FEEL-GOOD PILLS

Pharmaceutical companies and doctors are worried. The fact that fake pills help, sometimes as well or better than real pills, is creating panic and problems in the various "feel-good" businesses.

Whenever there's talk about placebos, the story of a nurse, during World War II is told. The nurse, because they were out of supplies, injected a wounded soldier with salt water, telling him it was morphine. That it relieved the soldier's agony and prevented the onset of shock amazed everyone.

Do we fool ourselves? Yes. You take a medicine, not knowing it's a placebo (Latin; the verb placebo means "I shall please"), and if the Doctor says you'll feel better, you very likely will feel better.

There's also a nocebo effect. (Latin, the verb nocere" means "to do harm.") A nocebo response is an actual negative outcome. For instance, if the ad for the medication mentions side effects, such as vomiting, or nausea, you may vomit and be nauseous after taking the placebo (sugar pill).

The feel-good doctor business has been front page news ever since the death of Michael Jackson, who was helped, succored, and medicated by the now infamous Dr. Murray who was living with Jackson, and injecting medications that should only be given in a hospital.

Elvis had his Dr. Nick, who provided him with pills; Anna Nicole got prescriptions here and there using her real name, Vickie Lynn Marshall, as well as her friends' and lawyer's names -- the postmortems on both turned up 14 drugs for Elvis, 9 for Anna -- more than enough drugs to kill a horse or human.

Jack Kennedy and his constant pain were helped by the world renown Dr. Max Jacobson, who injected him with concoctions of amphetamines; Jackie, also, was Dr. Max's patient -- his injections helped her get through her husband's funeral.

What was in the concoction? According to William Bryk's article in the NY Sun -- and what was told to me personally by some of his patients -- it was various neural energizers known as speed, mixed with multivitamins, steroids, enzymes, hormones, and solubilized placenta, bone marrow, and animal organ cells.

I met Dr Max when JC and I arrived in Boston (very hush-hush). We were staying in Alan J. Lerner's suite, while he stayed on his yacht with Dr. Max. Lerner, the man who wrote "My Fair Lady," wanted JC to rehearse one week and replace the French movie actor Louis Jourdan as the leading man, in "On a Clear Day" (the musical, lyrics by Alan, music by Burton Lane).

I was pregnant. Dr Max liked me and offered, in a kindly, paternal way, to help me through the long hours of hanging around in the background.

It was a whirlwind; we were ensconced in Lerner's hotel suite, where jC was actually rehearsing with the director and choregrapher. The rooms were littered with empty, inch-high injection bottles and syringes.

Everyone was being helped by Dr. Max -- the tailor who was making JC gorgeous costumes (5 sports jackets), Lerner, choreographer Herb Ross, director Bobby Lewis raved about how wonderful he made them feel , mentioning (in a whisper) other celebrities whom "Miracle Max" was helping -- Judy Garland, Aretha Franklin, Oleg Cassini, Marlene Dietrich, Anythony Quinn, Tennessee Williams ... on and on went the list.

During the nights we spent in Alan's suite, the phone rang -- long distance calls from all over the world ... desperate patients, begging, crying, even screaming for Dr. Max to help them -- send them stuff or they'd die.

The 1989 biography, "A Woman Named Jackie," by C. David Heymann, talks about Jackie's injections when she was decorating the White House, and quotes Truman Capote, another patient, who said: 'Instant euphoria. You feel like Superman. You're flying. Ideas come at the speed of light. You go 72 hours straight without so much as a coffee break. You don't need sleep, you don't need nourishment. If it's sex you're after, you go all night. Then you crash -- it's like falling down a well...You go running back to [Miracle Max]. You're looking for the German mosquito, the insect with the magic pinprick. He stings you, and all at once you're soaring again.'

Did JC take it? NO. He drank, but he never did, nor ever has been involved with feel good pills.

Did I let Dr. Max Help me? No. I'd taken amphetamines on the road--when I had to drive all night and dance the next morning. They saved my life (I thought) because the guy who 'd been hired to drive the carbus was a terrible driver. I did take speed for at performance at BAM (Bklyn Academy of Music), because I drove all night to get there from our performance in Ohio the night before.

It was wow -- dancing on air! I did everything more so, better, fearlessly. I was wonderful (I thought).

A few days later I realized my ability to judge myself was gone. My fabulous pirouettes, my spectacularly high split leaps were fabulous and spectacularly high in my mind. The reality was -- a few little flubs ... a jiggle, a misstep, an improvisation when I almost stumbled ... a place where I need to be perfectly poised and I wasn't.

Others with whom I've discussed speed, and other feel better, feel great pills ... we all agree, the trip down from the high is bad. Depressing, so darkly depressing that it isn't worth it.

These days I can get myself high with my mind -- with what I say to myself, repeat to myself -- sometimes even, I say things over and over and brain-wash myself.

Yes, it's possible to defeat placebo benefits and overcome nocebo problems by being aware of them. Mind, in other words, it's MIND over mind.

James Brown singing "I Feel Good" says what I feel when I'm dancing.

OFF BALANCE IN SPOLETO, ITALY

I was very nervous.

It was a raked stage.

It was major festival -- Twyla Tharpe and 50 kids from the street-- not dancers -- were the opening -- an improv. The sheer mass bodies onstage, with Twyla tap-dancing in the center, was fascinating. Then, as the second number of the evening, I was dancing "Knoxville Summer of 1915," Then, Mikhail Baryshnikov and Carla Fracci were performing a "Medea" duet, choreographed for them by John Butler.

Composer Samuel Barber, and Gian Carlo Menotti, composer and founder of the Festival of Two Worlds, were in the audience, along with notables from around the world, critics from the N.Y Times, the London Times, and many renowned choreographers.

If the names don't ring a bell, the dancers were all "stars," as were the composers. I did a blog about my "Knoxville" choreography (See 'Off Balance in London, 9/19), and explained how difficult it is to balance on a raked stage. The performance in Spoleto was a year before London, the premiere of the piece as a solo. The climax, on the last notes of music was a dangerous balance on a rocking chair. Picture a stage on a slant, a rocking chair that rocks -- with my feet on the arms of the chair, balancing on it, I'd found a way to magically rise, stand up slowly, raise my arms up high, as if reaching, embracing God in the sky.

Aside from the dangerous ending, I'd choreographed a back "attitude turn" for myself," (a double turn), a classical ballet step, adding a waving-circling arm pattern that made it unusual, not what you'd see a ballet dancer do. And there were other tricky steps.

The nitty-gritty of all this -- I'm not a ballet dancer, but I was doing steps that could be judged balletically. I don't have "ballet" feet, but my arms, my use of torso were impressive, and my projection, the concentration that I have as an dancer-actress, was uniquely powerful.

On the day of the performance, at noon, there was a half-hour set-aside for me to rehearse with the orchestra and singer.

I marked, just indicated the dance steps, and marked the climax on the rocking chair.

Why? Because the day before, at the orchestra read-through rehearsal, Samuel Barber and Gian Carlo Menotti stopped me after I spoke the opening words. They marched down the aisle and stood at the foot of the stage, looking up at me.

Barber said, "We don't think you should speak. Menotti joined in. "Miss Martha Graham tried it, my dear. It doesn't work." They both said a few more words about Miss Martha, about the music not needing a verbal introduction.

I was stunned. I was afraid I was going to burst into tears. I needed the words to create my "parents." No parents were present. As the lights came up on me sitting in the chair, I spoke Agee's poetic words: "We are talking now of summer evenings in Knoxville, Tennessee, the time when I lived there (I stood up ) so successfully disguised to myself as a child. (I gestured, and a spotlight came up on each name as I said, "My mother ....My father ... My uncle ... My aunt ..."

I don't know how I dared to say what I said -- "Mr. Barber, Mr. Menotti -- I have worked on this. This is my concept. When you were starting out and had a concept, you went ahead with the concept even when people said it wouldn't work. I want to perform my dance the way I conceived it. I know it will work."

I'm not sure I've quoted what I said accurately. But I convinced them. They backed off.

And so that afternoon, during the final rehearsal, I didn't dance -- I didn't want to test the work and get their opinions again.

Back in my hotel room I napped. Two-and-a-half hours before curtain time, as the outside was light was fading, I stood at the hotel room window and looked out, watching the birds.

I wanted to be with the birds , free, flying off into the sunset.

At the theater, I thought about the birds while the audience was cheering and bravoing Twyla Tharpe's improv. Then I went on the stage and danced. Rarely have I danced as well, deeply concentrated.

Here's the painting I made when I got back home to New York.

