Perhaps not. Weber, 79, a bearlike man with an Ernest Hemingway beard, is talking to me from his home in Montauk (the extremely expensive far tip of New York’s Long Island) which he shares with his wife, Nan Bush, and their four dogs: Lucky, Giaco, Spirit and Gordie. He’s dressed like a roadie — bandana, lumberjack shirt — but the burly masculine appearance seems slightly at odds with a soft, almost tentative way of speaking.
