks, shoot me.
Ah, but Ms. Kim comments as well on a touchy subject.
“Because there’s never been an honest, open discussion about lesbianism on tour, it has become a source of fascination among golf fans – and especially male reporters – who have only heard various rumors and innuendo. Contrary to what many people think, we are not the Lesbians Playing Golf Association. [Ed: You’re not?] By my count there are no more than two dozen gay women playing the tour right now. Considering there are 230 active members, you’re only talking about 10 percent of the players, which from everything I’ve read is in line with the population as a whole….
“There are no super-freaky homophobes out here or militant man-haters. At most, a player’s sexuality may be an occasional practice-round conversation piece.
“ ‘Hey, did you hear that so-and-so likes girls?’
“ ‘Really? Huh. So, did you hit an 8-iron or a 9?’”
Well, guys…in reading some of the above there’s only one conclusion to make…ROAD TRIP!
–I didn’t get a chance to review the Heritage PGA Tour event from last Sunday, but golfer Brian Davis won himself, and the sport, new admirers in calling a penalty on himself that cost him the tournament on the first playoff hole against Jim Furyk, who ended up winning his second tournament of the year and 15th in his fine career. While replays showed the infraction (hitting a loose reed on his backswing in a hazard) was obvious, Davis still had to take the initiative. It’s an honorable sport.
–But then there’s an example of dishonorable, Mr. Disingenuous, A-Rod, is now back to shacking up with Cameron Diaz; Ms. Diaz thereby proving once again she’s a total ditz, possessing the IQ of a rabbit.
–Back to honorable, golfer Padraig Harrington, in an interview with Golf Magazine.
Q: You were just voted Ireland’s greatest-ever sportsman. Would you have voted for yourself in that poll?
Harrington: I’m delighted to receive it but I wouldn’t get hung up about not winning. My sport is high profile and I’m in peoples’ minds. Let’s face it, the greatest Irish athlete is probably a Special Olympian. Is it a popularity contest or an achievement contest?
Harrington is one of a kind, no doubt. One of the more refreshing gentlemen in all of sports.
–So I’m reading one of my International Living newsletters and a reporter says the best rum in the world for $5 is from Nicaragua; Flor de Cana. [At least it was $5 there. Undoubtedly far more if you can find it in the States.]
–I forgot to list Sporting News’ prospective college basketball top ten for 2010-2011.
1. Duke…assuming Singler stays. Even if he doesn’t, they’re loaded.
2. Ohio State
3. Michigan State
4. Butler…assuming Hayward decides to stay
5. Purdue
6. Baylor
7. Kansas State
8. Villanova
9. Pitt
10. North Carolina
235. Wake Forest
–The Museum of Modern Art in New York has an exhibit where 8 naked men and women face each other, which is drawing rather hefty crowds from the report I read. Some visitors were ushered out after brushing up against the exhibitionists, but one of the 8 on display, a guy, had to be removed when he “became visibly aroused.” Good gawd! Learn to control yourself, lad.
–Is it true? Can it be that the Mets’ Mike Pelfrey is really 3-0 with a 0.86 ERA?
–I can not believe that Jason Taylor is really becoming a Jet. Drat! I don’t want this pretty boy a-hole on my team!
–Always looking for an excuse to praise an ex-Wake Forest athlete so we acknowledge the Brewers’ Dave Bush and his 7 innings of scoreless ball in a win over the Pirates on Tuesday.
–54-year-old David Ortiz (he’s listed as 34 but we all know the real story) is off to another dreadful start, 6 for 41, .146, with 2 RBI. In about 8 more years he’s eligible to begin collecting Social Security.
–Not for nuthin’, but the slump being experienced by one of my favorite players, Washington’s Adam Dunn, is worrisome. Not only has he hit just one homer thru the team’s first 14 games (as of Tuesday), but going back to last year it is now just 1 homer in 25 games! Uh oh…Adam’s only 30 and his age is real, unlike that of Ortiz.
–My other favorite player in baseball, Ichiro, is back on the beam after a slow start and has 20 hits in 15 games as he begins his run at extending his record with a 10th straight 200-hit season. And my Pick to Click, his Mariners, are back to 8-7.
–No, as of yet I couldn’t care less about the NBA playoffs. I just want Tim Duncan and San Antonio to win a round or two.
–Back to the Museum of Modern Art, I didn’t know they had a film department and they are doing a retrospective these days of David Niven, one of the more colorful actors of our time who was born 100 years ago in London. In a piece on his life by the Star-Ledger’s Stephen Witty, I see that Niven’s father died five years later in the Battle of Gallipoli.
As for David, Witty describes his film career perfectly:
“(One) of the things Niven did faultlessly on-screen was to simply be. It was an amused, lighthearted grace he seemed to embody offscreen, too – even though his own life was sometimes far from graceful or light or amusing.”
You see, Niven was quite the scamp, and rather insolent. He was stationed in Malta early on and once, after a long briefing, was asked if he had any questions. So “he inquired whether the major general knew when the next train was, as he had a date. He was put under house arrest for insubordination.”
But soon he was headed on his way to America, age 23, without the foggiest idea what he was going to do. He ended up getting a job working on charter boats in California that were used by film people, whereupon he got involved with Merle Oberon, a neat trick back in the day if you could pull it off. She helped get him parts as an extra.
