Saturday night, still resisting the Oxycontin, I blew through Steve Martin's memoir about his development as a stand-up comic. There's a lot to like about this book, even beyond it being possible to consume in a single reading session. For our purposes, I'll just post a chunk of this 1966 meeting with Aaron Copland, who met with the then-unknown Martin and a friend who was researching a college paper.
"We knocked on the door, Copland answered, and over his shoulder we saw a group of men sitting in the living room wearing what looked like skimpy black thongs. He escorted us back to a flagstone patio, where I had the demanding job of turning the tape recorder on and off while Phil asked questions about Copland's creative process. We emerged a half hour later with the coveted interview and got in the car, never mentioning the men in skimpy black thongs, because, like trigonometry, we couldn't quite comprehend it."
Sam Allis catches up with James Levine, who the Globe columnist admires despite admitting "I've ground my teeth to powder over the years from the likes of Carter and Schoenberg."
F. Scott was right. The rich really are different than you and I. For starters, they can turn to Warren Buffett for advice.
The New York Times dips into the Murakami show, and asks whether it's right for a museum to accept support from a commercial gallery with a clear stake in an artist's work.
Did anybody really think the Celtics would go 82-0?