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My wife Babs heard about a history professor who crafted wine cabinets, and thought it would be the perfect birthday present for me. We saw him one evening to pick the style, wood, and finish. A month later we brought the finished cabinet home in the back seat of the car. We were so impressed we decided to have a dinner party for it. Babs invited the professor, her shrink Paul Arnold, and his wife June. I brought the menu to Haskell's, a fashionable wine dealer, and came away with nine bottles and precisely when to drink them during the meal. The christening came on a warmish evening, beginning with #1, Weingut Muller Privat Rheinriesling Spatlese.  #3, Chateau Thivin Cote de Brouilly, was uncorked when Paul and Babs went to the kitchen. The professor sampled the rogue bleu while he stared at the Girl with Red Chair, Brick Wall, hanging over the fireplace: “She has a beautiful little body, hasn’t she?” June leaned in, wearing a clingy red jersey knit. “You should see mine.” “Can th

I don’t even think they know where they’re goin’.  What are they tryin’ to prove, anyway? —The Wild Ones (1953) You know how every neighborhood has an eccentric? When I slipped my Harley up Richie’s drive on a wonderfully hot Saturday afternoon, he was sitting on his bed surrounded by clothes and boxes. It was one of those wacky Saturdays where the sight of Richie sleeping in would cause his father Ollie to turn purple and thrust a finger in Richie’s face: “Goddammit Richard, you'll be out of my house by six o’clock tonight, I GAR-UN-TEE!” and dump the contents of Richie’s bedroom into the drive. “Where’s the Olds?” I asked. Richie sighed, “They’re at the Hub.” We got it back into his room—the heat didn’t help—and cracked open a couple of Ollie’s cold ones. We’d been in crises since Kardis frosted us with the Angels: “Totally unreliable.” “I like his sister.” “Yeah, fourteen.” Richie opened his little black book. “The prom queens. They put out.” “Remember what happened last time?”