In the late '70s my apartment building on the Upper West Side was as middle as a middle class building could be. We've always had more than our share of shrinks, only a few doctors, several judges but few high priced lawyers. We had writers, an animator, accountants, insurance people and many teachers, all of whom dressed in an understated manner. And so it was something of a shock to see occasionally waiting for the elevator a young man in torn jeans and shirts that couldn't stay inside them. He seemed perfectly amiable. He had a goofy grin that bespoke good will. It was rumored he was "servicing" a rock star who lived on the floor above me. Since no one knew her name, star was probably an exaggeration. At that time my wife was giving piano lessons to the very young sons of Lee Strasberg. (Their mother, Anna, said Lee beamed when he heard them practicing transposition.) We would occasionally be invited to parties at The Studio, at one of which I saw my erstwhile neighbor. "Are you an actor?" I asked him. His goofy grin grew wider, as if to say, "What could be more self-evident?" Six months later "Body Heat" came out and I realized the young man, whom I no longer saw at the elevator, was Mickey Rourke. Sunday afternoon Celia McGee, with whom I used to work at the Daily News and whom I adore, emailed that her husband Henry, a past president of the Film Society of Lincoln Center, was driving their daughter Honor and her winter war ...
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