STRIPTEASE

It's a burlesque act in which a performer removes her/his clothes, piece by piece.

Andre Agassi, a tennis hero whom I've admired for years (for the way he plays, the way he looks, his wildness, marriages, and things he's blurted out) -- takes off his clothes in his autobiography, "Open," and reveals sad, unpleasant things about himself and what he achieved.

He tells us he can't live with his lies, untruths, the misconceptions about himself as a hero -- implies that the only way he can enjoy his life and what he's achieved -- is by stripping away the lies.

At first, I thought, "He's doing it to sell books, gain notoriety, and attention for himself and his projects. Then, I found myself wondering if he's trying to grow up all over again (play it again), and win -- be a hero without his daddy's dreams, his daddy's energy turning him into a winning tennis machine.

Hmm ... This guy is a grownup, and wise -- he knows what it means to be in the center court, with thousands of eyes watching his every move, judging everything he says and does. Andre Agassi was the number-one best tennis player in the world.

Well, he shopped the book in 2007, so it's been brewing for a long time -- this desire to tell the truth and put an end to the lies.

But gee ... lies have roots -- roots don't get destroyed -- even if they're dug up, they generally just spread. A naked Agassi is out there, revealed.

Hey -- what about his family -- his kids, Jared Gil (lovingly named after Agassi''s trainer, best friend, Gil Reyes), and daughter Jaz El -- how's the truthful version of Andre's life going to affect them, and his wife, Stephanie Graf?

(It's a little like the unfaithful husband, who tells his wife about some passionate love affair, after it's over. His conscience is eased -- it's over and done with for him, but not for her. Will she ever be able to trust him again? How can she forget how well he deceived, put on a act, and brilliantly lied, about that other woman?) Oh sure, time will pass, and we'll hear more about the great things Agassi's doing with his projects for young people, his foundations and schools, but the hero -- the great things we remember are ... well ... kind of messed up, out of focus now.

It brings to mind Elizabeth Edwards' book, "Resilience" -- our view of John and Elizabeth during the campaigns. He's out there, naked -- selfish, cruelly disloyal, sex life exposed, side-by-side with the altruistic, interesting, charitable ideas he sold us on.

Well, Elizabeth needed to express what she expressed, but they're both out there now ...

Hmm ... They may put on a devoted couple act again, but we won't believe it -- the "Loving Couple" was a lie.

What about Jenny Sanford , the wife of Governor Sanford, who droned on and on and ON about his love affair with an Argentinean lady? Jenny doesn't sound as if she's going to write a book, but publishers are seductive. With the help of a ghost writer, lots of money, and lots of sexual specifics , lots of money can be made.

Can Governor Sanford be more naked than he already is?

Hmm ... Maybe he'll resign and the Lt. Governor (whom sanctimonious Sanford loudly claims is gay) will run things, sanctimoniously affirming his masculinity. .

Madoff's mistress, Sheryl Weinstein, took off her clothes and Madoff's clothes, and her book is selling its way into bestseller-dom.

Hey, that could mean a movie ... though ... gee, would Redford want to play the part of a small man, with a small penis, who had a tepid affair with 16 years ago? Maybe Dustin Hoffman?

Hmm ... I don't think there's going to be a movie sale of "Bernie Madoff's Other Secret, Money, Bernie and Me."

Maybe Ruth Madoff will do her strip routine, and tell her story -- lawsuits are pending -- she wants to keep her two-storey penthouse -- she's lonely, alone. Everyone's dying to hear more ugly stuff about Bernie, and more-more about him suffering -- maybe another prisoner, a burly brute will beat him up! And prison sex?

I can't see Madoff being the honey-bun of some other guy ... but ... who knows?

Maybe the sons, Andrew or Mark, or niece Shana, or brother Peter, or former accountant Friehling will strip away their inhibitions? Or one of the six lawyers? Or the widow of Madoff's dearest business pal, who died in his Palm beach swimming pool -- maybe she'll take his clothes off?

I hope not.

I am sorry Agassi had to write his book.

I wish Elizabeth Edwards hadn't done hers.

It' ain't good, all this strip teasing ...

I've done it. In my dancing days, I wore naked-looking body suits, even one with yarn strategically placed that suggested private hair. NO, I wasn't really naked, but wearing those body suits ... it wasn't fun -- I covered myself with a robe whenever I was off stage.

Of course I know that these days, dancers, singers, painters, writers, plain ordinary people are showing, telling exposing themselves more and more -- you have to, I guess – the world's more crowded, more people are competing for that 15 minutes of fame.

