My story goes back to 1981. I had read an aticle on the recently published book "Mourir à New York" by Jean-Pierre Lahary which mentionned the possibility of visiting the Museum of the Office of the Medical Examiner. I was at the time an Air France air hostess and thought, well next flight to JFK that's something I will do. On a late summer day I got to 520 First Avenue and to cut a long story short, did get to visit the Museum and to my surprise I was also invited to go the basement in the autopsy suite. Being French must have been my "laisser passer" as when I met Deputy Medical Examiner Dr. Darly C. Jeanty I was greeted "en français" which he spoke fluently being born in Haiti. It was certainly one of the most unusual and extraordinary experience of my life. So the Museum no longer exists, how disappointing. 43 years on I still have the letters Dr. Jeanty wrote to me. He died in January 2022. To this day I also remember vividly how annoyed the student assisting Dr. Jeanty looked and how my presence obviously ruined his day! Years later I did get hold of a copy of J.P. Lahary's book. Reading Romance Comes for Mr. Death brought back many memories.
Thank you. A colleague of Lahary's sent me that picture today, which I had never seen, and I admit...thunka . thunka, thunka. He was a very attractive and interesting man.
You know, back in the 70s, when you were writing for The Post, I made a pittance writing for those little (you could hold them with one hand) couples' "sex" magazines. And the topic I picked and wrote about is all the ways people had managed to off themselves while trying to get off. Erotic suffocation, natch, but it went so much, uh, further than that. This, remember, was way before Google. I had to do my research the hard way. Asking real people about it. Going to "sex libraries," one of which belonged to an odd couple on the Upper West Side. The way one man offed himself while getting off, the one I most remember, was a guy in Germany who somehow wired a potato masher to some kind of electrical generator, and used that the stimulate himself. Too many amps? Perhaps. I can't remember the technical details now. And BTW, European men where those banana hammocks as bathing suits too. Linda
Great story and well told! Can't help wondering if you and Mr. Death kept in touch, how often - and how long he remained working for NYC. Did he for example, return to France where causes of death might be more exotic (jumping in front of a Lambretta at the Champs Elysees, from the top of the Eiffel Tower, or perishing from an overdose of Galette-saucisse, leaving only the lips for identification)? If so, did you visit? Your post about the Post is most intriguing (not the least for its Lefty leanings at the time). Please continue to keep us all informed :-)
Reality always had a terrible way of ruining my fantasies. We had but a moment.
Weren't you in town when The New York Post was owned by Dorothy Schiff and writers included Murray Kempton, Sylvia Porter, Pete Hamill, Nora Ephron, Anna Quinlan, Helen Dudar, Roberta Gratz, Clyde Haberman, Lewis Grossberger, Vic Ziegel, Larry Merchant, Tom Topor, Jane Perlez, Lindsy Van Gelder, Joyce Purnick....the list goes on and on
Thank you! What a nice way of saying they gave me the boot. But that's how it goes in newspapers, you lose your rabbi, you're screwed. Milk has a longer shelf life. I did get to have some fun, though. And now I can really kick loose.
Roz, No, please, no rush to judgment on poor Arlene. She was out of town when the cleaning lady made the decision to air out the apartment by propping a window open with a barbell. It was Arlene, I believe, who got sued.
I’m not saying it was her fault! I’m just saying that I’m never going to see a photo of her or film clip with her in it without thinking about the barbell thing.
My story goes back to 1981. I had read an aticle on the recently published book "Mourir à New York" by Jean-Pierre Lahary which mentionned the possibility of visiting the Museum of the Office of the Medical Examiner. I was at the time an Air France air hostess and thought, well next flight to JFK that's something I will do. On a late summer day I got to 520 First Avenue and to cut a long story short, did get to visit the Museum and to my surprise I was also invited to go the basement in the autopsy suite. Being French must have been my "laisser passer" as when I met Deputy Medical Examiner Dr. Darly C. Jeanty I was greeted "en français" which he spoke fluently being born in Haiti. It was certainly one of the most unusual and extraordinary experience of my life. So the Museum no longer exists, how disappointing. 43 years on I still have the letters Dr. Jeanty wrote to me. He died in January 2022. To this day I also remember vividly how annoyed the student assisting Dr. Jeanty looked and how my presence obviously ruined his day! Years later I did get hold of a copy of J.P. Lahary's book. Reading Romance Comes for Mr. Death brought back many memories.
Given his line of work, I suppose leopard-print briefs makes sense.
Cheers to great (sexy even) memories of hot men!! What a great story! Omlets are so much better made by interesting people.
Thank you. A colleague of Lahary's sent me that picture today, which I had never seen, and I admit...thunka . thunka, thunka. He was a very attractive and interesting man.
You know, back in the 70s, when you were writing for The Post, I made a pittance writing for those little (you could hold them with one hand) couples' "sex" magazines. And the topic I picked and wrote about is all the ways people had managed to off themselves while trying to get off. Erotic suffocation, natch, but it went so much, uh, further than that. This, remember, was way before Google. I had to do my research the hard way. Asking real people about it. Going to "sex libraries," one of which belonged to an odd couple on the Upper West Side. The way one man offed himself while getting off, the one I most remember, was a guy in Germany who somehow wired a potato masher to some kind of electrical generator, and used that the stimulate himself. Too many amps? Perhaps. I can't remember the technical details now. And BTW, European men where those banana hammocks as bathing suits too. Linda
you are getting great mileage out of that skull--
your Duluth fan club
That's only because I don't have kittens.
lucky for them right? ''foi gras pate" riing a bell? or shit was that Cintra? erk
Great story and well told! Can't help wondering if you and Mr. Death kept in touch, how often - and how long he remained working for NYC. Did he for example, return to France where causes of death might be more exotic (jumping in front of a Lambretta at the Champs Elysees, from the top of the Eiffel Tower, or perishing from an overdose of Galette-saucisse, leaving only the lips for identification)? If so, did you visit? Your post about the Post is most intriguing (not the least for its Lefty leanings at the time). Please continue to keep us all informed :-)
Mel,
Reality always had a terrible way of ruining my fantasies. We had but a moment.
Weren't you in town when The New York Post was owned by Dorothy Schiff and writers included Murray Kempton, Sylvia Porter, Pete Hamill, Nora Ephron, Anna Quinlan, Helen Dudar, Roberta Gratz, Clyde Haberman, Lewis Grossberger, Vic Ziegel, Larry Merchant, Tom Topor, Jane Perlez, Lindsy Van Gelder, Joyce Purnick....the list goes on and on
I believe I was in town, but focused on music and hormones.
Or mis-informed, if you remember her previous gig.
"Joyce, what was the provenance of that uterus?"
Can I tell you how much I adore your writing and how seriously I missed you all those years you were involuntarily on leave from the Times?
Terry,
Thank you! What a nice way of saying they gave me the boot. But that's how it goes in newspapers, you lose your rabbi, you're screwed. Milk has a longer shelf life. I did get to have some fun, though. And now I can really kick loose.
From your mouth to G-d's ears!
Another hit out of the ball park! I LOVE your story-telling!
This definitely makes me see Arlene Francis in a different light.
Roz, No, please, no rush to judgment on poor Arlene. She was out of town when the cleaning lady made the decision to air out the apartment by propping a window open with a barbell. It was Arlene, I believe, who got sued.
I’m not saying it was her fault! I’m just saying that I’m never going to see a photo of her or film clip with her in it without thinking about the barbell thing.
On the bright side, it wasn't HER head in the jar. They don't know whose head it is. It had been there since the 20's.