Gstaad
I’ve been hitting the books rather hard lately, the ritzy-glitzy crowd having gone the way of natural snow. There’s great skiing, they tell me, but it’s on man-made white stuff, which is a bit like going to bed with a plastic doll instead of the real thing. I know, skiing is skiing, but it’s somehow different for me. I need the true white powder, and I don’t mean the Colombian marching stuff.
My friend Peter (Santa Claus) Livanos sent me two literary beauties for Christmas, Wounded Tiger by T. Martin Bennett and James Holland’s Normandy ’44. The result is that I’ve forgotten all about women, martial arts, booze and even my family while deeply engrossed in them. In fact, it’s worse than that. If Ava Gardner and Betty Grable were alive and asked me to join them for a threesome, I’d take both books with me.
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