Okay -- maybe you'll read those books, but I won't. As I get older, I'm getting more prudish. And prudent -- selective about how I spend time. Stripteasers, doing their thing, are mostly, about ninety-percent ho-hum, BORING.

BALLOON BOY

When our son, JD, was five months old, he said the word "light." When he was nine months, if we cued him, he's say "To be or not to be, that is the question."

We went on from "Mommy" and "Daddy" and "doggy," to the next line of Hamlet's soliloquy -- "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune ..." And a week later added, "...or take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them."

It isn't really that amazing -- JD's daddy is an actor. Daddy was often busy memorizing lines. People loved his daddy and gave Daddy "jobs" in shows. And Mom danced, and got "bookings." Now JD's a full-time actor, who jokes about his jobs as "bookings."

I figure the six-year-old boy floating around in a balloon, who was headlines in the news (he wasn't floating ... we just assumed he was), has the same background. His daddy and mommy were actors. They didn't have to teach him the Stanislavski technique -- who are you? where are you? what are you doing? what do you want?

It's instinctive, when you're pretending, to feel out who are you, to picture where you are, and see yourself doing -- doing something like bang-bang shooting, or shooting a basketball, or slam-banging a ball with a bat. And what do you want? -- that's easy -- you want Daddy and Mommy to say "Oh yes, that's good!" And chuckle, applaud, and hug you.

Yes, a lot of people were inconvenienced, worried, concerned, about the life or death situation of a little boy. It cost local, and state agencies money -- this "play" the boy's daddy created -- but it made them famous. The boy knew what that meant for him and the rest of his family

He's seen some really great things money can buy -- he knows the names of cartoon people and pop stars -- wow -- now his name, and his family's name, wow -- there are pictures of them everywhere.

Will Daddy go to jail? No, probably not. Will people come and take him and his brothers away from Daddy and Mommy? No, both of his mom and dad say -- definitely, probably not.

Did he do a bad thing by pretending he was hiding? No. He was in the play, doing what actors do, and he did a good job -- everybody knows his name is Falcon Heene and they're "celebrities" on Entertainment Tonight.

Mr. Something-or-other was in the living room talking about building a show around him and his dad, a series maybe -- money to pay off the old bills and new bills -- a big time deal, the guy said -- with music, flashing lights, and fans, guys with cameras following him on his way to school and on his way home -- like a pop star.

He heard Dad happy-bragging, saying "We did it! I'm proud of you," telling Mom whatever trouble they're in will be taken care of by one of the producer guys or agent guys from here on.

Okay, blog readers -- so now we know that Robert Heene, an actor, inventor, with the help of his actress wife and their kids created the hoax that has made him, for the moment, a "name."

When JC and I were coming up in the world our goals were relatively small -- a booking in Lincoln Center for me, a new musical for JC that would enhance his reputation a Broadway Star.

Times have changed -- the jackpot, the "win" is bigger, harder to get. You have to do outrageous things, but why not? Everybody in every field is doing it.

Rich, smart politicos have been getting people to march, protest, shout out ugly things at meetings, the more shocking the better. Easy as pie, you can hire a bunch of old folks to come to the town hall, even a church meeting, and make a ruckus.

The boy, Falcon Heene, hasn't been abused -- he's just been used. The media's more powerful than ever, and his father, Robert Heene, managed to grab them. He's "somebody" as long as he keeps the media interested, and he's getting offers -- he's a savvy guy -- one of them may pan out for him and his family.

I'm not cheering for him, but I'm curious, waiting to see what will happen next.
'
Yes, even though I'm one of those daily T V watchers and I tune out the sound of the ads -- the names stay with me. Like all T V watchers, I buy stuff -- things we might need, things we can do without. I certainly didn't need a phony balloon boy story, but I bought into the Heenes family adventure, and I'd tune in if there's more -- a second episode, even a third.

ELIZABETH TAYLOR'S GIFT

The news about Liz and heart surgery sends me back to our "Private Lives" days, and how her private life intersected with our private life.

The very first novel I wrote, "Ribet Affair," was about Elizabeth and Richard, and a wacky boy who's infuriated by the intense media coverage of their romance and extravagant lifestyle, planning to bomb the theater which Elizabeth visits every night while Richard's performing there.

JC was one of Richard's favorite buddies in Toronto, where here was playing Laertes in Burton's "Hamlet" that was directed by John Gielgud. When I showed up, I was immediately part of the fun and games -- cocktail parties, dining, drinking and carousing with the famous lovers. They were besieged by paparazzi, followed by hoards of fans.

Being part of Richard's inner circle from his "Camelot" days, I'd sat with Sybil and chatted with her, during some of the rehearsals. Her situation with her husband pained me.

