High life
Not such a big deal
Taki
Gstaad If one believes in that most cynical of premises that tells us that nothing counts a lot and very little counts at all, turning 60 isn't such a big deal. I know of many fools who turned 60 and never had a clue. A few Greek prime ministers come to mind, not to mention New York Tunes men. On the other hand, just because Our Lord Jesus, Mozart and Alexander the Great didn't even get close to reaching it, does not mean that those among us who have are all-out bums. There are a few advantages. For example, becoming 60 is infinitely superior to dying, living in Hollywood, lov- ing Hillary Clinton or Bill for that matter, or being a Linford Christie dependant. Being 60 years of age also means that one grew up without television, and instead saw black and white films that had a reverence for intelligence. In fact it is better than that. Growing up during the Fifties was as good as it could get. In my teenage fantasy world, men wore top hats and whistled Cole Porter tunes that rhymed. Love was treated in a wry, Jokey and casual manner, but was nonethe- less ecstatic. Everything was light-hearted except for communism and the bomb. There were no rock concerts and only a few jazz musicians took drugs. Nightclubs were splendid things, with extremely polite foreign-accented waiters who did not tell You their name for starters. Men held Women in their arms while dancing and cigarette girls wore fishnet stockings and flirted with the customers. South Pacific was packing them in on Broadway and one hummed 'Some Enchanted Evening' a la Ezio Pinza and Mary Martin. Girls never swore and no one mugged old ladies. Cops were old as were professional athletes. Players wore whites at Forest Hills and gents like Vic Seixas and Budge Patty took the silver home with them. Baseball, bas- ketball and football players played for Peanuts and gave it the old college try at all times. Boxers ran over to help up their fall- en opponents as soon as the ref had count- ed to ten, and Olympic gold was won by pure amateurs. A grandfatherly man lived in the White House and managed to keep the Peace for eight years. Papa Hemingway won the Nobel Prize, and no modern writer Possessed the authority of T.S. Eliot. The Catcher in the Rye appeared in 1951 and cverY schoolboy believed it was written
with him in mind. There were limits to Hollywood violence and our senses were not the sole mediators for books, art and entertainment.
This is the good news about being old. One grew up loving and respecting one's mother and one's country and not neces- sarily in that order. Oh yes, I almost forgot. We also believed in God not in our shrinks. And now for the bad news. The wisdom one expected to come with age has pulled a Godot. The body, however, has not failed to betray. There is nothing more frustrating than knowing how to do something on the playing field and not being able to do it because of Father Time. One can't remem- ber names and the hangovers are no longer funny. Still, as Paul Claudel wrote long ago, 'No more sight, no more scent, no more smell or hearing; yet it is amazing how wonderfully one gets along without them.' Last week, 39 of my nearest and dearest among those who summer in Gstaad got together for a raucous dinner to celebrate my 60th. Charlie Glass flew in from Tus- cany and Nicky Haslam from London. The Viscontis and Romanoffs and the Goulan- drises were already here. My pride and joy, Master John-Taki, bribed Charlie and got to sit next to the most beautiful girl in the world, Chiara Visconti. I never thought I'd be jealous of a 15-year-old, but there you have it. It is an old man's trait to be jealous of youth. And from now on it's going to get worse. As the great Cole Porter said, 'Like the beat beat beat of the tom-tom/When the jungle shadows fall,/Like the tick tick tock of the stately clock/As it stands against the wall,/Like the drip drip drip ...' Oh well, one might as well accept it and really try to have a good time for the rest of one's life.
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