Sisters Doin' For Themselves

January 12, 2010

I am decidedly not myself; I am Sister Mary Patrick, the ebullient singing nun played by Kathy Najimy in "Sister Act." But I'm not just a singing nun. It seems I have some real power, as I am also a judge; a nun and a judge, and my courtroom is the street.

Four dew rag wearing thugs appear in the street in front of me. They are accompanied by Whoopi Goldberg, standing beside a white van, which apparently they have stolen.

"Well, well, well, what have we got here?" I ask.

"Sister, may I say something?" of the the thugs inquires.

"No, you may not." I know the van is stolen, but I pretend to think it is a donation.

"The Children will be so grateful for this gift. Now we can take them on trips. "

"The Children?" another thug asks incredulously.

"Yes, the children," I snap, "they're very grateful."

Whoopi and the thugs shake their heads in disbelief, but they submit to my will and relinquish the vehicle.

I am once again myself, but Whoopi is still with me. She joins my family in the tiny kitchen of my old 5th floor walk up apartment. We are just sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner as the afternoon sun streams through the living room window and drenches the crowded dining area.

Whoopi and I, joined by my middle brother, excuse ourselves from the table and suddenly find ourselves in the back seat of a black limousine.

The car winds its way through the snow covered hills of a local cemetery.

We're in search of my mother's tombstone, and after a few minutes we spot it at the bottom of a hill, but are unable to stop due of the pickup truck full of mafia types that is now chasing us. It is clearly unsafe to stop, and so we exit the grounds of the cemetery and head onto the highway as the sun starts to fade.

God Will Get You For That...Joni!

December 23, 2009

It's a cold, rainy Sunday night in Los Angeles. I'm inside a crowded theatre. On stage Bea Arthur is hosting a birthday party for Rue McClanahan. The party is more of a roast, with performances and toasts.

As Rue watches on from her spot on the dais, Bea crosses and prepares to exit the stage to make way for the next performer. As she reaches the side of the stage, she is greeted by a very grown up, extremely butch looking Joni from "Happy Days."

"Thank you for coming out," she says to Bea.

With a masterful double take crafted from her decades on the stage, Bea clutches her imaginary pearls and states quietly, "I am not a lesbian."

"Oh," and a blank stare from Joni.

"I AM NOT A LESBIAN," Bea bellows.

The whole theatre is buzzing now, as Bea disappears angrily backstage and I find myself in the rainy parking garage looking for my ride home.

A Double Dose Of Dolly

July 23, 2009

I'm performing in the chorus of Hello, Dolly! on Broadway. I'm playing one of the waiters, but there is something very strange about this production; there are two actresses playing the role of Dolly simultaneously, as in "at the very same time."

Tony Award winners Angela Lansbury and Christine Ebersole are both on stage interpreting the part of matchmaker Dolly Gallagher Levi, and neither one seems particularly pleased to be sharing the spotlight. The audience is bewildered and shuffles out quietly at the conclusion of the performance. I spot my friend Ellen who has come to see me, but she's been so distracted by the dueling Dollys that she's forgotten that I was even in the show.

"Hey, what are you doing here," she asks.

"I was in the show--you came to see me."

"Oh, right."

I follow Ellen to her home to visit with her family. I notice a cart of handcrafted figures, a menagerie of sorts, from which I pick up a small wooden elephant and examine it. As I hold it in the palm of my hand, it transforms into a real live black cat, which latches onto my arm, digging into my skin with its sickle like claws. I shake my arm violently for several minutes until the animal finally releases its grip.

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!

----------------------------------------------------------

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

Cleopatra In A Box

June 26, 2008

I've just gotten off a school bus and I start to follow an extremely handsome dark haired man wearing a suit. He leads me by an enormous football field build on the edge of my hometown.

I become distracted and lose track of the man when I find a small shadow box on the sidewalk. I pick it up to examine it and notice a doll's head suspended inside the box. I am stunned to realize that the doll's head is an exact likeness of my mother in early adulthood.

Looking for clues about the origin of the doll, I pry open the back of the box. It is stuffed with an old newspaper from New Jersey. It's dated December, 1962. In the movie section, there is an advertisement with a drawing of Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra, though the ad actually says, "Cleopatra Jones."

