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.

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.

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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.