They're Playing Her Song

Entertainer Lucie Arnaz was born on July 17, 1951.If you recognize this illustration as an attempt to capture her Broadway debut in the 1979 Broadway musical They're Playing Our Song, then you're really old or perhaps even gayer than I am.

I've always had a soft spot in my heart for Lucie. When I was about 9 I remember seeing her on Marcus Welby, MD as a tennis player whose career is threatened by a thyroid condition. Oh the drama!

I know it's not a very popular opinion, but I never really warmed up to her legendary mother, Lucille Ball. As a kid I viewed Ball as a gravelly-voiced, chain-smoking aloof and imposing sort of Duchess who made the rounds of the afternoon talk shows to hold court. Young Lucie, in contrast, seemed spirited and approachable.

I had a dream about the two of them a few years ago. Lucie was filming a TV version of They're Playing Our Song on Amsterdam Avenue behind Lincoln Center. Her mother showed up and caused quite a fuss. She felt that Lucie should have two trailers; one for when she was singing and one for when she was dancing. Lucie, humble as ever, appeared quite mortified.

When I was 20 I met Lucie Arnaz on Easter Sunday with flowers and a fan letter at the stage door of the Forrest Theatre in Philadelphia. It was my first fan letter, and one of the few I've ever written. I was so impressed that she wrote back, even while performing 8 shows a week in a demanding musical, while living in a strange city and traveling with three small children. I kept that letter for many years but somewhere along the way I managed to lose it. But it doesn't matter; I memorized it within minutes of receiving it:

Dear Jim,

Thank you for the flowers and the kind words. They made me feel great!

God Bless, 

Lucie Arnaz

A Force To Be Reckoned With

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...actually it this morning right

 in my bedroom.  I awoke from a dream in which I was telling someone 

that "generations of young girls"are now predisposed to become space 

travelers because of Princess Leia. 

Once awake I checked my phone and saw a text from my sister. 

It was a quote from Postcards From The Edge , which 

was written by Princess Leia herself, 

Carrie Fisher. Oh, and the quote prominently featured 

the word "generation."  

Coincidence...or was it The Force?

I have to admit I don't really understand the Force since I've never been able to sit through Star Wars without falling asleep. 

Hey Scout

 To Kill A Mockingbird and the Finch family have been very much in the news leading up to the release of Go Set A Watchman today. This little iPad doodle of Scout is my little tip of the cap to this great American novel and its creator Harper Lee. 

Why I Oughta...

7/14/15

This post offers readers a restaurant review of sorts, and a chance to see just how warped my mind is.  But I warn you, there is a section that is really gross and kind of graphic, at least by my standards. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

There's a restaurant in my new neighborhood just about two blocks from me on South Street called Jon's. They make a pretty decent cheesesteak and Buster and I have gone there for brunch a few times. This past Sunday we ordered an omelette with smoked mozzarella for me and a side of bacon for Buster. Well, mostly for Buster. He very generously offered to share since I always pick up the bill.

The omelette was tasty and so huge I left about a third of it on the plate. The potatoes were sliced into tiny little rectangles, looking more liked diced apple than anything else. They weren't great, but two or three or six squirts of ketchup really helps.

The problem with Jon's is their logo. You see Jon's advertises itself as the birthplace of Larry Fine (nee Fineberg) of The Three Stooges, who was born in Philadelphia in 1902. They've got a giant mural of him playing the violin painted high above South Street with his face comically contorted and his hair all akimbo.*

This is actually the second mural the artist David McShane painted of Larry Fine for Jon's. The first, which like the current painting, feature Larry in a loud checkered suit jacket juxtaposed on top of a black and yellow bull's eye. Larry's not really doing much in this first portrait, just being Larry, which really is more than enough. It's this first image that can be found on the menu and on a sign in front of the restaurant proclaiming "Birth Place of Larry Fine!"

At first I thought it was funny, and I wondered why they didn't just call the place Larry's or Fine's. But now that I've spent a few Sundays staring at that sign and letting my imagination run wild while waiting for frittatas and Diet Coke, I've contemplated all sorts of horrifying images.

Second Warning: the gross part is almost here.

Now there's a good chance that Larry wasn't even born at this address, only somewhere in the neighborhood. And even if he was born at this address, there's a good chance it was not a restaurant at the time. And even if it was a restaurant at the time, there's no reason to think that Mrs. Fineberg, fresh from slicing the potatoes into little rectangles for some rather mundane home fries, stooped over at the sink just long enough to squeeze out  little Larry with his crooked nose and familiar crimson locks sculpted into a topiary so ornate it strained the very limits of her womanhood, before washing her hands (hopefully!) and cracking open a few dozen eggs.

And yet...and yet...when I read those words "birth place of Larry Fine" and see that crazy face superimposed over the hypnotic black and  yellow circles receding further and further into the distance like a pinwheel, it's as if Larry is lurching forward, emerging fully formed from some slap-stick-mad-house version of a birth canal.

It's lovely that Philadelphia has found a way to honor one of its native sons who went out into the world and made good for himself while entertaining millions (including me) but he still seems an odd choice for a restaurant. Imagine eating under a sign and accompanying art work that said "Birth Place of Paul Giamatti...or Steve Busecmi!"

Nyuk nyuk nyuk indeed.


(Note: My reinterpretation of the original art work is a simple pencil drawing seriously manipulated on my Ipad.)

*I really love that word.

The Not-So-Bad Wife

7/12/15

Anybody else have that crazy dream 

last night that they worked at 

Lockhart/Gardner and Diane got mad 

when you asked about another raise, 

especially since she says she's caught 

you napping on the job? No? That was 

just me? And then she decided to leave 

the law and go back to her first love,

the theatre. 

(Among the details I've left out for brevity's sake: packing up my desk and an enormous number of Christmas decorations, Andy Cohen standing on a window ledge pretending he's going to jump, Diane Lockhart [Christine Baranski] having words with Miranda Priestly.)

At Least Nine Lives

Another birthday for dear, talented, slightly, uh, eccentric Betty Buckley. I digitally painted the "Cats" makeup and a reinterpretation of Grizabella's costume right over top of the drawing I did of her last summer. 

