THE FACE OF GOD

October 21, 2007

I come up out of the subway at 47th Street in Times Square. I am disoriented, unable to remember which street I live on. Instinctively I head west. Eventually I come across a building that seems familiar. I enter the lobby and wait for the elevator, along with several other people.

“It’s on the sixth floor,” I say.

A man replies, “No, it’s on the tenth floor.”

We get in the elevator and are taken to the sixteenth floor.

“We’re both wrong,” the man says.

“Yes, but I had the six and you had the ten,” I tell him.

When we get off on the sixteenth floor I’m not home at all. Rather, I’m at a large banquet hall with several round tables set up for poker. I have arrived at a Poker & Pizza benefit for a Women’s History Museum.

I find my old roommate Bill waiting for me at one of the tables, then I go to the buffet line and get a large slice with pepperoni.

Before returning to my seat, I try to hang a portrait of Eleanor Roosevelt on the wall, but I’m having trouble with the nail. I look at picture frame and see that it contains two pictures, one of Eleanor and one of Gloria Steinem. They don’t fit well together and I decide it is too tacky to hang.

I go out on the window ledge to retrieve what I believe to be a superior portrait of Eleanor, climb back inside and hang it on the wall. Just as I finish hanging the portrait, I hear the crowd inside the hall scream with anticipation as the music begins for the evening’s entertainment.

As I hear the first few notes of Barbra Streisand’s disco hit “The Main Event,” I rush in to find my seat in the bleachers. The poker tables now gone, the entire room has been transformed from a banquet hall into a large indoor stadium.

I find Bill in the bleachers as the lights come up to reveal Barbra on stage. I criticize her performance of “The Main Event” for being decidedly behind the beat.

There is no floor space in the stadium. It’s all been taken up by the giant stage and enormous Art Deco sets that fly in and out, including one that looks like the lobby of a hotel with an ornate gold caged elevator.

Barbra next sings an emotional version of “People,” and I start to warm to her performance. She follows this with a tear drenched version of “I’ve Stayed Too Long At The Fair,” during which she climbs into the bleachers to sign autographs.

As Barbra returns to the stage, my entire section, in a swell of emotion that seems to say, “NO, no, you haven’t stayed too long at the fair,” rushes toward the lip of the stage. Knowing this would upset Barbra, I do not join them.

“What are you doing!” a security guard screams as he implores everyone back to their seats. “You can’t come at her like that. You know how skittish she is.”

The length of the stage now contains an ancient Roman bath with marble columns and jewel encrusted archways. Barbra swims across the water, emerging fully dressed in a lavish golden sheath.

A video screen flashes pictures from Barbra’s life and her many loves, including Warren Beatty.

To close her show, Barbra ascends once again into my bleacher section. Wearing a dark cloak, she is heavily made up, looking like a very old woman, or maybe even a witch. She stands directly in front of me, places her hand on my shoulders and looks me square in the eye as she sings.

I start to cry and think to myself, “This is the happiest moment of my entire life. It’s like seeing the face of God.”

WHAT'S PHILADELPHIA GOT TO DO WITH IT?

October 22, 2007

I’m visiting family in the small town where I grew up outside of Philadelphia. I take a taxi down town to meet a friend for dinner, but the taxi lets me off in the wrong part of town.

I find myself on the top of a hill overlooking what I would describe as a long and winding road. As I desperately try to flag down another cab, I begin screaming at the drivers that won’t stop to pick me up, and I am almost run over more than once.

I notice three college age men standing on the sidewalk waiting for a bus. I recognize one of them as someone I knew many years ago. As we start to chat, we see Miss Tina Turner walking down the hill on the other side of the street. She’s all done up in a short, shiny, flesh colored dress.

“Tina! Tina,” we start to shout. She looks over at us, waves, gives us a big smile, and, in her faux British accent, says, “Hello!”

“We love you,” I scream.

“What’s love got to do with it,” she asks.

“I love that song you did with Herbie,” I continue. You should record a whole album with him. Where are you going?”

“I’m on my way to my concert. You should come see me.”

“I can’t, I don’t have the money, and I’ve already seen you three times in my lifetime. Maybe when you come to New York. When will you be in New York?”

“I just played New York. We’re on our way to Lucerne after this.”

She continues on her way down the hill. The college boys and I sing very loudly in Tina’s general direction, “WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO, GOT TO DO WITH IT.” She turns around to wave once more before she goes.