During "Camelot," Richard was having an affair with one of the chorus girls -- a beautiful girl whom I vaguely knew. When I phoned JC from Michigan (I was on tour with my dance company), she'd answered our phone -- the bedroom extension -- in a sleepy voice, sounding like she just woke up.

It was a shock.

What did it mean? Did it mean she was sleeping in our bed with JC? Or was she on a sleep-over with Burton?

Richard and JC were a dangerous pair.

The carousing and craziness of their partying continued after "Camelot," in Philadelphia, Chicago, and Los Angeles with me on the outskirts -- I was on another one-night-stand tour, wondering, worrying, agonizing about JC, knowing about Richard's affairs with other girls, wondering about Sybil, and my situation -- not sure what was real.

Not sure what was real ... It's a state of mind that happens when you love your husband, and you're not sure if he's playing around. (See my post 'Edwards Infidelity 5/26).

I remember Richard and Liz on their wedding day -- her coronet of daisies, her too tight, too shiny, too bright, yellow dress, the champagne, the exhausting non-stop celebrating in the Prince Edward Hotel in Toronto. And more, many more get-togethers. (See my post: "Elizabeth Taylor Socks Syndrome" 6/11.)

The Burtons fought and re-united, their other lovers were headlines. After their divorce, their re-marriage and a second divorce, JC signed a contract to play a featured role in "Private Lives," the Noel Coward play which Elizabeth and Richard revived for themselves.

After many weeks in Toronto and Boston (the cities where "Camelot" began), and 138 performances at the Lunt Fontanne Theatre in NY, "'Private Lives" closed.

The gift from Elizabeth was delivered by a messenger . It was a large fancily wrapped box. Presents are given by cast members to each other on opening night, but this present arrived months after "Private Lives" was over and done with.

It hadn't been a happy show -- bad reviews (but sold-out houses) -- new director, new costumes, new black curly wig for Liz (she'd been wearing red-brown hair that didn't suit her). And re-staged scenes, which upset Richard . He was ailing. Doctors said drinking was killing him, but he was drinking more than ever, sleeping with two actresses that I knew.

Liz performances were up and down, as was her weight, and her love life -- she was going steady with the producer, and sporting a gorgeous engagement ring from her fiancee, a wealthy Mexican lawyer. When she missed three performances, Richard refused to perform with her understudy, and out of the blue married his secretary, Sally.

(You couldn't help wondering if Richard Burton married Sally Hayes to annoy Elizabeth Taylor.)

The story behind their facades, and what happened with Sybil, was loud and in my mind when we opened Elizabeth's gift.

It was heavy. A pink satiny-cardboard box inside the fancily wrapped larger one.

And inside the pink one, beneath cotton, wrapped in a white silk cloth -- Elizabeth's face in a heart-shaped, silver, heavy, solid silver 11" by 9" frame.

There was a note, scrawled by Elizabeth, thanking JC, with love and kisses.

A gift for our mantelpiece? For JC's desk? For a table in our living room, loaded with pictures of family, friends, and celebrities?

We didn't have a table (still don't), but the gift is unique -- engraved -- silver -- heart-shaped -- that exquisitely beautiful face -- who in the world would have thought of sending a picture of herself except Elizabeth Taylor.

I hope, sincerely hope, that she's okay and the surgery will work for her.

It's a gee whiz time, whenever I think of Elizabeth Taylor. . A time when I am deeply aware of what it meant for us to be in her world, on the outskirts -- yet in it -- fascinated, intrigued, distracted, pulled in wrong directions, but holding on to "US.

CHANGE YOUR LIFE HAIRDOS

I went to a beauty salon a few times, in my "actress" career phase, and hated the amount of time it took -- couldn't stop my mind from questioning why bother?

I observed and absorbed what the professionals did -- most of their routines were mumbo jumbo (like disappearing into a private area to prepare hair coloring -- it's just measuring and mixing the recipe, isn't it?)

And tipping -- was it 10% of the price, 15 % -- or more if the main guy and his assistants chatted with you? Nobody was willing to tell me straight-out -- how much?

I didn't want my toes "done," no undercoat, triple-coat of nail polish, no color except "natural," no skin treatments, or my hair feather-cut, or a different color.

Nevertheless, after each salon session, I came away with why don't I? should I? beautification thoughts flying around in my head, with no place to land.

A dancer friend of mine (not someone I'd paid to make me prettier), thought I'd look better, younger ("more in tune with the times" she said) with short hair.

I went to a wig store and tried on a few ... no, no No N O -- they made me look like someone else, not me! Am I stubborn, set in my ways? (Probably!)