Nobody Does It Better

Normally I only draw Carly Simon around St. Patrick's Day on account of the conjuring (see previous posts) but it's not every day she turns 70. 

In honor of this milestone I present my interpretation of the cover of my favorite Carly Simon album and the first one I ever owned, 1981's Torch. My copy is now autographed and framed. 

I was lucky enough to see Carly in one of her rare public performances when she taped a concert for Good Morning America back in the 90s. Luckier still to meet her on a handful of occasions, and she's never been less than gracious and warm, even when I did that thing New Yorkers are never supposed to do: stop a celebrity on the street. 

Happy Birthday and thank you Carly for all the music and the sweet memories. 

I'll Always Speak Well Of You...

4/24/15

It seems fitting to me that my last day in Brooklyn, indeed my last day as a citizen of New York, would fall on the birthday of Brooklyn's own mega-hyphenate (actress-singer-producer-director-philanthropist-etc, etc.) Barbra Joan Streisand. Soon, just like Barbra, Brooklyn will be in my rear view mirror (metaphorically of course, as I have no intention of ever owning a rear view mirror, unless maybe I find one with Two Faces.)

Thank you New York for all of the laughs, the countless shows and concerts, the game nights at Michael and Tim's, the countless evenings in movie houses, the baseball games, the brisket with extra carrots, the fountain at Lincoln Center, the misspent time and money at Tower Records and HMV, the baked potato ice cream loaf at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame, the acting class with that crazy bitch from Cats, the random celebrity sightings, Shakespeare In The Park, the fireworks, the two City Hall weddings at which I was honored to be the only witness and guest, the #8 smoothie with vanilla yogurt and blueberries, and especially, most especially, for the friends I've made along the way. To paraphrase Taylor Swift, New York you and I are probably never, ever, ever getting back together, but I still love you, promise to visit, and will always speak well of you.

The Days and Nights of Blair Brown

This is a pencil sketch of  Tony winner and five time Emmy nominee Blair Brown that I put through a watercolor filter. It's based on a glamour shot she did about 25 years ago. She deserves so much more but all my art supplies are packed away except for my red pencil and my blue pencil.

During my time in New York, which is rapidly winding down, I've had the pleasure of seeing Blair on stage four times and meeting her briefly on two occasions. I enjoyed her in all of the plays, but her heartbreaking work in the musical "James Joyce's The Dead" was particularly memorable.

When I was in Costa Rica in 1990 I had an intense dream about Blair Brown that seemed to play out in real life a few days later.

In the dream I was in Central Park in New York with Blair. Someone tried to accost her and we wound up in a decrepit old police station filling out a report with an officer who typed our story on an old manual typewriter. The office couldn't get her name right and kept calling her Molly Dodd. Blair tried in vain to explain that she was an actress and that Molly Dodd was just a character she played, not  her real name.

A few days later I'm walking near Parque Central (yes, that's Spanish for Central Park) in downtown San Jose with my friend Ellen and her three year old son Michael (who is now a handsome and funny young man) when Ellen is spooked by two women who she thinks are following us and worries that they may try to snatch Michael.

We ditch the women and head into the park to collect ourselves. Ellen looks through her bag and realizes her wallet has been stolen. The next day we find ourselves in a decrepit old police station, I sort of remember it being in the lower level of a building, very dark like a basement.

A police officer takes Ellen's story down on an old manual typewriter. The officer has a hard time understanding why Ellen had two different last names. Ellen tries in vain to explain that she is an actress and her professional name is Ellen Kaplan but her married/legal name is Ellen Feder. The concept seems completely foreign to the officer but I think it sinks in eventually.

I'm not saying my dream (which also had Blair in a bright pink party dress talking about her pony pal Pokey) was prophecy exactly, but I couldn't help but see the similarities. And it's made all of my future dreams feel a little more real.

Anyway, Happy Birthday to the incredible and dreamy Blair Brown!

[Note: it's also Judy Davis's birthday but I've already drawn her at least 3 times so she gets a pass this year.]

The Greatest Star

March 26, 1964 Funny Girl opens at the Winter Garden Theatre on Broadway. Last year I went all out to mark the 50th anniversary with about a dozen drawings; this year just one quick doodle.

Reach Out And Touch...

Diana Ross turns 71 today. Here's a little sketch of her singing in the wind and rain during her 1983 concert in Central Park. I was very impressed how she stayed out there in the rain and lightning trying to keep the crowd calm as they exited the park when the weather became too dangerous to continue. Me? I would have been back in my trailer at the first clap of thunder.

The Newmans Awake

3/15/15

I'm in my old bedroom, in the Hell's Kitchen apartment I shared with two roommates 20 years ago. There's a lot of noise and carrying on in the living room. I panic because I'm afraid it will awake our guests in the bedroom next to mine, Paul Newman & Joanne Woodward. 

I go out into the living room and tell my roomies to be quiet. I notice that the door to Paul and Joanne's room is slightly ajar. As I go to close it I accidentally push it open even further, allowing a large ray of light to streak across the bed. 

I don't know why exactly, but I feel certain Paul is going to be furious that we've disturbed them. He emerges from the room first, dressed and ready to go out. He says hello and seems quite friendly and undisturbed by the noise. A moment later Joanne steps into the living room to join him. I say hello and she introduces herself as Lenora Stewart Levin. I'm surprised to hear this, but I figure this must be her birth name. 

Although she seems perfectly healthy, Joanne tells me, "Paul's dropping me off at hospice care later, but I've got to stop and get my hair done first."

And with that they're out the door and getting on with their day.

A Daly Affirmation

2/21/15

Today is Tyne Daly's birthday, and I have many thoughts I'd like to share about her, but it's 3AM, and my thoughts are all jumbled, so I'm going to go the bullet point route.

• I first became aware of her watching her as half of the police detective team Cagney & Lacey
  
• Like most red-blooded American teenagers at the time, Tyne often appeared in my dreams as I slept. That wasn't a thing? It was just me?
  
• I'm not proud of this, but I once threw my bedroom slipper at my mom (it missed) because she wouldn't stop talking during the climax of a particularly intense episode. I can hear her like it was yesterday, "It looks like Tyne lost some weight." To her credit, my mother did not tell my father, which was a big threat for me even at 19 or 20. And eventually we did laugh about it. Eventually.
  