I'd have to drag in our ten-foot ladder to get to the high shelf where I have a carton of clippings, old brochures, and reviews. But I don't have to climb the ladder and dig for the clipping.
I remember and cherish what the New York Times critic said -- "...Emily Frankel dancing 'Knoxville, Sumer of 1915' reminds us what dancing is all about ... "

PERFECT DAY IN HUNTINGDON, PA

I arrived by plane, on a cold morning, bundled up in my white, sheared Badger fur, with white, kid-leather, medium-heeled boots, white leather gloves and purse. The coat was a traffic-stopping cape, which I wore with a matching Cossack's fur hat. I looked like I'd stepped out of Dr. Zhivago's Russia.

I felt important. The booking was important. I was scheduled to dance in New York City's Town Hall two weeks later. The performance in Huntingdon was an out-of-town warm-up.

The college concert series was paying me well. They had a large audience. Their students and faculty, as well as students, faculty, and lovers of ballet from other colleges in the area had reservations.

After the show, there would be reception at Mrs. Clifford's home. I'd be sleeping in her guest room, which was walking distance from the auditorium. Mrs. C. was dean of students, head of the committee who arranged my rehearsal, clothes rack, hangers, pitcher of water, and the six student helpers for lights, curtain, props, costume ironing.

Yep -- Em, the Queen of one-night-stands (title I invented for myself), always sent a detailed stage preparation list, specifying the stage areas that needed to be lit, the booms (or side light), the blue, green, orange, lavender gels that I used for the booms, changing color for each section of my solo.

(The college's drama department did four plays each year. They had 120 spots on the bars above the stage and balcony rail (more than what I'd be getting at Town Hall).

Since I was going to be performing my 70 minute solo to Mahler's "Fifth Symphony," just one number on the program with taped music, I'd requested professional sound equipment and a technician to handle it. (See my 6/14 post "High Diving.")

It was peaches and cream -- everything top flight, done right, and more -- knowledgeable, peppy students and the head of the Drama department on the lights and main dimmer board. The rented sound equipment was excellent. And best of all the stage was large -- 50 feet across and 35 feet deep. The second movement of the Mahler, with its leaps, jumps, and running, needed space, and a wide, deep stage made the fifth movement extra thrilling.

The rehearsal finished at four. My set, props, costumes, my giant Chinese silk bird wings, a costume device that I donned that made the ending of the piece stunning, was arranged. The staff had prepared a cot in my dressing room, so I could rest before the show.

Was I tired? Traveling, arriving, setting up a show, and performing the same night is tiring, but after my nap and light bite (scrambled eggs brought in by one of the students), I was ready to do my best. Though I was very slender (like most dancers, I was hooked on looking like a Balanchine skinny ballerina), I'd taken a diuretic. During my onstage costume changes, I could be seen in my flesh-colored body-suit -- it showed every hill -- including the tummy one gets, slender or not, around that time of the month.

The hush as the curtain opened meant a large audience was expecting something special.

My five costumes were works of art -- my extraordinarily talented designer, and two seamstresses had taken over my living room for the month it took for the costumes to be made -- each representing different ages in a woman's life -- each garment exquisitely detailed -- hand-painted, be-ribboned, petaled, fringed, or be-jeweled.

The costume for the grown up woman -- (see the picture), was a transparent, shimmering, purple, floor-length gauze gown with a train, like on a wedding dress.

My dance movements (created by choreographer Norman Walker), ran the gamut -- modern, ballet, Spanish, Oriental -- 70 minutes of dancing needs a lot of invention -- fast foot work, adagio, sustained poses, sudden dramatic changes.

Did I judge myself while dancing? Sometimes, but the best performances, are when the dancer lives in the moment, and I lived in the moment till the fourth movement of the Mahler. After 55 minutes of strenuous dancing, as I stepped on my right foot, the calf muscle cramped.

When I typed "Huntingdon" on my list of blog ideas, I whizzed through a memory -- my sister JB saw the performance. A friend from Harrisburg, where she was living at that time, drove her to Huntingdon. ("Ouch,"I thought, remembering what my sister said after the show, "I won't write about THAT!")

Ouch -- my calf muscle hurt, felt stuck, twisted -- wouldn't untwist, let me step on the foot, and move forward, gliding smoothly ... each step in the fourth movement required that the rolled, weighted hem of my gown be subtly pushed forward by my foot, so that I wouldn't step on it.

Mustn't step on hem I thought as the pain increased. The next step, a pivot on the right foot was coming up ... a step left, step right ... relevé on it ... half-circle pivot ... a pause on the right foot, as I lifted the left leg into a high extension.

(My right foot is stronger than my left. My left leg is more limber and does higher extensions. I turn better to the left, standing on the right. I leap better pushing off the left foot, landing on the right.)

That was where my mind was at. I couldn't do a pivot. A leap was out of the question -- even a pose, a pause, standing on the right with the calf cramping was -- yow -- too painful.

I know pain. I know how to make another muscle do the work of the one that hurts . I know how to avoid pain -- work through it ... even so, I couldn't step on that foot.

... 15 more minutes ... 14 more minutes ... I tried to keep track of where I was, in the choreographic sequence, but each step I took was improvised -- done to get the purple train behind me, not twisted around me, not on the path -- the diagonal toward the center of the stage, where the fifth movement of the Mahler was supposed to start.

... 10 more minutes, then I had to move the movable set pieces, and with swift, lateral, broad steps, gather up the costumes that I'd scattered in a danced tantrum, end of the third movement -- swoop them up, gliding, traveling over and around things when I couldn't glide, or pivot or leap, when pivots, leaps, jumps, and turns were what I was rehearsed and ready to do.

If I'd been in a basket ball game, the coach, the umpire would have gotten me off the field. I thought about stopping, moving to the edge of the stage, telling the audience "I hurt my leg. I have to stop." But then, what? Re-schedule Huntingdon for when? What was wrong with the foot, the leg? Had I broken or torn something?

Thinking those things, and creating steps to avoid putting weight on my right foot, keeping the purple gauze train untangled, I got to the end -- upstage, kneeling in the center -- slipping each of my arms into the sleeves of the huge silk wings, grabbing the 15 foot bamboo poles that were hidden inside the sleeve, poles that were preset on the floor.

I felt no pain, had no thought but "Stand up Em ... lift the bamboo ... arch back ... lift, now swing back and circle your arms ..."

"Thar she blows!" I sang to myself as the Chinese silk billowed up, up, up to the light bars above my head and floated down -- closed around me as I crossed my arms on the last note of the Mahler.

Mrs. Clifford took care of everything after I whispered what happened to me. The reception was canceled. My sister said to me, "You look so beautiful -- so young, My friend Ellie wondered how old you were." (My sister turned to her.) "I explained to Ellie that you were in a terrible accident and they fixed your face -- you didn't have your face lifted, but it made you younger looking."

(When people come back stage and tell you they loved your costume, loved your hairdo, it means what it means -- that's what touched them, not your "art," but the way you look.)

I wanted to get out of my clothes and get ice for my calf, but there was more chatter about -- did I, should she, should her friend have a face lift?

Woowee!

At Mrs. Clifford's, in the guest room which had been her married daughter's room, we iced my calf, and made plans to get to the hospital early, and talk to the head of orthopedics.

In the morning, there was pain and swelling. Mrs. C opened a drawer, and gave me a pair of her daughter's knee-high socks -- I couldn't wear my white boots, so I wore the ballet slippers I'd worn during the performance.

The doctor said I'd torn the gastroc, a muscle in the back part of the calf. After I asked was it serious, what about my performance in two weeks, he shrugged. He said, "It's a relatively superficial muscle -- just.keep off your right leg for three weeks. Then, use it, get back in shape, modifying what exercises you do, and carefully, gradually use your right leg a little more each day."

The stage crew had packed up my things and arranged for my trunk to be shipped back to New York. In my Cossack's hat and fur, (boots in my overnight suitcase) in the daughter's knee-highs and ballet slippers, I boarded the plane for home, dozing and figuring what to say and do about canceling my Town Hall performance and re-scheduling it.

The gastroc healed, but there's scar tissue (from Huntingdon as well as two other times my muscles have cramped on stage). I massage it, every now and then, feeling lucky -- that my face was "sort of fixed," that the improv I'd done wasn't noticed by my sister and her friend, and therefore, probably others in the audience were admiring the look of me, not judging the dancing. I guess that's what happens when singers sing with a sore throat or bad cold. You do what you can do.

Yesterday, with medical revelations about football players' helmets not protecting them from brain damage, we've heard star players declare -- "It's worth it --even if it shortens my life by fifteen years."

I don't take diuretics now but I did before my performances at Lincoln Center. Nowadays, when muscle or bone hurts, I use ice, or massage it, and remember the knee-high socks which sit in a dresser drawer with my exercise clothes.

My darling JC took a picture -- yep, that's my leg in the knee-highs, on my desk, yep, I'm still slender, and limber -- you do what you can do -- I do what I can do to stay that way.

OFF BALANCE IN LONDON

It was a final dress rehearsal in my studio -- I was dancing full out. My eight dancers and I were boarding a plane at 5 a.m. for London.