A cab finally stops to pick me up and a middle aged married couple tries to steal it from me. We decide to share the taxi, but there doesn’t seem to be a driver. The car speeds down the hill, then up a ramp and onto a red wooden structure that looks sort of like a roller coaster. A voice from a loud speaker tells us that since this bridge is now privately owned by a corporation, “only Frank Sinatra music will be played on this bridge, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

I’m back on the sidewalk and I’ve caught up with Tina just outside of the stadium where she is to perform. Like a pied piper, she has gathered a crowd along the way, including back up dancers, reporters, and fans.

While being interviewed live by the local Fox affiliate, one of Tina’s male dancers suggests she sing a song. The dancers and I harmonize in the background as Tina sings, but as I am closest to the microphone, it is mostly my humming that is heard. The reporter is decidedly unhappy.

After the camera turns off, Tina’s smile disappears. She is calm but angry as she addresses the dancer who suggested the song.

“Don’t you ever put me in that position again.”

He has an attitude with a capital “A”. “Please. Don’t put your insecurities on me.”

I walk into the stadium with the crowd, find a seat, and wait for the concert to begin.

A SALAAM ALEIKUM, MR. PRESIDENT

October 22, 2007

This only qualifies as a celebrity dream because of a brief cameo by America’s favorite dictator.

I’m at a beach house with two people who are supposed to be my parents, but who bear absolutely no resemblance to my real life parents. The woman sports a blonde beehive hairdo and a polyester blend Hawaiian print shirt.

We are hosting two female visitors from Iraq. Dressed in traditional Muslim garb, their entire bodies are covered save for their eyes. The women are here to learn about America as part of an exchange program.

We are sitting around the living room watching television when George W. Bush appears on the screen to accuse all Americans who disagree with his policies of being unpatriotic traitors.

I take the younger of the two women into my bedroom to get her away from the television and Bush’s poisonous message.

“Why do all Americans engage in pornography?” she asks.

“They don’t, they don’t. It’s just, well, it’s available if people want it,” I tell her.

I show her two black and white pictures of my friends Michael and Tim sitting in a field. She points to Tim and says, “Is he a gay? He looks like he’s a gay.”

“No, no. He’s not gay,” I lie.

“Are you sure? Tell me. I am bound to meet one sometime.”

“Okay, yes, they are a couple.”

She starts screaming and runs to the living room to tell her friend. They are both fairly hysterical, yelling that they want to go back to Iraq right away. I argue with the slightly older woman, I even threaten to hurt her if she doesn’t stop screaming, which of course only makes her scream louder. I apologize for threatening her. They both continue to scream.

My dad and I hustle them down the front stairs, where we pass my beehived mother.

“Where are you going at this hour?” she asks.

“You stay here, we’ll be right back,” my clearly flustered father tells her as we wrestle the screaming women into the back of a car.

Suddenly, my Dad and I are at the airport with the two women. They are much calmer now. As I walk the younger woman to the front of a ticket line, the older woman, who has removed her veil, stands several feet behind us. There is an anxious look in her eye.

I walk over to her and quietly ask, “What is it? Don’t you want to go?”

“No. I want asylum,” she whispers while waving to the younger girl to indicate everything is okay and that she’ll be along in just a moment.

I become aware that there are undercover government officials from both the United States and Iraq surrounding us. The Americans have been alerted to be prepared for the possibility of up to two defectors.

“All you have to do,” I tell the woman, “is yell ‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary!’”

I REALLY DON'T LOVE LUCY

October 19, 2007

I’m sitting with two elderly women and an elderly gentleman in the front row of a theatre where we’ve just finished watching a play. As we get up to go, I leave my book bag on the floor because I believe we are coming right back.

The theatre is located on the lower floors of a grand old hotel. My little theatre party gets on the elevator to head back to our room, which is actually the apartment of the oldest of the women, who turns out to be the mother of the elderly man; the other woman is his second wife.

The older woman explains to her daughter-in-law that the family used to live next door to my family back when the first wife was still alive. She mentions the first wife just to be hurtful and I notice a flicker of sadness flash across the daughter-in-law's face.

The passive aggressive behavior of the mother-in-law has made me uncomfortable so I tell her, “I’m going back down to the theatre to get my bag.”

The mother-in-law hands me a wet one-piece ladies' bathing suit with the top half turned inside out, exposing two beige colored foam support cups. She asks if I would drop it off down the hall on my way out.

I take the bathing suit and head down the hall. A woman stops me and offers to make the delivery for me. She is slightly menacing, but she backs down quickly when I tell her firmly, “No, I will deliver it myself.”