• If you go to the Paly Center for Media in New York, you can find me on a tape there from 1994 asking Tyne why she wouldn't reboot Cagney & Lacey into a full time series and not just occasional TV movies.She said she didn't want another hour long weekly gig. I reminded her that her then current show Christy was an hour long. She laughed and said, "I already got an hour gig; I'm lookin' for a half hour gig!"
  
• As something of a show queen (I really don't like how reductive that term is, but it's apt) I have often heard and participated in heated discussions regarding who was the ultimate Mama Rose in Gypsy. I've seen six live productions, including three Broadway revivals; I've seen a movie version; I've seen a TV version;  I've  studied hours of Youtube videos of various productions and performers tackling the score, and for my money Tyne Daly was the most authentic, chilling, awesome Rose ever. It's been 25 years, and I can still see her in my mind's eye leaping off the stage in frustration and yearning during her climatic number, Rose's Turn. No, she doesn't have the singing chops of some of the other Roses like Patti and Bernadette. It simply doesn't matter; for me, she was thrilling and indelible. 

She's The Top

2/20/15

Today is the 91st birthday of designer, painter, author, mother Gloria Vanderbilt. And if she'd done nothing else in her storied career and fabled life, she'd still be the woman who gave us Anderson Cooper. 

My Mildly Amusing Valentine

2/14/15

I'm in the old New York Times building on West 43rd Street. There is tension in the newsroom. Someone is trying to get us (yes, it seems I work here!) to keep from publishing something damaging to a politician. The particulars are very vague, but everyone at the paper, including myself, is very smug and no so gracious in victory.

I hear the sound of music. I see on the sidewalk below my office Dinah Washington in a red dress performing a Valentines Day concert. A woman approaches the makeshift stage and tries to shake Dinah's hand, but she is shooed away by security. At first I think they don't want the woman to realize that this isn't Dinah but rather an impersonator. And then I realize it's even worse than that: she's a hologram!

(Note: When I woke up this morning  my radio was on and tuned to the local jazz station. They were in the middle of a twenty song Dinah Washington set. I would consider that an outside assist. Also, this is the second time in two weeks I dreamed that someone turned out to be a hologram. What the hell?? Or what the holl!)

Happy Birthday Kathy Najimy

Today is Kathy Najimy's birthday. I had the good fortune of meeting her a few times through my old job as Gloria Stinem's assistant. Gloria had actually performed the wedding service for Kathy and her husband Dan.

I remember telling Kathy that her wedding day was the same as day as my birthday and she said, "which one? We got married a bunch of times."

A few months later I got to go backstage at the Helen Hayes theatre on Broadway to meet Kathy. She was appearing in "Dirty Blonde" in a dual role as Mae West and one of her Mae's fans. I've been backstage at a few theatres but this one was different from others I'd been to. Most that I've visited are pretty utilitarian, but the Helen Hayes had a sitting area that was kind of like a Victorian parlor. I half expected someone to offer me tea.

My conversation with Kathy wasn't particularly memorable, just friendly chit chat. But while I awaited my turn with her, I witnessed an unusual site. Julie Kavner happened to attend the same performance, and when Kathy came out of her dressing room and into the parlor, she first spoke with Julie while I looked on. It was a little surreal listening to the voices of Marge Simpson and Peggy Hill chat about the state of Broadway.

[SIDE BAR: I didn't get to talk to Julie, but if I had I probably would have told her about that time I was in high school and I accidentally wrote a musical version of "Rhoda."  I didn't realize that's what I was doing, but when I read it back, it was pretty clear: two young Jewish women finding their way in New York, one of them a chronic overeater with self esteem issues, dealing with their overbearing mother. (and now I'm having a senior moment--did I write about this before??) ]

Once again I digress! Happy Birthday to the uniquely talented Kathy Najimy!

A Blythe Spirit

2/3/15

Blythe Danner was born in Philadelphia on February 3, 1943. I'm very glad we were born in the same city, though I imagine she's from a nicer neighborhood than I.

I saw her leaving a theatre once, but I've never seen her perform on stage; I had a ticket to see her in Follies in 2001, but alas her understudy went on at the matinee I saw.

Over the years she's shown up in my dreams a few times, both involving public transportation and Pennsylvania.

In one dream it's very late at night and it's some time around 1960. I meet Blythe on a bus. We're on our way to Philadelphia to try to find the next great girl group.

In the other dream, which I had about 6 years ago, I'm riding in the dining car of a big old train and playing cards with Blythe Danner and Tony winner Joanna Gleason (Broadway's Baker's Wife in the original "Into The Woods". For my non theatre friends, oh my God she is a treat. But I digress.)

We're on our way to Valley Forge where we'll be making a historical film. I realize now this dining car is actually our dressing room. As the train pulls into a lush, hilly patch of land, Blythe tells us, "you know my father was a Jewish baker in Philadelphia." This seems highly unlikely.

The train comes to a stop. I open a door to peak outside. There is already filming underway, and I have just apparently ruined a shot because I'm not yet in costume. I scramble back inside, closing the door behind me. Blythe and Joanna laugh at my mistake, but really how was I to know the train would leave us right on the set?!

Bruised Cherries: Foreign Visitors in the Auditorium

[NOTE: Like anyone who writes, I edit my work, even my dreams. It may not seem like it, but I do cut bits and pieces to make the narrative more clear. I wont make things up, but I will remove small moments that may be confusing, like a quick location change, or when one person turns into another and then back again in an instance. If I didn't, I think most dreams would be very difficult to follow. I know it can already be taxing enough to sit through someone else's dreams. However, today I am putting away my editor's pen and writing this morning's dream as just as I remember it. ]

2/1/15

I'm in the auditorium of my old high school. Sister M. is there. She was the sometimes kindly but more often foaming at the mouth-scary nun who acted as the assistant director of our high school plays. Also in attendance is President Obama. Wait, is he our principle AND the president? And is this the auditorium AND the chamber of the House of Representatives? Oh man.

Everyone is discussing what to do with the extra thousand dollars in the budget. The president wants to build a small satellite stage in the middle of the auditorium. I help him move some bleachers around to get an idea of how big it would be.