I'd deliberately arranged it so that after the rehearsal, we'd change clothes. Our personal luggage was already in the station wagon parked downstairs. At the airport we'd have dinner, and check in early at Icelandic Airlines -- the lowest cost, low-cost airline did not have reserved seats.

My eagle-eyed, perfectionist, ballet teacher, Aubrey Hitchins, who was once Anna Pavlova's dance partner, was sitting on the audience bench, watching the dress rehearsal, along with two dozen other important guests.

We were performing "Knoxville, Summer of 1915," a choreography for five dancers that I'd created to Samuel Barber's music, a song with words based on James Agee's poem. As the curtain rose, seated in a rocking chair, I said -- "We are talking now of summer evenings in Knoxville, Tennessee... the time I lived there so successfully disguised to myself as a child ... " (Sometime, I'll write about what Samuel Barber and Gian Carlo Menotti said to me when I was presenting this dance in Spoleto.)

I was in the center of the studio, dancing my tricky brilliant solo, with four other dancers as my parents, motionless in the background -- in the middle of doing the balletic, brilliant fast foot-work that I'd been rehearsing everyday for weeks.
...
"Achh! I gasped as did a "brisé dessous," my right foot gliding out, beating on the front on my left calf as I'd landed on my right -- with the sharp pain, thinking oh dear --. oh no -- did Aubrey notice?

I stopped. The music played on. I couldn't continue.

Everyone had suggestions -- ice, aspirin, get a doctor. My ankle was swelling. Someone brought me my large cooking pot filled with ice cubes. I stuck my foot in it, kept it there till the doctor arrived. He was the doctor all the dancers flocked too. After determining it wasn't broken, he used a hypodermic needle to extract the blood from the ankle, cleaned and taped it, and told me to keep it iced, keep off of it for a few days.

Poor ankle -- it looked like this.

Of course I nodded, though I had a plane to catch, a rehearsal the day after tomorrow in London, and our opening night the next evening.

Have you ever been in on the edge of cliff? I don't know how else to describe it -- knowing you have to get across a chasm -- not sure if you can. It's not the same as taking on a challenge. You fear everything -- you fear your fear.

On the plane, I couldn't get an aisle seat, but a French passenger saw me with a bandaged foot hobbling down the aisle. She gave me her seat.

There was no food service. The steward brought me cups of ice. The ice wet my sock and bandage. With my foot propped up on my travel bag I dozed. Someone, on the way to the lavatory, accidentally bumped my propped up foot. It throbbed for hours.

In London, I didn't see London -- saw only the inside of my bathroom at the hotel. Then, at the theater, I saw the raked stage.

Take a quick look -- you don't have to see the whole film to know what a "raked" stage is.

Why didn't I know? Why didn't Blake the producer tell me? But why would he have told me? Raked stages are what most London theaters have. They are not common on the college concert circuit. They're in Broadway theaters rarely.

I hobbled onto the stage -- the thought of doing a pirouette was ... terrifying, overwhelming.
With the music playing, I walked around "marking" the steps -- didn't try the "brisé dessous," or the big lift at the climax, or the soft pirouette on the final note. I used the rehearsal to set the lights, and to rehearse the other three numbers that featured the company, before "Knoxville," at the end of the program.

Afternoon of the opening night I re-taped my ankle, tighter than it was before. I warmed up haunted by Novikoff, Murial Stuart, Obukoff, Gundren Galloway, Mrs. Linnekin, Ella Dagaova and Aubrey Hitchins, saying the names of my teachers like beads on a rosary. I did stretches, extensions, and plies -- no jumps, turns, or anything testing my right ankle..

Standing in the wings, I watched the company do their three numbers. Then, it was curtain time for me.

I said the words about summer evenings ... the time I lived there so successfully disguised to myself as a child.

And became the child, danced full out, then fuller, fullest out as the music built to the climax, the crescendoing phrase when my "father " (danced by my tallest, strongest, male dancer) picked me up like a child, huddled, crouched against him with my feet against his chest.

The music soared as the singer sung Agee's words -- "The stars are wide and alive, they seem each like a smile of great sweetness, and they seem very near."

Doing exactly what I'd choreographed, I stood up.

My only support was the dancer's hands holding my shins. For a second it didn't seem possible, but the music soared and with it, so did I -- standing all the way up until my head was ten feet above the floor, I reached up to the blue-gelled spotlights that were fifteen feet over my head.

The singer sang, in a crescendo --."Now is the night one blue dew...."

And with the words and music, I reached, taller, higher and higher, touching, embracing God in the sky.

When I was a little girl, praying to be a dancer, dreaming of pink toes shoes and tutu -- if I had known I could dance like I did that night in London, I would have been proud. Not because it was London, or I was the soloist, the star. Not because of the applause or the reviews, or the sold-out tour that followed. I would have been proud of doing what I did -- transcending myself, fearlessly, gloriously touching the sky when I danced.

Yes, I did. It's a feeling I own.

ALONE IN A CROWD

When I was in school, I never quite fit in, though I tried to.

The first time I went to a Saturday night dance, nobody asked me to dance except Lennie, who was a "drip."

The one college orientation get-together I attended was grim. The other girls and guys seemed like a collection of drips from all over the world.

I went to a couple of parties and pretended to enjoy myself, but Christmas Eve was awful, and New Year's Eve was seriously depressing. (On New Year's Day I took a train to New York and never went back to college except as a performer on the college concert circuit.)

In the city, there were lots of people to have quick conversations with, but they were too busy and I was too busy for get-togethers.

I got my first dance job, then a husband, and we got our Dance Drama Duo going. Socializing with other dancers, actors, fellow artists was okay -- part of "making it."

At cocktail parties I never did feel like I belonged.

After a show when people came backstage, it was exhausting -- a performance after the performance.

My very first creative effort was a solo done to the sound effects of bells pealing, a crowd celebrating. I stood upstage in the center, and walked very slowly, skillfully, smoothly downstage, forward to the edge of the stage, while slowly raising and reaching my arms -- reaching out to the people -- trying to join with the crowd that was celebrating in the world beyond the stage.

It's a simple sol0 (I've seen it on film). There's no dance movement. But the vision of one person in a crowd, not being able to become part of the crowd is touching.

Aloneness ... each of us is one person, a solitary, lone figure ... loneness isn't loneliness unless it makes you sad. It doesn't make me sad anymore.

THE GUY I'M ROOTING FOR LOST

The graceful, keenly coordinated, focused Roger Federer inspires me.

Here's how he played on Sunday.

I almost didn't want to watch the tennis finals on Monday. I was afraid -- because he wanted to win so much -- that he might lose.

I sort of squint at tennis -- don't keep score. For some reason that I haven't analyzed, I don't. I avoid following the "love" score, and just let the words fly over me -- match point, ace, deuce, baseline, break point, double fault ... I nod, but am not really following what it means.

Gee ... wait a minute ... why?

JC , who was once a tournament level tennis player, knows the game. Maybe my deliberate ignorance is because he's an expert?

Not only am I NOT an expert, but I've deliberately NOT learned even the basic terms that everyone in the audience knows.

(Well, whatever the reasons are -- it only affects JC and me, and we have fun watching tennis together, especially when Federer's playing.)
.
There are other sports heroes whom I admire, but Federer -- who cried when he lost the Australian Open, who cried the first time he won Wimbledon -- who didn't cry when he lost the finals Monday ... that brought tears to my eyes. Federer's spirit, his ability to win -- I don't want him to lose what inspires me.

Okay, when he's older, and other lost matches or injuries indicate that he's not going to be able to keep winning, of course he'll retire. When the time comes, I'll accept that -- but not now.

Right now I'm picturing him, thinking of how he must feel today and my sense is -- he's not mourning. Or reviewing what he might have handled better in the game that he lost. He's thinking ahead, planning what to work on before the next competition.

Federer's direct connection to what's important -- Federer's ability to be on the moment at the moment -- that inspires me. That's what I feel, and learn, and want to emulate when I watch Roger Federer -- with keen coordination, keen focus and grace -- playing his game.

He's a dancer.

Hey, I bet I don't bother with the terms that belong to game because I'm a dancer watching a guy moving in ways that I'll never learn or be able do.

Roger Federer is a dancer.

BUTTERNUT BREAD

Take a look at the map of Iowa -- Des Moines, the tiny town of Pella, the tiny town of Oskaloosa.

It was 7 a.m. Friday. There were snow flurries. Four foot, five foot snowdrifts were on both sides of state highway 163, that was taking us to William Penn College in Oskaloosa. I'd booked a 9:30 a.m. lecture-demonstration for a tiny $125 fee. (Lectures or master classes, between engagements, helped balance the budget.)