I'm confused,but feel I've found an important clue that will help me find the doll maker.

________________________________

A couple of things: I looked it up, and "Cleopatra" with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton was released in the summer of 1963, so my dream was off a little.

Also, I remember that when I was about 10 I told my mother I thought she was more beautiful than Elizabeth Taylor. This was the mid 70s when both Elizabeth and my mother tended to wear mu mus.

For those of you who don't know, "Cleopatra Jones" is a blacksploitation film from 1973. I've never seen it, and when I looked it up on the IMDB after having this dream, I was shocked to find out that it costarred Shelley Winters, who really reminds me more of my mother than Elizabeth Taylor ever did. My mother's wigs from the Ava Gabor line were a pretty close match to Shelley's doo in "The Poseidon Adventure."

Tea For (Number) Two

December, 2007

I'm sitting around the kitchen table at a home for the elderly having tea with my father's siblings, my Uncle Tom and my salty old Aunt Marie. Poor Kaye Ballard, also a resident of the home, has confided in me that she has not been able to make a bowel movement in several days. Even now, while the rest of us enjoy tea, she is upstairs suffering alone in her bedroom.

I mention Kaye's condition to the others at the table. Uncle Tom sees this as a great opportunity to make fun of Kaye, and he happily jumps out of his seat and rushes upstairs to do just that.

"But now Kaye will know I broke her confidence, " I protest.

"Oh please," Aunt Marie admonishes. "In this house everyone knows everyone else's business."

Anne Bancroft, who has joined us at the table wearing a faded housecoat, smiles and nods in agreement as she sips her tea.

And If That Diamond Ring Don't Shine...

June 18, 2008

It’s Sunday morning and I’m watching television in my childhood bedroom. It’s a new program featuring an interview with James Taylor and a very skinny blonde woman who is supposed to be his wife. James is appearing on the program to promote the publication of selections from his personal diary.

The book, which is pink with flowers, and looks very much like the diary of a school girl, deals with the breakup of James’s marriage to Carly Simon and the effect it had on their children. I think this is a very bad idea and I am filled with rage that the skinny blonde wife would encourage James to do such a thing.

The television program cuts to a video of Carly Simon performing a solo version of “Mockingbird,” which , of course, she had first recorded with James Taylor…and now she is forced to sing alone while James and his new wife profit from the destruction of the Taylor/Simon family unit.

__________________________

This dream seems almost inevitable to me since I’ve been reading a biography of Carly Simon for the past two weeks. It’s strange how intensely I felt the anger even though my role in this dream was extremely passive.

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Parade

June 18, 2008

I'm on a helicopter with my friend, Bill. It's a pretty good size chopper, seating about 15 people.

We're flying over New York City's East River when I realize this isn't just a helicopter...it's a time machine! We've flown our way back to a warm, sunny day in July, 1967 to witness the filming of the motion picture Funny Girl.

From across the aisle I can barely catch a glimpse out the window of the tugboat below being used to film the great "Don't Rain On My Parade" sequence. It occurs to me that we are on the wrong river, that we should be on the Hudson at the mouth of the New York Harbor so that we can catch the Statue of Liberty in the background.

Our helicopter, one of several dotting the sky, turns south and I finally get an unobstructed view of the boat...and suddenly, there she is: Barbra Streisand standing on the bridge of the vessel, clutching her flowers and lip-synching her heart out to the prerecorded track.

I notice right away she's wearing the wrong costume. Instead of the burnt orange dress and brown fur hat, Barbra is decked out in the matching leopard skin hat and coat from the opening scene. "Well, I'm sure they know what they're doing," I think to myself.

The helicopter hovers at eye-level with the tugboat as Barbra stares intently at the horizon during a break in filming. I wave out the window in an attempt to catch her attention. I can't tell if she doesn't notice me, or if she's ignoring me. Then, remembering everything I've ever learned about time travel from science fiction movies, I decide it is probably not a good idea to call attention to myself and risk altering history. Though really, maybe I ought to say something about the outfit.

As our helicopter lands at a riverside dock and we make our way inside the terminal, Bill and I are greeted by Barbra holding open the door and singing, "Together Wherever We Go" from Gypsy.

"Would you like to come to Las Vegas with me?" Barbra asks.

