When Daily News et al. owner and honoree Mort Zuckerman took the stage Wednesday, May 15, at the Society of Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center Awards for Excellence, he began a brief and succinct acceptance speech (news in itself if you've seen him blow long and hard on any news show that will have him) with a story. It went something like this:
A French Catholic priest went to his bishop for confession in Paris in 1950. After the obligatory ritual stuff, the priest said, "Your Holiness, I must confess that during the German Occupation, I took a Jewish woman into the rectory and hid her in the attic so she could avoid persecution." To which the bishop replied, "Father, this is an act of mercy and charity to which no confession is necessary." "But Your Holiness, I have not confessed all," said the priest. "In the course of visiting her with food and necessities, we developed a friendship that eventually became a sexual one." "Oh," the bishop sighed, "that is a different story," and he was silent for a moment.Then he continued, "This is a grave sin for a priest, to have sexual relations with a woman. But the isolation and fear of the war are considerable factors, and with that in mind I see no reason why you may not have absolution and continue on in your role as a holy priest of the Roman Catholic Church." "Thank you, Your Holiness, but I have one more confession. I haven't told her the war is over."
The joke, which I thought a bit off-color for such an august occasion, was a big hit. Guests had been more than a little on edge, you see, because the gala was held on the evening of an extraordinary storm. Earlier, I had stood under the marquis of the Rainbow Room on 49th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, amidst a fascinating mix of shelter seekers, while the black-tie crowd emerged timidly from their cars, confused by the mayhem. (In addition to the wild blowing of the storm, Christie's, directly across the street, had an equally impressive crowd descending upon it for their contemporary art sale, which late that evening would yield a $71.7 million record price tag for Warhol's "Green Car Crash (Green Burning Car I)," which I always considered simply a Weegee knockoff.)
There were businessmen trying to find their drivers. Tourist buses were, unlikely as it seems, stopping every few minutes to allow dozens of visitors to disembark into the wild, wet scene. Shoppers with a variety of retail-logoed ponchos (such a clever idea, I thought—when did they start doing this? I'm curious) marched back and forth. One man, either an artiste or disturbed, wandered along with an umbrella skeleton ... all the metal spokes but no fabric. A woman with two big bouquets of flowers commented to me that the scene reminded her of the movie The Day After Tomorrow.
Not everyone was on their best behavior. A woman whose name graces beauty bottles shoved her way through the crowd. Later I learned that it was her M.O.—a socialite offered to show me a bruise she had received when she stood between the same dame and a camera.
The atmosphere of the Rainbow Room, cool and dry, was a great respite, although it might have been a good idea to have some dry towels on hand.
The Rainbow Room is so magnificent, and since the Ciprianis took over, the food and service match the stellar quality of the space. When people complain that it is no longer open to the public, I like to remind them that actually it often is. It's a great place to take out-of-towners, but call ahead to make sure it's open. [The main space is open some Fridays and Saturdays, and the Rainbow Grill restaurant is open seven days a week. —Lauren the factchecker]
Anyway, once the filet had been served, the tiered cookie/dessert trays were passed (such a time-saver, and fun, too—why doesn't everyone just do this?). Patti LuPone came out and belted her way through a variety of show tunes. Attention, party planners: She is a wonderful performer, but go easy on the mike. She's got herself a mighty powerful instrument, and a couple of times I thought the sound would blow my hair off. But as she sang, the clouds cleared, and all of a sudden there was the Empire State Building, so close you could touch it.
I walked a few blocks and looked at all the broken umbrellas, like dead birds on the street, with spikes and wings all akimbo. The city was back to normal, albeit with a few big puddles, the storm already a distant memory. Despite all the scare tactics, doesn't New York sometimes feel like the safest place in the world?
A French Catholic priest went to his bishop for confession in Paris in 1950. After the obligatory ritual stuff, the priest said, "Your Holiness, I must confess that during the German Occupation, I took a Jewish woman into the rectory and hid her in the attic so she could avoid persecution." To which the bishop replied, "Father, this is an act of mercy and charity to which no confession is necessary." "But Your Holiness, I have not confessed all," said the priest. "In the course of visiting her with food and necessities, we developed a friendship that eventually became a sexual one." "Oh," the bishop sighed, "that is a different story," and he was silent for a moment.Then he continued, "This is a grave sin for a priest, to have sexual relations with a woman. But the isolation and fear of the war are considerable factors, and with that in mind I see no reason why you may not have absolution and continue on in your role as a holy priest of the Roman Catholic Church." "Thank you, Your Holiness, but I have one more confession. I haven't told her the war is over."
The joke, which I thought a bit off-color for such an august occasion, was a big hit. Guests had been more than a little on edge, you see, because the gala was held on the evening of an extraordinary storm. Earlier, I had stood under the marquis of the Rainbow Room on 49th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, amidst a fascinating mix of shelter seekers, while the black-tie crowd emerged timidly from their cars, confused by the mayhem. (In addition to the wild blowing of the storm, Christie's, directly across the street, had an equally impressive crowd descending upon it for their contemporary art sale, which late that evening would yield a $71.7 million record price tag for Warhol's "Green Car Crash (Green Burning Car I)," which I always considered simply a Weegee knockoff.)
There were businessmen trying to find their drivers. Tourist buses were, unlikely as it seems, stopping every few minutes to allow dozens of visitors to disembark into the wild, wet scene. Shoppers with a variety of retail-logoed ponchos (such a clever idea, I thought—when did they start doing this? I'm curious) marched back and forth. One man, either an artiste or disturbed, wandered along with an umbrella skeleton ... all the metal spokes but no fabric. A woman with two big bouquets of flowers commented to me that the scene reminded her of the movie The Day After Tomorrow.
Not everyone was on their best behavior. A woman whose name graces beauty bottles shoved her way through the crowd. Later I learned that it was her M.O.—a socialite offered to show me a bruise she had received when she stood between the same dame and a camera.
The atmosphere of the Rainbow Room, cool and dry, was a great respite, although it might have been a good idea to have some dry towels on hand.
The Rainbow Room is so magnificent, and since the Ciprianis took over, the food and service match the stellar quality of the space. When people complain that it is no longer open to the public, I like to remind them that actually it often is. It's a great place to take out-of-towners, but call ahead to make sure it's open. [The main space is open some Fridays and Saturdays, and the Rainbow Grill restaurant is open seven days a week. —Lauren the factchecker]
Anyway, once the filet had been served, the tiered cookie/dessert trays were passed (such a time-saver, and fun, too—why doesn't everyone just do this?). Patti LuPone came out and belted her way through a variety of show tunes. Attention, party planners: She is a wonderful performer, but go easy on the mike. She's got herself a mighty powerful instrument, and a couple of times I thought the sound would blow my hair off. But as she sang, the clouds cleared, and all of a sudden there was the Empire State Building, so close you could touch it.
I walked a few blocks and looked at all the broken umbrellas, like dead birds on the street, with spikes and wings all akimbo. The city was back to normal, albeit with a few big puddles, the storm already a distant memory. Despite all the scare tactics, doesn't New York sometimes feel like the safest place in the world?
