Edge of Sixty Six-Six

Stevie Nicks, Born May 26, 1948

I have to admit I don't know all that much about Stevie Nicks, especially relative to what I know about most people whose music I like. However, I do know that just like Joan Cusack in School of Rock, I totally lose my shit whenever "Edge of Seventeen" comes on the radio. (And yes, "lose my shit" is my new catchphrase.)

The summer I graduated from high school I should have been focused on my job babysitting three young bothers, including a hyper active eight year old with a fondness for setting fires, but alas I spent most of the summer glued to MTV. They played Stevie's video for "Stand Back" just about every hour. I was obsessed with it. It had everything;  lots of twirling and shawls (of course!) and  a sexy male dancer in baggy pants and Capezios. Plus Stevie rocking out on a neon lit treadmill perched on an incline.

Given all that, really, how could I have been expected to pay much attention to those no neck little monsters? I suppose I  am lucky that the little pyromaniac didn't set the rooms all on fire (to borrow a phrase from Stevie) while I was busy practicing my twirling.

Snap Out Of It!

I am far too sentimental for my own good, and I think most people who know me would agree. But I can't help it, it's part of who I am. For instance, when I think of Cher, who happens to be turning 68 today, I can instantly access personal associations. Like the time when I was eight and my grandmother was babysitting and I absolutely forbid her to change the channel until the little cartoon video of Cher singing "Dark Lady" had finished playing on The Sonny & Cher Show. Nanny wanted to watch Cold Turkey with Dick Van Dyke. We had a bit of a war of wills. Deep down I knew I should not have been arguing with her, that I should have let take charge of the TV, but I mean, my God, it was Cher! It was Dark Lady! It was a cheesy animated music video!

My other memory of Cher is a little more bittersweet. The last time I spoke with my mom, I had been to see Moonstruck the night before. My mom didn't get to the movies very often, and so I relayed the plot to her in great detail. She seemed to enjoy the Cinderella like transformation I described and said something along the lines of  "that sounds just like that crazy Cher."

Cher is someone who is very easy to make fun of, from the abundance of plastic surgery, the sequins, the feathers, the distinctive but not really accomplished singing voice. Everybody does it, it's just too easy not to, and I am no exception. Even so, she is a survivor and a force of nature, far more than just a punchline draped in Bob Mackie, and I have a very soft (i.e far too sentimental) spot in my heart for that crazy Cher.

Philomena

Dame Judi Dench and Zombie Judi Dench

I finally saw Philomena a few weeks ago. It had everything; nuns, Irish people, old ladies, gays, politics, and its core, an odd couple who learn and grown from each other.

It's fun to see someone as worldly as Dame Judi Dench play a working class woman, but you never get the feeling that she's slumming or just putting on an act. She gives a really beautiful, nuanced performance, and of course she handles the brogue flawlessly. 

Something happened when I drew her. I was a little heavy handed trying to age her, and she started to look like a zombie. I did manage to tone it down in Photoshop, but I have to admit I kind of like Zombie Judi Dench.

The Boxer

So I've been doodling a lot of boys this week. Oh dear, that doesn't sound right at all. Let me try again: I've been making sketches of men this week, and I'm finding much to my surprise that they are kind of fun to draw. This is one I did this morning while thinking of a friend who was having a tough day.

Chanel Number 3

May 11, 2014

This has nothing to do with Mother's Day. I just found myself thinking about Jacqueline Kennedy today. Actually, that's not even true. I found myself thinking about her pink Chanel suit and pillbox hat. It's at once an iconic fashion moment and a symbol of a great national tragedy. Plus it always makes me think of a box of Good 'N' Plenties.

Mommie Dearest

Happy Mother's Day to all of you Mothers

A Rush Of Boys To The Head

WARNING: The following dream, while not really dirty, is in questionable taste.

4/26/14

I'm attending a party at an Irish pub. It seems to be a family event, as I notice several of my cousins. Chris Martin from Coldplay is playing the piano and singing. He stops to take a bathroom break. I'm standing by the bathroom door. He nods his head as he passes me and goes into the restroom.

I want to follow him in but I'm nervous. I look around to make sure no one is watching. I enter the bathroom with the express purpose of spying a peak at Chris Martin's junk. He's just standing there and I have a perfect opportunity at an unobstructed view, but I'm overcome by an unexpected wave of decency and pass up my chance to see Chris Martin's junk.

The next day I walk into a barber shop for a shave. Chris Martin is standing by an empty barber's chair, and gestures for me to come sit. No one seems to recognize him. Without words I realize that he has decided to live a quieter life incognito as a barber. Silently, I agree to keep his secret.

#chrismartin

Oh My G-yod

Today is Christine Baranski's birthday. If Barbra's birthday is Easter/Yom Kipur and Christmas all rolled into one, Christine's birthday is more like the Feast of the Ascension; we happily acknowledge it, but we don't totally lose our shit over it.

Still, I figure this is a good time to tell the story about the day I met her. It was a grey and cloudy Veteran's Day in the late '90s. I was crossing Lexington Avenue at 74th Street (just a block away from where I ran into Carly Simon a few years earlier) with my late friend Mel. About halfway through the intersection she starts talking literally out of the side of her mouth.

"Theresmizzbarnsky."

"What?" I had no idea what she was saying.

"Theresmizzbaransky" she repeated.

"WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?" I snapped.

She pulled me close to her until her mouth was right up to my ear.

"There's Miss Baranski!" she over-enunciated into my ear.

"Oh my God, Oh My God."

"Be cool, be cool," Mel instructed me.

Five seconds later we were standing next to the Tony and Emmy winner waiting for the light to change. I wanted to say hello so badly, but I know the rules. I really did not want to bother her, so I stood there with all the impatience and strained self control my dog shows when I make him sit before giving him a treat. After about ten seconds I thought, "Isn't this light ever going to change?" I couldn't bear it any longer, and so without thinking I darted out into the crosswalk before the light changed.

Mel, who was clearly much calmer than I, literally grabbed me by the scuff of my neck and pulled me out of the path of an oncoming taxi, bouncing me back onto the sidewalk about two inches from Christine Baranski.

Fuck it.

"Well, I didn't want to bother you, but since I just almost got killed trying not to bother you, I might as well say hello."

"Oh my God," Christine Baranski said to me, but it was more like, "Oh my G-yod!"

She was very nice. We chatted for about a minute. I told her about the time I saw her at an AIDS benefit singing a number about how she lusted after Howdy Doody.

"Oh my G-yod! You saw THAT?!"

I told her I hoped she would come back to the theatre soon.

"I'm on my way to see a play right now!" she smiled and she quickly headed up Lexington Ave in her high-wasted tweed Katherine Hepburn pants.

She was funny, well dressed, and personable when she didn't have to me. Come to think of it, maybe her birthday is a day to totally lose my shit.

May Day, May Day!