"Yes, I would," I tell her excitedly.

"I bet you would," she cackles, and then disappears up an escalator, clearly not intending to take me along.

Bill and I run up a set of concrete stairs to catch our ride home. When we get to the top of the stairs and push through a set of double doors, I am bitterly disappointed to find myself on a cold, grey morning in the middle of 2008.

A soft flurry of snow starts to fall as I bite my cheeks hard to keep from crying, but I can not help myself and a small trickle of tears seeps through my clenched eyes.

"Oh, don't whine about it," Bill chastises me.

"I'm not whining," I tell him, "it's just a lot of emotion escaping."

La Dame Aux Chapeaux

August 25, 2007

I'm standing across the street from the old church near the library in the town where I grew up. Improbably, the community theatre group at the church has gotten Maggie Smith to appear in a play about a woman who wears many hats. That is to say, a woman who literally owns many headdresses.
I am there to interview Maggie and when she appears before me she has a small white cigarette dangling from her mouth. It looks more like a joint, really, and I wonder if she's a pothead or maybe she just rolls her own.

We go inside a restaurant where the interview is to take place. I place my handheld tape recorder on the table and we begin talking. But the room proves too loud for us to conduct the interview, so Maggie asks if we could have a table in the back.

We settle at a table in the back near the kitchen, but something is still not quite right. Finally, we are moved to a booth that is actually in the kitchen.

The booth, which is on the lower level of the neon lit, split level kitchen, is usually reserved for the owner of the restaurant. Maggie and I order some coffee and pie and at long last start the interview.

Rub-a-Dub-Dub...Obama's in the Tub

May 23, 2008

I find myself at a political fundraiser in a private home. I approach Michelle Obama, who is sitting on a couch. A few female

supporters surround her, but Michelle is decidedly set apart, and even though she is sitting, her head manages to be a foot or so above everyone else's.

"I'm concerned," I tell her, "that if you become First Lady, you wont treat people fairly."

She looks me square in the eye, points toward her supporters and very calmly replies, "That's what other people say about me. That's not what I say about me. You should ask me right to my face."

"Well, I am," I tell her.

It seems we have nothing else to say to each other.

I sneak off to a nearby bedroom. In the adjoining bathroom, Barak Obama is taking a shower. On the floor, I spy a green duffel bag filled with his clothes. I rummage through it, pulling out several striped ties. I choose one with blue stripes that I find particularly appealing. I hold the tie close to my face and begin sniffing it, deeply and contentedly.

Game, Set, Ouch!

May 10, 2008

I'm swimming in an exceedingly clean ocean. I'm very close to the shore. As I step on to the beach to find my towel, I find myself in the backyard of an enormous old museum.

I realize I don't have a ticket, so I walk in through the backdoor and up a long, winding staircase, where I find the ticket booth. I buy a ticket and walk through a metal turnstile.

I next pass through the museum gift shop where a large, colorful wooden box catches my eye. I open the box. It is a Frida Kahlo art set, filled with hundreds of color pencils and a book of Frida's paintings for inspiration.

I head back out the doors and on to the grounds of the museum, but instead of an ocean, I find a duck pond to my right and a tennis court with bleacher seats to my left. I decide to watch the match, which is already in progress. Rafael Nadal, the frequent French Open champ, who is dressed in tight fitting white shorts that leave little to the imagination, is receiving serve from his opponent.

There is something odd about the ball as it makes its way to Rafael's side of the court: it has a fish hook sticking out of it. Unfortunately for Rafael, it is the fish hook that catches him square in the middle of his tight, white shorts.

As Rafael collapses in pain, I leave the match and head for the duck pond, where the sun has almost completely disappeared behind the trees.

________________________________

If you're wondering,the parrots were not in my dream, but rather they are another tip of the hat to Frida Kahlo, who often painted members of her menagerie in her self portraits, including her monkey, her cat, and her birds.

The Wind Beneath My Snow Covered Wings

May 4, 2008

I'm walking through an airport late on a sunless afternoon. I pass by a woman crouched on the floor with a litter of beagle puppies. I do not stop, I keep walking, which is very unusual because I always stop for beagles.

Next I pass a young boy in a makeshift bedroom. Apparently the boy is blind because as he rests in bed awaiting his flight to Los Angeles, his faithful guide dog stands at his bedside.