I come upon a mustard brown colored door with a gold name plate. The name plate reads “Lucille Ball.”

I knock on the door and after a moment a woman in a white bathrobe with a matching towel covering her face opens the door. I can tell by the tuft of brittle red hair peeking out from her towel that it is indeed Lucille Ball.

“I have your suit,” I say.

“Come in, come in,” she growls.

The damp suit is dripping on the rug.

“It’s almost dry,” I tell her, “would you like me to hang it in the bathroom for you?”

“No, I’ll do it. Just leave it there.”

She has me hang it on the back of the vanity chair in which she is now seated. She looks at me as if to say, “Well, is that it?” But I can’t help myself. I feel I must say something...but what?

I think to myself, “I never really liked her, but I can’t say that.”

I decide to lie. “You know how everyone always says, ‘I love Lucy, I love Lucy?’”

“Yes,” she says, barely tolerating my presence.

“Well, I do, I really do.”

“Thank you,” she responds, in a voice that says “I’ve heard this bunk a thousand times before.”

“But I really love Lucie Arnaz,” I tell her excitedly. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve just always loved her.”

I want to tell Lucille that she did a good job raising her daughter, but then my thoughts spin out of control as I remember that she actually has two children and that maybe I should say she also did a good job with her son. “But then again,” I think, “there was that whole mess with Patty Duke, and wasn’t Desi Jr. a drug addict, and wouldn’t that be another lie if I said she’d done a good job with him?”

“Yeah, basically you raised two great kids,” I tell her, having opted to lie again. “I‘ve always liked Lucie, on TV, in movies and plays, books, just wherever she goes.”

She’s really had enough of me. “Yeah, well, now I’d like to go wherever, so could ya…”

Her voice trails off as she indicates the door with a snap of her head. I think to myself, “What a fucking bitch.”

A BRIEF HISTORY OF FILM

October 16, 2007

I’m on a bus with a bunch of college students. A female announcer tells us we’re on our way to pick up a very special guest and then whisk her away to a ceremony where she will be honored. As our bus pulls into a parking lot, we see the woman waiting to be picked up. It’s Angelica Houston.

I start to applaud when I see her, and a few other boys on the bus follow my lead. A butch looking girl yells at me.

"Don't clap, she's not even on the bus yet. Faggot."

"Stupid dyke," I mutter under my breath.

John Waters, who is also on our bus, tells us that part of Angelica’s surprise is that she gets to be in his new movie, and that she “doesn’t even have to wear make up!” He plans to film her in her natural state.

Angelica, who is dressed smartly in a green suede mini skirt and matching jacket, with a leopard print blouse and shoes, seems unaware of the bus. She is escorted into the back of an emergency response vehicle, which will be used to transport her to the ceremony. The back of the vehicle is made completely of glass so that those of us on the bus can observe Angelica as we follow behind.

The vehicle also contains two identical strippers with blond hair, dressed as nurses with the top buttons of their uniforms opened widely, exposing their lacy undergarments. Angelica is confused by their presence, but seems genuinely game to go along for the adventure.

As the bus follows the emergency response vehicle up the street, I find my self hanging on to the bumper of the ERV, being dragged along like a kid bumper hitching in the snow. I peer through the glass to get a better look at Angelica, but I’m careful to hide my head when she looks my way so that she doesn’t feel preyed upon.

At the hall where the ceremony is taking place, Angelica begins a lecture on the history of film and the “millions of images” she’s assembled into a “cinematic mosaic.” As she speaks, her body jerks around like Joe Cocker or Patti Smith, and I momentarily think of Candy Slice, the Smith-like character Gilda Radner played on “Saturday Night Live.”

Her body jerks more and more violently, until she no longer resembles herself, but instead looks an awful lot like Catherine O’Hara. Catherine disappears quickly, and I see that the stage is filled with movie memorabilia: costumes, props, magazines, head shots, scripts, etc. The woman in charge of the display is Kathleen Turner.

As she tries to sell her wares, Kathleen speaks nostalgically about old movies. I muster up my courage to ask a question.

“You must have something there from one of your movies…Maybe ‘Peggy Sue Got Married?’”

“Why, yes, I have something right here.”

She displays a white peasant blouse adorned with colorfully embroidered flowers, incredibly bright greens, and reds, and oranges. Next, she hands me a pair of enormous clunky metal earrings.

“These were made for my character when she got out of rehab by Zelda, played by the great Barbara Harris,” she tells me.*

“How much?” I ask.

“Twenty five pieces of silver. I’ll send someone to pick up the money tomorrow.”