But take a look at these famous women:
Mariska Hargitay, her memorable beautiful face -- the hair stylists made her look ordinary.
And Holly Hunter-- blond makes her "hot?" (To my eye, it makes her look older, and scrawnier.)


And the brilliantly versatile, amazing, Sandra Bullock-- I didn't recognize her! I kept thinking is that blond really her?


The know-it-all. image-making hair stylists re-invented Penelope Cruz -- turned her into a fluffy powder puff.
And nowadays, the talented, chameleon Hillary Swank, LOOKS mannish, awful.

And Julia Roberts?
In recent years "Pretty Woman" hasn't really looked like herself, so when she changed her hair, I barely glance at her -- she looks like everyone else.

Don't these stars trust themselves and the images THEY created? My goodness, they worked-worked-worked to get to the point where they're names and are instantly recognizable!

I guess this is advice to the female stars: DO NOT LET THE IMAGE MAKERS CHANGE THE THINGS THAT MADE YOU A MEMORABLE PERSON WE'RE HAPPY TO SEE AGAIN AND AGAIN.

PLAYING AROUND

(Gee, how can I write this post today, without mentioning people with names who'd absolutely hate being mentioned at this point in their lives?)

It's true, in our younger days, we were a very pretty, good-looking, lovey-dovey couple and ... well ...

Playing around as you probably know, became a pre-Jet-Set, post Jet-Set fad of sorts. It's current now, if you're into what's current NOW.

We kept getting offers for foursomes, threesomes, change-your-partner "fun and games." But we were sort of naive, and didn't get it (or behaved as if we didn't get it) when the offers were made, from agents, producers, other name actors, male and female.

In our younger days, there were whispers, rumors, details about various friends, various producer pals playing around, experimenting. Some on drugs? Others into AC DC sex, (that was the term for bi-sexuality). And other weird-sounding things.

There were new drugs, potions, usually clear, sweetened, alcohol-containing liquids with flavoring, and sometimes active medicinal ingredients. HGH, human growth hormone was "IN." With one American turning 50 every 7.6 seconds, HRT, hormone replacement therapy, was a booming business, along with plastic surgery. And yams -- it was the favorite fad food -- everyone gobbled yams.

And it wasn't just producers and directors. I remember our visiting a very major name agent and her very major name "friend" -- being offered drinks, and odd conversation about ...

I'm not sure what it was about. While chatting about marvelous starring roles in some shows that were being created but didn't yet exist, and name-dropping BIG names of performers we knew who'd spent the weekend in the Hamptons with them ... well, maybe it was the martinis, but I had a feeling we, not just JC, both of us were being offered something, but as I said, neither of us were sure what.

Promising to call, we bumped our way out.

We didn't call, but a very dear actor-actress couple called, and after a fancy dinner at Elaine's, when we told them about the name agent and her name friend, they came home with us to see my renovations which had been written up in a magazine.

I'd bought a pool table with a red felt top. Playing pool in our red pool room, sipping cognac, there was interesting conversation ... more than interesting. It was a fascinating exchange of dangling sentences, metaphors, about games, her favorite, his favorite -- no specifics, but private parts, were alluded to ... I think.

While the four of us were exchanging the pool sticks, cues, taking turns shooting the cue ball, the black ball, quoting Shakespeare and Henry Miller, our friends were lyrically, poetically taking us around the world, Without referring to the Kama Sutra, we learned what they loved to do, and how they DID IT.

With a lot of body English, aiming, bangering the balls (the guys said, "don't banger the balls" when if we hit them too hard), and sipping cognac, playing the game ... well, there was a definite but smoky vague suggestion that changing partners was the game to be played.

How did the evening end?

(I couldn't imagine playing any games with him, and while she was definitely imagining the game with JC, he wasn't shocked, or responsive -- JC was tipsy, on the verge of being seriously bombed.)

It was very late. After another round of drinks, and our dog Teechi using his papers in the pantry, they remembered that their two terriers needed a walk. So it wasn't hard to ease into good nights and show biz loving hugs, and they left with our instructions about which corner of our street was best for flagging down a taxi.

Sometime later, we had a dinner with him after his divorce, and met his new wife. (His ex-wife got a role in a television show and faded away when the show faded away.) His new wife doesn't like me. I'm not sure why, but we don't see them very often, so it doesn't really matter.

Older and wiser from our two experiences, though we love the gossip and rumors about some of our current famous friends, we definitely don't get into situations were playing around is an option.

And that's that -- we don't play around.

BRITNEY AND MADONNA ON THE HILL

What's the hill?

