Lady Be Good (and she really was)

Ella Fitzgerald was born on this day in 1917. I had the great privilege of seeing her perform at Radio City Music Hall in 1992. At nearly 75 years of age and having battled health problems, her voice was well past its  prime, but her spirit was exuberant and infectious and I have always counted myself very lucky to have seen her last New York appearance.

In honor of her birthday I decided to do some quick sketches of her. I was inspired by the story of Pablo Picasso running into Ella at a restaurant and doodling a surrealist portrait of her on a napkin.

When I draw I am basically winging it, and nearly everything I produce takes hours and hours, even when it doesn't look like it. So for this birthday salute I decided to limit each sketch to no more than 10 minutes. I wound up with about 40 or so sketches. What follows is a sampling of my doodles surveying Ella at various ages, weights, and hair styles. Some of them are more successful than others, but I think a few of them capture a tiny bit of her spirit, or at least I hope they do. They are all either ink or pencil on notebook paper, though the exposures have been played with on some of them to adjust the colors.

Happy Birthday Barbra

It's hard for me to believe this now, but when I was 11 years old and bought the 45 for Evergreen (Love theme from A Star is Born), (and yes, that's it's official title, parenthesis and all) I had no idea that Barbra Streisand was a gay icon. I'm not sure I even knew what either of those words meant, gay or icon. I just knew that this woman, who had made me laugh so hard in What's Up, Doc? and had stirred in me a deep sense of recognition as the passionate misfit Katie Morosky in The Way We Were, was now wooing me with her singing voice...and her afrotastic hair, which practically cascaded off of the sepia toned record sleeve.

It's a relationship that spans nearly four decades now, longer than just about any other relationship in my life. Barbra's work has been there for me always, as  balm for a broken heart, as jubilant companion in happy times, and as prayer in solemn moments. 

There was a time when it would have embarrassed me to reveal these thoughts publicly. When I finally admitted to myself that I was gay, and realized that gay icons really do exist, and that Barbra was in fact one of them, I was a little mortified. I felt it cheapened my passion for all things Barbra and reduced my feelings to a joke, or even worse a stereotype.

Though it's sometimes hard to remember, I know that I can't expect to be happy while worrying about what other people think of me; worrying whether I am typical, atypical, or even stereotypical  Like every man, I need to stay true to my feelings, my thoughts, my principles. After all, as Katie says to Hubble, "People ARE their principles!" 

Happy Birthday, Barbra Joan!

Judy, Judy, Judy!

Today is Australian actress Judy Davis's birthday. For my money, there is no badder bad ass in movies today, though I suppose Helen Mirren comes pretty close. Her ability to be larger than life yet absolutely real at the exact same time always wins me over, even in terrible movies. Her fearlessness has led her to play a string of bitter wives and lovers, but also biopics of everyone from French writer George Sand to Judy Garland to Nancy Reagan. Almost every movie I see I wind up thinking, "that would have been better with Judy Davis."

Her alabaster skin and that pink/orange hue around her eyes that seems to suggest a terminal case of conjunctivitis may not be every man's idea of beauty, but I find her stunning.

I've dreamt about her twice that I can recall. The first time about two years ago. I was at some sort of religious retreat, feeling very awkward and out of place. Suddenly a young man in a leather jacket, the type that old fashioned square type movies might describe as a bad boy, walks up to me. He asks me if I want to go for a ride. We go out to his car and start making out. He stops mid kiss and says, "let's go to 7-11 and rent Judy Davis movies." I knew it was true love.

The second time I dreamt about her was about six months ago.

My sister and I are watching the evening news. We see a story about a movie that's being made about our family.

In shock but very excited, we rush to the movie set in Times Square. A theatre lobby has been converted temporarily into a casino for a scene. I see a woman who looks a lot like Judy Garland having a drink by a craps table, but she's just an extra. We are told that Judy Davis is playing our mother, which of course I think is fantastic.

Stepping outside into Shubert Alley, we find Miss Judy Davis walking through the crowd topless. I ask someone if this is part of the movie, but I'm told no, this is just how she relaxes in between scenes.

Jessica Lange Scares the Shit Out of Me

I love Jessica Lange but she scares the shit out of me. And it's not just because she recently played the sensual and sadistic Sister Jude on American Horror Story. No, she terrifies me for reasons far beyond the small screen.

Back in 1992 when I was living in Hell's Kitchen, I had two encounters with her. Well, not really encounters, more like we briefly orbited the same atmosphere.