Sister M, doesn't think we need it. I explain to the president that we used to built two smaller stages at the side of the main stage for every show, but they're really not needed. "What about the lights? Maybe we could update some of the lights," I suggest.

"Or the sound." Sister chimes in. "I know it's not that old, but the sound system isn't very good."

We're outside on a field now, but somehow it's still part of the auditorium. I see Vanessa Redgrave and her sister Lynn walking down a hill in period costumes, though I'm not sure what period, and enormously teased 1960s hairstyles. I feel like what I'm seeing is real, but also maybe a hologram.

The president is upset because there was supposed to be an unfurling of the Union Jack and a band playing God Save The Queen when they arrived. He runs to the back of the auditorium, and within moments a group of red coated soldiers takes the field/auditorium and plays the British anthem.

The president welcomes the sisters and asks where they grew up. Vanessa tells him it was in a small town north of London. Mr. Obama tells her he had once lived not too far from there. [i don't think any of that is actually true!]

Meanwhile, some sort of mock hearing has started on the stage. The president reads a list of charges against a student/congressman and begins to ask questions. The student gets up, yelling and screaming. He objects to the line of questioning. He threatens Obama with a hockey puck.

"If you throw that at me, you will be sorry."

The fair skinned student, an athletic but pudgy type, forcefully tosses the puck in Mr. Obama's direction and catches him square in the crotch. The red coated British soldiers pounce on the student. As they drag him away, the President, doubled over in pain, calls out, "You need to find a new school; I'm expelling you!"

The president looks up and wave to the crowd. "I"m okay. All the fruit is accounted for."

"But now you've got bruised cherries," I laugh.

The Redgrave sisters have been watching, but now they walk briskly up the side of a hill. I try to follow them, but I loose sight of them as we approach a baseball diamond. I see one of my aunts and her husband playing softball with a bunch of their kids. What are they doing? Don't they care about the Redgraves?

On the far side of the baseball diamond, I go down a small embankment and find Vanessa in modern clothes. It seems clear now that Lynn was just a hologram.

Vanessa is holding court and giving each person she encounters a few minutes of private conversation. My turn arrives and I tell her how much I enjoy her work and the work of her entire family. She thanks me, but I continue, specifically mentioning Lynn, and how inspiring I found her work, and her efforts to carry on and do her best even when there was no good work to be had.

Vanessa collapses on the ground clutching her chest. But suddenly she is no longer herself; she now resembles an elderly Jean Stapleton. She asks me to get a doctor. There happens to be one standing right behind us who kind of looks like Phil Collins. I tell Vanessa/Jean to hold my hand, which she does. The doctor checks her neck for a pulse but can't find one. It seems she has slipped away.

"Give her some digoxin," I demand.

"There's nothing we can do, she's gone."

But just as I'm thinking how glad I am that her last thoughts were happy ones about her sister, Vanessa/Jean's eyes pop wide open and she gasps, taking a loud, messy breath of life.

Home Movies

I/29/15

It's late on Christmas night. I'm gathered with a family to watch some old home movies. I realize suddenly that this is not my family. I'm actually in the living room of Gena Rowland's Los Angeles home, along with the brood of now adult children she shared with John Cassavetes.

The movie, projected onto an old fashioned fold screen on medal legs, has just started. Gena has decided to go to bed and not stay up to watch. I look down a hallway off of the kitchen just in time to see the back of her head disappear into a bedroom.

Everyone turns their attention back to the screen. It seems a strange mix of family footage and scenes from Gena's work in motion pictures. I'm taken with the image of Gena posing with her children on an over sized burnt orange couch. One moment she is completely engaged, laughing and showing off her children, and in the next, the smile evaporates from her face and she recedes into the background without ever moving.

I don't want to watch anymore. I get up and go to the kitchen when it occurs to me that I haven't seen Gena's three Emmys around the house.

"They must be in the bedroom," I conclude, and start to devise a plan to get in there and have a peek.

[this dream is the kind that would normally really upset me, but honestly, it was so cool to see Gena Rowlands, plus movies within the dream! I also find it interesting that her home movies were kind of a mishmash of real life and narrative film, given that the home she shared with Cassavettes served as the shooting location for several of their collaborations. The illustration is three separate red pencil drawings blended digitally.]

I Had A Farm In Africa...

"I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills."

So goes the opening line of Isak Dinesen's celebrated memoir, as well the first words spoken in the motion picture of the same name, Out of Africa. I've been thinking about the book all week and how much I enjoyed reading it nearly thirty years ago as I rode the train into Center City Philadelphia on my way to rehearsals at the Walnut Street Theatre for a play In which I was performing. (Performing is a generous description as I was actually moving furniture around the set while wearing a French Restoration costume.)

The book took me out of myself and away from a bleak, grey winter. It's funny how I don't remember a lot of detail from the book, but I completely remember the feeling of transformation, of being happily lost a midst the tall grass, and the joy of vicarious exploration.

The film version did much the same thing for me this past Tuesday when I happened upon it while channel surfing as I waited for the State of The Union address to commence. I never did flip back to CNN until after the movie was over. It's just as well. I get far too anxious watching these annual addresses, and especially the opposition responses. I was much better off luxuriating in John Barry's lush score, the picture perfect cinematography and costumes, and the ill fated romance between Meryl Streep and Robert Redford.

Lady Parts

Lady Parts refers to the title of Andrea Martun's recent memoir of the same name. I received a copy of it for Cheistmas from a thoughtful friend. Alas it still sits on my desk unopened, but I feel certain I shall dive into Lady Parts soon. I may need to rework that last sentence. 

Anyway, a belated Happy Birthday (January 15) to the hilarious and inventive Andrea Martin, seen here in my approximation of one of her more serious stage roles in Tenesee William's The Rose Tatoo. 

Well, La Dee Da, La Dee Da, La La

Traffic Starts Jumpin'

1/4/15

I'm on a crowded bus it's raining. The bus

starts to ascend a steep ramp en route 

to an enormous bridge. This makes me somewhat nervous. 

 In the back of the bus by the bathroom, 

a drag queen dressed as Dolly Parton strums her guitar. 

I suggest we start a singalong. Dolly 

plays "Nine To Five" and the whole bus sings the first 

verse and the chorus. We get to the 

second verse and no one seems to know the words.     