" ...You never know exactly the minute, the place. You climb the hill all your life and you're going on and on. You reach a flat place now and then but a flat place is going someplace on the way up your hill. And then ... Well, it feels the same. The wind's the same. You're still walking but ... but the top of the hill is gone and done with and you're going down. Not up. Going down. You don't quite know how or when going up got to be going down. But you're going ... down ..."

That's a quote from my play "Bdway Arts." Jim, a tap dancer, part time janitor says it, as he's eating peanuts, drinking beer, polishing the mirrors in a rehearsal studio.

Is Jim me? Am I on that hill? I felt that I was. Jim was, and still is a way of expressing my thoughts.

Britney Spears -- on a comeback, back to looking beautiful, is singing and doing her sexy dance moves -- once again thrilling her audiences and paparazzi. There are still headlines in columns, but rarely major attention being paid to her right now. Here's "On the Run," (if you see an ad first, be patient, the next clip is Britney nowadays.

(Whew ... how would you feel if people were looking at a clip of you in your life, running to the john? NOT GOOD!)

Madonna made a surprise appearance at Britney Spears' sold-out show a few months ago, in New York City.

Shortly before Spears, 27, took the stage, Madonna, 50, arrived with her manager and several bodyguards. She walked up the main stairs to the VIP "suites" -- everyone noticed her -- celebrities don't need to use the main stairs to get to their VIP seats in a suite.

During the 90-minute show, Spears gyrated her way through mostly tunes from her last two albums. Just before Spears' encore, Madonna left, with hordes of screaming fans gathered around her. A columnist wrote -- "The little smirk on her face tells us Madonna loved being a distraction to her friend's final number."

Madonna gets a few headlines, not as much as last year when things between her and A-Rod were serious -- quite a few comments about where, what spots on her face have been improved with plastic surgery. Here's a recent video of "Give It 2 me," by Madonna.

I'm not a gossip columnist; they're both professional celebrities, doing what every famous female can do -- to look great, be admired, adored, loved, emulated, and continue to be more famous, sell more albums, be seen everywhere, all over the world.

Me ... I never was in that league. So why am I writing this? Why do I pick them, not other Grammy, Emmy, Oscar, major leading ladies? Is it because their names have been so marvelously promoted, that even I, who shy away from shows like "Entertainment Tonight" and "Access Hollywood," nevertheless absorb the gossip?. (It's an osmosis process -- that's why you need a staff of PR people if you want your NAME to be a NAME, remain a NAME for more than fifteen minutes.)

A hill is a hill -- a slope, an incline, a rounded natural elevation of land lower than a mountain. So here's the big question again -- why did I write this? If you clicked the link, you saw the clips. They were the most recent ones I could find.

"... You don't quite know how or when going up got to be going down. But you're going ... down... " I wouldn't want to be on the mountain with Britney and Madonna.

WIZARDS OF WAVERLY PLACE

Did you ever see it on TV?

Here's a promo.

I'd heard the name (heard of Hanna Montana, and some of the kids who were in High School Musical), but I have never watched anything on the Disney Channel.

Well, I had an adventure on Waverly Place which I visited online, trying to find out when a show JD was in was going to be broadcast in NYC. The title was "Vampires and Justin" -- JD said the title might get changed, but those were the words I was searching for.

I'm not an online expert. JD, who's a brilliant, lightning-fingered Web browser, knows what to click to get to a link that links to the link to where he'd like to end up.

I'm not a Mrs. Christopher Columbus sailing into uncharted seas. I know the world is round. But, my trips online tell me that the world is flat. Lookout, beware -- I can easily fall off the edge.

I certainly could have drowned, when I accidentally pressed the "enter" key on my keyboard. I got lost, clicking up, clicking down -- I never did find a Wizards' schedule for New York City, except on a vast, complicated schedule -- shows, times, details on the cast, the story-lines for many, too many shows, and names -- casts of characters that after awhile, made me realize that Selma, and Justin were major characters.

So I traveled, following links to more photos, more show titles, more casts of characters and never found JD.

Friday, I was doing my warm-ups, annoyed by an ad with a bunch of slithering, bump and grinding girls selling Optimum on line, singing an infectiously stupid ditty. I dashed to the TV after rondejambes (leg circling) on the pause before battements (kicks). Grabbed the remote -- hit some numbers -- oh my goodness, oops, whoops -- what a shock!

JD -- gesturing -- in an exaggerated, high style, threatening the excessively, exaggeratedly, fearful girl. JC raced in --. we'd been talking about seeing this show for days.