The college president's convocations committee was expecting us to arrive at 7:30 a.m. to setup sound and dressing facilities (access to a toilet was a big deal for dancers arriving for a morning show). We'd spent the night in a dorm in Pella. (Free accommodations were also a big deal for the dancers.)

Oskaloosa was 17 miles southeast of Pella. After the lecture-demonstration, we were going to head back north, then west to Des Moines -- return the rented station wagon bus and the U-Haul trailer -- board a train for Denver, and three performances in Colorado.

It had been snowing off and on. The tire chains were on. I was driving. Bill the stage manager was sleeping off his busy night. (Bill fell in love with someone new in every town we visited.) The dancers (four girls, four guys ) were clutching their thermos jugs, sipping and smoking. (In those days a lot of dancers smoked, though I'd asked them not to -- the smoke made me cough).

My breath made vapor on the windshield. The snow flurries worried me. The edge of the road was almost invisible. I thanked God for the telephone poles -- they were my guidelines.

I took off a glove to check the defroster -- felt cold air coming up through the rim. Did I forget to turn on the heater? I reached for the heater's dial. The car skidded. My foot reflexively went for the brake -- whoa -- DON'T BRAKE, never brake on a skid!

I put my foot on the gas pedal ... Nothing happened. Was it stuck? Were we out of gas? The gauge said half full. I needed to drive faster -- the convocations committee and the president himself, were probably waiting. WHOA! Where were the telephone poles? Had I turned off the main road?

I tucked the toe of my right foot under the gas pedal to lift it -- my God -- it was frozen. The windshield was fogged over. I switched on the wipers. Wipers didn't go on! I couldn't see the road! Tapping the brake, skidding, I managed to stop the station wagon -- with a U-Haul attached to the axle, it was heart-racing, tricky.

In a fake, hearty, cheery tone, I said, "Hey kids, someone has to go outside and clean the windshield!"

No one moved.

I got out. I didn't have a tool, just my gloved hand. One of the girls got out and went to work. With a comb wrapped in a hanky she cleared the driver's side of the windshield. Back in the car, though her work helped, I saw the glass starting to cloud up again.

"Jeez, it's cold!" Bill groaned and opened his eyes. "How 'bout a little more heat, Em? Are we here? Where are we?"

"We're nowhere -- maybe on the road, maybe not," murmured dancer, artistic director Em. I wanted to explain, didn't dare explain, or share with the dancers, the terror that came over me. I was sweating, scared. Would the people in Oskaloosa realize something was wrong when we didn't show up? Would they phone the state police? Would anyone find us before nightfall? Find us tomorrow?

I opened my window, reached as far as I could -- used my knitted hat to wipe the windshield and clear a see-through hole to use if -- IF I managed to start the car again.

The girls caught on. "This is horrible!" "I"m scared!" "We could freeze to death here!"

The boys, all good-looking, manly, tall guys wearing more elegant outfits than the girls, discussed the warm clothes in their suitcases, wondering if the bags in the U-Haul could be accessed. "Jeez, it's too cold to go out." "I'm chilled to the bone!" "I'm going to catch a bad cold."

I got the weak-sounding starter to get the engine putt-putting. With my toe lifting up the gas pedal, the tires whirled. With me reaching out of the open window, ignoring the moans from the kids, I maintained a see-through circle on the windshield. We were traveling maybe 3 m.p.h.

The boys moaned. "I need a bathroom!" "Wish I had a donut." "I gotta do a barre before the show!" "Truck is coming," someone yelled. "Is it going to hit us?"

I tapped the brake. Opened my door. Flew out onto the road, and waved and waved and waved at the truck. There hadn't been any other vehicles on the road. It was a tall yellow and white bread truck, red letters proclaiming "Butternut" on its sides.

The truck stopped. I looked up at the driver. "Hi! Can you help us? We're lost. We're stuck. We're going to Oskaloosa."

"I'm headin'' for Des Moines -- got a dozen deliveries to make. You musta missed the turn-off, lady. You're headin' north."

"Oh dear. We'll have to turn around. Can you give us a push?"

"U turn here? Be kinda hard. I can give you a pull." The ruddy-cheeked, heavyset, truck driver had a crucifix and a toy dog hanging from his mirror. He wasn't going to leave a lady in distress. He attached his chain to our front axle, and told me, "Get into first gear."

Bill jumped onto the Butternut truck's running board, took a dancer-like pose pointing up the hill as if he were Hermes, the messenger of the Gods, in a winged-cap, winged-shoes, pointing with a caduceus.

When Butternut Bread pulled into a Shell Gas station on the outskirts of Des Moines, we were fifty miles west of Oskaloosa. The driver accepted our effusive thanks, detached the chain and waved farewell. One hour and two taxi rides later, we were on the train to Denver.

I closed my eyes. All day I'd felt like a soldier on highway 163 -- on the front line in a war -- a private first class, leading the army, fighting for my life and the lives of my wounded buddies. I told myself, "Never, never, ever again, am I going to do what I had to do today."

Little did I know that it was a life lesson, preparing me for more, for bigger, tougher challenges. Teaching me that Butternut trucks do come along, but don't count on it.

I never did call the convocations committee. Maybe I'll send a copy of this post to the President of William Penn College -- the lesson I learned it more important than the lecture-demonstration I never got around to doing in Oskaloosa.

MILKING THE EM COW

Right now
I' m a cow
Ow!
Got two mighty milkers, two farmers working on my udders ( my utters) -- squeeze/pull -- grip/yank.

I learned to milk a cow on a farm near Madison, Wisconsin when I was six. My sisters and I spent a summer there doing great things -- pitch-forking piles of hay, climbing trees and picking cherries, shaking branches and picking up the apples when they fell, collecting eggs in the hen house, pulling carrots from the vegetable garden, sometimes cucumbers, squash or red ripe tomatoes.

My cow was Bess. She was old and easier to milk than younger cows. I'd pull in the stool, sit below her, position the bucket and reach -- squeeze and pull, grip and yank. Bess knew I was an inexperienced kid and sometimes kicked with her hind legs, and knocked over the stool, and sometimes the bucket.

The two farmers who want my milk -- my words, my papers, my important private memories -- both of them are eager tightwads. They want to get it from me and give me nothing. I think, they think -- that I think I'm being honored by their milking.

Farmer Mr. Hugh knew my partner Mark Ryder and me when we are starting out. The "produce" is a book sort of based on my life with "invented" characters -- a dance team survival story. Thanks for the compliment, farmer Hugh -- you already milked me twice in two phone calls and three emails -- enough is enough.

Farmer Mrs. Moira knew Todd Bolender who made a name for himself as a choreographer by selling the NYC Ballet a ballet he created for me, "Still Point." It was my fully detailed libretto, my choice of music, my title and my dancing that inspired Bolender to create movement other than classical ballet steps. He went on to head the ballet company in Cologne, and create a ballet company in Kansas City.

Moira's produce that she'll take to the market place (various publishers), will be a book on Bolender and perhaps a mention of me based on questions and answers in our half dozen emails exchange -- lots of milking, squeezing, trying to fill the milk pail with more stuff, like copies of the libretto and my correspondence with Bolender.

Hey, enough! I need my memories, my adventures, my milk for my blog.

Moo! Moo -- now you know, and these two farmers know, that the Em cow is milked out. I'm kicking over the bucket.

GHOSTS OF TWO MARIE'S

Have you ever seen a ghost?

Click and check this out -- it's short -- Ghost captured on camera.

Is it an apparition, or an over-exposure (or under-exposure), of a real person in her white work-outfit, crossing the room?

I think my friend Marie A., or her ghost visited me last year.

Neat-featured Marie, brown-kinky curly hair, slender, 5.4 ... we got to know each other at the Metropolitan Opera Ballet School. We both took Margaret Craske's morning class. Marie was part of Craske's inner circle, a group who followed the teachings of Meyer Baba, an Indian mystic and spiritual master.

When Marie suggested I attend a meeting, I didn't say "no way," but that's what I felt when I politely changed the subject.

Her dancing was dull, but Marie's pursuit of technical perfection was extraordinary. Later on, I hired her to help me rehearse my company, and helped her get a job teaching ballet at Swarthmore College. I knew Marie was seeing a psychotherapist; knew she was in love with a woman. When was the last time we spoke?

Anyhow, something jolted me awake. I sat up in bed! Marie was downstairs in the street below. She was calling to me, calling loudly. I got out of bed and raced to the window. The street was dark. I couldn't see her but I knew she was down there, calling, waving. What was wrong? What terrible thing happened? Someone died? She wouldn't be calling me if it wasn't urgent.

I realized I'd been dreaming. I went back to bed. Before writing this post, I googled her -- "ballet teacher" credits came up. I still don't know where she is, or if she's alive, but she was calling to me.

Mrs. Marie P. is the mother of our eye doctor. I'm seeing him next week. I've tried, but I can't rationalize away the chilling, strange thing that happened.

