Too Hungry For Dinner At Eight...

April 25, 2008

It's the Friday night after Thanksgiving and I'm out on the town with my friend Timmy, my sister Kathleen, and my parents. We're milling around the mezzanine of a large nightclub. We seem to be simultaneously attending a music festival and an art gallery opening. People are dancing and drinking on the upper level and checking out the paintings on the lower level while a band plays nearby. I find the music loud and unpleasant and want to leave as soon as possible.

I am no longer in the nightclub. For a moment I am disoriented and unsure of my surroundings. I'm propped up in an overstuffed leather chair while women in lab coats attend to me. Now I know where I am; it's the Elizabeth Arden salon and I'm here to receive a very unusual makeover. I'm being transformed into Ella Fitzgerald so I can return to the music festival and show the crowd what real music sounds like. As I lean back to have my face worked on I hear the stains of "The Lady Is A Tramp" and start to sing along.

As I continue singing, I find myself atop a moss covered hill at dusk entertaining a large crowd of onlookers. They don't seem particularly attentive or appreciative, but still I'm having a great time as I alter the lyrics for the occasion:

Tell Lizzie Arden To Leave Me Alone--

My Breasts Are Fake But My Hair Is My Own

That's Why This Lady Is A Tramp!

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I know this seems unusual, and I guess it is, but I often hear music in my dreams and I do occasionally become someone else, which always leaves me a little confused. As for Ella, anyone who knows me can I attest that I do listen to an awful lot of her music, and she recorded this particular song a number of times--I have at least four versions. The lyric Ella usually sang went like this:

Girls Get Massages, They Cry And They Moan

Tell Lizzie Arden To Leave Me Alone

I'm Not So Hot But My Shape Is My Own

...Just To Have A Laugh or Sing A (Christmas) Song

August, 2008

It's about eight o'clock on a snowy New Year's Eve. I'm having dinner in a dimly lit French restaurant with my pal J-Ro. The meal is over and I step outside and leave J-R0 to deal with the check.

There is a brisk wind, but it is refreshing after the stuffy restaurant. In the tree lined square across from the restaurant, I find myself seated on a bench nibbling on a blueberry muffin.

J-Ro emerges from the eatery and we stroll the desolate, snowy streets until we come upon a used record shop. We wander in and casually look through stacks of old albums. We are on opposite sides of the shop when something catches my eye in the $2 bargain bin.

"Look, look what I found," I call excitedly to J-Ro as I wave my new found treasure high in the air, "It's a Carol Burnett Christmas album!"

I am overcome with a quiet joy and a feeling that this will be the best New Year ever.

And Parker Posey As...

July, 2008

I'm in a hotel in Northern California with my cousin Marty. We've been to a famil reunion and it's the last day of our trip. In fact, Marty is packed to go and quickly heads out the door. My flight isn't for a few hours so I stay behind.

I step into the bathroom to wash my hands. In the tub I notice the rubber duck I played with as a child, also named Marty--cousin Marty had very blonde hair as a child, as did Marty the Duck. There's some noise in the hallway, the sound of barking dogs. I look out the peep hole but decide against opening the door.

All the blinds are closed and the room is very dark, except for a small table lamp. I sit on the bed and turn on the TV to pass the time. A movie is just starting and I am confused as I feel I am in the movie at the same time I am watching it. The opening credits begin to play over a long aeriel shot of Provincetown, Massachusetts that winds its way through the streets, finally zooming down to street level and settling in on the front window of a small restaurant. There is a woman with an extremely dignified air seated by the window having tea. I think I recognize her when the movie credits confirm my suspicion:

And

Parker Posey

as Eleanor Roosevelt