 The first time I was walking along 47th street near 8th Avenue and I spied her on the sidewalk  with Amy Madigan, who at the time was her co-star in A Streetcar Named Desire. They seemed deeply engaged in conversation. Jessica was wearing dark sunglasses, and even though I could not see her eyes, even though  her head barely turned in my direction as we passed, I felt a shiver up and down my spine.   It was like crossing a black cat. She just sort of exuded a vibe that said, "don't fuck with me."

I did not fuck with her.

A few weeks later I went to see the play and sat in the second row. She got crappy reviews for this show, her Broadway debut. Mostly the critics felt her performance was too small to carry to the balcony of a nearly 1,100 seat theatre.

I can't argue with what people saw from the balcony, or even the fifth row, but what I saw from the second row was devastating. It was like a tiny, delicate, raunchy carving; a portrait in miniature of a lost soul.

I couldn't get it out of my mind, the horror of Blanche's betrayal by Stella, her final delusion  and her ultimate disappointment. About a week later I started having anxiety attacks for the first time in my life. The kind where your heart beats out of your chest, you feel like you're on fire, and you can't catch your breath.

God damn you, Jessical Lange! You made it impossible for me to keep my own disappointments and betrayals buried. You forced me to tare away the gauze of my own happy delusions and confront very ugly truths. Jessica Lange, you made me go to  therapy, and I fucking hate you for it.

That last part's not really true--I still love her. But she scares the shit out of me.

*************
Note: Today is Jessica Lange's birthday. It's the start of a 10 period of birthdays for some of my favorite people, including Barbra Streisand, Judy Davis, Blair Brown, Carol Burnett, Sandy Dennis, Ella Fitzgerald, Jill Clayburgh, and my identical twin aunts on my mother's side.

Pull Up Your Pants!

I had just started afternoon kindergarten (what a concept--you don't have to be there til noon and it only lasts three hours.) My older siblings left on the early morning school bus, leaving me to sleep in, watch Popeye cartoons, and occasionally get into trouble. 

Such was the case one day while I was playing in the woods set in the hills above our neighbor's backyards. When I felt nature's call I was faced with the choice of climbing out of whatever imaginary world I'd dreamt up (there's a good bet it involved being chased by tigers, or the scary natives from Gilligan's Island,) going all the way down the hill and across the street to my house to use the potty, or doing what the big kids all did, namely go potty right there in the woods.

I opted for what I'd seen the big kids do. Although, technically I'd only ever see them do number one, and I definitely had number two on my mind. How different could it be? I had a lot to learn. For starters, I was way too prissy to use a leaf in place of a roll of Charmin.

But the real problem, as  I soon discovered, was that I really wasn't in the woods. I had misjudged my position by quite a bit, and was only about halfway up the hill when, in full squat, I saw my father run out of our house, arms flailing and all red in the face.

"Jimmy! What the hell are you doing? Pull up your pants!"

What I learned that day wasn't so much about impropriety or misuse of property, or even squatter's rights. No, what I really learned was a golden rule of theatre actors everywhere who are always trying to steal a peek at the crowd from the wings: If you can see the audience, they can see you.

Kramer vs. Godzilla...or The Reptile Wears Prada

September 20, 2011

I'm having trouble finding my grandmother's apartment. I knock on the door of a red brick building that I think is hers, but I soon realize I am mistaken. The building I want is on the next block over.

Before anyone can answer the door, I feel my body rise up toward the sky and I float one block over to my grandmother's building.

I have arrived in time for a late supper. Many members of my family have gathered; my parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles...and Meryl Streep, who apparently has married into my family. No one seems particularly happy, as a very literal dark cloud hangs in the sky.

A noise from above brings most of us brings most of us to the living room's picture window to investigate. Flashes of pink and orange light indicate that we are under an alien attack.

A kerfuffle draws my attention back to the dining room where Meryl Streep is now locked in hand to hand combat with a reptile like alien, which has somehow managed to slip right into my grandmother's apartment.

Meryl attempts to subdue the creature with a larger hypodermic needle, but it appears to have no effect.

"Augment this," she yells out to one in particular. A linebacker sized man emerges from the corner of the room. He opens his mouth, or more accurately, he unhinges his jaw to reveal row after row of syringes in place of teeth. They look like the glass tubes you'd find in an old television set, but they have sharp needles protruding from their tops.

He pulls a syringe from the spot where his upper left moler should have been and tosses it to Meryl.While fending off the beast with her left hand, she catches the syringe with her right and jabs it into the creature's neck, rending it powerless, or possibly dead.

The Memory is Fading...

My friend Laurie Beechman would have been 60 years old tomorrow. Being an actress, it was not so unusual that she lied about her age, but strangely she only shaved off one year, telling everyone she was born April 4, 1954. I laughed out loud when I realized this and told her, "if you're gonna lie, make it count! Take off 5 years, not one."