Every year for twenty years, when JC and I had our annual eye exams, I'd chat Mrs. P. and arrange house seats for her, when JC's was in a show.

Tiny, less than 5 feet tall. she was always exquisitely dressed in the very latest styles, with her red hair sprayed, manicured looking. (Gee, was it was a wig? I never asked or wondered about her real self. I just accepted the face she presented to the world.)

Aside from running her son's office, Mrs. P. was renovating their four-story brownstone -- restoring everything to its former glory -- doorknobs, molding, floors, fixtures, outlets, couches, pillows, statuettes in the waiting room, the front door -- a visit to the eye doctor was a visit to the 1890's.

A few Septembers ago, when I phoned at nine a.m. for an appointment, no nurse or service answered. It was too early. I didn't leave a message.

Our fax machine buzzed. A message rolled in ...a picture of a tombstone, chiseled marble, words on it -- her name, dates ...

It was a shock. When I reached the doctor's office, they said Mrs. P. had died during the summer. No, they hadn't faxed us. In fact, nobody on the staff had sent faxes that morning. At my behest, they called the tombstone people. No, they had not sent a fax.

I can't get over the feeling that Marie P. wanted me to know that she was gone. When I see her son the doctor next week, she'll know I'm there, and enjoy my admiration of the work of art she's made of her home.

So do I believe in ghosts? No. But I think Marie A. and Marie P. were contacting me.

SKIDDING

The black curtains were open, covering the walls. My studio looked like a theater.
Notables were seated -- I mean tough-eyed, sophisticated "name" critics, artistic directors of two ballet companies, three ballerinas, a photographer, my agent, my managers.

It was standing room only. People were standing in aisle as well as seated on the floor in front of the seats.

The lights, on cue, blacked out. I took my place, center of the floor.

The spotlight faded up.

I was confident, centered, ready to dance a solo that a well-known choreographer had created for me. The music was an interesting Hindemith sonata. I was costumed handsomely-- head to toe in beige -- hair covered -- I'd invented a way to wrap an wide ace bandage around my head, that gave me a uniquely elegant look. (I wish I had a picture -- I looked like a beige sculpture.)

The NY Times critic had been paying attention to our weekend performances we'd been giving for a month -- listing every Sunday as a "special event." Our box office phone was ringing off the hook. Because we were selling out, I was planning to add more performances -- another month or two of "Four Choreographers."

The title, the concept was strong. I gave myself a pat on the back for that, and wow -- the Daily News critic referred to me as "the legendary Frankel," praising the show and my dancing!

No wonder I felt good as I did my first angular jabbing gesture. Then, I stepped out onto my right foot, firmly digging into the floor in a "demi-plie," ready to do a 90 degree high grand battement (almost a split-kick, the split kicks would come later).

Whoops ... The floor, the traction, the solid base that I needed -- it wasn't there!

I slipped. Not a lot, but enough to give me goose-bumps, the cold prickles of fear you feel a second before the disaster.

Concentrated, experienced in handling the unexpected things that can happen, that a dancer must deal with (I'd done more than a thousand one- night-stands where small, but terrifying disasters had occurred -- nails, tacks, splintered floor board, waxed floor, loose board, hole in the wood) -- instinctively, instantly, I pulled myself together.

With intensified concentration, I proceeded -- my left leg crossed to the right and I did the glissade (it's stepping out in preparation for a leap or series of quick steps), and slid, as if on ice, slid -- couldn't get a take-off into the next steps.

I fell onto a knee, immediately recovered, using my hand -- gracefully, smoothly -- even a dancer wouldn't have known it wasn't part of the choreography -- I made the knee-thing into a kneel.

What could I do? Stop? Tell the audience something was wrong with the floor? It was powder. I saw white power on my hand. I had seven minutes of dancing to do on a powdered, extremely slippery floor.

The barefoot dancers who danced in the opening number had used powder -- like I might have used resin. Powder helps bare feet move smoothly. Resin helps a ballet slipper dig securely into the floor. Barefoot dancers and a dancer in ballet slippers was part of the concept of the "legendary Frankel."

I tell myself now that I should have stopped. Told the audience what was wrong. Gotten someone to mop the floor. Oh yeah? Where was the mop? How long would it take for the floor to dry, and even afterward, there could be slippery spots. With what kind of assurance could I start the dance again?

I kept going -- did the best I could. It was a lousy performance.

Afterward, there were no comments -- I went upstairs to my home above the theater. I didn't wait till after the other dancers performed, to ask anyone straight questions, ask subtle questions, find out if anyone knew that I'd struggled, invented new steps, wasn't able to do most of choreography full out.

Too bad! The bell rang. The champ was knocked out. The fight was over.

It was after that performance that I moved to Malibu to be with JC in our lovely log cabin, and concentrate full time on writing my five novels.

NEW SHOES

I am not in the mood to dig into the confused thoughts I have about my new ballet slippers.

I'm still focused on the Kennedy family, the processionals, the funeral. And today, more than last week, I feel as if I'm Mrs. Nero- fiddling-while-Rome-is-burning.

The shouting war over health, the anti Obama rocks that are being thrown at him. I can't get the war, the rocks out of my mind.

All my pet peeves are peeving me -- ads selling medications that I, the patient, am supposed to suggest to my doctor -- ads mentioning the serious, life-threatening SIDE EFFECTS (grim things on that list that all the drug makers seem to use.) Also ads promoting the female as a sex pot/fool, in too much makeup, in low-cut, too short, too tight (BAWDY BAD TASTE) clothes.

And prices -- everywhere, everywhere, raised for no reason -- am I going to list the offending items?

No. I will focus on my new pink shoes.

In the studio, late last night, after I'd turned off the Kennedy burial, I put on my barre-taking T-shirt and tights.

I put on my new shoes. Boing! Like a loud bell, I realized I haven't been paying attention to POINTING my feet.

(What? That's a sin! Pointing your feet is to ballet dancer, like petting a dog is to a pet owner. It's essential! basic! major!)

My feet have always been a problem for me as a dancer. "Wrong" feet said the doctor my parents consulted when, after my first summer in New York, my Achilles tendons ached so much that I couldn't walk. The doctor x-rayed them, studied them, frowned, and declared, "This child has wrong feet -- these feet won't allow her to do 'toe dancing.'"

Little Em blocked it out. My parent eventually blocked it out because after I rested my feet for six weeks (strapping them with adhesive the way the doctor showed me how to do), the pain vanished. I blocked it out, but never forgot the doomful words.

As a beginner, I used to point hard, point and stretch my poor feet to death. Forcing my insteps to bulge, I found a way to make them look "pointy" -- by digging the toe of the ballet slipper into the floor. (I knew it was bad. "It's wrong technically," said my beloved teacher Margaret Craske, at the Met's Opera Ballet School.)

So of course, last night as soon as I donned my new slippers, I pointed, pointed hard, started stretching my "poor feet to death," forcing the instep to bulge.

Boing, boing -- the loud bell rings.

"Hey, gee --" I'm asking myself -- "Why am I making a big deal over pointing my feet? I am not dancing for an audience! No one sees me other than me when I glance at the mirror, and occasionally JC who doesn't notice my feet -- he loves my concentrated, unbreakable "actress" focus.

Gee, I'm thinking, "Am I going to be worrying about pointing my feet for another year? Two years? Till these shoes wear out? Am I going to be pointing my feet hard till the day I die?"

STOP! ... The country's in mourning, and I'm mourning, and fretting about what ...?

Will I obey my words, my thoughts, my practical, logical nature?

BOING! I don't know.

IF I WERE A NEWBIE

If I were just starting out, wanting to be a dancer more than anything in the world, what would I do, how would I go about it?

Would I take a couple of classes a day? (I checked around town -- dance classes cost $10 to $15 per class depending on how many you take in a month.) So 40 classes a month is $400? Whoa -- guess I'd take one a day and do workouts at home same as Em has been doing for years.

What would I study? Ballet, free style, acrobatics, tap, ballroom? Yep! ALL OF THEM! Anything I saw dancers do on TV -- tricky fast steps, wriggle-jiggling, tap dance applause-getters, spins on my head, spins on my butt, back flips, no handed cartwheels, and gorgeous wild splits! (Well ... I'm not that limber -- I don't really have that kind of body.)

Hey, stop thinking negatively, a Newbie has to try to do everything, including what she can't do naturally. Newbies have to get technique, get experience on their first few jobs, and earn money to support themselves the first year or so.

(Holy cow ... job hunting today with thousands of wanna-be dancers who are pouffed up, cosmetically fixed up, augmented ... how can I hope to be noticed? Am I going to compete?)

Yes! I'll be going to auditions. Every day I'll read the online sources and learn about casting calls. I took a look just now -- Disney Entertainment, Universal Studios, My Space has listings for commercials, exotic dancers, "freestyle" dancers to interact with customers, dancers for a one-night-stands tour, girl "bachlorettes" -- it says you just have to send your resume and pictures.

