I don't, you know. But, if I did, here's what I would have tweeted in this merry month of March.
#LenSpeaks Torrential downpours the first weekend of March in LA. The streets here drain like my sinuses used to in NY.
#LenSpeaks LA on storm alert. Hollywood has to walk a soggy red carpet at the Oscars.
#LenSpeaks How does Botox hold up in the rain anyway?
#LenSpeaks Ellen DeGeneres hosting the Oscars. Does she even own a dress?
#LenSpeaks A big celebrity selfie at the Oscars. Me? I remember the days when you had to go to Fotomat.
#LenSpeaks The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming. Not the movie. For real.
#LenSpeaks Doesn't Vladimir Putin look like the high school gym teacher everybody tells you not to take?
#LenSpeaks Putin is Eddie Haskell and Obama is the Beaver. Hey, squirt.
#LenSpeaks How's that community activist President working out for you now???
#LenSpeaks On the foreign landscape, Barack Obama has about as much relevance as a Diner's Club card.
#LenSpeaks So nobody can find this Malaysian Airlines jet? How do you lose something that big?
#LenSpeaks It's sort of like somebody misplaced the state of Oklahoma.
#LenSpeaks It's a jumbo jet you lost, not my suitcase.
#LenSpeaks Rhetorical question: if the plane was hijacked some place else, do frequent flyers on board get credit for the extra miles?
#LenSpeaks The plane disappeared after 30 minutes in the air. That's one way to get out of having a meal service.
#LenSpeaks Maybe it's me but I never want to get on a plane that is being piloted by somebody named either Shah or Farid.
#LenSpeaks The Chinese are still wailing over the dead passengers. Come on, they were an all-you-can-see buffet for piranha weeks ago.
#LenSpeaks Good news. My NCAA bracket do not match the President's.
#LenSpeaks Obama supposedly watches ESPN for three hours a day. No wonder nothing gets done in this country.
#LenSpeaks But, at least, he's totally up on the latest news in ping pong. Probably good for our relations with China.
#LenSpeaks Obama went on Ellen's show to discuss health care. She says it's a big success. Five million people have signed up.
#LenSpeaks Hey, stupid, that's less than 2 percent of the country.
#LenSpeaks Meanwhile, Moo-shell Obama and the kids are living it up over in China. On our dime.
#LenSpeaks And so is Moo-shell's mother who's also living in the White House free of charge.
#LenSpeaks Why are we carrying this fat slob on our backs? And, while in China, she's barking orders at a fed-up hotel staff.
#LenSpeaks Oh, yeah, those Obamas. They're just common folk like you and me.
#LenSpeaks You do know that, once they leave office, the First Lady will get her own talk show like Oprah?
#LenSpeaks And his book will be made into a movie by Spielberg.
#LenSpeaks Yeah, those Obamas. They are so connected to the little guy.
#LenSpeaks Okay, so now they say that plane crashed into the Indian Ocean. Sharks in that area of the world, please contact your local Jenny Craig representative.
Dinner last night: A great hangar steak at Xiomara.
Elaine Stritch is admittedly an acquired taste. You either hate her or, if you're a huge theater buff or gay or likely both, you love her.
Me? I fall somewhere in the middle. When she's on and appearing in the right vehicle, she can be terrific. About ten years ago, I saw her one-woman-show "At Liberty" with my writing partner. I thought it was inventive and hilarious.
My friend had the opposite polar attraction.
"God, I'm glad that's over."
Yep, that's Elaine Stritch. And, as we learn in this fascinating new documentary, she probably doesn't care what you think. She's going to be her own person and do her own thing. For that, I suppose we are lucky. Because after a very long career in films and on Broadway, she's now in her late 80s. And facing the end. Of both her time on the stage of the Shubert Theater.
And that stage we call life.
The filmmakers here follow Elaine for about a year as she literally crawls from one rehearsal studio for a supper club act to another. Now a diabetic with increasingly frequent episodes of confusion due to low blood sugar, Miss Stritch allows the cameras to keep rolling. We watch her life. Her ups and many downs. It is raw. It is organic. It is painful to watch. But your eyes never divert from that screen.