She passed away 15 years ago, just a month shy of turning 45, after a long battle with ovarian cancer. And it was an epic battle, with all the ups and downs, triumphs and setbacks of an Eisenhower or McCarthur campaign.

Today I am remembering her talent, her voice, her laughter, her generosity. While she wasn't exactly a household name, she was kind of a big deal in the world of Broadway musicals. She performed in Annie, Pirates of Penzance, Les Miserables (as Fantine), Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat (Tony nomination) and spent about 5 years of her too short life in Cats, playing Grizabella the Glamour Cat, and belting out Memory well over 2,000 times.

When I first moved to New York, I got a part time job as her assistant. Mostly typical stuff like organizing her mailing list, picking up dry cleaning, or counting the house at her nightclub act so that the management wouldn't try to rip her off. One of my better assignments was running lines in her Cats dressing room at the Winter Garden as she prepared for a West Coast production of Funny Girl. I read all of the parts except for Fanny, which was Laurie's role, of course. All the while she'd be applying her makeup, and as I'd have my nose buried in the script, she'd completely transform into the bedraggled prostitute cat.






I still think about her, and occasionally see her in my dreams. While she was still here, she liked to give me advice. Two things she said have always stuck with me. When I lamented the slow progress of a new relationship, she told me, "Jim, you can't go to Ikea on the first date!" The second, and more universal advice came after she brought me with her to a meeting with her press agent. Apparently I'd come across as very shy. Afterwards we walked out onto Seventh Avenue and she stopped me and said, "when you meet someone for the first time, I want  you to look them right in the eye and give them a  firm handshake."

And then she made me look her in the eye and shake her hand. I felt like an idiot, but I did it. If she hadn't made me, maybe the lesson wouldn't have stuck, but now whenever I meet a new person, I think of her. Thankfully, that memory is not fading.

Linus Over Easy

Much as I love him, I've never tried to draw Linus before. Next time I will try not to give him a club foot. And not make his face swollen from anaphylactic shock. And I'll do it after breakfast, not during.

A Tale of Two Bunnies

A Lotte Lenya Christmas

September 23, 2012

It’s a few days before Christmas. In fact, it’s the Wednesday night before Christmas. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.

My parents have decided to surprise me with tickets to see the Austrian-born entertainer, the toast of Weimar era Berlin, Lotte Lenya. She’s performing at a theatre only a mile or so from our home. I can’t believe my good fortune, and my mother and father are beaming in that way that only a parent can when they realize they've done something to make their child truly happy.

The concert is sort of a blur, and before I know it I am home in bed. But I hear voices downstairs, and what do you know, my parents have arranged another surprise. Sitting around our kitchen table, I find my parents, my grandmother, and Lotte Lenya, who has agreed to join us for a late night cup of tea and regale us with memories from her long and storied career.

In her time she appeared in the original production of “The Threepenny Opera,” fled the Nazis, gave countless concerts and stage performances, and even played a Bond villain in “From Russian With Love.” But all I want to know about is the day in 1955 when she recorded Mac The Knife with Louis Armstrong.  I pepper her with questions, and she does her best to answer politely before finishing her tea and disappearing into the December night.

*********************************

I know this is a weird little dream, and really not much happens in it, but it is one of my very favorites for many reasons. Seeing my parents together again and happy, seeing my grandmother, Christmas time, all big pluses. But why Lotte Lenya? Who the hell is she and why do I care enough to dream about her? Well, her biographical sketch is simple enough. Born in Austria, she came to great acclaim in the Berlin theatre scene during the mid 1920s. She married composer Kurt Weill (twice) and as Berlin, and then Paris, fell to the Nazis she made her way to America and performed on stage, film, and television until shortly before her death in 1981 at age 83. 

I've been an admirer for many years, since I discovered her as part of my preparation to perform in a play by German writer (and frequent Weill collaborator) Bertolt Brecht, though I admit her singing voice is an acquired taste. The incident I mention in the dream, her recording with Louis Armstrong, actually took place.  

Here is why I find their encounter so fascinating and really would ask her all about it if I could: By 1955, Lenya had been singing "Mack The Knife" for nearly 30 years, since it was introduced in The Threepenny Opera in 1928. In an eight and a half minute outtake from the session, Armstrong is placed in the role of teacher, introducing to Lenya a new arrangement of the song she has sung literally hundreds of times. The jazz rhythm is unfamiliar to her, and you can sense her nervousness as she giggles and tells him, "that's easy for you, dear!" 