(Jeepy weepies ... this is ... exhausting ... why am I feeling so sleepy?)

Look! Right here -- open your big eyes -- "Dancer Nanny wanted;" ad for a Flamenco Dancer; two girls, salary plus room and board -- a group in Vermont called the "Naked Truth Dance Company" wants two girls who are willing to dance ... naked... ?

Okay, I can be a Nanny and do some typing, filing, like I did when I worked for Dance Magazine, (see my April 5 post, "Credentials"). And here's a list of salaries: $450 per week for a ballet company; $2000 for a three-day shoot on a commercial; exotic dancer, $2000 a week plus tips; Broadway Chorus, $1,509 a week, extra if you're a dance captain or an understudy. (The salaries-- aren't they just about what dancers used to be paid twenty years ago?)

STOP. Money is not the point. What's important is the dancing -- flying, spinning, leaping, running -- the lightness, the power, the athletic joys of moving to music! The whole point is the dream. So, what's the big, biggest BIG dream for Newbie young dancer?

Why not emulate someone who's famous right now?

I researched "names" -- looked at three lists -- the only "name" I recognized was Margot Fonteyn. But I'm not going to panic. I'll create a NEW DREAM based on current ballerinas, and young "featured" dancers in shows -- I'll learn the names, look at the pictures, and read the reviews. (I stopped reading them years ago because raves for other dancers made me lose my nerve.)

Maybe I'll strive to be ... a Michael Bennett, the guy who created "A Chorus Line?" If I were a Newbie, would I know who Martha Graham, Anthony Tudor, Agnes DeMille were, or Twyla Tharp, Alvin Ailey? (Am getting a sinking feeling that hardly anyone knows these names.)

STOP. I never did want to be like anyone else, and I, as a Newbie can have my own vision. (Fact: spur of the moment, EM cannot cook up a vision, because she's an ex dancer, looking at a dance world that she didn't grow up in. Fact: the time to dream is when you're young and you don't know all the reasons why a vision you have is impossible.)

BE PRACTICAL. Focus and work, and try to get on one of those TV shows. Head for "So You Think You Can Dance." The dancers all have hugely limber bodies and tons of technical skill. Or get on "Dancing with the Stars." Study the hit sitcoms, pick a TV star, and pull strings, and offer to dance with him. Or e-mail Randy Jackson, and get in a group on "America’s Best Dance Crew."

(Yikes ... what I love about dancing is doing whatever a movement makes me feel ... whooey, I hate trying to dance exactly the way a bunch of other dancers are dancing!)

STOP. No moaning. I don't want to be like the kids in the finals, on the homestretch of "America's Got Talent," who weep, telling the judges, "Please pick me, this means more than anything, I've prayed for this, worked night and day for this -- oh PLEASE, I need this more than anything in the world!"

Dammit. I've tried to think like a person starting out and I can't. I wouldn't want to be a dancer or a perf0rmer -- not anymore. If I were a Newbie I'd be a doctor!

On my desk, right here to my left, are my ballet slippers. It's 6 p.m. Okay ... so ... well ... Am I going to take my barre and do my dance tonight?

Of course I am. I am what I am, what I am. I'm the popeyed EX dancer..

CLICK "Popeye"

That's me, doing his dance,
doing his moves.

I love spinach!

OOPS. EEK, HELP!

I'm thinking about disasters -- why? -- well, our roof suddenly sprung a leak, and the men who are fixing it arrived with enormous rolls of tar paper, and someone put a tarred hand on one of my hallway walls which are wallpapered PINK ... and that hand-print is a disaster.

Small disaster, but oops, oh dear -- how am I going to get that fixed? Well, it brought back travel days, performing days, disasters that couldn't really be solved.

Once, in California, Pennsylvania, on our very first tour as the Dance Drama Duo, we were doing a 9:30 a.m. morning assembly performance. Mark Ryder and I came prancing out of the wings. (Black velvet side curtains that were hung from bars in the ceiling above the stage, the bars that also supported the red velvet main front curtain.)

Oops! Help! Eek -- what in the world -- the entire thing fell ... I mean entire. Red velvet, black velvet, on us, on the stage -- there was no stage, no performance, no way to save the day, no on with the show! (No $200 fee, and we needed the money to pay for our train fare to the next booking!)

And suddenly, I'm remembering -- the Dance Drama duo on the "Gary Moore TV Show," with Don Ameche --he was in the wings, ready to perform a song after our number. (Remember him, he was wonderful, great fun in "Cocoon!")

The Dance Drama Duo was already in its (pre-divorce) arguing phase, performing Irving Berlin's ballad, "I'll be loving you, Always."

The AD (assistant director) calls out, "Standby."

We take our positions ... me, head down submissively, hands crossed on my heart, Mark, standing tall, ready to bow and do a loving noble gentleman's obeisance his lady love.

Click the link -- and you'll hear what we heard, as the tech guy cued on our record. (Just listen briefly. I'll paint the picture. )

Mark froze. I improvised, using bits from other duets, prancing, waltzing, jogging around him with graceful arm gestures, like a seductive maiden seducing a stern reluctant man. It was two and a half minutes. A disaster. (Not a total disaster -- Don Ameche blew me a kiss as he took his place in the spotlight.)

The guys have finished their work on the roof for today. The roof will be fixed by tomorrow. JC gave me a kiss as he was off to the Princeton Club, to tell a story on camera for a documentary, about co-starring with Madeline Kahn in "On the Twentieth Century." (I was afraid they were going to fall in love, but they didn't!)

Hey, here's my favorite John Cullum tune from the show .

"BREAK A LEG" SAID CLORIS L.

I needed money.

An agent from my Dance Drama Duo days phoned -- the midday show on WPIX TV wanted some dancing tomorrow -- two and a half minutes of dance before Cloris Leachman's spot on the show.

I said, "Uh-a-a- ..." Quickly explained that Mark Ryder wasn't available (we were divorced), but I could do a solo."

I got the booking. I had a solo, but it was "Ballad of the False Lady," not appropriate for TV, seven-minutes long, very "modern dance" in a long black dress.

Somebody said, If there's a will, there's a way ...

Sitting on the piano stool, I stared at my stack of records. (This was back in the days of 78's and the LP's.) I'd been single for a month. I'd been playing "Don't Get Around Much Anymore." The Woody Herman and his orchestra version was on my record player's spindle, echoing in my lovelorn brain.

I turned the record over. The other side, "Laughing Boy Blues." was a weird piece -- woodwinds, then laughter, probably the guys in the band doing the "ha ha ha ha" theme, while the drummer did a jazzy, rock and roll rhythmic improvisation.

So I whirled on the piano stool, did a bouncy, bent-kneed step in my bare feet, echoing it with floppy arms. I un-clipped my hair -- tossed my hair and head up and down with the laughter theme, each time wilder, and faster. When the woodwinds were doing their moan theme, I imitated it with shoulders, and mournful frowning face.

I whipped up a costume-- blue leotard top and short skirt I sewed on my sewing machine -- seams and the hem were crooked, but with me on the piano stool, who would notice?

Cloris Leachman, the guest star, was already a name in television, theater, and films. She attended North Western University with one of my sisters . She watched me doing my number in the rehearsal. The station's piano stool whirled more easily, and faster than mine, making my movements more exciting. The stagehands and camera guys gave me the thumbs up, and appreciative nods.

When I introduced myself to Miss Leachman, she murmured, "Yes, I do remember your sister, your younger sister of course."

"Oh no..." I corrected her. "She's my older sister ."

"Oh .. really?" C.L. murmured skeptically.

"I'm the younger sister. She's definitely my older sister."

C.L.. gave me a withering look and turned away. Had I offended her? Maybe she didn't want me to think of her as a contemporary of my older sister.

At show time, dressed in my costume I warmed up holding onto a chair.

"Stand by." called the AD.

Cloris Leachman leaned in and said, "My God, you're wearing THAT, that ratty thing? You look awful!"

"Places Miss F." The AD called.

Cloris L caroled sweetly, with marvelous diction. "Break a leg, dear!"

Her good luck wish is not what a dancer needs to hear, and "ratty awful" was echoing as I did my "Laughing Boy Blues" bouncing, whirling, hair flying. a big down-frown on my face.

It was a hit. WPIX asked me back to do it again, the following week.

I didn't watched Cloris Leachman on "Dancing with the Stars." I wasn't thinking "break a leg, dear" but I was kind of relieved when I heard that she and her partner got the lowest scores.

AIN'T NOBODY HERE BUT US CHICKENS

A true story: "Adventures of Junior Ann, and Emily Fox.

Junior Ann had a portable record player. "I want you to listen to my friend's hit record, 'Choo choo ch'boogie. (Click the link and you'll hear what I heard.)