We repeat the first verse but we totally 

fuck it up; we're "out on the street" where the traffic 

jumping before we "jump in the shower 

and the blood starts pumping." No good.

Drag queen Dolly stops playing and, ever resourceful, 

writes the words to the second verse on a sheet of poster 

board, and we continue singing. We 

make it across the bridge, and my anxiety has passed. 

Kitty, I Forgive You

      1/1/15

   How you remember Kitty Carlisle, if you remember Kitty Carlisle

   Hart, will probably depend on your age. If you’re over 70, you

   may remember her as the Marx Brother’s costar in films like

  “A Night At The Opera,” or as a star of operettas and Broadway

   musicals. 

   If you’re younger than that, you may remember her as the 

   be-gowned and bejeweled panelist on To Tell The Truth.  Or

   as the long time Chairperson of the New York State Council

   of the Arts.

   Well, to tell the truth, I didn’t much think about her one way or

   the other until after she died and I read her obituary in the 

   New York Times. Along with  a list of accomplishments and 

   performing credits, there was this nugget of wisdom from Kitty:

   She greeted each new day by studying herself in the mirror and 

   saying, “Kitty, I forgive you!” 

   I tried it for a few days, hoping it would help ease

   my overactive conscience, but honestly it just felt

   ridiculous. Still, it’s a philosophy and a ritual I greatly

   admire, and I’m hoping 2015 is the year that I truly

   embrace it, in spirit if not in practice. 

Frozen Cookies

12/23/14

I walk into a Manhattan penthouse, arriving just as a Christmas luncheon begins. There are enormous windows, and I can see it is an extremely grey and cloudy day. I don't seem to know the host and I don't know quite why I'm here. I find my way to a dining table and I sit and chat with singer Phoebe Snow. After a few minutes another guest arrives--a woman dressed in a sparkly blue gown. It's Princess Elsa from Frozen,  only it's actually character actress Mary Wickes (White Christmas, Sister Act). She explains that it's not just a costume, that she actually is an older and wiser Elsa. She joins Pheobe and I at the table where we proceed to eat cookies. 

River Deep, Mountain High

11/26/14

Anna Mae Bullock (aka Tina Turner) turns 75 today. This sketch is based on photos from her 2013 wedding. Here's a sobering thought: I'm now 5 years older than Tina was when she released her big comeback album. Sigh.

I've been lucky enough to see her in concert three different times in three different cities, each time more exciting than the last. Long may she shimmy.

Not A Hugger

10/12/14

I'm walking around New Orleans with my friend Virginia. It's Columbus day, and we're there to shoot a car commercial. We follow a dark colored sedan on foot for several blocks until we come upon the crew. Governor Bobby Jindal is there and I think to myself, "doesn't he have something more important to do?"

Virginia and I walk a few more blocks to a park where Nina Simone is giving a concert in a light rain. We find seats near the front right next to Mary Travers of Peter, Paul and Mary.

Nina launches into her famous protest song, Mississippi Goddam. The message is deadly serious, but the melody is so infectious that I can't help but to sing a long. Loudly.

No one else is singing and I fear I'm about to be on the receiving end of one of Nina's legendary tantrums. But to my great relief Nina looks up, smiles and nods her head in approval. The crowd starts to sing along.

The rain is coming down heavier now and the concert comes to an abrupt conclusion. I follow Nina down a tree lined street to a small brick building where her dressing room is located. But I'm not stalking her; it turns out MY dressing room is in the same building, in the basement, right next to Nina's.

I watch her gather up her bags and get ready to go. We have a brief conversation where I tell her how much I enjoyed the concert. Just before she walks out I give her a hug. Her body immediately tenses up, as if she'd never been touched before and has no idea how to respond. Wordlessly and with no sign of emotion, she walks down the hallway and disappears up the stairs.

I think to myself, "well, clearly she's not a hugger."

Jorge Porge Pumpkin Pie

Warning: This dream contains one section that is of a graphic sexual nature. That's unusual for me, so I thought I should give you a heads up so you can decide for yourself if you want to continue. 

10/8/14

With my friend Lenore in tow, I walk into a restaurant on a busy stretch of highway outside of Philadelphia. Actually, I'm more in tow as I'm struggled to keep up with her on the walk over from my hotel a block or so away.

Once inside, we get separated almost immediately. I make my way to the dimly lit bar and take the empty seat next to George Clooney.

We make small talk. He seems pretty drunk. We decide to go back to my hotel room. I can't believe my luck.

In the parking lot, George gets into a one seat convertible and starts to pull away.

"There's no room for me in the car! Besides, we can walk."

We stumble into the hotel and down a corridor where George plops down on a bench as we wait for the elevator. We run into a bunch of my relatives who are also staying at the hotel. It's pretty clear I've brought a hook-up back to the hotel.

"Who's your friend?" my cousin Sheila asks.

The twinkle in her eye tells me she may have recognized him. But George does not want to be recognized, so I make up a name for him.

"This is...Jorge." Yes, that's right. His fake name is Spanish for George. I was not very quick on my feet.

Jorge tells me he's going to be sick. I drag him down the hall looking for a bathroom. We make it as far as the kitchen, where George Clooney doubles over and vomits in front of several kitchen employees. Apparently he was also very excited because there is now a sticky white substance all over his jacket and shirt. I take a glob of it and rub it into his chest hair.

I get him back to his feet. We get on an elevator and get off on the tenth floor. We pass a banquet hall where a Kyra Sedgewick tries to say hello. We keep going until we get to my door, room number 1003. I unlock the door, push it open, and watch as George stumbles on to the bed and passes out.

I crouch down, still outside the room, to pick up the newspaper and several pairs of shoes and flip flops. There are so many pairs, I have trouble getting them all in the room.

At last I get into the room, jump into the bed and become the big spoon to George Clooney's little spoon.

A Birthday Portrait

 

I'm a day late celebrating the birth of the exquisite Eileen Brennan. No, Silly, I didn't forget. Just took me a while to finish her portrait. Besides, it's always September 3 in my heart. 

Fresh as a Lily

A very happy birthday to the incomparable Lily Tomlin and all her many personalities. 