There are many stops and starts, and at one point the whole room erupts into laughter as the engineer stops things in the middle of a take due to Armstrong's absentmindedly mumbling into the microphone as Lenya sang.

"You mean I was singing it? No, no. Her voice is just turnin' like mine. The forest for peaches was happening there!"

No one laughs harder or more good naturedly than Lenya herself, and it's such a contrast to the image I'd had in my head of this no nonsense, chain-smoking, former child prostitute, I find myself completely enchanted every time I listen to it. Really, it's no wonder I dreamt about it.

Here's a bit of a confession (if you've read this far, I might as well give you something real and honest about myself.)  I  keep my favorite picture of Lenya on my nightstand. She's wearing a lush red overcoat during a visit to Hamburg, carrying a purse and looking for all the world like someone's grandmother. It never fails to make me smile. 

Since this is my first dream post in over a year, I decided to do something a little different. I basically drew two sketches of Lenya and then added them to different collages, or hand colored printed copies to give her a variety of different looks. In other words, several illustrations will accompany this post.  

Good Friday

My parents didn't care so much that I went to a movie, but a comedy? That was just too much.

One of My Boy Parts

May 8, 2011


I'm standing in the back of a high school auditorium watching my friend Tim in a play. When the play is over, I approach him with a serious demeanor.

"What is it," he asks.

"I have it...I have IT," I yell, referring to some dreadful, unnamed disease.

"Where?"

" I don't know. Somewhere down there, one of my boy parts."

But it turns out this is not real--we are filming a TV sitcom and this is merely a scene we are playing.

We are now on a balcony overlooking a street in London that's been shut down for our production. Across the avenue I spot our co-star Marlene Dietrich eating a huge jewel encrusted steak as she relaxes atop a red double decker bus. The steak is raw, dripping with blood, and Marlene smiles at us wickedly as she bites into it with gusto.

Come Blow Your Horn

August 15, 2005

It's about 5PM the day after Thanksgiving, and it is already very dark outside. I'm riding in a car with jazz trumpeter Chris Botti, and as he drives us around the small town where I grew up, we are havinig a disagreement. We're arguing because even though he's in town to meet my family, he seems unsure about letting people know that we've just gotten married.

As we speed over the railroad tracks next to the old lumberyard, our car lurches a few feet off of the ground, and we land with an enormous thud.

The bumpy landing has had an effect on my new husband. "Fuck it. I don't care who knows," he tells me just before grabbing the back of my head and kissing me on the lips with a force so powerful, so skillful, it could only be the result of years of blowing his horn.

Gladys Knight and the 'Phants

December 12, 2010

It's very early on a cold morning in New York. The sun is just starting to come up as I stroll along a mostly deserted Central Park West. Something unusual catches my eye as I wander into the park; a long line of elephants, seemingly unaccompanied by any human beings, snakes its way to the other side of the park.

It takes me quite a while, but I follow their serpentine line until I reach the East side of the park. Several reporters and TV crews are gathered beside a large tent where the elephants seem to be heading. A familiar woman rides atop one of the elephants. It's a smiling Gladys Knight who extends her hand and gestures for me to join her. Without much fuss I climb aboard and straddle in behind Gladys.

Our elephant strides into the tent with an imperial grace as Gladys and I sing "Jingle Bells."

Happy Holidays

Happy Holidays from all of us (ok, all of ME) at jiminysnap.com!

What A Difference A Bus Trip Makes

October 28, 2006

I'm on a school bus in somewhere in Pennsylvania. I'm with a group of people and we're headed to a school in New Jersey for mentally challenged children. It is unclear if we are students or just going to visit.

Our bus driver is a black woman of about 60. I recognize her immediately as the legendary singer Dinah Washington, the Queen of the Blues. I am stunned to see her and spend the rest of the ride figuring out what to say to her.

The bus makes a left hand turn into the parking lot of a strip mall. Apparently, this is our real destination. Everyone shuffles off the bus but I hang back so I can speak with Dinah. As I approach her perch in the driver's seat I say, "I just wanted to tell you I am a great fan of your work. I have dozens and dozens of your albums."

She thanks me and I tell her I hope she's still singing, "at least for your own pleasure." She tells me about a gospel song she sings from time to time, but that it has been about 13 years since she last sang professionally. I tell her that the Jazz stations still play her songs regularly on the radio. She asks me with true humility why did I think they continue playing her records. "Because they're great," I exclaim.

As she thanks me, I notice a black gentleman sitting about three or four rows from the front of the bus, nodding in agreement. He is what you might call a hepcat, dressed in a brown zoot suit and tie.

Gathering the courage to speak freely, I tell Dinah that I think there are still many of her records that could be even more popular if they were reedited. She asks me what I mean. "Well, you know what they said about some of your later work."

