Vince Angelo died this week. Angelo's "The Angels" was one of the early doo-wop groups. Born in Hoboken in 1938 he made his first record in 1956. The A-side was "I Can't Wait (Can You?)." The B-side song was a marriage proposal to his 16 year old girlfriend Theresa Ciccolini. It became a huge teen hit. The chorus: "It'll be so fine/under stars above/when I make you mine/to treasure our love."

It created a stir when fans later learned that "The Angels," supposedly a quartet, was actually Angelo alone, who overdubbed the other parts.

Vince and Theresa married and the marriage lasted until his death. But his music career didn't and he opened a roofing company in New Jersey, from which he retired in 1999.

The couple had two children: Johnny and Lana, named after Johnny Stompanato and Lana Turner. Stompanato had been stabbed to death by Turner's daughter just a week before Vince and Theresa's wedding. The couple considered it a good omen.

Here is a fragment from a newly discovered 1888 letter from Vincent Van Gogh to his brother Theo. It was written during the period Vincent and Paul Gauguin shared lodgings at Arles:

"....I've had enough tsouris from that meshuggeneh Gauguin to last me a lifetime. I need this? He's always going on about moving to Tahiti. Tahiti, shmahiti. So move already! But last night I told him not to leave me in the lurch on the rent we owe for the house. What does he think? I can sublet midseason? Anyway we had words and Gauguin stormed out. Probably went to drink absinthe with some nafka. Came home early this morning.

Tonight I'm going to serve a nice gedempte fleisch and try to smooth things over..."

Some scholars now suggest this proves once and for all Van Gogh was Jewish, something that has been in dispute for many years.

From Mel Brooks:

"You're standing in front of two movie theaters. One is showing a movie called The Typhoon and the other has It's Drizzling. Which are you going to pay to see?"

I can't think of anything to blog about today, except the fact that I can't think of anything to blog about.

Bonita's interest in his work led me in the 90s to read Michel Foucault and about him. I got a sense of where he was going generally but, to be candid, I never could muster the patience to follow his work all the way home. Although what I did manage to work though at the very least provided some cogent reinforcment of my natural suspicion of all institutions.

But there was one Foucault anecdote that has remained with me. In the early 1960s Foucault was teaching at the University of Clermont-Ferrand. The Communist philosopher Roger Garaudy also came to teach there--and he and Foucault ended up at serious loggerheads. I believe they even had physical altercations.

Finally in frustration Garaudy demanded to know the reason for Foucault's animosity. Was it personal?

Foucault replied: "I have nothing against you personally, just against stupidity!"

I just thought of perfect names for two Icelandic brothers: "Gad" and "Egad."

From pretentious overpriced restaurants to loathsome Broadway musicals to books by academic divorcees on voyages of self-discovery in Italy, the New York Times breathlessly champions everything I think meretricious in our culture.

I'm coming to believe that the editors of the Times know my taste and deliberately try to insult it!

It seems to me that the majority of literary folk who form opinions about Sinclair Lewis acknowledge that he was a writer of considerable accomplishment. But their praise is often qualified by an enumeration of his personal flaws and literary shortcomings.

H.L. Mencken first met Lewis at a New York party, which the Smart Set editor had attended with George Jean Nathan. Mencken's initial reaction to Lewis was less than kind. Lewis bragged loudly about his new novel [Main Street] and his behavior was generally boorish. But back at the Smart Set offices Mencken pulled out an advance copy of Main Street that was lying around. Mencken had only gotten part way though it before telegramming Nathan: "That idiot has written a masterpiece!"

There's little question that most of his novels don't measure up to the standards of his great 1920's works. One can argue the merits of Elmer Gantry and Dodsworth. And one may take or leave his stories written for the magazines.

Still, I've long held that an immigrant need read only three classics to understand what makes America tick: Democracy in America by Tocqueville, The Theory of the Leisure Class by Veblen and Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis.

Many years ago, when I was young, reckless and hanging around in all the wrong sort of company a junkie I met gave me some street survival advice: if you're about to be mugged, act as if you're crazy in the head. It will put the muggers entirely off their game. Too much uncertainty as to how you'll respond to risk it.

Nobody's as yet tried to mug me, but I've always believed this to be an example of pure folk wisdom and have secretly hoped for an opportunity to measure its effect.

Although, come to think of it, why should I listen to advice from a junkie?

I think he had read my blog entry regarding the Candlelight Restaurant...anyway, an older friend wrote to me about eating at the Automat in the Bronx in the 1950s. We also ate at the Automat, the Fresh Meadows, Long Island branch. The Automat was operated by Horn & Hardart, which also operated retail shops ["Less Work for Mother!"] purveying their Automat-style food. We regularly had food at home purchased from the Great Neck branch of the shop. Wonderful gooey, middle-of-the-road food. Of all the dishes my mother brought home I most distinctly recall the macaroni and cheese. Don't ask me why.

This made me think of another Great Neck restaurant playing a significant role in my childhood: "Hamburger Express." This was a counter style burger spot. It's gimmick was a model railway built into the counter. Your hamburger would arrive via Lionel railway! It was rather a dazzling sales gimmick. No child could resist the sheer romance ot it! The rattle of the train, the steam whistle blowing, the crackle of sparks...the hamburger on its own flatcar gliding to rest right before you!

I grew up in Great Neck, Long Island in the 1960s. At that time our family dining spot of choice, for special occasions, was Patricia Murphy's Candlelight Restaurant in Manhasset. They were famous for their popover rolls, distributed from baskets by gingham clad waitresses. I notice these popovers are still mentioned enthusiastically on the internet. For good reason.

The other day I was recalling to my wife, Bonita, a typical Candlight menu--at least what I think I remember of one. I'd start out with a "heart of iceberg lettuce" and Russian Dressing. My entree was chopped steak and gravy with potatoes au gratin and string beans. Dessert: a strawberry parfait.

My father had a preference for starting out with the tomato juice cocktail, moving on to broiled scallops, then lemon meringue pie for dessert.

It was unashamedly comfort food. Very American. Very good, in fact.

It seems like it was only later that the average run of upper middle class American diners developed a penchant for self-consciously European bistro or trattoria food accompanied by amusing little wines.

During World War II the artist Jean Arp had an exhibition in London. When he arrived in London for the opening he was delighted by seemingly how well his dealer had promoted him. All over London there were posters announcing his show. He was disappointed when he learned that the posters actually signified A.R.P. [Air Raid Precaution] .

In his 1922 essay "Tradition and the Individual Talent" T.S. Eliot wrote: "...the more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mind which creates...."

I first encountered this phrase about 25 years ago. Since then I have come to more fully appreciate its applicability to the lives of many artists.

Most recently, a few days ago, it came back to me when, at loose ends, I pulled Stefan Zweig's biography of Balzac off our bookshelf and leafed through it.

How well Eliot's separation principle applies to Balzac. A writer of almost supernatural acuity was in his non-authorial life prone to fatal miscalculations, a first-class stumblebum!

Chuang Tzu and a disciple were crossing a foot bridge. Chuang Tzu notice the fish swimming past below and commented: "Being in their natural element and behaving as is natural for them, unencumbered by conflict, the fish feel truly happy." The disciple challenged Chuang Tzu: "How do you know how fish feel? You are not a fish!" To which Master Chuang replied: "You are not me. How do you know I don't know how fish feel?"