She'd been on the road with Louis Jordan & His Tympany Five. She saved enough money to take the summer course at the Charles Weidman Studio. (I wrote him and my first dance job, see my "Credentials" post.) Her friend Louis was paying for the course. "My friend wants me to put together some steps for him and the other horns. He likes my idea -- his big hit number, "Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens" used to be top of the chart. A black chick and white chick dancing to it might bring down the house."

Junior Ann was black. We were the same height. I had long red hair, she had long, ironed black hair. Her features were definitely negro. Everything about me was definitely white. Junior asked me to work with her on the duet. "Just a 32 bar chorus -- The Duke loves my idea. The Duke says we can have a spot on his show." (Apparently both Duke Ellington, and Louis Jordan thought a black and white girl dance team was a great idea.)

I murmured something to show that I knew about choreography -- "Gee, if we do it twice we have a 64 bar number." (The only choreography I'd ever done was Sibelious's "Valse Triste," a tragic waltz, which I performed at a woman's club for a friend of my mother's.)

As a scholarship student at the Weidman Studio, I swept the front foyer and office, cleaned the bathroom, mopped the theater floor. I worked part-time at Forest Neighborhood House in a black section of the Bronx, teaching dance to black kids age five to twelve. My salary was $2 an hour for the four classes I taught each week.. Eight dollars a week was almost enough money to live on. (My rent was zero. I was a landlady, renting out bed space in my $30 a month five-room cold-water flat --each of my 5 roommates paid $7.00 a month.)

It took two evenings to put together a dance number, using steps that I'd learned in Weidman's dance classes. Junior wanted us to wear the leotards we wore for class -- black V- necked body suits, and get someone to make us expensive looking circular skirts. Junior insisted they had to be bright orange jersey, hems trimmed in black satin, subtly sequined. Weidman's costume lady said she'd make them for $15 per skirt, if we sewed on the sequins ourselves.

"I'll pay for them, Em, but you'll have to pay me $15.00 for your skirt, " Junior said.

It was a big investment, but a very exciting project. While we sewed on the sequins, Junior told me I had to change my name. "We're going to be famous. Make your name one syllable, so it balances mine, mine getting top billing of course."

I decided I'd call myself "Fox." The "Ann & Fox" team had a nice sound.

Music, costume, choreography were ready. We'd planned to take Juniors' portable record player, and play "Nobody Here But Us Chickens." It had a solid beat for 64 bars. Junior clapped her hands the way blacks clapped on the off-beat. I counted, (and clapped) exactly on the beat. So we decided we'd do the audition without music. Just the two of us counting sounded almost like an African tribal song.

The audition time, place, date kept getting postponed. Finally we did performed it for Louis Jordan in Buzz, the manager's office, a small 9 x 12 space. Louis seemed to like me. He told Junior, "You and foxy are okay. I'll talk to my partners."

Duke Ellington was very kind. Polite, soft spoken. We were ushered into the orchestra's practice room. While we cleared away folding chairs, a small piano, and instrument suitcases, The Duke asked us questions about what our favorite classical music was -- Junior elbowed me so I talked about Beethoven. We used our counting, chanting tribal song.

When we finished, while we were mopping off the sweat with the towel Junior brought along, The Duke talked very softly about his famous "Black and Tan Fantasia" and said some educated things about poetry in motion. It got a little weird when he patted Junior Ann's backside in a friendly personal, not quick way, and patted my cheek. He said, "Foxy lady, you give my secretary your phone number, give us a ring next week, honey."

Junior grabbed my hand. In the ladies room, as we put on our street clothes she explained that Duke Ellington's wife was in town.

The following week Junior said, "It's too soon to phone."

The week after the next week Junior said --"Louis says Buzz said his audiences won't be comfortable with a white girl and black girl sitting on the edge of the platform. Don't be discouraged -- I'll phone Duke next week."

During the week, in a Sam Goody music store (they had listening booths with turntables and earphones), I listened to all the Duke Ellington recordings they had in stock, and mentally kept practicing our 64 bar choreography. Weidman's five-week summer course ended and Junior said she had a booking. "The moment I get back, I'll talk to The Duke and Louis -- remind Louis how us two chicks can put 'Nobody Here But Us Chickens' back at the top of the charts. Then I'll tell The Duke about the offer from Louis, and fan the flames on the 'Ann & Fox' team."

It's a puzzlement -- did The Duke think I was a girl for love-stuff that pickup girls do? What was Junior's relationship to Louis Jordan?

On a record jacket, I saw a photo of him and two girls that sat in front of the band. The girls on the right looked like Junior Ann.

Duke Ellington left town after a sell-out engagement at the Paramount. I saw the show. I thought about going back stage. Instead, I stood in the crowd outside the stage door. I could have waved but I didn't. I saw him get into his limousine and drive off.

Junior Ann disappeared. End of the year I got a Christmas card from her. It was addressed to Emily Fox -- no note, just her return address -- 1212 Las Vegas Blvd. Las Vegas Nevada.

I never did send Junior Ann $15 for my orange skirt, but I wore it when I was teaching.

"Nobody Here But Us Chickens" got to be a hit again, as a Looney Tunes Video.

TRY TRY TRY

Am I a perfectionist? No. But the pictures for my post -- "Tea at Em's," and also "Gallery" -- they took hours for me to take, and they're still bugging me.

I want my house, my paintings to look good, to look the way they really look!

JC says they look fine. (He's the perfectionist in our family --the way he learns and drills his lines, and keeps drilling them throughout the run of the show is inspiring.)

Dammit, my Orange Cityscape picture isn't sharp enough -- you can't see all the details -- and the brown living room looks cluttered. I want to get the camera and shoot them again!

Try, try again is a dancer thing -- perfecting plies, tendus, frappes, extensions, mastering "attitude, arabesque, pirouettes, jetés" -- it's probably just a bunch of words to you, but to me each word represents a major challenge -- to do it right, to do better than okay, to master, conquer and be able to perform the step, the position easily, fluently, effortlessly.

Took a coffee break, while writing this, and turned on the TV. Caught a glimpse of an arena like a skier's slope, but shorter, with high hills and deep valleys.

Suddenly -- vrroom -- a motorcycle's flying through the air above the arena.

This guy in a blue helmet was high up in the air -- turning, whirling around mid-air on a motorcycle. Hands on the handlebars! Hands off the handlebars! Feet on the foot pedals! Off the pedals! Leaning, defying gravity, tilting the motorcycle and himself ...

The announcer's voice blared -- "Unbelievable torque -- four "360's! Fifth 360! Here's the sixth 360 !"

The guy in the blue helmet does another -- it's scary to watch -- it's dangerous -- how did he learn to do what he's doing? Must have taken hours, hundreds of doings for him to learn what to do -- head to toe -- with each part of his body.

"Wow," the announcer yelled, "Dave's doing a triple! No one's ever done a triple. Incredible, a triple after he fell on his face in the prelims, I was sure he'd be out of the lineup for today!"

Cheers, whistles, as Dave waves to the crowd, and drives off the testing arena into an area with other cyclists on motorcycles. With his helmet off, his heavily tattooed arms look as if they are covered with green moss. He's boyish, young. He tells the interviewer, "Yesterday, in the prelims the hill was slick. It psyched me out ... or maybe it psyched me up after my fall!" He's articulate, educated as he explains that he came to the arena at 1 a.m. last night and practiced for a couple of hours.

I'm on my way back downstairs to my office with my coffee, as the Announcer hoots, "He won -- he's today's winner -- Dave Mirra's number one!"

Take a look -- Dave Mirra, doing 360's -- seven of them -- without hands ...

I don't know why it hasn't occurred to me sooner -- "Try, try try again is the song, the motto, the commitment of anyone, not just artists and athletes, but everyone who loves his work.

Hooray for Dave Mirra.

NEGOTIATING A SCAM

We tried to buy a domain for JC, so that we could build a second website for him.

His name wasn't available. I'd heard that people buy up celebrities' names. I wrote D.R. who owned the name. He wrote back -- we could have the name for $1000 if we paid promptly.

I wrote a friendly e-mail back saying "no," asking -- (it was late at night, I was working on a post) -- what do you do in real life, how did you get into doing this? What's your real profession? Does it earn you money? Is it interesting? Fun? I'm writing a blog-- maybe I'll write about this. (I was in a chatty mood.)

D.R. wrote a friendly letter back, He said "I fell into it when I was doing simple, inexpensive web sites, and a client wanted a domain name. It was for sale for US$3000. Yes, it's interesting. I meet interesting people like you, Miss E. I get to use my languages. Despite boring administrative chores, it earns me extra money. But I'm not sure about you doing a blog about me. I haven't given you permission."

I chuckled -- the guy had a sense of humor. My post wasn't flowing, so just for the fun of it, I Googled D.R. -- looked up "inexpensive website designer" and found a D.R. -- in Peru. And family pictures. My scammer was a teacher, at a high school in Lima.

