Not As Funny As Rossellini

November 17, 2007

I’m roaming the Irish countryside with my cousin Shelly on a typically grey Irish morning. Suddenly, I’m not in Ireland anymore. I am now in the humble London flat of Elaine Stritch.

As the sun prepares to set outside, I carry a tray of tea from the kitchen to the sitting room where Elaine is watching TV.

“Let’s have some music, huh,” she tells me as she shuts off the television and turns on the stereo to play some classical music. Elaine tells me the composer’s name, but I can’t recall it.

“You were really funny on 30 Rock,” I tell her. “But not as funny as Isabella Rossellini.”

“Yeah, that crowd really knows what they’re doing over there.”

We have a detailed discussion on the number of camera setups used for any given scene on the show. “It’s a hell of a lot of work,” she says matter of factly.

“Hey, I got this for you,” Elaine tells me as she hands me my hometown paper, The Philadelphia Inquirer.

As I tare into this little slice of home, I realize that Elaine’s motives may not have been completely altruistic. On the front page of the Arts & Entertainment section there is a lengthy profile of…Elaine Stritch.

JONI THE MENACE

November 12, 2007

I’m standing at the butcher counter of a small town supermarket. I’m ordering a sandwich for myself and one for Joni Mitchell, who is standing next to me.

“I named a sandwich after you,” I tell her.

“You did?”

“Yep. Remember that time you had that special cheese? I think you called it Reuten. You said it was your favorite cheese and you let me try a piece.”

“I remember,” she responds.

“Well, the sandwich is Reuten cheese and boiled ham. Dennis the Menace use to love boiled ham. ‘Jeepers, Mrs. Wilson, I’m hungry. I want a boiled ham sandwich,’ he used to say.”

Joni is perplexed.

“So you know what I call the sandwich? It’s a Joni The Menace!”

A few minutes later we’re in the driveway of my childhood home. Joni and her friend are looking for a good place to light their bong. I direct her to a spot in the back yard, right up against the house.

I’m carrying a tube of spice filled water for Joni. I recoil at its strange odor.

“That water is special…for the bong,” she tells me.

Joni is here to work on a commissioned piece—an opera. She tells me she expects to finish some time in June. She’s been having trouble on a section dealing with the struggle of small children to communicate their needs to adults. I suggest that one of the obstacles to clear communication is that for a child every desire is of equal importance. Hence, every request they make is made with equal intensity, which results in small children screaming all the time.

This seems to inspire Joni and she asks if there is a room where she can work.

“You can use the bedroom upstairs on the left. It’s very hot up there unless you use the air conditioner,” I tell her.

(JUDGE) JUDY'S TURN TO CRY

November 1, 2007

I’m in a high school auditorium. There is a black tie salute to high profile natives of the town where I grew up. The first one is George Takei* from “Star Trek.” A live shot of his face appears on a giant video screen above the stage.

I think to myself, “I better get ready for my close-up. I wonder if it’ll be like at the Oscars with five heads in little boxes as they announce my name.”

At the reception following the ceremony, there are trays of food and drinks being passed around. Judge Judy mills about, her hair frosted, a glass of white wine in her hand. She begins an impromptu speech saluting one of the honorees.

My sister Kay interrupts the Judge, doing a spot-on imitation of the man Judy is toasting, a local political buffoon.

Suddenly, the mood turns very nasty. “You are way out of your league talking about him.”

I am enraged at Judy’s audacity. “What did you say to her? What did you say?”

I get right in her face and become very menacing. “Who the hell are you? You’re nobody. Nobody cares what you think? And…and…I can’t even say it, it’s so mean.”

“What? What can’t you say,” Judy asks me.

As security guards drag me from the room, I scream, “Whoever told you that your hair looks good with frosted streaks is a God-damned liar!”

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*George Tekai was born in Los Angeles, not Pennsylvania. I looked it up.

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING ERNEST...AND TOVA

August 25, 2007

Gloria Steinem and I are surveying the view of the bay as boats glide in and out of the harbor. We are weekend guests at the Bronx Summer home of Ernest and Tova Borgnine.

As we wait for the couple to greet us, I can’t help but notice Ernest’s Oscar and Tony Awards.* I debate whether to risk touching the trophies or not.

As I make my way toward the Tony, Tova and Ernest make their entrance from atop a modest wooden staircase. We barely have a chance to say hello before other guests start to arrive. Apparently the Borgnines are hosting some sort of liberal fundraiser, which is why Gloria has agreed to be there.

I spend several minutes mingling, waiting for the right moment to tell Tova that I remember seeing her on “The Mike Douoglas Show” hawking her cosmetics line when I was a kid. “Oh, don’t say that,” I think. “That’ll make her feel old.”

The Borgnines' son, who apparently is a doctor still dressed in his scrubs, makes his way to a small stage where he is set to help honor Ernest for his humanitarian work.

There are two rather large trophies perched upon two separate podiums. One trophy is round and sphere like and boasts an oversized Tony insignia, the masks of comedy and tragedy. The other trophy, from Actor’s Equity, is called the King Lear Award. It features a sculpture of lear sitting on his thrown with a stone wall behind him.

I see a petite woman I once worked with, an intense young law student who rarely smiled. We chat politely, and then I walk away.

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I don't think he ever won a Tony, but he does have an Oscar.