Accompanied by a male classmate, I scurry out of the hall with the earrings. As we leave, the earrings become larger and more colorful, almost like tree ornaments. I ask my classmate, “Do you think she meant twenty five cents or twenty five dollars?”

We make our way to the Whole Foods in the basement of the hall. The earrings have now morphed from ornaments into large tin basins with brightly painted scenes. I think to myself, “a cat could sleep in here, but it would need a cushion from the rough edges.”

I pick up a plastic container of chocolate chip cookies and brownies, but decide not to buy them because of the dead roach stuck to the bottom of the plastic.
____________________________________

*Although the "great Barbara Harris" was indeed in "Peggy Sue Got Married," her character's name was Evelyn, not Zelda. And Peggy Sue didn't go to rehab either.

A VERY SPECIAL EPISODE

October 16, 2007

It’s a Thursday night, and I’m hanging out in the lobby of what seems to be a hotel crossed with a college dorm. Several frat boys mill about drinking beer and watching football. One enormously tall, muscular boy in a blue oxford shirt knocks on our door and asks to see a girl who lives on the second floor. He goes up the stairs to find her, and most of the other guys follow him.

“Now I can watch what I want,” I say to myself. I grab the remote from the beer soaked coffee table and change the channel. I come across a talk show hosted by Dolly Parton, but this does not interest me. Then I remember it’s Thursday. I change the channel once again. It’s time for “ER”.

On the screen I see Maura Tierney as Dr. Abby Lockhart, just like every other week. Tonight, however, there is a very special episode. Dr Lockhart is wearing army fatigues with a red cross stitched to the front of her cap. She stands next to a large olive green tent, flanked by a man who is also wearing fatigues. Really, it looks like she’s been plopped into the middle of an episode of “M*A*S*H”.

The man says something to Abby about not having enough courage.

She responds quietly, “War makes people courageous.”

Two Pops & a Funny Girl

September 17. 2007

My Dad and I have traveled back in time. It's New York City, a chilly Sunday night in 1964. We've gone to Carnegie Hall to hear Louis Armstrong play. The concert is being hosted by a young Valerie Harper. I think to myself, "Geeze, was she famous enough in 1964 to be at Carnegie Hall with Louis Armstrong?"

As the concert nears its conclusion, Louis and his band make a joyful noise to accompany the crowd into the cold night, but strangely, they are no longer on the stage. Instead, they stand at the back of the house, behind the last row. With the back exits blocked by the band, the audience, including me and my Dad, stream forward, toward the stage, where we find additional exits.

Once we're out into the darkness of Seventh Avenue, my Dad and I walk west toward Broadway. I tell him I want to go down to the Winter Garden Theatre so I can see the "Funny Girl" marquee.*
We walk a few blocks down Broadway, directly into the wind. Still a few blocks from the theatre, we see the giant marquee, but we are barely able to make out the show's logo (the upside down girl standing on her head) because all the lights at the theatre have been shut off. The concert had gotten out too late, sometime after midnight it would seem, but still we are happy to have made the trek.
* "Funny Girl" did indeed open at the Winter Garden in 1964.


After a little research, I could not find any evidence that Louis Armstrong played Carnegie Hall in 1964. However, in the Spring of 1947 he recorded concerts at both Carnegie Hall and the Winter Garden Theatre just one month apart.

SIGOURNEY MAKES HER MOVE

October 11, 2007

I'm standing in the lobby of a movie theatre with a friend. The lobby is large and multi leveled, with very modern balconies and staircases. We seem to be confused about what movie we're going to see, what time it starts, and whether or not we actually have tickets.

Sigourney Weaver crosses an elevated walkway a few feet above us. She's dressed in a red woman's suit. Our eyes meet for a moment, and she continues on her way, apparently searching for her date. A few minutes later, she returns, takes me by the hand saying, "Come on." I look at my friend apologetically, as if to say, "You're on your own. You don't really expect me to pass up a movie date with Sigourney Weaver, do you?"

Sigourney and I stroll into the theatre and find our seats near the back of the sloped auditorium. The film begins. The title is a boy's name--Lenny or Louis or something like that. It turns out to be a film in which Sigourney actually appears. She starts to comment loudly about the film and her costars. I feel embarrassed, but Sigourney seems indifferent to the other patrons.

She tries to hold my hand, and though it feels awkward, I let her.

"Are you gay?" she asks.

"Yes, I am," I reply.

She laughs almost dismissively, as if to say, "well, that wont stop me!" She tightens her grip on my hand, fiercely determined to make a success of our date.