She nods her head, slightly pained at the memory and says, "Yes, I know...the background singers, the strings, too..."

"Syrupy," I finish her sentence. "But we could strip all of the syrup away and still have your heartfelt, soulful vocals, than we could add better arrangements to accompany them."

"Yes!" shouts the hepcat, "the technology exists to do this."

Seemingly at peace with her current life, Dinah is unsure about reentering the music business.

As I head off of the bus to rejoin my group, I ask Dinah if I could bring a CD for her to sign the next time she drives this route. "Sure baby," she replies.

Once off the bus I realize we are at a night club where Jazz chanteuse Blossom Dearie is entertaining the crowd on the sidewalk. I see a woman I know, Sandra, an old classmate from a songwriting workshop I participated in many years ago. Sandra wants to know why I've begun to cry. I explain that I am overcome with emotion at the thought that Dinah Washington has been reduced to driving a school bus. She dismisses me as sentimental.

"That's show business--get over it," she tells me.

"Well," I shoot back, "I guess you're a better man that I'll ever be."

*********************************

The great Dinah Washington actually died about two years before I was even born, but the thoughts I expressed in this dream pretty accurately sum up my own feelings about her work. If you are unfamilar with her, seek out her music; it is well worth a listen.

Black Is The Color of My New Dog's Tail

July 19, 2010

I'm on my way to a train station with a handsome but scruffy young man whom I do not recognize. He has told me about a discount ticket program for a super fast train that will get us from the United States to Great Britain in just under four hours. As we stand behind a wrought iron gate, I realize I do not have my passport with me.

"Maybe I can go with you next time," I tell him.

I return to my house to discover that I have adopted a lovely female dog. This is very happy news until I feel the dog's forehead and notice that not only does she have a fever but, even more disturbingly, she is not actually a dog; she is a girl, a little human girl.

I am truly horrified that I could have made such a mistake. I become hysterical, running around the house asking everyone what I should do. Finally, I come upon my mother who tells me calmly, "You know what you should do."

"Yes. Yes," I reply with new found composure, "I will teach her to walk on two legs and raise her as a human being...and I shall call her...Nina Simone!"

Go In Peace

May 27, 2010

I wake up on a hot summer day--it is my birthday.

My father drops me off at church. A young priest with blond highlights is celebrating mass. There is a lectern on either side of the priest. At one Jon Stewart stands smirking as he sniffs an over sized orange flower; at the other Anderson Cooper delivers the homily.

"Wait a minute," I call out, "Isn't Jon Stewart Jewish?"

"Um, well, uh," Anderson stammers before resuming the homily. As he continues, the young priest is joined by two assistant priests, one of whom appears to be a drag queen in a wedding gown.

Through a parted curtain behind the priest I notice several large bowls and buckets shaped just like the smiling K00l-Aid pitcher. Anderson tells the crowd, "those are for the church Penny Party, which is being held--"

"Last night!" the drag queen interrupts him."

"Oh, Last night."

The priest walks down the church's center isle followed by Jon Stewart and Anderson.

I call out, "Is it over? No one said, 'Mass is over, go in peace.' "

I sneak behind the curtain and nervously take a large Kool-Aid pitcher. It is so large I can barely carry it as I run out the back door and, with great difficulty, climb over a wooden fence and make my escape.

An Offer I Can't Refuse

June 5, 2010

I'm in a giant warehouse/movie studio. I've been summoned to play the lead role of Dr. Brennan in a low budget zombie movie. I'm worried because I haven't actually read the script yet and filming is about to start. I also haven't met the producers or the director yet.

I am the only person to have arrived, so I eat a bowl of oatmeal and wait. Finally, a gaggle of people comes in and introductions are made. A young blond man, apparently one of the producers, tells me not to worry about missing the rehearsals. Next, I am introduced to the director, a heavy set man seated on a red leather couch sipping a glass of wine. I am thrilled and terrified when I realize he is none other than Francis Ford Coppola.

"I'm sure you don't hear this very often," I tell him, "but Peggy Sue Got Married is my favorite movie. I think it's extremely underrated, the way you capture loss, regret, acceptance...and that score!"

"Thank you," he responds in a thick Italian accent as he gestures for me to stop speaking.

"Now that you've finished with that, who are you?" he asks me.

"I'm playing Dr. Brennan," I reply.

He looks me over thoroughly, then glances at my resume, which is attached to a picture of me from four score and twenty pounds ago.

"No, no. Another part for you, I think."

