The day had arrived. The First Annual Harold P Newell Memorial Dinner at "The Palm". How many times in the past had we as a group, ventured into the Palm for some sort of camaraderie dinner where we ate, drank, reminisced and retold stories we had told a thousand times before.
And Buddy was always the master of ceremonies.
He had so many stories it was as if he had already lived so much longer than the rest of us.
We know each other so well, have shared so many memories together that we were speaking about why we were there this night in such a "matter of fact" way that I actually almost forgot exactly why we were there. It was just so familiar in my mind's eye that I expected, at any moment, for Buddy to burst through the doors with a grand entrance, as he then began to explain why he was late by telling such an unbelievably uproarious anecdote that would keep us retelling the story for years to come.
Well he did not come in, there was no "Steak a la Stone" (and no one would dare order it). There was no story from him, the master storyteller. There was just a bunch of us trying our best to be as good as he was. I hate that he was not there.
The Cohen brothers were probably right. This is no country for old men.
(now that I have gotten that off my chest, could there have been a better prototype for Javier Bardem? As usual, Buddy, a man ahead of his time).
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