Saturday, September 28, 2019


The list of bad guys keeps getting longer.

Since April 2017, when Fox News Host, Bill O'Reilly was forced to resign, more than 250 powerful people — celebrities, politicians, CEOs, have disappesred. It took me a couple of hours of wading through the names, looking for favorite celebs -- commentators and actors mostly, whose work I no longer see.

Here's a link to a bunch of  guys who've been unemployed for a long time -- golly, good guys like Tom Brokaw -- I miss him.

Found anyone who belongs on your own personal GOOD GUY list?


Monday, September 23, 2019


The Los Angeles Times wrote about the Klatch cafe with branches in Southern California and San Francisco that's touting its $75 a cup as the world's best.

Being a coffee nut, pissed off by $75 a cup, I checked out "Ten Great Coffees" online.

I started with Hawaiian Kona Coffee, price $34/pound. The online article said "has a fantastic flavor and unique taste. Most sellers use a blend of 10% Kona coffee and 90% cheaper variety. Make sure you buy and consume 100% Kona coffee." I drank Kona coffee when my husband was shooting the film "Hawaii." We were living in the Ilikai, a luxurious hotel in Honolulu where all the actors lived for a couple of months. Since the film company was paying our bills, I figured it was 100% Kona.  But the hotel -- 8 a.m. till 7 p.m, constantly had loud bang-bang noises because it was being renovated. Living there was lousy and room service Kona coffee was lukewarm.

I drank Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee, $50/pound, known for it's mild taste, when I was performing with my dance company in Japan but it made me sleepy. Saint Helena Coffee--$79/pound intrigued me since Napoleon Bonaparte was ardent fan of its caramel and citrus flavor but you'd have to visit the island where he lived in exile, to taste it.

Very expensive coffee -- civet coffee,  Kopi Luwak -- costs 160/pound. Indonesian Asian Palm civets, consume the beans, ferment them, deposit the coffee beans in their feces from where it is collected and processed.

The tip-top most expensive $500/pound coffee that's favored by coffee afficionados, Black Ivory Coffee, like civet coffee, it is made by elephants that consume the beans. Their feces provide an especially robust flavor.

Guys, I have to say drinking a cup of civet or elephant poop is just too too icky. Next time we visit our son who lives  in North Hollywood, we'll visit our friends in southern California and won't mind paying $75 for a cup.

Wednesday, September 18, 2019


Got any routines, ridiculous superstitious things you do?

Em reveals hers, and gets John to talk about things he does on opening night of a big Broadway Musical.

Friday, September 13, 2019


Today is the day I celebrate my mother's birthday. There's a green light glowing in her brass candle holder. It's electrified, and sits on a shelf above my desk. The nurse, who tended Mom, during the last weeks of her life, sent it to me. I keep it lit night and day.

Throughout my life, Mom was always there for me -- it didn't take much conversation -- just "Mom, I've got a problem," or "Mom, I'm not sure what to do," or just "Hi Mom."  (I've blogged about her in "Night Light" -- 4/13, and in " Marching" --  4/17.)

After a head-on collision on the highway near Indianapolis, I was rushed to a hospital -- cut out of my clothes, temporarily repaired -- my small intestine had been severed by the seat belt, my facial injuries were extensive. Because I had a fever, surgeons postponed the major surgery that was needed on my back.

For the next three weeks, I was strapped to a Stryker table. The nurses turned it and me like a flap-jack, every 45 minutes. I couldn't sit up, or raise my head, or move any part of my torso, though I could move my arms and hands. I lay on my bandaged stomach wounds, facing the floor, then lay face up with my injured back (at the waist), positioned over the padded hole in the center of the table.

My husband, John Cullum, and Mom arrived while I was still unconscious. He was in "1776" on Broadway singing "Molasses to Rum," playing the Senator from South Carolina. While I was being treated with antibiotics for fever, the show's producer let him miss performances and fly to Indianapolis twice a week. The shows he missed weren't deducted from his salary. The cast members had a "kitty" -- money they collected to help cover the cost of the airfare.

Mom, who was recovering from a mastectomy she had a few months earlier, was with me every day. She got me large-size knitting needles, white yarn, and cast on thirty stitches, so that upside-down or right-side up, I could knit. With her encouraging me, I managed to make the first four inches of a scarf that my husband even now, occasionally wears.

The Doctors came in routinely, and tested my legs, arms, face as well as my private parts with a feather, asking, "Do you feel that?" Though I didn't feel anything, I always said, "I can march."

It seemed to cheer everyone when I said that. An orderly had told me I was temporarily paralyzed. Someone had murmured "partial paraplegia." I didn't have a dictionary, but if I had one, I wouldn't have looked up paraplegia or fracture. No one said "your back is broken" -- they just said that the lumbar vertebrae at my waist were "fractured."

It took all my energy to concentrate on minutes passing between pills and the hospital routines that had to do with food, toilet, bathing, combing my hair. I didn't ask for a mirror -- I didn't want to see what I looked like. Watching the clock -- what a torture it was, staring at the second hand, watching the minute hand, waiting for the hour hand to move. Only after three-and-a-half hours had past, could I start asking for the pills that let me disappear for a while.

It was a orderly who noticed a reddish, swollen area on my arm. A sliver of glass, probably from the shattered windshield of the car, was removed and treated. By the next day, the fever was gone.

JC was onstage in New York when the two surgeons examined me head-to-toe with a needle, instead of feather. Frowning, one of them said, "Well, we can operate in the morning. The other surgeon smiled, and joked -- "I'm the best bone fixer around town -- this is the hospital where we fix the racers from the Indy 500.  My friend here is a neurological specialist -- best in the country, figuring out nerve endings."

I tried to say something about marching. The way they were talking -- one frowning, the other smiling -- frightened me. They said ... maybe a year ... two years ... maybe five ... hope for best ... "Wheelchair" was mentioned twice.

After they left, Mom pulled her chair in. Squeezing my hand, she said, "Recovering from surgery is easier than waiting like you've been waiting. What you need to do is get a good night's sleep, and wake up strong, looking forward to the operation."

"Is that what you did, Mom?" She'd hadn't mentioned her mastectomy. I was thinking ... five years ... wheelchair ...  hope for the best ...  I wanted to say I don't want to live if I'm going to be in a wheelchair.

Mom spoke softly. "Don't think about what you fear. Try to give yourself to the doctors, dear, like you'd give yourself to a lover." She kissed me, and said it again, louder and very clearly. "The doctors need you to trust them, dear.  It will help them, if you give yourself to them like you'd give yourself to a lover."

I had never talked about lovers or my love life with my mother. How did my mother, married to my father -- for so many years the hard-working, faithful, adoring, good wife -- find the knowledge, the words, the wisdom to say what she did? And help me -- give me the command, and then, the power to look forward to tomorrow.

Happy birthday, Mom -- you gave me health, a body, resilience, a healing capacity, a powerful life force that's in my bones, my muscles, my blood, my skin, my pores, and you were always, always, always there when I needed you.''