JC the Dad noticed the vampire teeth in his son-the-actor's mouth. Not Mom. Mom was noticing JD's handsomeness, good haircut, his neat voguey short beard, intense eyes, good movements -- important things the "Mother" and "Em-the-Knowing Professional" should notice.

Was it two minutes or seven minutes of shots, that suggested the girl was afraid of being bitten by a Vampire but sort of enjoying the fray? Lots of shots, then a wild finale at a high school dance that I couldn't make heads or tails of, plot-wise. End of show.

Wow! JC's a Hamlet, or a Richard II, or III in Shakespeare, a marvel with words and inventive shaping, filling out, fulfilling a character. Would I wish for him to be on a sitcom? No, though I understand (don't we all), that an actor needs somehow to make a 'name' in order to make a movie career.

Sitcoms and movies are what he's striving to get. And me, on the sidelines of another actor's career, an actor who "made it," but didn't get the immortality of movie stardom ... well, I'm inwardly heaving a sigh -- the win some, lose some sound of Em-the-Knowing Pro.

Yep , I know striving -- use of self -- that's the Win.

What do Mom and Dad say to their son on the phone? Congratulations? ICK -- being congratulated for merely being seen in a "nothing" part is repulsive. Comment about the show? Gulp -- how to say Waverly Place is "not the cat's pajamas."

Mrs. Christopher Columbus, off the boat, back on land that she knows, says -- "It's fun, being your mother, watching you work" -- being a writer, I found ways to say it inventively, truthfully, expressing delight and amusement, in my visit to the foreign land of Waverly Place.

STAR GAZING

I like remembering BETTE DAVIS' acting, the various women she played. I can watch any of her movies again and again and not get restless. No other actress has taken Davis' place, in my mind.

Thinking about her -- there he is -- a twinkle-twinkle littler star -- the unpredictable CHARLES GRODIN, comic, villain, brilliant conniver, commentator on "Sixty Minutes" -- like an arrow, taking aim and hitting the bulls eye.

Wait a minute ... when was the last time I went to the movies? In Malibu? Was it after they divided the big theater into three always crowded smaller ones? I definitely didn't like sharing an evening with strangers opening candy wrappers, whispering, responding, affecting my own response.

Gee, golly, my goodness, where am I heading in this ramble? Am I writing about "stars" whose work I love? Or old habits ... like going to the movies?

And the period in my life, the time when I knew the "names" -- in movies, dance, theater, also painters, and who was who among the socialite celebrities. Lately, I more or less retain the most often repeated names, but all that personal junk about who's doing what with whom seems utterly unimportant.

Being a daily blogger -- I've been putting down ideas, random thoughts, possible things I might want to write about ... So the other night, after I saw him introducing films on TCM (Turner Classic Movies), I put down WILLIAM BALDWIN -- he's always interesting, and at the Tony Awards recently, introducing "Best Actors," he said seeing John Cullum in "Shenandoah" inspired him to become an actor.

I put down SEAN CONNERY -- saw him again in "Dr. No," and again enjoyed his swashbuckling handling of the intricate, verge of horror, shocking disaster that could have destroyed the world.

Even so, I obviously haven't revved up enough energy to write about Connery, Baldwin, Grodin or Davis because ... well, thinking about them reminds me of the time when I was affected by actors and movies and, like I said a minute ago, I'm not there anymore.

Star gazing is for looking up at the night sky, and being aware that there are NO STARS in the night sky that hangs over New York City.

Picture of my painting of the sky
Give it click -------->

Yep, faces. Kind of ghostly looking. Not a pretty picture.

My sky is filled with faces of people I know, knew, friends, and momentary acquaintances I liked a lot/didn't like at all, had confrontations with -- some with whom I had marvelous rapport, worked with, employed, spent time with ... when? where? why? Sometimes I remember and sometimes I'm not sure -- they come and go, but they're there ... part of my life.

No, I don't look up and whisper Star bright, star light, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight -- because wishes are for kids, not for me ...

But, I do think not softly, quite loudly inside myself, I wish I may, I wish I might NOT be so aware -- aware every day, of time passing faster and faster ...

OFF WITH HIS HEAD, CRIES THE RED QUEEN

That's me. I'm mad at Jerry Bruckheimer!

He's proselytizing --seducing, sprinkling his magic, planting his seed, capturing children, half grown to full grown teenagers, adults -- men and women!

He's the producer of hit films such as "Pirates of the Caribbean," "National Treasure," "The Rock," "Blackhawk Down," "Beverly Hills Cop," "Con Air," and TV hits like "CSI," "Cold Case," "Without a Trace," and more, and more, and more! more!

I counted 44 films, 14 TV series, 3 new television series for the fall season. One reference says he's produced more than 60 movies.