On The Occasion of Her Ninety-Ninth Birthday

8/29/14

What a day. Not only was the great jazz and blues singer Dinah Washington born on this day, but so was my favorite old Hollywood star Ingrid Bergman. The three-time Academy Award winner (not to mention a couple of Emmys and a Tony--she was a Triple Crown winner before we had the EGOT) was born in Stockholm, Sweden on August 29, 1915. 

Her remarkable beauty made her a natural choice for Hollywood, but it was her talent and intelligence that kept her working for more than forty years, despite falling out of favor with a puritanical American public and being condemned on the floor of the House of Representatives after following her heart out of an unhappy marriage and into the arms of Italian filmmaker Roberto Rossellini. 

When her eight year battle with cancer came to a close August 29, 1982, her sixty-seventh birthday, she was surrounded by family and held on long enough to lift a glass of champagne to her lips. I love the symmetry of checking out on the same date on which you arrived. It seems strangely classy to me, and so today I raise a glass to this classy woman who convincingly played everything from a nun to an Israeli prime minister on the occasion of her ninety-ninth birthday. 

Aren't They Something?

8/17/14

I had a dream...I'm watching TV, yet it feels like I'm actually there with the people on TV. There's a commercial with Lauren Bacall surrounded by a bunch of tuxedo clad chorus boys. They frame her as if they're about to do a big dance number. Lauren, in a kind of ugly green evening gown, looks down at her breasts, then into the camera she purrs, "Aren't they something?" 

But it turns out she's really talking about her wrists, as the commercial is for some kind of arthritis cream. 

The commercial fades to black. I now see Lauren sitting on the couch at the Oprah Winfrey Show. She is joined by a group of female models who all laugh and giggle.

 Lauren's top is made out of a stretchy, gauzy material and her breasts easily pop out when she waves her arms. She laughs uproariously at this and tells everyone it was an accident, but the twinkle in her eye tells me she knows exactly what she's doing.

[In the dream, both breasts were visible. But I was worried about being insensitive so soon after Lauren's passing, and my friend Carlos advised me that it's much classier to only show one nip.]

The Whole God Damned Picture

Estelle Parsons in Bonnie & Clyde

I re-watched Bonnie & Clyde today, which brought back many memories. I don't think I've written about it before, but if I have, well, it's like my old therapist Dr. Lowenstein used to say, "Sometimes we have to repeat the same stories over and over again so that we can really process them."  

When I was growing up I was allowed to watch almost anything I wanted on TV.  By six I was watching All In The Family, followed in short order by Maude, Police Woman, Charlie's Angels, an assortment of Movies of the Week, and of course my mother's favorite soap operas, Another World, Days of Our Lives, and The Doctors. 

I'm not saying exposing me to violent crime dramas, steamy love affairs, and biting social commentary before I could tie my own shoes was the most responsible parenting choice, but it beat the hell out of Kukla, Fran, and Ollie, and I imagine it did help shape my world view, for better or worse. 

There are only two things I can remember my mother not letting me watch on TV; both were theatrical films. The first, Rosemary's Baby, became one of my favorite movies after she finally relented when I was about fifteen. The only reason I wasn't allowed to watch it in the first place is because it had been condemned by our local Catholic newspaper, The Catholic Standard & Times. Had it only been "Morally Objectionable In Part For All," it might have squeaked past her much sooner.

The other movie was Bonnie & Clyde. Even when I was a teenager, even when I was twenty, she refused to let me watch that movie. My mother's control over our family television was absolute. In most cases I could persuade, beg or charm her into changing the channel. "But Mom, it's a very special episode. Charlie is sending the Angels on a cruise!" Heck, later I even got her to let me watch The Days & Nights of Molly Dodd, which she absolutely hated. Something about the color of Blair Brown's hair set her off. 

But I digress. Any normal parent would have kept their child from watching Bonnie & Clyde because it features about 1,000 gun shots, several on screen deaths, and a murderous, impotent bank robber. None of those things bothered my mother particularly. 

Whenever Bonnie & Clyde came on TV, my mother would say, "We're not watching that. Change the channel. I can't stand Estelle Parsons in that thing."

"But Mom," I would argue, "she won an Oscar for this movie."

"I don't care what she won. All she does is scream through the whole God damned picture."

I so clearly remember her calling it a "picture," like she was Jack Warner, or Mr. Mayer sitting behind his desk on the MGM lot.

To be fair, we did enjoy watching Estelle Parsons several times in The Watermelon Man and For Pete's Sake as Barbra Streisand's shrewish sister-in-law, but my mother just could not abide her in this particular picture.

I never did see Bonnie & Clyde until a few months after my mother died. It was strange and liberating and also a little sad not to have someone there telling me I couldn't watch it. 

I smile and think of my mom whenever I hear Estelle Parson's name. I've seen her on stage a few times now and I think she's a terrific actress. And in Bonnie & Clyde  she gives a full-throttled, committed performance...but it's hard to argue with my mother's assessment. Her voice is shrill and it touches a nerve as she shrieks, and yes, screams through the whole God damned picture. 

When Winnie Met Glenn

7/27/14

I'm sitting on a bench at Barnes & Noble on a Saturday night. I'm watching a documentary about Barbra Streisand (of course I am!) on one of their monitors. Glenn Close sits down next to me and  becomes engrossed in the film.

After a few minutes she turns to me and says, "You know, I almost hired her for a job once."

Before I can even ask about it, Glenn invites me to her home to be part of her reading club. Not a traditional book club, she explains, as everyone will be taking parts and reading the books aloud. 

"We're doing Winnie The Pooh next Sunday, you'll be perfect!"

I explain that and old boyfriend had introduced me to  Winnie The Pooh, but that I had stopped reading it after we broke up.

"Well then, this is your chance to finish it!" 

Here's To The Lady Who Lunched

RIP Elaine Stritch

The Devil Made Me Do It

8/12/12

I've been holding onto this one for a while, and truthfully there wasn't much to it, but it was so vivid.

My sister and I are attending a concert at an amphitheatre. I'm not even sure who we're here to see, but we are not happy with our seats. We're up high, almost the last row. We want to move down closer to the stage, we're afraid we'll get caught. 