A few minutes later, I find myself seated on a plane on the tarmac at the Los Angeles International Airport. Outside it is dark and snowing.

I begin chatting with the married couple behind me as we nervously wait for the weather to clear. The woman, who turns out to be Bette Midler, asks me which of her records is my favorite. I tell her I'm partial to her concert album, Live At Last.

"Yes, " she responds, "I, too am partial to The Rose."

I look at her husband to make sure that I haven't misunderstood, but he only shrugs his shoulders as if to say, "I know, I know. She only hears what she wants to hear."

an unmarried woman...and me

August 26, 2007

I'm riding in a taxi cab on 57th Street with Jill Clayburgh. We're stuck in traffic in front of the Russian Tea Room. It's a sunny day, but we are bathed in the shadow of a large scaffolding that envelops the Tea Room and the sidewalk in front of it.

I can just make out the trees of Central Park a few blocks North as Jill begins to cry. She's upset about her career, fearing it hasn't turned out the way she had hoped.

"What are you talking about!" I say. "You're JILL CLAYBURGH! An Unmarried Woman...Starting Over. You're a two-time Oscar nominee. And all those great comedies in the 70's. You should be very proud of your career."

We're now in a hotel room overlooking the park. Jill is in a short nightgown covered by a silk robe. We kiss briefly, but somehow it doesn't feel right.

We go out for a walk along what is supposed to be Broadway, but which I actually recognize as the town where I grew up.

We come across a horde of bike riders blocking an intersection. They seem to be holding a demonstration of some sort, but it is decidedly non-violent. In fact, the bikers start to sing The Prayer of St. Francis (Make Me A Channel of Your Peace.)

So beautiful is the singing that Jill and I start to weep quietly in the soft rain that has begun to fall.

Who's Afraid of Community Theatre?

October 4, 2007

It’s twelve o’clock on a bright, sunny Sunday afternoon. I’m riding a bike down a tree lined street. I’m rushing because I’m late for rehearsal for a play in which I’m acting.

I decide to stop at a rundown supermarket for a snack. I order a sandwich from the deli counter, which is in the lower level of this split-level market. As I head out the door with my sandwich, I decide to ride off in a shopping cart and leave my bike behind, thinking this might get me to rehearsal faster.

As I ride through the streets standing on the back of the cart, I have the feeling I’m being followed. I’m terrified I’ll be caught and punished for stealing the cart.

I arrive at a mostly empty school building and wander the darkened hallways, passing by a library and several classrooms until I finally find the theatre.

I’m now on the stage with several actors. I recognize two of them, Helen Mirren and Swoosie Kurtz. At first I think the play we’re rehearsing is Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf? or maybe a Tennessee Williams play, but soon I realize it’s a play about a community theatre mounting a production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf?

A disagreement has broken out between the director and a few of the actors. Swoosie and I hide behind a loveseat far upstage waiting for the argument to pass. Meanwhile, a very tiny Helen Mirren floats above the stage. She is playing the part of a fairy who oversees the production. Swoosie and I are amazed that Helen’s dedication to her craft has actually transformed into a palm sized sprite.

Travels With My Aunt...Imogene

December 20, 2007

It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m at my family’s annual Christmas party. All of my cousins and aunts and uncles are there. It’s a scene I’ve witnessed dozens of times over the course of my life, but something is different this time. Instead of the hall we usually rent, we find ourselves on a cramped houseboat with a very low ceiling. In the main room, lit only by the twinkle of white Christmas lights, a man in a suit and tie croons a Christmas carol to entertain the children.

The man in the suit is Tony Bennett. He does an okay job, but when he’s finished I think to myself, “I could do better than that.” I take the microphone from Tony and sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

The party over and our ship docked in South Philly, I leave the boat and walk to the top of a grassy hill. My family follows me as far as the bottom of the hill. At the top I find a hot air balloon waiting for me. I climb into the balloon’s basket, and then help my elderly aunt, Imogene Coca, hop aboard.

As we ascend into the grey afternoon sky, the family below us fades away, and Imogene and I view Philadelphia as it might have looked a few centuries ago, littered with open, green spaces and not a skyscraper in sight.

