Wednesday was a day of hard labor in Providence. We came down to Newport on Thursday. I worked in two nursing homes in the morning, and in the afternoon wrote some reports in the condo. The Landys joined us for drinks and dinner on the Sunset Deck. I made beer can chicken, perfectly done. The beer was Miller. Carol added perfectly microwaved corn and her wondrous taboulieh. The wine was an unlabled foxy mainly Catawba red given to us from the vineyard of Steve Kass, a local talk show host, and his wife. I think the vintage was May 15. It was surprisingly good, just fine for a spicy chicken in the summer. For dessert, nectarine-blueberry tart with Tofutti. Then on to Rosecliff for "Festive Fireworks." It was all show and no substance, a flash in the pan. In fact, it was a dud. Erick Friedman began with some Goldmark, Paganini, Heuberger and Sarasate. We first saw him back in 1978, when he was young and could play the violin, and we could not. Now we are both old, and neither of us can play the violin. He's not even good enough to play Viennese Schmaltz for Otto Stieber at The Plaza. His tone was scratchy and weak, and he sounded more like a student than a teacher. In the Sarasate, he lost his place, and had to stop the pianist so they could pick up together in the middle. At this point, in walked Mark Malkovich with Victor Borge, who, at 92, had just given a performance at The Breakers. He entered to spontaneous applause, and, always on, he made a fiddling gesture with one finger of each hand, threw down his palms in disgust, and made as if to leave.

Jane Murray played the English Horn with Hyunjung Choi, who played a mean harp. Goran Marcusson, who, now that Jean-Pierre Rampal is dead, is probably the world's greatest flutist, played "The Flight of the Bumble Bee" with triple-tonguing--a stinging performance. After intermission, Carlo Grante played a Memorial to Bach, written for him by the contemporary composer, Michael Finnissy. Oi, was it awful. No melody, no harmony, no rhythm, and painfully dissonant and endless. What a terrible thing to do to an audience. He then played four Horowitz encores, including Carmen Variations, Danse Macabre, and Stars and Stripes Forever. Usually, I love wretched excess, but when Horowitz did it, he was playful and made it look effortless. Grante was grunting and sweating, looking more like Tony Soprano disposing of Richie Aprile's body.

     Thursday, morning, I biked to Belcourt Castle, the tackiest mansion in town, to join Carol for "Olé!"--a concert of Spanish music. Christina Castelli and Frederic Chiu played some Albeniz pieces, and Tom Hrynkiw played some pieces by the Cuban, Cervantes. Then Diane Alexander sang six songs of the Mexican composer, Galindo Dimas. Diane was the female lead in the Gilbert and Sullivan productions that I was in nearly twenty years ago at Cabot Street Playhouse. She was a kid then with a glorious voice, a lovely manner, and a coy and appealing presentation. Now she has become an international star, glamorous and exquisite, while I have become old.

The concert closed with a string quartet of enormous difficulty by Joaquin Turina. We were joined for lunch afterward by Naftali Sabo. Tali is now the best physician in Newport. He is the son of the man in my story "The Breath of Life." and he is an accomplished violinist, having studied with the same teacher as Pinhas Zuckerman in Israel, and he has been president of Touro Synagogue.  Tali is my guide to who's who in Newport.

     For supper, I grilled a slice of swordfish that I  bought right off the fish on the wharves of Newport. Carol served it with taboulieh and sauteed thin asparagus. The wine was an Oregon Pinot Gris from Eyrie Vineyards. Fresh fruit for dessert.