Letter To My Brother From Christy's

"Ladies and gentlemen, direct from the bar, here's Dean! Joey quips after one song" Christy's Sundown: where we uncorked a bottle of wine to dine in the Vegas-style setting of your favorite restaurant when I came to town almost expecting to find Frankie and the gang, holding court at a big table with his Rat Pack clown, Sammy, and the Italian and Jewish boys crowded 'round, drinking and cracking inside jokes to lots of booze and lots of smokes that didn't seem to hurt the singing notes. I am getting a little stoned tonight because the sun sets at Christy's, knowing you are ashes, now, dear heart, that's why I am getting stoned. Always knew how to do that--a few glasses before, and after, feels better writing a letter not sitting across from you. Mr. Christy ('Nick,' to you because you were a close one), fluttered my heart before it filled, metaphorically speaking, with ashes, yet, still, there's this echo of a time when the fine Mr. Christy came by our table with a surprisingly limp handshake for your big sister. Me, thinking, Show me the passion, big Dude! El Greco! No wimp! Gee, you were the fire that made Helen flee. This night in near-empty salon rooms, a few old souls sup in silence, and then I am alone except for celebrity photos on the foyer walls: Christy's cronies consigned to the reception gallery. You, not among these famous faces, nor am I, and here's why. We did not hang with Dean Martin, Kenny Rogers, Joey Bishop, Gary Merrill, ('Best to Nick, a great restaurant'), Art Linkletter or any others of the long-gone great. We never broke bread with Anita Bryant (thank God), or dove with Esther Williams into the soup du jour, or sat beside sublime Miss America, 1969. Only photos share stamina to retain their glamour. A good restauranteur has friends in high places. So, Smile, Brother -- You're on Celestial Camera.