Betcha if I included the actual list, the names of all his productions, you've seen (and loved) at least 3. (Like I have ... well, I don't love "CSI Miami" but I watch it because of the glorious look of the yachts, water, beaches, and sunsets.)

(Actually it's overly, unrealistically colored to make it seem more glorious, more fabulous than it really is.)

This prolific 63-year-old producer/creator has his finger more on the pulse of what the North American public wants to see, in its movie theaters and on its TV screens -- than anyone else.

Well, cheer up -- Jerry Bruckheimer will probably make only $200 billion this year -- inflation is hurting everyone.

Major critics say he's a "monolith," his shows are "commercials for machismo," he's our "go to guy for hot planes, crashing cars, burly protagonists, and wham-bam sex."

Actually, in interviews, Bruckheimer sounds pleasant, confident, cool. He says, "I don't get offended. What I try to do is entertain people. If I make blockbusters that are fun for people to watch and take them away from their daily lives, then I've done my job. As long as we make really engaging films that people want to see and are entertained by, we'll keep making a lot of movies and audiences will flock to them."

"FLOCK TO THEM" -- hideously inventive murders, violence, brutality, rapes of men, women and kids, and of course, his heroes and heroines do a fair amount of killing.

I'm not asking you to boycott his shows . They help me not to think on and on, obsessively, about my personal work and daily routines.

I guess that means they're entertaining me. I'm having fun, it's recreation. Maybe it's just a deck of cards, like "Alice in Wonderland" says.

Anyhow, I'm warning us (you and myself). This form of entertainment is getting us SO accustomed to nitty-gritty, grim forensics, crazies, man destroying man, we may not be capable of enjoying anything that doesn't deal with shocking, ugly, revolting visions.

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 .

ECHO ON THE ECHOS

Almost, not quite two months ago ... and every single day, there are reflections, blogs, articles, speculation, news bulletins, comments from famous people about Michael Jackson.

Hamlet muses, "...But two months dead! nay, not so much, not two ... "

So where are your thoughts about MJ? Are you, like me, annoyed by the intense focus, and yet, still listening, absorbing the occasional revelations?

I found myself riveted for a moment or two, when the new son and a one-night-stand with his mother hit the news, wondering about MJ's sex life, a little more than before, instinctively skeptical about him being capable of making love with a woman.

Seeing one of the interviews in depth again, the scene when Michael Jackson looks the interviewer in the eyes and says just two operations on his nose ... M speaking about his white skin ... M describing the naturalness of sharing one's bed with a child ... his clear words, clear-eyed look at the camera as well the interviewer ... My mind still exclaims what a good liar he is. WAS!

Watching for a few minutes, lawyer Mark Geragos and three others adding their speculations onto all other speculations, I groaned and turned it off.

How did he die? Why did he die?. Was it homicide? Was M's personal doctor negligent or responsible? It may be a very long time till we have a conclusive decision from the LAPD.

Germaine talking about his brother is touching. The wicked father appearing neither wicked nor guilty of any crime, really, other than being a father with sons he had to discipline. is ... well ... the father isn't a sympathetic character, but he doesn't seem to be the villain who turned his talented son into a ... strange ... unusual ... what?

MJ's clothes, all his outfits, his jewelry, tone of voice, his possessions, his favorite things, and especially what he says about the birth of his children -- to me it isn't homosexual, faggot, or gay chatter -- it's female.

I think he succeeded in transforming himself into a woman -- a uniquely graceful, gracious, thoughtful, extraordinarily creative, important singer-dancer performer who'll be affecting the next generation of pop stars, and the next, and probably the next.

"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.

SITCOMS ARE BLOOMING

The previews for fall shows ... the new television series ... it's hard for me to look at them without putting on my casting agent's hat and --

Gritting my teeth ...
Disapproving ...
Making a "Ick" face, snarling "Ick" at the screen.

ICK for the wilder, more violent than ever murder-death-disasters on which the preview scene is usually based ... It's as if some half-grown, boy-kid producer put together the "SELL," splicing in every horrible scene he ever saw -- decapitations, beatings, bestial behavior, buzz saw mutilations, creating a wow- after-wow, sixty seconds that I vow NEVER TO SEE.

Of course the exciting preview includes "SELL" shots of the cast -- the usual interchangeable batch of great-looking unmemorable guys and girls who resemble last year's stars, and at least one black, who resembles Denzel W.or Halle B.

Hey, I don't mind if the leads are beautiful, or look like relatives of Whoopie/Lativah or Liz/Marilyn or Hannah Montana. It's the acting that gets me. (With two great-looking, super actors in my family, I've got well-honed critical abilities -- a highly-trained eye and a super- sensitive ear.)

