Gentlemen Prefer Gingers

Saturday June 1 marks Marilyn Monroe's 87th birthday. She's certainly a cultural icon and an interesting performer, but this post isn't really about her. It's about what she reminds me of, which is the summer I spent with my Great Aunt Margaret just outside of London. It wasn't really a summer, just two weeks in July and two weeks in August many years ago, but it made a lasting impression.

Aunt Margaret was my grandmother's youngest sister, though they did not really grow up together, as my grandmother was thirteen years older and left their village in Western Ireland for America when Margaret was just five or six. Eventually Margaret left as well, settling in London where she found work as a nurse during World War II. 

I first met her when she and another sister who had settled in London, my Great Aunt Anne, visited America for the Bicentennial. They were rosy cheeked, buxom middle aged women, and I found them fascinating, so much like my Nanny, but somehow different, foreign...always laughing, smiling, winking, drinking gin. Not that Nanny wasn't fun, but I think their natural charm combined with their novelty made them pretty irresistible. 

In the fall of 1986 Margaret (who was the first person to ever call me "ginger-headed") visited again, this time by herself. Anne was unwell and would soon pass on. Margaret arrived just as my grandmother suffered a mild heart attack, and she helped nurse her back to health during her stay.

One evening I paid them a visit at Nanny's apartment, and along with a few elderly aunts from my grandfather's side of the family, we spent the night playing cards. I peppered Aunt Margaret with questions about London, particularly the theatre scene. "Come visit. Anytime you like," she told me.

Well, that was all the encouragement I needed. I started saving every penny I could for my trip, and nine short months later, there I was being met by Aunt Margaret at Gatwick's international gate.

London was everything I'd hoped it would be--great museums, theatre (Diana Rigg in Follies on my birthday was a highlight) Hyde Park, Madame Tussaud's, day trips to Dover, Brighton, and more. It was all great, but it's the time I spent with Aunt Margaret that has meant so much to me over the years.

I was pretty skinny that summer, and like any wonderful old relative she never stopped trying to feed me. Tea, scones, digestive biscuits, lots of grilled fish, enormous breakfasts, and my most favorite--rhubarb tart with rhubarbs picked from her own garden, covered with a homemade custard. Every time I complimented a dish she'd smile and say the same thing in her lilting brogue, "Oh, it's ever so easy to make!"

One day I came home from a local record shop with the out of print London cast recording of Gypsy with Angela Lansburry. Aunt Margaret got it into her head that Gypsy Rose Lee was buried in a churchyard cemetery on the outskirts of London and convinced her son Kevin to drive us around for hours on a Saturday looking for it. For the record, she's buried in Inglewood, California, but we didn't know that then and so we soldiered on, taking in several old churches along the way. 

Aunt Margaret was part of her neighborhood watch. Once a month or so she'd have to stay up all night to keep lookout on her block. While I was visiting her turn came so I told her I would stay up with her. It happened to fall on the 25th anniversary of Marilyn Monroe's death, and the BBC was showing her movies all night long. While we should have been protecting Gilbert Road we were watching Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Bus Stop, and How to Marry a Millionaire. Every once in a while during a commercial break one of us would get up, pull back the lace curtain and give a perfunctory peak out the window. 

Being somewhat removed from our immediate family, as well as a healthcare professional, I guess it was easier for Margaret to speak freely, and so she was the first relative to ever ask me about my mother, to acknowledge, and to help me acknowledge, that there was something wrong, that her life was a daily struggle for stability. It was a brief conversation, but it was a huge gesture.

One morning as the end of my trip was nearing, Aunt Margaret reached into her jewelry box and pulled out a simple gold pin with a dark green square stone. She squeezed it into my hand saying, "bring this home for your mom."   I still have and treasure it.

I don't feel like this post is quite doing her justice, but I absolutely adored my Aunt Margaret, and I'm all at once sentimental and euphoric whenever I see Gentlemen Prefer Blondes...or eat a rhubarb tart. I hear they're ever so easy to make.