Suddenly a bright and garishly dressed woman (well, she's not quite a woman--she's Flip Wilson's alter ego Geraldine Jones) appears in the aisle next to our row. 

"Come on honey," she tells us, "I'll find good seats."

"But what if someone stops us?" I ask. 

As she raises her arms above her head and throws her head back, she declares, "Honey, if anyone stops us, you just tell 'em 'the devil made me do it!' " 

And with that, we follow Geraldine as she skips down the aisle to the promised land down by the stage. 

One Crazy Cat

Today is the 67th birthday of one Betty Lynn Buckley, possibly the maddest hatter in all of show business, or at least all of musical theatre. 

Known for her piercing belt and intense lyric interpretations, Betty came to national attention as the step mother on Eight is Enough and Sissy Spacek's kind-hearted but doomed gym teacher in Carrie. In 1983 she cemented her place in musical theatre by winning a Tony award for originating the role of Grizabella the faded prostitute cat in Cats.

Although  I'd long known I would eventually move to New York, the impetus for me to actually come here was auditioning for Betty's acting class at the T. Schreiber Stuidio and being invited to join. It happened so quickly. I'd come to New York for a weekend to visit my friend Tim and spotted an ad for Betty's class in his copy of Backstage. Two weeks later my bags were packed and I was studying with Betty Buckley.

Betty was a huge believer in meditation and chakra work, and as it happened at the time I was religiously (that word seems especially out of place here), meditating and focusing on my chakras daily. It seemed like it would be a good fit. 

Betty was not at my audition, but I met her just before the first class. She told me she'd looked over my resume and that I had some "nice credits." Well okay, if community theatre productions of The Matchmaker and Gypsy can be considered nice credits, then yeah, I had some nice credits. I suppose she was just trying to be polite. That didn't last long.

Each class started with 30 minutes of meditation. Not guided meditation, just "let's turn out the lights, light a candle, and all work on our chakras." This was to help center us and to put ourselves into a meditative state as we approached our work. 

Nearly as soon as a a pair of students started presenting a scene to the class, Betty would shatter any magical state that might have been created by screaming, "NO! No! I don't believe you! You're not breathing! YOU'RE NOT BREATHING!" 

Holy fuck wads, she was so nice on Eigth Is Enough. And  yes, I'd seen enough episodes of Fame to know that acting teachers yell, but did that really apply to acting teachers whose whole foundation is based on remaining calm and relaxed? 

I know I tested Betty's nerves and got a terse response when I inquired if it was okay to use the slightly different color pallet of chakras (which I had learned from that spiritual leader Shirely MacLaine) that I was used to instead of the ones that Betty prescribed. Forty-something me wouldn't have asked, or maybe even thirty something me. I would have just said, "fuck her, if these colors are good enough for Shirley, they're good enough for me." But twenty-three year old me didn't know any better. 

"These are the colors that work! Use these colors. Aren't you here to learn?"

She also wasn't too happy when I sincerely questioned the notion of praying to God if, as she claimed, we were finding God within ourselves when we meditated.

"You could do with a little more humility," she growled. Or hissed...I guess cats are more hissers than growlers.

I did have one triumphant moment in the class. The first assignment for every new student was to go to the zoo and study an animal, then come present our work to the class to guess which animal we had chosen. I spent several intense (and odorous) hours in the reptile house at the Central Park Zoo studying an iguana. When my turn came to take the floor at the class, I got down on all fours and slithered around, eyes darting, head twitching, and tongue occasionally chasing an imaginary fly. 

"Iguana?" Betty guessed.

Oh my God! I'm brilliant. I nailed it. She didn't say lizard, or alligator, or generic reptile. No, she said IGUANA! I'm going to make it in this business after all.

The next week the class was canceled. Betty Lynn had been called home to Texas to attend to her dying father.

"That's strange," said my scene partner Sheila.

"What's strange?" I asked.

"Well, I took Betty's class last summer...and her father died last year, too."  

Oh Betty Buckley, you are so fiercely talented...but you are one mad, crazy cat. 

Ruth...uh, Truth To Power

 

Thank you Madame Justice for your clear, impassioned opinion. 

After The Rainbow

                         

I'm not going to the Pride parade today for a bunch of reasons:

1) I have work to finish that I could have done yesterday if I hadn't spent the entire day drawing and playing with buster.

2) I couldn't find anyone who actually wanted to go to the parade with me, and there are few things in the world that make you feel more alone than being by yourself whilst among a couple hundred thousand people. 

3) I don't, as a rule, really like parades. I say this even though that time I saw Coretta Scott King at the Constitution Parade in Philadelphia was pretty cool, as was watching the giant Charlie Brown float sail pass the Dakota that Thanksgiving I lived on the Upper West Side. Oh, okay, and seeing Hillary Clinton march in the 2000 Pride Parade behind a truck playing the theme from Shaft ("That Mrs. Clinton is a bad motha--Shut yo mouth!") is a cherished memory. But in general, I find parades loud, overcrowded, and exhausting.

I have been thinking this week about the Stonewall riots and the origins of the Pride Parade. It's been 45 years since patrons of the Greenwich Village gay bar, many drag queens among them, fought back against the habitual harassment of the NYPD and touched off several nights of rioting, and in the process became the impetus for the modern gay rights movement. 

Earlier in the day the funeral of legendary entertainer Judy Garland and drawn nearly 20,000 mourners just a few short miles uptown. It's difficult to prove a causal link between the two events, even though Judy had a legion of gay fans and her funeral was a huge news story both in New York and around the country. Still, it's hard to imagine that she wouldn't have been on the minds of the patrons of the Stonewall Inn that night, as both homosexuals and New Yorkers.

I read several articles this week (some scholarly, others not so much) that worked hard to debunk the notion that there was any correlation between the funeral and the riots. One went so far as to claim it was actually insulting to imply that gays would only stand up for themselves when their "camp icon" had been taken from them. 

I understand the inclination to distance oneself from anything iconic, campy or otherwise, when trying to stake out  your own identity. Personally, I was mortified when I found out that Barbra Streisand was considered a gay icon. In addition to feeling exposed, I also learned that my affection for her was neither unique nor particularly special. I was devastated to realize that I might actually be a bit of a cliche.