_________________________________

I think it's worth noting (of course I would!) that Imogene Coca was born in Philadelphia in 1908.

Whatever Happened To Baby Lynn?

September 3, 2007

I'm on a plane flying to London with Vanessa Redgrave. We make our way to one of the high floors of an enormous hospital building made of stone. It is easily seventy or eighty stories high.

We are here to visit Vanessa's sister, Lynn, who has just had a stroke. We spy her from across a crowded waiting room. She is in a hospital bed, but she appears healthy and she smiles when she sees us.

As we approach her bed, it is apparent that Lynn now has her own room and is no longer in the waiting area. Vanessa and Lynn kiss and exchange greetings. Lynn looks at me and exclaims, "You dear, beautiful boy!"

I say hello as well, then decide that the two sisters should have a little privacy. I excuse myself, go out in the hall and look for a place to sit.

It does not seem like a typical hospital. It's more like a gigantic airport lounge, with row after row of plastic orange seats all filled up. Finally, I come to a doorway, look inside, and see an empty bed. I decide to lie in bed amongst the patients until it is time to go back to see Lynn.

I pick up a pornographic magazine from the nightstand. A doctor appears through some curtains, assumes that I am a patient and inquires about taking my temperature. I explain that I am just a visitor and that I couldn't find an empty seat in the waiting area.

I go back to Lynn's room, say a few pleasant words, then leave with Vanessa to allow Lynn to rest. In the hallway we run into the doctor. It seems like only now does he believe that I'm not a patient.

Back in America and not quite sure how I got here, I am walking around Midtown Manhattan when I see a gigantic electronic billboard on the roof of a Broadway theatre. The billboard is showing a video of Lynn performing in a play. I think to myself that the footage must have been shot before Lynn's stroke, and that surely she must have been forced to withdraw from the play. But as I head into the theatre through the stage door and into Lynn's dressing room, I am delighted to see her sitting at a dressing table, returned to health, happy to see me and preparing for a performance.

I am now part of the audience watching the play. Lynn Redgrave is not on stage, but Vanessa is. Lynn sits in the row behind me chatting and not paying much attention to the play. She looks just like she did when she played Baby Jane Hudson in the TV remake of Whatever Happened To Baby Jane. Wearing an over sized child's party dress, her face is covered in white powder with two rosy cheeks painted on and her long, brittle red hair is pulled into two grotesque pony tails on either side of her head.

Frida Be...You And Me

                                              

May 1, 2008   

It's late at night on Easter Sunday. I'm hanging Frida Kahlo prints in my grandmother's apartment and waiting for her to be dropped off from her day out at my cousin's house. I hear the low rumble of my Aunt's station wagon and see the glare of headlights as I peek through the closed blinds of my grandmother's front window.

I hurriedly gather up a stack of newspapers and drop them in a neat pile on a coffee table as Nanny (my grandmother) comes through the door. She looks tiny in her camel hair coat, and she is clearly exhausted from the day's activities.

I know this because she tell me as we exchange hugs, "I am clearly exhausted. This is no way for a 100 year old woman to be running around."

Suddenly, it's 1973 and I'm backstage at Carnegie Hall. I can see the first few rows of the audience from my vantage point in the wings at stage left. In the fourth row I spy a very young Oprah Winfrey. In the front row, an ebullient Leonard Bernstein stands, rocking back and forth and clapping his hands in time to the music. He gets into a scuffle when a tall man wearing cowboy boots complains that Leonard has stepped on his foot.

"This is a concert! What do you expect? You want I should get down on my hands and knees and polish your shoes as you walk by?"

My attention is now drawn to the stage, though I don't have a very good view of it. Bette Midler is giving a concert, only it's more like a variety show. I can't see her face, only a big blur of red hair.

Closer to my side of the stage, I see Bette's special guest, Miss Vicki Lawrence, dressed in a most unusual costume. Singing for the crowd, Vicki wears a metal corset and antlers in homage to two separate Frida Kahlo paintings, The Broken Column, and The Little Deer (sometimes called The Wounded Deer.)

Finally, I am in Queens, New York running from store to store trying to find a book of Kahlo paintings. I hail a cab to take me home, but the driver refuses, saying he only accepts fares to Manhattan.