I hold up my phone and try to play for Francis a voice mail that confirms I've been offered the lead role but his mind is made. I'm sent off to a quiet auditorium strewn with half finished costumes and sets to learn my new lines. I am officially no longer the lead but rather the goofy best friend/second banana.

A Holliday Feast

July 27, 2008

I'm standing in line waiting to buy a bus ticket to take me home after a vacation in Las Vegas. I very politely try to cut in front of an elderly couple because my bus is about to leave. The woman at the counter refuses to sell me a ticket and the bus pulls away without me.

Suddenly, I'm working in a large office. Everyone is all abuzz because Broadway belters Patti LuPone (Evita) and Jennifer Holliday (Dreamgirls) have arrived. It seems they are going to perform for the staff. Patti, dressed casually, strolls through the office all confidence and brass as she announces to everyone, "I'm goin' out front for a smoke; Who's comin'?"

Perhaps intimidated by her presence, no one moves a muscle. Patti shrugs and heads out the door.

Meanwhile, Jennifer, dressed in an orange wig and Little Orphan Annie dress, is preoccupied with finding out what time lunch is being served and asks the staff, "Can someone show me to the buffet?"

Between the eating and the smoking, we never do get them to perform.

A Porous Line

Summer, 2008

I'm having after dinner tea with my sister and her neighbors, Tony Award winner Kelly Bishop (A Chorus Line, Gilmore Girls, Dirty Dancing) and her husband. We're all enjoying ourselves but the mood darkens when Kelly's husband tells us they have to move so he can be closer to his job. Everyone seems heartbroken that they will no longer be right next door but instead a 45 minute drive away.

A Few Nights Later...

It's opening night of a big Broadway show and the management of the theatre has a severe shortage of bathrooms. It seems that one enormous and elegantly appointed washroom, which could service dozens of theatre goers, has been set aside for my exclusive use. A panicked usher steps up to talk to me.

"Please, can you help us?"

"I'm sure we can work something out," I tell him.

As the curtain rises for Act II, it seems I've traded my bathroom privileges for a part in the show. I find myself onstage desperately trying to keep up with Kelly Bishop as she dances circles around a group of dancers less than half her age.

Outrageous Acts and Everyday Snack Foods

May 21, 2010

I'm walking around Manhattan with my Dad and Gloria Steinem. We decide to go to a movie, so we head down the stairs into a subway station on Madison Avenue. I am the last one to make it downstairs, but I already have my ticket. While Gloria and my Dad wait in line, we miss our train.

Somehow we make it to the movie theatre; we're now climbing up a set of red carpeted stairs. We walk through a glass door into a small glass enclosed vestibule. We open a second glass door and that's when it happens. The vestibule is flooded with popcorn. We are nearly chest deep in buttery popped kernels. It doesn't seem cause for panic, but we clearly miss our movie.

We dig ourselves out and head to Gloria's house. As I play with her dog, I notice a little girl and her grandmother who hover around, seemingly lost. That's when I realize that this is not actually Gloria's house, but rather a set built to stand in for her house. Now I understand--we're on the back lot at Warner Brothers where Gloria is playing herself on an episode of Gilmore Girls.

Somewhere Over The Hillside

April 20, 2010

I'm riding my bike with a group of married friends through a well manicured neighborhood in the Los Angeles hills. It is a strikingly beautiful Sunday afternoon, and the landscape is dotted with palm trees and ranch style houses.

Two of the men in our group have broken away. Having raced a head a block or so, they challenge the rest of us to ride further up into the hills. With great effort, my bike and I climb higher and higher above the houses.

I look up from the road and am confused and astonished by what I see: a self contained wall of ocean sits on the side of the hill defying both logic and gravity. Bobbing up and down with the waves I notice an even more incredible sight--it's Judy Garland and Liza Minnelli happily bellyboarding in the sun.

This Is No Dream...This Is Really Happening!

July, 2008

I'm on vacation with my cousins. We're sitting by a pond listening to a radio and reading the Sunday comic pages. Everyone leaves, but I stay to watch the sun go down. It becomes so dark, I fear I will be unable to find my way home.

Just as I begin to panic, a single headlight appears in the distance. As it draws near, I see a motorcycle driven by my Aunt Eileen. She beckons me to hop on the back of her hog, which I do. We ride for a while on a dark highway, eventually arriving in a small town where we pull into the driveway of an old farm house. This is clearly not our home, but we sneak in the front door and have a look around.

We are searching for something, but I don't know what. There are movie posters and books everywhere, and one that particularly catches my eye is a large coffee table edition with a painting of King Kong on the cover.

We hear voices on the second floor and creep up the stairs to investigate. An elderly woman has fallen asleep watching television. I know instantly what she was watching; it's Rosemary's Baby, but it's not like I remember it. I protest to my aunt, "I don't remember this scene with the mummies. Where did the mummies come from?"