You see a longtime show business pro holding onto her career with as much strength as she can. She doesn't want to let go because she knows that, if she does, she likely will die. Indeed, she is nothing unless she's on that stage, croaking out one Stephen Sondheim song after another. She must have that audience in front of her so she can keep moving and breathing and living.
Stritch, a well-known recovering alcoholic, is candid when she talks about her past career and the role that a bottle of booze played in its direction. The tales she tells are frank, candid, and immensely real. It's a struggle for her to this day. She reasons that, at this late point in her life, she should be able to cope with just one drink a day. But she realizes how foolhardy that is.
Meanwhile, the episodes of forgetfulness due to low blood sugar are staggeringly hard to absorb. She suddenly can't remember the lyrics of a song that she's probably done over a thousand times. She gets frustrated and angry. She realizes that she is one step closer to the end.
Indeed, a good friend of mine told me that she actually witnessed one of these brain blips a few years ago when she watched Stritch co-star with Bernadette Peters in a revival of "A Little Night Music." Elaine fell apart mid-performance and had to be replaced for the second act.
My guess is that, after seeing this documentary, Elaine was back in there the very next day. Once again, it is the audience which is the life force she craves.
I've often wondered why some show business performers just keep going. Betty White, now in her 90s, is still working her butt off. I remember about a decade when I myself had some dealings with "Desperate Housewives" creator Marc Cherry. He had worked with Betty on "The Golden Girls." Marc told me that he knew Betty will never retire.
"She has it in her mind that, if she quits, she will die."
So, too, is the thought process of Elaine Stritch and that's the main take-away in this superlative documentary. Heck, she can barely sing now and she more stumbles than walks.
But, once that musical introduction begins, she is now there in front of the footlights. Doing what she can to make you love her.
And, even if you don't, she's going to keep on trying. Because that's all she knows how to do.
LEN'S RATING: Three and a half stars.
Dinner last night: Sandwich and salad.
Happy birthday, Diana Ross. I might have to widen the blog columns in order to get this picture to fit.
590: EMPEROR MAURICE PROCLAIMS HIS SON THEODOSIUS AS CO-EMPEROR OF THE BYZANTINE EMPIRE.
Father and son despots.
1027: POPE JOHN XIX CROWNS CONRAD II AS HOLY ROMAN EMPEROR.
We love you, Conrad, so, yes, we do.
1169: SALADIN BECOMES THE EMIR OF EGYPT.
Have Barge, Will Travel.
1484: WILLIAM CAXTON PRINTS HIS TRANSLATION OF AESOP'S FABLES.
And the moral of the story is?
1812: AN EARTHQUAKE DESTROYS CARACAS, VENEZUELA.
But an earthquake couldn't stop Fernando Valenzuela.
1812: A POLITICAL CARTOON IN THE BOSTON GAZETTE COINS THE TERM "GERRYMANDER" TO DESCRIBE ODDLY SHAPED ELECTORAL DISTRICTS DESIGNED TO HELP INCUMBENTS WIN RE-ELECTION.
Gerrymander as is "crooked as all hell."
1830: THE BOOK OF MORMON IS PUBLISHED IN PALMYRA, NEW YORK.
Not the musical, gang.
1839: THE FIRST HENLEY ROYAL REGATTA IS HELD.
Don?
1874: POET ROBERT FROST IS BORN.
First frost of the year.
1892: POET WALT WHITMAN DIES.
Some sampled the last candy in the box.
1911: PLAYWRIGHT TENNESSEE WILLIAMS IS BORN.
Midwife on a Hot Tin Roof.
1915: THE VANCOUVER MILLIONAIRES SWEEP THE OTTAWA SENATORS IN THE 1915 STANLEY CUP FINALS, THE FIRST CHAMPIONSHIP PLAYED BETWEEN THE PACIFIC COAST HOCKEY ASSOCIATION AND THE NHL.
They were over by the end of March. Now they're still playing in June.
1923: COMEDIAN BOB ELLIOTT IS BORN.
Partner of Ray, father of Chris, no relation to Win.
1931: ACTOR LEONARD NIMOY IS BORN.
Beamed up.
1931: SWISSAIR IS FOUNDED AS THE NATIONAL AIRLINE OF SWITZERLAND.
Duh.