My True Colors

September 10, 2006

I'm sitting in the back row of a high school English class. I'm playing with my Ipod and not paying any attention at all to the day's lesson when suddenly my teacher, Miss Cyndi Lauper, is hovering over my desk attempting to confiscate my Ipod. I refuse to give it to her, so she drags me out of the class, down the hall and into the principal's office.

In the office, Cyndi starts to lecture me sternly. I try to explain that I had been listening to one of her songs, hoping that would somehow excuse my behavior. The expression on her face visibly softens.

"Come back to class," she tells me. "You can have this back at three o'clock."

A Genuine Lainie Kazan

April 26, 2008

I'm seated in the waiting area of a doctor's office. Lainie Kazan is in the examining room with the doctor. I had wanted to say hello and get her autograph while I had the chance, but I was too shy.

Rhoda, a woman I worked with in a department store in Philadelphia twenty years ago, and who bears a passing resemblance to Lainie, emerges from the examining room. She is the doctor's nurse, and she has secured Lainie's autograph for me on an insurance form.

I take the paper from Rhoda's hand and examine the signature. I suspect that she has signed it herself. It strikes me as not loopy or flowing or elegant enough to be a genuine Lainie Kazan.

I wait to speak with the receptionist about scheduling another appointment while she argues with an unpleasant woman about changing her appointment time. The receptionist is trying to change this patient's time so that I can have her appointment.

Observing them bicker, it occurs to me that these two women are listening but somehow are just not hearing each other.

Whose Turn Is It Anyway?

April 20, 2008

I'm watching Saturday Night Live on an old black and white television. Bernadette Peters is performing "Rose's Turn," the climactic number from the musical Gypsy. She is accompanied by two back up singers, which is unusual for this big solo number.

The backup singers are meant to represent Rose's two daughters from the play, Louise and June, but rather than truly contributing background vocals, they each sing lines from the song that refer to their own characters. June, for instances, sings the line, "I did it for you, June."

While this strikes me as a strange interpretation of the song, the oddest thing about it is that the backup singers are not actually girls but instead two pasty-faced, pudgy, prepubescent boys with bowl like hair cuts.

An Egg In Every Pot!

April 22, 2008

I’m standing in the dining room of a large well furnished house. In the adjacent kitchen, Hillary Clinton is cooking us a breakfast of two fried eggs. We had considered poaching them, but determined that frying would be quicker and easier.

Hillary seems extremely busy and extremely focused, but not overwhelmed. I offer to stay here at the house with her until after the election.

“That would be fantastic, I could really use the help,” she tells me.

“But I’d have to bring my dog,” I say.

“Absolutely, the more the merrier!” she responds as my beagle appears at my feet.

The room has now morphed into a grand reception hall. Men in suits mill about as a bejeweled blue egg hangs high above us like an enormous and extremely expensive piñata.

A young girl strikes the egg with the handle end of a broom, sending it crashing to the ground. It cracks open revealing white paper bags filled with candy.

Two white men, whom I would describe as red-neck politicians, laugh that there are “no candies for the black children.” Infuriated by their remarks, I tear through the sacks of candy until I triumphantly pull out a small package of Sugar Babies and wave it in their faces .
_________________________________
So I realize there is potentially racist imagery in this dream, but I think it's really just about my anxiety surrounding the Pennsylvania primary being held today and my fear that Hillary wont get a substantial portion of the black vote.

Bless Me Obama, For I Have Sinned

April 14, 2008

I'm sitting in the front pew of a Catholic church with two friends. Barack Obama stands in front of our pew, ready to address the congregation. He is visibly annoyed that he has to wait for the choir to finish singing Gladys Knight & The Pip's Neither One Of Us Wants To Be The First To Say Goodbye before he can speak.

Now wearing green and white vestments, Barack starts shaking hands with parishioners to pass he time. I quickly remove my fingerless woolen hobo gloves and attempt to hide my Hillary Clinton campaign button by turning my jacket lapel inside.

Barack is now standing directly inf front of me and eyes me suspiciously. "I saw the button, " he says firmly.

"So what," I respond. "So I've got a button. I'm here, I'm listening, I'm open."

Now back in a sensible business suit, Barack heads out a glass door to have a smoke.

"If it's any consolation," I yell after him, "you're my second choice."