*****

This dream freaked me out when I had it. I didn't like being lost in the dark and I hated the feeling of sneaking around someone 's house...but I do love me some Rosemary's Baby!

Roosevelt's Whores

December 1, 2009

I'm sitting on a giant bed which has an ornate frame that seems to be carved from mahogany, or perhaps cherry wood. It's a bed fit for a leader, and in fact this is the White House, and that bed belongs to President Jeb Bartlet (Martin Sheen) from TVs The West Wing. I have no sense of being on television--President Bartlet seems every bit a real life world leader as he strides confidently into the room. He is greeted by a throng of children who present him with drawings of Washington and Air Force One.

The children, like myself, are here for a pajama party with the President. I have a feeling that I might work here, but I know I am not very high level because when and aide whispers in the President's ear that a military situation in South America will necessitate the cancellation of the sleepover I am ushered out into a rotunda like hallway with the children. A cloud covered, snow dotted Washington skyline is visible through slotted windows.

"I feel like one of Roosevelt's whores," I mutter as I am led down the hallway still in my pajamas, my clothes and shoes gathered up in my arms.

I hear a sharp, distinctive laugh. I look back to see First Lady Abigail Bartlet (Stockard Channing) surveying the scene. She looks amazing as she warms her hands in her over sized muff, or perhaps it's really a stole.

I am mortified that she has heard what I've said. I try to explain that I didn't mean to imply that her husband has whores, but she waves her hand as if to say, "Think nothing of it." She is clearly tickled by the situation and I find myself greatly relieved.

The Hostess With The Mostess

8/12/2001

I’m standing on the sidewalk outside Radio City Musical Hall. I walk through the lobby and into the theatre, which is completely empty. I head down the aisle and take a seat in the third row and wait for the show to start. It turns out I am here to see the Tony Awards. As the lights go down the opening number begins; a big production with lots of chorus boys. Suddenly from within the midst of the chorus boys a lone and rather tiny female figure is hoisted into the air. It’s our hostess for the evening, 5-foot-nothin’ Nancy Walker! Still all alone in the auditorium except for the performers on stage, I leap from my seat and cheer enthusiastically.

******

I had this dream during an afternoon nap I took while on vacation in San Francisco. When I awoke I was truly disoriented for several minutes. At first I felt a sort of drunken happiness because I love the Tonys and I love Nancy Walker, whose Ida Morgenstern character was really my first surrogate mother. After a few minutes, I remembered that she was actually no longer alive and I experienced an almost suffocating sadness that lingered with me for the rest of my trip.

July 20, 1982

July 20, 1982

I walk into a pet shop accompanied by an Irish Setter on a leash. Immediately, we spy Queen Elizabeth II of England all decked out in a dazzling tiara. Her Majesty stands next to a massive, beautiful brown horse.

Once the animals notice each other it doesn't take long for their true feelings to make themselves known. The dog growls ferociously as he bares his teeth at the horse; the horses rises up on his hind legs, jerking his head violently as he whinnies and nays.

The Queen approaches me.

"Your dog has spooked my horse," she says icily.

"No," I tell her firmly, "your horse has spooked my dog."

*********
This is one of the most disturbing and fascinating dreams of my entire life. When I woke up that morning, I discovered that while I slept there had been a pair of bombings in London. From the BBC:

"Eight soldiers on ceremonial duty have been killed in two IRA blasts in central London...The first blast, in Hyde Park, killed two soldiers and injured 23 others...Seven horses [from the Queen's Household Calvary] were killed or so badly maimed they had to be destroyed."

Though I did not hear this news on the radio or from a television while I slept, as people have suggested over the years, I am not claiming to have somehow predicted these events since they either were happening or had just happened while I was dreaming. Whatever happened or didn't happen, whatever I may have seen, or whatever vibration or energy I may picked up on, this is the dream that rattled me and prompted me to pay attention to my dreams.

(As for the art, I just couldn't decide which one to use.)

Prickley Heat

April 6, 2010

I'm wandering through a glass enclosed atrium at a large modern airport. The sky around me is a thick dark blue, almost like an oil painting. I am startled to see a passenger jet fall from darkness and burst into flames, but I regain my composure and quickly walk away.

As I contemplate what happened to the plane, I see SCTV station manager Mrs. Edith Prickley, all decked out in her traditional cat rimmed glasses and leopard skinned jacket with matching hat, walking in the direction of the crash. Just as we approach each other Edith literally fades away until she is completely gone.