1934: THE DRIVING TEST IS INTRODUCED IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
Still has yet to be implemented in China.
1934: ACTOR ALAN ARKIN IS BORN.
The Russians are Here.
1936: SPORTSCASTER HARRY KALAS IS BORN.
He died in the booth on Opening Day. Talk about signing off.
1940: POLITICIAN NANCY PELOSI IS BORN.
No way this birthday girl gets her picture on this blog. It could spread a computer virus.
1942: THE FIRST FEMALE PRISONERS ARRIVE AT AUSCHWITZ IN NAZI-OCCUPIED POLAND.
Fiends.
1943: AUTHOR BOB WOODWARD IS BORN.
Which makes him under 30 when Watergate happens.
1944: SINGER DIANA ROSS IS BORN.
I know somebody who saw her munching on Cheezits in the supermarket with her cart full of hot dogs.
1967: TEN THOUSAND PEOPLE GATHER FOR ONE OF MANY CENTRAL PART BE-INS IN NEW YORK CITY.
Sanitation Department works overtime.
1973: PLAYWRIGHT NOEL COWARD DIES.
Private Deaths.
1975: THE BIOLOGICAL WEAPONS CONVENTION COMES INTO FORCE.
Bring your own mace.
1979: ANWAR SADAT, MENACHEM BEGIN, AND JIMMY CARTER SIGN THE MIDEAST PEACE TREATY.
Known as Carter's singular accomplishment, they're still fighting like lunatics over there.
1982: A GROUNDBREAKING CEREMONY FOR THE VIETNAM VETERANS MEMORIAL IS HELD IN WASHINGTON, DC.
I hear this is a stirring monument.
1990: FASHION DESIGNER HALSTON DIES.
Of AIDs. No surprise there.
1991: FIVE SOUTH KOREAN BOYS, NICKNAMED THE FROG BOYS, DISAPPEAR WHILE HUNTING FOR FROGS AND FOUND MURDERED.
And you thought dogs were prime game in Korea?
1999: THE MELISSA WORM INFECTS MICROSOFT WORD PROCESSING AND E-MAIL SYSTEMS AROUND THE WORLD.
If computers can get worms, can they also get fleas? Discuss.
1999: A JURY IN MICHIGAN FINDS DR. JACK KEVORKIAN GUILTY OF SECOND-DEGREE MURDER FOR ADMINISTERING A LETHAL INJECTION TO A TERMINALLY ILL MAN.
I'm very concerned about the Youth in Asia. Oh, never mind.
2003: POLITICIAN DANIEL PATRICK MOYNIHAN DIES.
You just know he drank.
2011: POLITICIAN GERALDINE FERRARO DIES.
Three years before, she sat in front of me on a flight from LA to NY. It was the day Elliott Spitzer got caught. She was looking at her Black Berry a LOT.
Dinner last night: Had a big lunch, so just a salad.
Okay, no need to rub your eyes. That's definitely not the original cast of "I Love Lucy." The optics are not playing tricks on you.
That is the touring company cast of a kitschy concoction called "I Love Lucy Live On Stage." It's been bouncing around the country for a couple of years and I finally caught up with it in Orange County. Naturally, if you're going to recreate America's greatest sitcom ever, I need to go and be the final judge.
This rather ingenious idea first started a few years ago. A small theater on Fairfax Avenue in Hollywood staged it. There was some press and, well, I did need to be the final judge. My friend, Djinn from the Bronx, wanted to take me for my birthday. To our shock, the damn thing was sold out for the entire three month run!
Flash forward to 2014. My childhood pal Leo sees that the touring company has come to some Costa Mesa hall and inquires whether I would be interested. Well, is a loving cup destined to get stuck on Lucy's head in the subway? Of course, I was interested. So, we all trooped down to see just what all the buzz has been about.
Hmmmm.
It would have to be completely perfect to get past my sniff test. I am, after all, an expert. And I had the added burden of totally focusing on the script. I wanted to make sure the words of the original writers, Bob Carroll Jr. and Madelyn Pugh Davis, had not been altered one iota.
So, if you're the producers of this stage production, you've got the deck stacked against you as far as yours truly is concerned.
Well, they got away with it. Sort of. I can't say that I was overwhelmed by it all. But I had a smile on my face as I left. Even if I did have a few nits to pick.