Gypsy, Tramp, and Thief

                                               

Whoa! If this doesn't make you feel old, I don't know what will. The ever youthful Cher is 67 years old today. Of course it's easier to be ever youthful if you replace your parts every now and then.

The first 45 I ever bought was Cher's Dark Lady, that classic tale of an adulterous fortune teller and the wife who would have her revenge. Heady stuff for an 8 year old.

Beep Beep, Toot Toot: Remembering a Bad Girl

                         

Unfortunately I don't have a lot of time to write today, but I wanted to acknowledge the one year anniversary of the passing of the Queen of Disco, Miss Donna Summer.

There are two people whom I passed up chances to see in concert thinking I'd get another opportunity that never came: Nina Simone and Donna Summer. 

I don't have a particular connection with her, but I do enjoy her music immensely  and once I dreamt I saw her at a wedding. She left her sweater on the back of her chair while she went to the lady's room. Without hesitation, I stole the sweater just so I could pretend I had found it and return it to her.

This post is dedicated to my friend John S. who loves Donna as much as I love Barbra...and to the closet Donna Summer fan in my life...you know who you are!!

Because W're All Cool Kids

                               

Fuck you Abercrombie.

THE DOCTOR IS OUT

I woke up at about 3 AM this morning, as I often do, and decided to go on line to read the Irish Sports Page, also known as the New York Times obituary section. I guess it's not for nothing that they have that moniker as this son of County Mayo (well, grandson of County Mayo) always goes to the obituaries first.

This morning I read about the late Dr. Joyce Brothers, and a couple of things struck me. First, I never realized she was such an academic with degrees from Cornell and Columbia, and that she actually did help people, including several suicidal callers to her early radio and TV programs. By the time I was aware of her, I thought of her as kind of a punchline ("hey, Dr. Joyce Brothers, flick that sweat ball off your nose...what are you trying to do, make me sick!!"), or doling out quips on The Hollywood Squares, or What's My Line?

It got me to thinking about my own psychologist, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Dr. Brothers, with her short blonde hair, prominent front teeth and droopy eyelids. Lowenstein, as I liked to refer to her when discussing my sessions (mostly with my sister) rented a series of small rooms on Manhattan's Upper West Side, each furnished with one chair, one well worn love seat, a couple of lamps, and an endless supply of Kleenex. Lowenstein was not her real name of course, but rather the name of the shrink played by Barbra Streisand in The Prince of Tides. It was just more fun to say Lowenstein, and besides, it was close enough to my doctor's actual name--they both ended in Stein.

I started seeing Dr. Lowenstein within about two weeks of seeing A Streetcar Named Desire on Broadway (see my earlier post "Jessica Lange Scares The Shit Out Of Me".) at the start of a long hot summer. I saw her off and on for almost ten years, but I never had a regular slot. She just always gave me her cancellations or if she knew someone with a regular slot was going to be out of town she'd pencil me in. Ten years and no slot of  my own. Good thing I'm not the sensitive type.

For much of the time I went to see her, Dr. Lowenstein struck me as being completely bored during our sessions. As a former performer (and a writer), I couldn't help but worry that my stories weren't holding her interest. I did finally ask her about it once.

"It's not your job to entertain me," she said. "It doesn't matter if you repeat yourself and I hear the same story over and over again."

Ouch. Honestly, why didn't she just say, "I'm not bored." That would have been a lot more reassuring. But when she told me that she hated Ethel Merman and that she thought that Anne Meara looked and smelled like a bag lady when she ran into her in the fitting room at Loehmann's, well I knew then that our days together were numbered.

I looked her up today just for fun. Well, fun is a stretch, but out of curiosity I Googled her. Twice today I mistook pictures of Dr. Joyce Brothers for Dr. Lowenstein, that's how similar they are in appearance.  I found this review of her services at one of those rate-your-doctor website: "Sour face. Sour advice. She is not helpful. Felt worse after seeing her, like I just walked into a rain cloud."

