So, last week, I told you about a couple of brushes with musical greatness that I experienced over the years. Well, I've got two more.
Yes, that is Barbra Streisand. And you bet I did!
I'm fuzzy on the exact date, but it was long before she wound up with that load, James Brolin. At the time, I believe she was having a well-publicized fling with tennis star Andre Agassi.
The company I used to work for had great nightly seats for the US Open tennis matches at the site of the old World's Fair. I used to always try and score tickets for a match or two, and pretend I was a billionaire from Greenwich, Connecticut. Well, this year, I invited a good friend (okay, date) and I do remember we actually discussed whether we would run into Barbra.
At some point, I wound up in male purgatory. That's what I call it when you're waiting for a woman to get out of the bathroom. Just standing idly. Wondering why it always takes them longer.
I remember turning to peer in another direction. Streisand turned the corner and was about two feet from me. One of those moments when your eyes lock with a stranger's. Except this was no stranger to me. This was Barbra Streisand.
Me: "Hey, how are you doing?"
Yes, that was the best I could come up.
Barbra: "I'm very well, thanks. Enjoy the match."
She continued on our way. It was over. An interchange that lasted less than 10 seconds.
Of course, the more delicious part of the event came less than a minute later, when my friend and super Barbra fan emerged from the bathroom.
Me: "I just saw Streisand."
Her: "Liar."
Me: "No, she was just here."
Her: "Shut up."
She never did believe me.
While Streisand was a really good sighting, the pinnacle of my musical connection actually happened one year on my birthday. And it was with a voice that I had heard for years via my parents.
Yep, Rosemary Clooney is one of the things I inherited from my parents, other than the maddening mix of personality flaws (stoicism from Dad, impulsiveness from Mom) I got from both. Her music was always playing in our house on those monaural long playing records that were stacked up five-at-a-time on the "Hi Fi." Vikki Carr, for some bizarre reason, was always being piped in throughout the house, and this made no sense to me, as half of her songs were always in Spanish.
But, I digress...
I developed an affinity for Rosemary Clooney at an early age, and I continued it as her musical stylings changed over time. Indeed, when she got to that small cabaret stage in the early 90s, this was a fastball over the plate for me. I ate it up.
So, you can imagine my absolute glee when I heard that she would be appearing at the old Rainbow and Stars supper club on top of Rockefeller Center on a Saturday evening in February a few decades ago.
And it was my birthday! Touchdown. Score the goal. Touch 'em all. I would be there.
I made a pact with God not to louse up this amazing quirk of timing. The only thing that could stop me would be one of those crippling blizzards that renders New York City as useful as power brakes on a turtle. I enlisted two cohorts to share in my glory. And then I called for three reservations to the show. And here comes what might have been a fatal mistake.
Supper Club: "Will you be dining with us or just coming for the show?"
Me: (knowing fully well how pricey their menu was) "No, just the show, please."
An oops moment. Except I did not know it at the time.
When the evening arrived, it was cold and blustery. But nary a winter cloud in the sky. The only flakes were the usual tourists that hover around like Rock Center like ants on picnic blanket crumbs. We ate dinner, but at a venue certainly a little more downscale than the 75 buck burgers the supper club was hawking.
An hour before the 11PM show, we made our way up the elevator to that wonderful room that overlooks the entire city. I walked up to the hostess and announced our arrival.
There was no reservation in my name.
WTF!
I stressed there must be some mistake. I recited the day, date, and appropriate time that I called.
Still nothing. Sorry.
And, of course, the show is sold out, so there was no chance of getting another table.
WTF!!
I asked to speak to the manager. He was not available. But we were more than welcome to have a cocktail in the bar and enjoy the view.
Happy birthday to me.
My friends did their best over drinks to make me feel better. It didn't work. As I sat there staring at the Empire State Building with that red heart of lights all ready for Valentine's Day, I got more and more agitated. And then I kicked into what I call Murphy Brown mode. Or something akin to that scene in "Terms of Endearment" when Shirley McLaine screams at the nurses' station to get her daughter more medication.
I got ugly.
Leaving my friends with their adult beverages, I went Rainbow Room manager hunting. And I didn't care who I asked. Or interrupted. I finally tracked the guy down in the main part of the Rainbow Room, where he was coordinating somebody's wedding reception.
Yeah, I didn't care.
At first blush, he tried to blow me off. But, then I explained it was my birthday that was now ruined. Of course, I added, other people in the same situation may use that "faux birthday" excuse. I assured him my birthday story was true. I whipped out my driver's license and shoved the date in his face. There was a small glimmer of hope in his face. He told me to go back to the bar and that he would send somebody for us just before the show was scheduled to start.
And he was good to his word. Just before 11PM, the same snarly hostess, who was now off my Christmas card list, came to get us. She explained that the reason for the mix-up was due to a late reservation request from.....Harry Crosby. Okay, if I'm going to get upended by a Crosby kid, make it Mary Crosby. At least, she's the answer to a Trivial Pursuit question.
Nevertheless, they were creating an extra table for us. The only caveat was that we couldn't enter the show until the very last minute and we had to do so from a side door. Perhaps, there was surveillance set up by the Fire Department? Who knows?
Anyway, the skank ushered us to said side door. Which was not really a side door. It was actually the wings to the stage.
And we were standing there alongside Rosemary Clooney!
It took me about five seconds to realize that this was the ultimate birthday present. I thought really fast about what to say to her. I know not to say "break a leg." Besides, I know she already had several years before.
Me: "Have a great show."
Rosemary: "I'm a little nervous."
Me: "Don't be. All friends in there."
Rosemary: (patting my arm) "You're sweet."
And off she went for an hour of musical nirvana.
Oddly enough, after the show, we ran into her again near the coat check. She was apparently using the area to mingle with her friends. I was standing about three feet away from her as she gabbed with Skitch Henderson. Another friend came over to take their picture. I realized I was positioned right in the center of the intended photo. They smiled. So did I. Flash.
I've always wondered if anybody questioned who the hell was this guy standing in between Rosemary Clooney and Skitch Henderson.
Hey, I'm the one who was celebrating my birthday that night.
When Rosie died in 2002, I posted this story to a memorial website that her family had set up for fans. About three months later, I received a handwritten note from her brother, Nick Clooney (father of George). He mentioned that the family was touched by my story and they wanted to invite me to the Hollywood memorial concert being held later that year. Unfortunately, I couldn't be there.
And I didn't need to be.
I still had my story. And I was sticking to it.
It really was my birthday!
Dinner last night: Asian noodle stir fry at the Arclight.
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