The gimmick here is you're supposedly part of a studio audience for a 1950s filming of "I Love Lucy." To stretch out the proceedings, you're going to watch not one, but two different episodes. Okay, that would never have happened, but they had to flesh out the evening in some way. I also noted that, back in 1953 and still in 2014, you can be part of a sitcom live audience for free. But, if you want to see "I Love Lucy - Live on Stage," well, my seat cost 79 bucks. And that wasn't even the top tier.
I wondered how they were going to get two hours of stage production out of two half-hour scripts, but they did. Before it even started, I rifled through the Playbill to make sure Bob and Madelyn were listed somewhere. They were. Okay, we were off to a good start.
It all began with some stage manager welcoming you to the Desilu Playhouse. You were instructed how to be part of a television audience. Oh, yeah, do you see that applause sign? This guy did the usual sitcom warm-up act. Stale jokes and asking who had traveled the farthest. There were plants in the audience, dressed straight from my grandmother's hall closet. Points were belabored to the point of domestic abuse. Yo, we got it. But I began to understand how they were going to turn this hamburger into a lengthy six-course dinner.
Two actual scripts were used. "The Benefit" from the very first season. "Lucy Has Her Eyes Examined" from the third season. I noted the set of the Ricardos' apartment. It was the second apartment used with the window in the background. Okay, that wasn't the apartment they were in during the first season. Ahem. Two points off from Len.
I also got the sense that the dialogue was being altered. It seemed like there were elements from other episodes sifting their way into these stagings. Suddenly, we have four women on stage singing "The Pleasant Peasant" number from "The Operetta" episode. Oh, really?
When it was time to change a set or wardrobe, the now ultra-annoying stage manager came back to set up a word from the "I Love Lucy" sponsors. We saw staged versions of famous 50s commercials. Brylcreem with that little dab that will do you. Mr. Clean, which, by the way, did not get its first TV ad until 1958---a year after the half-hour version of Lucy went off the air. Oh, yeah, and Chevrolet with their songstress/spokesperson Dinah Beach. A dead giveaway that the producers couldn't get clearance to use Dinah Shore's name.
Of course, more points off from Len. None of these products sponsored "I Love Lucy." Where were the cigarette ads calling for Phillip Morris?? The little midget in the bellhop outfit? Were the producers being sensitive to the Surgeon General? Hello?
Of course, if you're going to stage old "I Love Lucy" episodes in 2014, you have to expect that the actors would come under scrutiny. Wisely, none of the players attempted to do imitations of the original cast. Instead, they employed body language (and, naturally, a bright red wing) to invoke our perceptions of Lucy, Ricky, Fred, and Ethel. Indeed, the two playing Lucy and Ricky were perfect. The Mertzes, however, didn't fare as well. Ethel sounds like a version of Granny Clampett. She'd be ideal when they decide to recreate "The Beverly Hillbillies." And Fred Mertz was way too tall. As near as I can remember, William Frawley did not play for the Los Angeles Lakers.
The major problem with it all was that an "I Love Lucy" filming back in 1954 was a rather intimate affair. There were probably no more 200 bleacher seats in their soundstage. Heck, these days, most sitcoms don't have audiences bigger than 300 folks. In this Costa Mesa barn, there were likely over 1,500 filled seats. As a result, nuances were lost. The closeness to the characters was non-existent. You had to strain to hear Lucy's famed spider noise.
I also think that the producers really gave short shrift to Desi Arnaz. In this show, he's basically one of the actors. But, indeed, the real guy was a genius. He essentially invented the whole "three-camera-film-before-a-live-audience" concept. Admittedly, they probably didn't want to get too technical. But, some mention of Desi's role in TV history should have been included. I mean, Desi Arnaz is one of the top five people that I would have liked to meet in my lifetime. Future versions of this live show really need to rethink this.
So, as I saw in Row R, I was mentally clicking off one complaint after another. And, then, at the end of the evening, the audience around me rose as one and gave it a standing ovation.
So did I.
What the hell???
Perhaps, the whoops and hollers had more to do with the legacy of the original than this recreation. Or maybe the folks were just so damn appreciative to see this live and in person that they didn't really care about the inconsistencies and some of the hammier acting.