Memories came fluttering in of the scary days when I was stuck in Medellin, Columbia and Lima loomed as if it were a heavenly place I wanted to get to but couldn't.

I was on a world tour. While i was applying for various passports, the man at the Columbian consulate asked me for a date. Apparently he was annoyed by my turning him down. He issued me a work visa. I didn't know until much later, that my visa required me to stay in the Columbia for six weeks.

I'd shipped my baggage (costumes and props) a week earlier from Durban, South Africa. In Medellin, I saw them behind a locked gate. The porter shrugged and summoned the head of security, an unfriendly, snarling official who looked like a tall version of James Cagney. He said my bags were being shipped to Lima, Peru, since I hadn't applied for permission to bring foreign goods into the country.

Whoo -- it was scary. I begged and pleaded! I wept! My tour was under U.S. state department sponsorship, but Columbia's government and the U.S. weren't on cordial terms. The U.S. Embassy in Columbia was closed. (Something to do with trade regulations -- when I arrived I was shocked to see soldiers with shields, long looking guns, and face masks surrounding the airport.)

From an airport pay phone, I called my Medellin sponsor. He knew, and I knew that my performance had to be canceled. If I didn't get out of Columbia and get my baggage, my next performances, my three nights in Buenos Aires were going to be canceled.

"Don't panic," I told myself, drying my eyes. At the Varig ticket counter, I made friends with the ticketgirl. She fixed my ticket -- arranging for me to fly to Lima in two hours and in Lima to connect with another flight to Buenos Aires. Watching the clock and dozing, I waited in a huge empty waiting room till my flight to Lima was called.

At the glass door gate, two soldiers were standing guard, a third solider was checking passports. As I handed him mine, James Cagney tapped my shoulder and informed me that I couldn't leave the country without permission from the police. He escorted me to the police station just outside the airport. They finger-printed me, and said I couldn't leave till I paid taxes on my earnings. (I hadn't earned anything.)

I gave them $300 in travelers checks. Back at the gate, James Cagney stopped me again --"You cannot leave until the Consul stamps your passport."
"When?"
"After the holiday."
What holiday? What office? Was it the same Consul I'd met at the embassy in New York?
I burst into tears. People where staring, pointing. I rushed into the ladies restroom.

The Varig ticketgirl saw me at the sink, trying to repair my makeup. Tears rolling, I babbled about James Cagney, consuls, soldiers, performances in Buenos Aires. She pointed to the streaks of mascara on my cheek and said, "You fix the makeup. He's my boyfriend. I take care of it."

And she did.

In Lima the porter said the baggage room was closed for the three day holiday. There I was back in the nightmare, weeping, till a man named Emilio Guersey (never will I forget the name), took me to the locked baggage room. My bags were there! Emilio, who was the security officer, simply unlocked the door. Emilio got my bags and settled me and my baggage in the first class section of a British Airways plane for Buenos Aires.

The memories of all that -- the terror of being a stranger in a strange country, the luck, the miracle of finding an Emilio in Lima, Peru told me ... don't get involved, don't play games with D.R.

I called JD. JD got on it. He bought his daddy's name, and registered the domain. And now we're free to work.

BOOS, CHEERS AND A JIGGLE

The front curtain rose. The clapping was rhythmic. Someone yelled "Bravo!" From the balcony there was a deluge -- programs -- little white airplanes flying in, bombarding me as a uniformed usher appeared with a huge bouquet of long-stemmed roses from the management.

As he lay them at my feet there were catcalls, hisses, people yelled "Geyhen heim, go home." Others were yelling, "Brava, bravo!" With a nod, thanking them, I bent, took one rose from the bouquet, stood up straight, and looking at the audience, held the rose to my heart. The curtain came down again.

The curtain stayed down. Sound from the warring crowd faded. "Why did they boo?" I asked the Dresser who helped remove the caftan. She shrugged, and disappeared before I could ask her to unhook the hooks on my bodysuit.

I sent a smile to the Russian folk dancers in the wings, getting ready to go on next, but no one smiled back. Climbing the stairs up to my dressing room, I passed the Nigerians who were performing after the Russians. Engrossed in adjusting their costumes, they didn't even glance at me.

In my dressing room, I stuck the rose in my water glass. Twisting, wriggling myself out of the bodysuit, I heard the applause for the folk dancers on the loudspeakers ... one ... two... three ... four curtain calls, cheers. no boos, no bravos.

I ran a comb through my tangled hair. My chic gold lamé dress for the party, gold pumps, bronze net stockings were waiting. Vanderhoff, the head of the Festival, had personally invited me --"We shall toast you with champagne, Fraulein."

My big blue duffel bag was open. Travel things were laying in it. Elektra's costume, rug, makeup, practice clothes needed to be packed.

Someone knocked. "You have visitors," said Arty, the friendly young Brit -- he'd met me at the airport, chauffeured me to the hotel, and the theater.

The man and woman came in saying, "Bravo! We saw Elektra in New York -- it's fascinating choreography. You were excellent. Wonderful music!" The three of us made cheerful loud conversation as the loudspeakers broadcast the applause the Nigerians -- one, two ... four ... six ... eight curtain calls -- a roaring standing ovation.

The woman murmured something about Cologne audiences being Anti-Jewish. The man said, "I'm sure the critics will rave about your dancing."

I grabbed their words. "Did you notice anything ... I slipped a bit..." (I couldn't ask -- I was dying to ask -- did you see the JIGGLE?)

As they went out the door, they said, " You are wonderful! You remind us what dancing is all about, Miss Frankel."

Mulling over their good words, I did some of the packing, figuring Arty would help me with the rug after the party. Did my hair and makeup, donned my party finery, and clip-clopping in my high heels, I headed down the empty hallway to the Green Room.

Opening a door marked Grün Saal, it took a second to realize that I shouldn't have packed -- everyone was seated, eating, chatting. Where to sit? There was a vacant seat at the Russians table piled with coats. At Vanderhoff's full table, the Ballerina from England was clinking glasses with him.

There was a hush as I clip-clopped in my blazing gold outfit to the buffet. The waiters were busily removing empty dishes. There was no salad, no hot food left. I helped myself to three slices of Munster cheese, a handful of crackers, and black coffee. Stood there hoping someone would wave.

No one did.

I spied a chair near Arty and his friend Hans. Arty nodded as I sat. Hans was describing Fred and Ginger in an old movie he'd just seen. Starving, nibbling on a cracker, I saw Vanderoff stand up. Wrapping my food in a paper napkin, slipping it in my purse, I said, "Arty, my plane leaves at 1 a.m. I need your help. I'll be upstairs in my dressing room. See you in 20 minutes." And hurried over to Vanderhoff, who seemed to be kissing the Ballerina's cheek.

I waited. Finally tapped his shoulder, saying, "Thank you for your hospitality, and the beautiful bouquet of roses." ... No smile, not a flicker of response ...
"Thanks to your very professional crew, I enjoyed dancing on your stage -- I felt I danced well, but the audience's reaction surprised me."

Vanderhoff took out a handkerchief. Polishing his glasses, said, "We pride ourselves on the excellence of our staff." He put on the glasses, clicked his heels, saying "Viel glück. Auf Wiedersehen, Frau Frankel" And turned away.

The crowd in the doorway parted as if I were a leper as I went out. I ran down the hallway, raced up the stairs. feeling as if I were being consumed by fire.

I dumped out the rose, drank three glasses of water waiting for Arty. He didn't show up. Someone had piled the rug outside my dressing room door. It was heavy, hard to cram it into the duffle. Grim, sweating, in my gold dress, and net stockings minus the heels, I had to push, roll, and shove it down, down the three flights of stairs.

Out in the street with my bulging blue duffel bag, coat over my gold dress and sneakers, I attracted attention. A cab took me to the airport, where I changed clothes and managed to board my plane. When I (spur of the moment), stuffed the rose in my purse, I'd soaked the napkin covering my food. It was a six hour plane trip. I ate my soggy dinner and dozed, in between reviewing jiggles, white paper planes, boos, Geyhen heim, go home.

At Kennedy airport, after customs and porters, and rumpled Em was in a taxi, windows wide open, New York air swatting me in the face, I wept.
After a while the cabbie said, "You okay lady?"
"I'm glad, so glad to be home," I said.

JC made me grits, bacon and eggs, and buttered a first slice, a second and my third slice of toast. As I told him what happened, I realized I'd never know ... Was it the jiggle? The anti-Jewish thing, or the outrageous choreography?

I put the wilted bent rose in a glass of water with an aspirin. It never regained its stance. But I did. Hey, being booed is ... not fun ...

But weeping in a cab, glad so glad to be home, having the events of Cologne in your mind/body/soul -- it gives me gut power -- that's a triumph. That's something to brag about!