Niven became great friends of Cary Grant and Erroll Flynn, though the latter “always let you down.”
But just as his career was taking off, Niven left Hollywood in 1939, after Germany invaded Poland and Great Britain declared war, to quietly re-enlist in the British Army. Talk about a hero, “They asked him to run some training courses, perhaps make a film. He asked to be assigned to the Commandos.
“The Hollywood movie star spent most of the war on grueling active service, at Dunkirk, at Normandy and at the Battle of the Bulge; by the end of it, he was a lieutenant colonel. On this subject, though, the great storyteller fell silent; he rarely spoke about the war and never about what he did. ‘Those guys never do,’ his son says.”
What a great man. But get this. In 1940 he had married a British debutante Primula Rollo. “In 1946, they moved back to Hollywood with their two small sons. After dinner at Tyrone Power’s house, the Nivens eagerly signed on for a silly game of ‘Sardines,’ a light’s-out version of hide-and-seek. Looking for a closet, ‘Primmie’ opened a kitchen door, jumped inside – and fell down the cellar stairs. She died of a fractured skull.”
Geezuz. No wonder Niven “fell into a rare, nearly suicidal grief. He treated his depression with liberal doses of alcohol and sex…. But publicly, no one saw anything but Niven’s easy charm.”
I love this from his son. “He did some really crappy movies. But he had his beautiful house in the South of France and a home in Switzerland…What was most important to him was where the picture was being shot, and when and with whom. He wasn’t interested in going off to Africa for three months, or working with people who weren’t congenial.”
Gotta respect that. But then his life ended miserably. “He came home from a TV appearance to find messages from shocked friends wondering why he’d gone on drunk. A doctor finally provided the far more devastating explanation: Niven’s oddly slurred speech was actually an early symptom of Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
Son David Jr. said his father was very “stiff-upper-lip about it all. He told me, ‘Maybe this is God’s way of saying you have told enough stories over the years, and it’s someone else’s turn to be the life and soul of the party.’”
David Niven died in 1983 at the age of 73. And get this, as I prepare later to toast the man’s memory myself here in Beirut:
“The largest arrangement at the funeral came from the porters at Heathrow Airport, who called Niven the kindest celebrity they’d ever met, a genuine gentleman who made every man ‘feel like a king.’
“ ‘The next time I went through Heathrow I found the shop steward and gave him two hundred pounds and told him to take everyone out that night for a drink on Dad,’ Jamie Niven says. ‘I don’t think too many bags got on the right flights the next morning!’”
A friend at his eulogy said Niven’s acting never “quite achieved the brilliance or the polish of his dinner-party conversations.”
But as Stephen Witty writes:
“That seems a fair judgment. For, despite all his charm, what did Niven have to show for it? Supporting parts in a few great films, leads in fewer good ones and make-work jobs in many more mediocre projects.
“Only that. Only that and two successful and still-devoted sons. And an enormous circle of friends. And years of stoic and heroic service to his country. And a richer and more adventurous and more finely shaped life than any role he could have played onscreen – even if he’d ever really cared to.”
Great stuff, Mr. Witty. And so we remember David Niven.
Top 3 songs for the week of 4/18/81: #1 “Kiss On My List” (Daryl Hall & John Oates) #2 “Rapture” (Blondie…ughh) #3 “Morning Train (Nine To Five)” (Sheena Easton…not exactly Helen Reddy, ‘woman hear me roar,’ type stuff, know what I’m sayin’?)…and…#4 “Just The Two Of Us” (Grover Washington, Jr., with Bill Withers) #5 “Woman” (John Lennon) #6 “Angel Of The Morning” (Juice Newton) #7 “While You See A Chance” (Steve Winwood) #8 “Being With You” (Smokey Robinson) #9 “The Best Of Times” (Styx) #10 “Don’t Stand So Close To Me” (The Police)
Baseball Quiz Answer: Top 8 in strikeouts.
1. Nolan Ryan 5714
2. Randy Johnson 4875
3. Roger Clemens 4672….booo! booooo!
4. Steve Carlton 4136
5. Bert Blyleven 3701…my man!
6. Tom Seaver 3640…and my all-time hero
7. Don Sutton 3574…never warmed up to the guy’s achievements
8. Gaylord Perry 3534…wash your hands after shaking his
9. Walter Johnson 3509
10. Greg Maddux 3371…surprised?
11. Phil Niekro 3342
NFL Draft Quiz Answer: Five defensive tackles selected with first overall pick in draft.
Dan Wilkinson, 1994, Ohio State…Cincinnati
Steve Emtman, 1992, Washington…Colts
Russell Maryland, 1991, Miami…Cowboys
Kenneth Sims, 1982, Texas…Patriots
Buck Buchanan, 1963, Grambling State…Chiefs
Can you imagine Buchanan in the modern game, with all the weight training and conditioning that were non-existent in his day? Can you say he’d then have been the best lineman of all-time, period? Of course. He’s one of those special athletes you wish you could see today. Imagine Mickey Mantle, despite his penchant for enjoying the nightlife, if modern medicine had been able to take care of his knees.
Next Bar Chat, Monday, from Paris. Maybe. I’m assuming my flight situation will work out….or I could be enroute somewhere else, or I could be tied up by the neighbors on my floor here in Beirut as I scream, “Help me, Jack Bauer!”