Go figure. They all loved Lucy.
I guess we always will.
Dinner last night: Leftover meat loaf.
Another gem for anniversary month. There is no mask for pain.
Dinner last night: Meat loaf, butter noodles, and broccoli.
This is one of the only photos I have of my grandfather. Fittingly, he was right next to Grandma. I don't think one ever really went anywhere without the other.
This date makes me think.
All the
elders in my family are gone. My parents, as well as my aunts and
uncles, all got wiped out over a ten year period. Some people remember
the date their relatives die. Truth be told, I'd actually have to look
up the exact day that my parents and my grandmother passed away. It's
not worth remembering. When I want to conjure up a calendar point to
recall the good times, I much prefer to do that on their birth dates
which are forever etched in my mind.
I,
however, cannot forget the date my grandfather died. March 23. It's
easy to remember because it was one day after his birthday. Symmetry
like that is not hard to ignore. A few years back, I recall from his
obituary that TV host Mike Douglas actually died on his birthday. Well,
that certainly makes for clean record keeping in Heaven's central
office. Grandpa missed that distinction by 24 hours.
So, I think about Grandpa this week and flashback to a piece I wrote here several years back.
In
these Sunday memory drawer recollections, Grandpa's made only fleeting
appearances. Part of the reason why is that he was one of the earliest
departures from my life. Grandpa died when I was 12. So, I didn't get
him that long. But, there are some random memories that have stayed with
me.
In
reality, though, I really don't know much about the man beyond what I
was told by my grandmother. Or what I remember from my very wee years.
From
what I was told, Grandpa had a variety of jobs over the years. I did
see a picture of him standing behind a bar with an apron on, so I assume
he was a bartender at one point. There was some other talk about him
driving a delivery truck. But, the job I know he had the longest was for
a milk company. Borden's or "Bordink's" as my grandmother called it.
What he did there was a mystery, except, at least, he had achieved an
upgrade in the healthy aspects of the beverages he was involved with.
But,
as far back as I can remember, he was already retired. Sitting in that
big easy chair in the living room and yelling at the wrestlers on TV. If
the match got particularly nasty, he would move closer to the edge of
the cushion, as if his next move was to vault into the ring himself. If
it was really intense, the instructions yelled at the set by both
Grandpa and Grandma were in German, so I'd be lost. At the foot of his
easy chair was always a glass bottle of Kruger Beer. My grandfather
actually had beer delivered to the home every Wednesday morning. Tuffy,
our dog, would hear the truck's squeaky wheels from blocks away and her
incessant barking always heralded the "beerman's" arrival.
On
Sunday afternoons, I can always remember Grandpa sitting at the kitchen
table, reading the Daily News. I'd sit alongside him, which was always
the signal for him to go into Fiorello LaGuardia mode. Even though I
could read at a very early age, my grandfather liked to read the funnies
to me.
"So, Moon Mullins sits down on the couch and says to Kayo..."
I have no clue why Grandpa liked to do this with me, but it happened like clockwork every Sunday.
There are other snapshots.
Grandpa's
lunch often consisted of a slice or two of head cheese in a plate
covered by vinegar. Head cheese is the cold cut that is made up of all
the parts of a pig most people don't eat. The whole meal looked gross to
me.
"Wanna try some?"
I'd run away in horror.
My
grandparents would eat their supper early. Usually around 4:30PM. Which
meant that, from 3:30PM to about 4:15PM every day, Grandpa was missing
in action. That was his time to walk two blocks and hoist a few brews at
what my grandmother referred to as "the beer garden." He never came
home drunk. It was simply his daily cocktail hour.
I
do recall, however, one night where Grandpa was completely snockered.
There was a community place on Stevens Avenue in Mount Vernon called the
Turn Hall and they frequently featured Saturday night dances for any
Germans interested. My family and all its tentacles always showed up.
And, for some inexplicable reason, I got carted along at the age of 5.
They'd sit me down at a table with a Coke and my favorite Colorforms set
while the immediate world would commence to polka. While I got bored,
Grandpa got pickled.
It
was a rainy night and we all piled into my dad's car for the trip home.
