Supreme-O

From my perch high atop the Hollywood Bowl venue on Saturday night, I could see (in the picture at the right) a small snippet of the Hollywood sign. I could also watch the assembly of what would be the oldest audience ever to witness a musical concert. The occasion was the return of Miss Diana Ross (I think there is a law that stipulates you must put "miss" in front of her name always) to the Bowl for the first time since 1967, which was even before she had tossed the two other Supremes under the Motown bus.

And, from what I could see, this was the first time since 1967 that many of the audience members had been out of the house. There were people in wheelchairs, people with walkers, and one man getting oxygen from a tank. Was this going to be a musical evening with a true 60s icon or faith healing at Lourdes? I wondered if I had missed the news. Beyond the 30 or so hits she has plattered for the past 45 years, was Miss Diana Ross also known for her amazing healing powers? Was Lazarus indeed raised from the dead after she sang "The Happening" to him?

Hollywood Bowl crowds can be bizarre depending upon the artist. Along with the advanced age of the throng, there were other oddities that caught my eye around the place. Heck, I didn't have to look past the next row, where some midget plopped himself down in front of us. At least, there would be no cries of "down in front!" But, there were other screwballs about:

The last thing I would expect to see at a Miss Diana Ross concert is a busload of Asians. But, there they were. I speculated if they even knew where they were. For all I know, they might have been expecting Pat Sajak and Vanna White to appear for a "Wheel of Fortune" taping. And imagine their disappointment when Miss Ross didn't do her rendition of "Sukiyaki."

Not only had some of the audience not been out in public for years, but this woman showed up in her pajamas with matching nightcap. There was yet another lady with more hair extensions than Rapunzel. Sailors would give their eye teeth to do slip knots with her coiff. In most cases, the fashion sense of the folks around me had been pretty much grounded in the joke wall on Rowan and Martin's old Laugh-In TV show. One old hippie guy was wearing several strains of pearls. Not only was he insane but also incredibly overdressed. There was, not surprisingly, a huge gay contingent. I ran into a gaggle of older lesbians, who were, I kid you not, discussing car engines. And our row was populated by about seven or eight gay guys, who kept getting up to go to the bathroom. Just how small are the bladders of our gay community? As they kept sliding their behinds in front of my face, I wanted to interject that their asses mean nothing to me.

Given the advanced age of the assembled mass, it was probably not wise for Miss Ross to execute what had to be the longest entrance in show business history. As the music kept playing, you kept hearing her off-stage.

"I'm......................coming......................out!"

Over and over and over and over.

"I'm...................coming........................out!"

Was she having a problem with the zipper on her sequined dress? Or perhaps the adhesive tape on the inside of her wig was malfunctioning. Nevertheless, she drew out the anticipation as long as she could.

"I'm.....................coming........................out!"

It took less time for the Jews to cross the parted Red Sea. Several people around me mentioned that fact as they were no doubt there.

Finally, Miss Ross appeared. And she immediately took the frenzied crowd on a tour of her musical history, which is quite formidable. She's still in quite good voice, even though she missed a note here and there. And, every fifteen minutes or so, she popped backstage for a wardrobe change as she apparently got a lot of dresses on sale from Debbie Reynolds' last Vegas liquidation. She never did switch off on the wig, and I thought that would have been a nifty touch to see "all" her variations since the last person to see her real hair was probably Ed Sullivan.

By the end of the evening, everyone was standing and dislocating their hips. Doctors all over Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills spent Monday morning returning calls. But, in hindsight, I am thinking that all these folks were willing to O.D. on naprosyn for this return to their glorious youth. Because they were all reliving their past. When their lives were so much more simple. A culture infused by drugs and violence. Charges of racism abound. A devastating war in a foreign land.

We've come a long way, baby.

Dinner last night: German salami on sourdough bread.