He turns back to sneer at me before disappearing.

This Little Piggy Went To Market

March 23, 2008

I’m standing in front of a red brick apartment building in Chicago. I step inside the building and roam the halls until I find the entrance to a public terrace on a high floor. From my perch on the terrace, I take a moment to survey the grassy area in front of the building.

I find my way back to the exit. As I open the door to head outside, a baby pig wearing a pink tutu scurries out the door and across the grass. A chase ensues, and after a great effort, I catch the pig, who seems to be having a fun time, and scoop him up in my arms.

The little pig and I are now joined by my father at a local bookstore. I’m not quite sure what we’re shopping for when my father spies a poster that he likes. It’s an image of Bob Marley that looks as though it may have been painted by LeRoy Neiman—all color and splotches. My father seems disappointed when there don’t appear to be any copies of the poster left. Holding the pig with one arm, I dig through the poster bin until I find a copy of the Marley poster for my Dad.

Back on the terrace, which now seems to be on the ground floor, I meet Suzanne Pleshette. We talk about death, specifically about how, even though she is dead, she is still around and capable of holding a conversation.

I worry that she won’t be able to care for her children, two small African American boys to whom she introduces me. One is about four years old, the other about two. I pick the older boy up and chat with him as Suzanne steps inside for a moment. The boy seems unfazed by the fact that his mother is not only seventy years old and white, but also dead.

Suzanne returns wearing a green mud mask around her eyes to help keep her skin looking youthful. Before I have a chance to react, we are joined on the terrace by Jodie Foster carrying an armload of books. A few of the books are for the children, but she has brought several for me as well. They are guide books of a sort, manuals on how to communicate and coexist with the dead. I spy a Dr. Seuss book in the children’s pile and make a joke at the Dr’s expense.

“Oh, I like the one about the Hasidic barber, Morton Shears a Jew."

Jodie smiles politely, but I am the only one who is truly amused.

Saving Anderson

December 9, 2007

About two weeks ago I had yet another dream about Anderson Cooper. They’re all a little different, but share the same basic theme: worried about his safety, I implore Anderson to stay home and abandon his plan to go on another dangerous mission.

In this latest dream, Jazz singer Nancy Wilson and I stand at the edge of an airstrip on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It seems as though we practically will a struggling plane to make it to the airstrip and land safely.

Passengers disembark from the small jet. I see that one of them is Anderson Cooper. He’s dressed in jeans and a dark blue t-shirt, which barely contains his biceps. There’s a look in his eye, a squint really, that’s all business.

As he sweeps past Nancy and I on his way to covering a nearby conflict, I yell to him, “Please be careful.”

In the past two years, I’ve had about a half dozen similarly themed dreams. One time we were in an Italian restaurant having lunch as he was besieged by fans. The waiter asked if we wanted to move to a table in the back but Anderson thought that if people felt strongly enough to acknowledge his work, the least he could do was say hello to them.

He was scheduled to leave on foreign assignment right after lunch and, as usual, I was unable to persuade him to stay.

Another time I hid in a cabin on a Navy vessel in another failed attempt to keep him from a dangerous mission.

Sadly, I can not remember all of the details from my favorite Anderson Cooper dream, but here is what I do remember from this July, 2005 dream:

I’m in San Francisco with Anderson Cooper, but it looks more like a movie set with a backdrop than a real city. We are standing on the tracks of a rickety old wooden roller coaster as I plead with him not go out into the streets to cover a dangerous earthquake.

“But I have to. It’s my job.”

Anderson’s mother, Gloria Vanderbilt, shows up with Cabaret performer Bobby Short.

“If you must go, Anderson, you two should make this official before you scurry off.”

As we’re both wearing suits, this seems the perfect time for an impromptu gay wedding. Anderson kisses me hard on the lips as his mother looks on approvingly and Bobby Short serenades us with a Cole Porter tune. *

*I can not swear to it, but I think the tune was either “At Long Last Love,” or “I’m In Love Again,” which is the song Bobby Short sang in “Hannah And Her Sisters” when Woody Allen told Dianne Wiest, “You don’t deserve Cole Porter!”

Oh, and to those of you who say my self portrait needs a few more pounds in order to be accurate, all I can say is that's EXACTLY how I appeared in the dream!

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.