I don't want to minimize how she helped me to deal with anxiety, or how apparently revisiting the same themes in session after session allowed my heart to catch up with my head when it came to unresolved feelings of sadness and guilt surrounding my mother (yes, yes, I know I'm still visiting those themes here!) but when it was time to go, I was the one saying, "I'm sorry, our time is up, we'll have to stop now."

From time to time I've thought about starting up with another shrink, and I even tried it once for a few weeks several  years ago. But it was like being half way through watching Gone With The Wind, only to have someone come in late and keep asking, "Wait, who is Ashley? What's that girl doing on the horse? Which one's Butterfly McQueen? Is she related to Steve?" It just took too much energy and time to go over territory that had already been covered...and scorched.

Happy Mother's Day

I have not celebrated Mother's Day for a very long time. It used to just make me sad, so I tried to ignore it as much as I could. And besides, I don't really need a holiday to remember my mom, as if she weren't ever more than a few minutes from crossing my mind. 

But this year I am feeling differently, and today I am happy to think of her with a smile. That's why the illustrations are awash in purple, my favorite color, and one that always makes me feel joyous. 

My mom was quick whited, and could be biting and infuriating, but also very kind. She delighted in my clumsiness, often comparing me to Baby Huey. I know that sounds a little mean, but she always said it with a smile, with love. I imagine growing up one of seven children helped form her take-no-prisoners sense of humor.

One year for Christmas I asked for a Linda Ronstadt album. Nothing else. I unwrapped everything under the tree that was tagged "To: Jimmy From: Santa." (My mother signed all of our gifts from Santa, even when my siblings and I were well into our teens and twenties.) I tore open socks, underwear, Avon aftershave (my mother was an Avon Lady--one who somehow never left the house to make a delivery, and why should she when she could get me or my Dad or my sister to deliver the little white bags for her) and a Shirley MacLaine book I had bought myself at the mall on Christmas Eve, and then gave to my Dad to wrap and put under the tree to ease my guilt about shopping for myself so close to Christmas.

The one gift I had asked for and was excited to receive was not under the tree. I was disappointed but tried not to act bitter. After all of the wrapping paper was collected and thrown away and we were all just sitting around the tree listening to Christmas music, my mother turned to me and said, "Well, did Santa bring you everything  you wanted?" 

I tried to be grateful. I mean, I wasn't a little kid, I was eighteen. I couldn't very well throw a tantrum.

"Yeah, I guess so," I replied.

"Why don't you go into my room and look on the bed. I think maybe he left one more thing for you."

I knew right away it was the Linda Ronstadt album.  I smiled. She had gotten me. Again. 

Anyway,  that was my mom. Funny and infuriating. 

(note: the drawings are based on pictures of my mom and dad from about 10 years or so before I was born, so it's not really how I remember them, but I do love my mom's crazy hat and my dad's casual smirk.)

This Perfectly Marvelous Girl

I've been seeing Broadway plays and musicals since I was sixteen years old. Picking favorite performances and plays is tough, but there are a few that always stand out in my memory. Diana Rigg in Medea, Tyne Daly in Gypsy, a staged reading of The Normal Heart with Eric Bogosian and Stockard Channing. And many, many more. But for sheer excitement, nothing compares in my memory with seeing the sparks fly between Natasha Richardson and Liam Nesson in Eugene O'Neill's Anna Christie.

The limited run was completely sold out and I did not have a ticket. Then the producers announced a "midnight matinee" benefit performance for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights Aids, spearheaded by Richardson, who's own father had died of the disease a year or so earlier. At a hundred bucks a seat, it was pricey but it was the only way to see the hottest show in town, and it was for a good cause.