I was in the back seat, seating beside Grandma and on my grandfather's
lap. Soaked to the gills, he used the moment to get very amorous. With
me.
Kissing
me all over my face, Grandpa kept announcing over and over. "I love
you, I love you so much, I love you, I love you so much."
It was mere minutes before Grandma had endured enough. There was an ice cold stare.
"If you don't stop that, I'd gonna pop you one with this goddamn umbrella."
Who knows what happened behind their closed bedroom door that night.
When
I was really young, my father worked days. So, any transport that my
mom and I needed during the daytime hours was provided by Grandpa and
his green Buick sedan. On my very first day in the first grade, my
school was closed at noon because of an impending hurricane which was
going to hit New York dead on. Grandpa picked me up outside for the five
block ride home. He never ever showed much emotion. But, looking out
the window at a raging wind and blinding rain, he appeared a little
vulnerable. Almost scared.
"Oh, my God, this is going to be a hurricane."
During
the summer months, the Grandpa transport extended to Orchard Beach
where he would drop us off and pick us up after a day at the "Bronx
Riviera." On one ride home, there were two other passengers with us. One
of my mother's friends and her kid. Well, anyway, mucho chatter had
ensued. And, for some reason, Grandpa seemed to be a little unsure about
the way home. And then he ran a stop sign. And whacked a car coming the
other direction.
I
got knocked onto the floor of the back seat, but everybody was
otherwise okay. Surprisingly, there was no damage to our car. And a
medium-sized dent on the car we hit. But, the real trauma was etched on
Grandpa's face. He was crestfallen. He had never been involved in an
accident before. His demeanor showed the result of his epiphany. With
his reflexes slowing down, he was encountering the inevitable.
His driving days were over.
As my family often did, we went into lockdown mode. Grandpa whispered to me.
"Don't tell your grandmother."
Check.
My mother whispered to me.
"Don't tell your father."
Check again.
Somehow,
this was going to be a little secret between my mother and my
grandfather. And me. But, there was an obvious leak because I soon
noticed that my father would do all the driving whenever my grandparents
needed to go someplace. To the supermarket every Thursday. To the Bronx
on the first Tuesday of every month when my grandmother saw her doctor
and then they shopped for Kosher dill pickles at some neighborhood they
called "Jew Town." More importantly, that accident was never discussed
ever again.
The years and more were closing in on Grandpa.
That
fall, he came down with pnuemonia and pleuresy, which had him bedridden
at home for about a month. He really was never the same after that.
Breathes became shorter. Walks to the beer garden became extinct. And he
even stopped smoking his beloved pipe.
By
the following March, the days were dwindling down to a precious few. On
the day Grandpa would pass away, I would conveniently be home from
school. I had brokered an afternoon home sick. Partly because of a sore
throat. Mostly because I wanted to listen to a Met spring exhibition
game on the radio. My mom had walked around the corner to the grocery
store. Sequestered in my room on the bed with my transistor radio, I
suddenly heard my grandmother wail from downstairs.
"Lenny, quick. Go run and get your mother. I think something happened to Grandpa!"
I
scooted quickly out of the house like Lassie when Timmy fell down the
well. My mother dropped all her groceries in the store and told me to
come along. I told her I would stay there. It was no time to argue. She
ran out.
Within
five minutes, amidst the cans of Krasdale vegetables, I could hear the
faint but scary sound of sirens. Those noises have bothered me to this
date. But, the only thing worse than hearing those piercing mechanical
cries is knowing that they are headed to your house.
Eventually,
I headed home and kept myself busy. Upstairs away from the activity.
Because of all the strangers in the house, I grabbed Tuffy and hid in
the bathroom. I don't think I came out for an hour.
Grandpa
was gone. I later heard the details. His labored exhales had caught the
dog's attention as she sat at his feet. My grandmother noticed this.
"Pop, Tuffy is listening to you breathe."
He apparently leaned forward to look at my dog, smiled, and then leaned back to die. In his favorite easy chair.
The
sum total of my memories about my grandfather, my dad's dad, are etched
above for the ages. I just wish I had him a little longer than I did.
Dinner last night: Italian sub at Jersey Mike's.
Well, March does have St. Patrick's Day.
Dinner last night: Grilled Taylor Ham.