I suffered from (and if I'm honest, sometimes still do) a form of internalized homophobia. But when I am finally equal in the eyes of the law, (we're not quite there yet) fee to sleep with, marry, raise children and estate plan with whomever I choose, what will it really mean if I continue to judge and censor myself? If I don't embrace my love of Barbra,  my love of Judy, of Ethel, of show tunes, of Provincetown, of fresh cut flowers, of fruity rum drinks, of Lily Tomlin, of the Flying Nun, of drag queens, of both the color purple and The Color Purple, and a host of other things considered culturally queer, than what have I really gained? It is not enough to be equal. We must, all of us, be ourselves in all our complicated and sometimes embarrassing glory, even if what we are is, at least in part, a cliche.

As for Judy Garland's funeral and Stonewall, I certainly do not believe it's insulting or embarrassing to think this "camp icon" played a part, even a very small one, in our struggle for equality. History books are filled with inaccuracies half-truths, and flights of fancy, and there's no reason to think that Gay History will be recorded any differently. And in the end, at least in this case, I don't think the truth is quite as important as the overriding message and the end result.

Show Your Pride

The Tale of Bebe and Pookie

I've decided it's time to make a confession and publicly tell the tale of Bebe and Pookie (and me, of course.) This tale has everything, and by everything I mean cute dogs, talk show appearances, an animated fashion designer, a performance by Deborah Harry, and me telling a bold face lie to a celebrity.

Up until the day I adopted Buster two years ago, I yearly suffered from a very specific form of Spring Fever. Like clock work, no sooner would blossoms appear on the trees and  buds would poke their little heads out from the soil, than I would start feeling overwhelming pangs to get a dog.

In 1997 I gave into temptation and adopted an allegedly full grown dog named Tess from the North Shore Animal League. The first day I had her I was walking her on 45th Street near Broadway and she jumped up on the legendary songstress Margaret Whiting, who gently admonished Tess in her husky alto voice by telling her, "Now Tess, I know you're excited but you've got to be a lady!"

It got worse from there. Tess gained 30 pounds in less than three months, destroyed my roommate's down comforter, and went berserk on a daily basis whenever we ran into a police officer on horseback. Luckily my suburbanite brother with a fenced in yard was willing to take her in.

I was scared off from getting a dog for a very long time, feeling rightfully so that I had not been responsible enough. Nevertheless, the first warm afternoon in April still set visions of puppy dogs a dancing in my head. Knowing this, in the Spring of 2003 a friend of a friend got me invited to a special taping of Isaac Mizzrahi's talk show. The episode: Doggy Adoption Day.

The place was set up like a cocktail party with audience members acting as guests, standing around chest high tables and sipping ginger ale out of plastic champagne glasses. About thirty dogs of all shapes and sizes were brought in to mingle with the party guests by a slew of shelters, including the one that so accurately estimated Tess's growth potential.

Isaac's special guests were Deborah Harry, who rocked the place with a version of Stand By Your Man, and Emmy and Tony winner Bebe Neuwirth. They each had a segment with Issac in which they discussed their love of pets, and then out came the dogs in what could best be described as a fur-for-all. There were German Shepherds, boxers, a basset hound, poodles, a liter of golden retriever puppies, and a small, predominately black chihuahua named Pookie.

It was difficult to spend more than a few seconds with any one dog as they roamed the studio both overstimulated and in search of treats, but when Pookie wound up in my arms, I did feel a pretty immediate bond. I had not come here seriously looking for a dog, I just thought it would be fun to see them all and be part of the show, and yet my heartstrings were definitely being tugged by this little fellow who indiscriminately licked my face upon meeting me.

I knew in my heart I was not ready to try it again, even six years after Tess, but my resistance was beginning to waver. Meanwhile, Issac and Bebe, accompanied by several men slinging video cameras and blinding lights on their shoulders, made their way around the room to talk to the perspective adopters, They got to my table and Isaac zeroed in on me.

"Jim and Pookie! Don't they look great together, Bebe!" he practically shouted.

"They do, Isaac, they do" she deadpanned, sounding like the straight man in some corny vaudeville routine.

I was getting the hard sell. I could feel the room staring at me as the light from the camera was blinding me like a bare bulb in some backwater interrogation room.

"Are you gonna take him home, Jim?" Isaac asked breathlessly.

"Well, I'm not sure, I..."

"Come on, Jim!"

"Yeah, come on Jim," Bebe chimed in gleefully.

"Well, I, I...YES! I'm taking him home!"

Smiles, cheers, applause. Oh shit, what have I done?

When the taping was over and Isaac, Bebe, and Deborah had gone on their merry way, I spoke with the agency that had been housing Buster. They were very nice and explained that no one was actually taking a dog home that day. An application had to be filled out and approved, and I was under no obligation to take the dog just because I had told a national television audience I'd be saving this creature from certain death at the pound. Actually, they emphasized the good I'd done just by encouraging other people to adopt. Okay, sure. I'm a freakin' hero for not taking the dog.

Anyway, I was off the hook, and although he had stolen a little piece of my heart, I did not take Pookie home. Six months later I'm standing in the autograph line at a charity flea market in Schubert alley, waiting to get my picture taken with Swoosie Kurtz (Swoosie Kurtz--that's another story!) and who is sitting directly in front of me at the autograph table? That's right, it's Bebe Neuwirth.

I feel immediately uncomfortable, and try not to make eye contact with her. but the line is stalled and I'm parked directly in front of her for several minutes. At this point it's almost insulting not to ask for her autograph. I say hello.

"You look familiar," she says.

"Doggy Adoption Day," I reply.

"Yes, that's right! You took that little dog...what was his name??"

"Pookie."

"Pookie! Yes, Pookie! How is Pookie?" she asked seeming genuinely interested.

"Oh, uh, he's GREAT!"  I just didn't have the heart to tell her I sent Pookie back to the pokey.

"Oh I'm so glad!"

She signed my autograph, "To Jim & Pookie--Peace, Bebe Neuwirth."

I felt bad about this for a while, and decided that if I ever met her again I'd tell her the truth. Either that or invent an unfortunate but peaceful demise for poor Pookie, but so far I have not seen her again. If you happen to run into her before I do, ixnay the Ookiepay talk.

#bebeneuwirth