I have a pretty good memory, but I do not have anything even close to total recall when it comes to this night. Just images, like Natasha's long, beautiful hair, and her raincoat, which got quite a workout as Liam Neeson spat a fair amount in her direction during his more animated moments. But the intensity I remember, the sitting on the edge of my seat wide awake and absolutely riveted at nearly 3 AM as the play drew to a close and the cast emerged for their bows wearing those famous red ribbons, that I remember. (I also remember it was about 15 degrees outside, and so it seemed like a good idea to stop at the old Howard Johnson's on 46th St and drink half a pitcher of sangria with my friend, but I'm getting off track.)

About five years later I got to see Natasha Richardson on stage one more time in her Tony winning role as Sally Bowels in the 1998 revival of Cabaret. She did not have what I'd call a pretty singing voice, and I did not have a particularly good seat, but she blew we away just the same. Intense, naughty, sexy, mischievous, lost. Like her mother Vanessa, she seemed to have range that knew few limits, and like her Aunt Lynn (always my favorite Redgrave) a sort of pluck and gameness to try anything.

I never met Natasha Richardson, and I did not have a Clayburgh-ian type breakdown when she died, but I did find it very shocking and sad, as many people did. It was the sort of thing that's just not supposed to happen--a mother with young children bumps her head during a ski lesson, gets up and shakes it off, and hours later is brain dead. Senseless.

Seven months later I went with my friend Kevin to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine to see Vanessa Redgrave perform Joan Didion's opus on grief and loss The Year of Magical Thinking. Under the best of circumstances it would have been a difficult piece to watch, but seeing a performer whose own grief was so public, so recent, so raw made me uncomfortable. I felt more ghoulish voyeur than audience member. 

The highlight of the evening for me came before we ever set foot inside the Cathedral. We were climbing the stairs leading from the street through the yard toward the building. Walking on the dimly lit path, we careened into two adolescent boys who had stopped short on a landing to say hello to someone. Under my breath (God, I hope it really was under my breath) I muttered, "nice place to stop!" before I realized it was Natasha's two young sons greeting my favorite Redgrave, their great aunt Lynn. I fought my natural inclination to linger and ease drop and maybe meet my favorite Redgrave. As much as I wanted to be a star fucker (as my friend Michael colorfully puts it), allowing them this semiprivate moment was the right thing to do.

Aw hell, I've gotten off track again. Natasha Richardson would have been 50 years old today, May 11, 2013. I was lucky to spend one of the most exciting nights of my life watching her heat up the stage with the love of her life well into the wee hours of a frigid morning. 

She Can Cook, Too

 Nancy Walker as Rosie, the Bounty Lady in a sketch I made many years ago.

 I had to crop her hand out of the picture because honestly it made her look part lobster.

Philadelphia's own Anna Myrtle Swoyer was born on May 10, in 1922. Better known by her stage name, Nancy Walker, she introduced Bernstein songs in Brodway's On The Town, appeared on film with Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland in Girl Crazy, and became widely known for her TV work on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Rhoda, McMillan and Wife, and a string of commercials for Bounty paper towels. Late in her career she hilarioulsy played a deaf mute maid in Murder by Death and directed the Village People in the cult classic Can't Stop The Music...well, nobody gets out of show business with only roses on their resume.

When I was in 10th great I wrote the libretto and lyrics for an unproduced musical I called It's All Relative. It centered around two New York City sisters and their well meaning but overbearing mother. I worked on it for months, feeling great excitement and pride about this original idea I'd developed. It was only after I'd finished the first and only draft and reread it that I realized what I'd done...I had unwittingly written a musical based on Rhoda.

Well, I suppose there are worse ideas. As far as I can remember, not much happened. One sister overate and went to group therapy (perhaps it was a blend of Bob Newhart and Rhoda?) while the other sister pursued a career in the arts and searched for a husband, all while being tortured by their spitfire mother.

Anyway, the vastly talented Nancy Walker, all 4 foot 11 inches of her, was a very bright spot in my childhood (and not just because of her flaming red hair) and I am happy to salute her on what would have been her 91st birthday.

If you've never heard her sing, here's a treat courtesy of Youtube.