I walk on a little further and as I'm passing by an office on my right, I peer into the room and what I see captures my attention so completely, every thought of the doomed plane rushes out of my mind and I am unable to turn away. It's Mad Men's Don Draper and his enormous, perfectly formed penis relaxing on a couch on the verge of being pleasured by Mrs. Prickley.

My Fair (and-in-every-way-Equal-if-not-Superior) Lady

April 10, 2010

I'm in a sleep loft, but really it seems more like an old barn, staying up late watching old movies with Gloria Steinem and two or three of her friends. As the sun begins to rise and everyone else lapses into sleep, Gloria and I climb from the loft down a wrought iron ladder. I notice that Gloria's right foot is in a cast and she struggles as she descends the ladder.

At the bottom, we find ourselves in a sun-drenched, white bricked living room. It occurs to me that this must be some one's summer home. We have a look around, searching for something to eat. I start dancing and singing "Wouldn't It Be Loverly" from My Fair Lady. Gloria and I are actually trying to stage a musical number in the Summer house! She hands me a woman's straw hat covered in enormous flowers in shades of violet. As I come to the lyric, "with one enormous chair," I plop myself into an overstuffed white canvas armchair.

"Oh, that's good!" Gloria exclaims.

"Wait, wait, wait," a voice calls. It seems we are not alone. To our amazement, a 10-inch claymation version of Katherine Hepburn leaps from the fireplace mantel onto the arm of my chair.

"I want to sing, too," she insists.

We bend to her will, as if we ever had a choice. With her hands placed defiantly on her hips, Claymation Kate bellows at the top of her tiny little lungs another song from My Fair Lady. Naturally she's chosen"Without You." a song expounding the virtues of independence and self reliance.

Ma Vie en Porn

4/7/90

I'm in a library compiling research on Dinah Washington and Edith Piaf. I find a book called Queen of The Blues, and a volume of plays that Piaf appeared in, along with one that she wrote. A rack of pornographic magazines distracts me. I look around to make sure no one sees me checking them out, but two men, one of them wrapped in a towel, spot me flipping through the magazines. We start to talk about sex, and the man in the towel says to me, "I bet you've never even had sex with any of the women here...well, maybe just that one."

**************

I found this dream in a journal I kept when I spent a semester in Costa Rica 150 years ago. Well, it feels like 150 years. I'd completely forgotten this dream, but it made me think of another I had when I was 17.

I had a vague notion of Edith Piaf but I knew very little about her. Mostly, I knew that Barbra Streisand had recorded a song called "Le Mur" for her album Je Me Appelle Barbra, which I had purchased that summer. The song had been written for Piaf but she died before she could record it and, as I learned from the liner notes, the song's composers witheld the tune from other artists until after Barbra had recorded it.

The dream I had was more of a burning vision, but I was definitely asleep when I saw it. It was a poster for a film about the life of Piaf starring Barbra Streisand. The poster showed a dark and shadowy figure on a dimly lit stage. I was confused but completely intrigued. A few nights later my mother and I stumbled upon a documentary on the life of Edith Piaf. It was the first time I was conscious of seeing her and I was shocked at how closely she resembled what I had seen in my dream. That's when I decided to learn everything I could about "The Little Sparrow."

"What's Done Is Done" --Lady Macbeth, Act 3, Scene 2

April 19, 2010

My father takes me into the back yard to tell me something very important. He speaks haltingly, struggling to find the right words.

"What is it?" I ask him.

The man who responds is Morgan Freeman, and yet he now speaks with such authority, I know it is still my father.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you this before, I should have, but...your mother is still alive."

He indicates a short, round, dark skinned woman in the next yard. She is encircled by young boys as she plays a ceremonial drum and chants. The sounds are foreign to my ear and seem to be mostly long stretches of vowels. Somehow, I understand that she is repeating her name over and over again.

"Esther Rolle? My mother is Esther Rolle?"

"Yes," Morgan tells me, "but to hear her name aloud invites bad things."

And how; the group of young boys has now encircled Morgan. They throw rubber tires at him, knocking his body about until he can no longer defend himself. Seemingly resigned to his fate, he sinks into the ground and is swallowed up by the earth.

*******
Leaving aside the family drama, the thing that I find interesting about the dream is this:
In 1936 twenty-one year old Orson Welles directed a production of Macbeth set in Haiti for the Negro Theatre Unit of the Federal Theatre Project. Welles's first great success, the production was commonly referred to as Voodoo Macbeth. In 1977 the production was revived by the Henry Street Settlement's New Federal Theatre starring Esther Rolle as Lady Macbeth. And of course "Macbeth" is the word that superstitious theatre folk believe invites bad luck.