The newbies all have the TV acting style: punctuated, telegraphic delivery of lines that sets the mood, cues us dummies in the audience on how to react. Most easily recognized is the pause before the laugh, pause that sets up and braces you for whatever happens next -- a double-take or a burp, a laugh or the wham-bam shock, and the gasp of fear. Like a ticker tape, you know what to feel -- what the actor feels is always announced a second before it happens.

Ick! Yuck! Blauuugh!

Casting agents send JC scripts for the new pilots -- mostly roles these days, for dying, fat grandfathers with Alzheimer's. JD, a leading man type, suffers at auditions for the leading man roles. Gets call-backs, but not the role -- JD doesn't do the TV acting style, except as a joke when his parents ask him how he's doing. He's "not quite the type," which means JD doesn't remind the producers of the type they kind-of -sort- of-maybe-had in mind, based on shows that got the highest Nielsen ratings last season.

Good wife says "yay" when JC says "no" to a bad role. Good Mom applauds JD in the Shakespeare leading roles he's been doing.

The new shows ... well, I tune 'em in hopefully, complain about the actors, mentally re-write plots, expurgating the crudities and violence. Moaning about the endless ads, I change the channel -- quite often find myself watching two shows at the same time.

Got to admit it-- good wife, good mom Em usually ends up watching an old movie.

BABY-SITTING SATCHMO

Broke, unemployed, divorcee -- there I was, a trained dancer, with reviews -- "Little lithe and utterly lovely" said Walter Terry in the NY Herald Tribune; and no income. (In the divorce deal I got what I wanted -- the company, the studio, the sound equipment, the $600 debt my ex husband and I had borrowed from his mother. He got what he wanted, a new wife, and a teaching job at a major university.)

Meanwhile ... rent, utilities, food ... I had to get a job. A friend of a friend knew the producer of the Bell Telephone Hour. Strings were pulled. They needed a "go-fer" -- pay was $450 per week, starting immediately.

I hated the title. I didn't know what to wear. In blue jeans, blue silk blouse, sneakers, hair in a pony tail, I arrived at NBC. Upstairs on the twelfth floor I was given a list: props to assemble, music to deliver to the rehearsal; dressing room assignments to give to the star -- told to follow Mr. Louis Armstrong around and run errands, act like a hostess, "make the Negro comfortable."

GULP! In the arts, prejudice takes a different form. Blacks were moving in, taking over, getting grants, directing, choreographing, contributing fantastic music. Secretly I resented them for being IN, me being just another white dancer and a white choreographer, with white artistic ideas -- nothing fascinating like black people in the arts were now contributing. But the tone of my boss at NBC, the way he said "Negro" was scary.

Mr. Louis Armstrong sat in the star's dressing room, with his wife. He was friendly, and kind, and he asked my name. The guys in his band were in the other rooms. A huge guy said to call him "Big Daddy" and get him some ice. I did. I whirled and whizzed around hyper-efficiently. I knew how to do income tax, book tours, run a dance company, make costumes, drive a bus, and stand over a mal-functioning engine at a gas station and not be sold a ridiculous repair.

Now, I copied music for Voorhees the conductor. I helped the choreographer stage the entrance and exit of the singing chorus. By the third day, I was definitely a member of the Bell Tel production family. The associate director said "You're doing the work of an associate producer. A girl like you -- if you join the union, you could be earning $900 a week."

Louis Armstrong, the star, was going to be performing on a set (they called it a wagon), which would be slid onto the main area, just below Voorhees and the Bell Telephone orchestra.

The producer told the choreographer who told me -- "Get Armstrong and his boys on their wagon during our orchestra's tune up."

I said, "That's ten minutes before Armstrong's going to perform. Why not get Mr. Voorhees to announce him? Then, hit Satchmo with a spotlight, follow him as he and his men take their places." (That was the way people were usually introduced on the Bell Telephone Hour shows which I'd watched as part of my preliminary training in the NBC office.)

"I don't think so" said the choreographer. I made a beeline for the director. "No," the director said, "They don't want a spotlight on Armstrong."

The producer, the big boss came into the main stage, with a list of the guest stars for the next show. It tickled me, sort of ... and worried me, sort of ... Was I going to be a regular nine to five employee now.?. What about my daily ballet class, and getting bookings for the company?

I cleared my throat and told him -- "It would be easy for me to stage Mr. Armstrong and the band, and keep the Telephone Hour tradition -- I can get them to march in as Mr. Voorhees announces them. "

He said, "No %x@#$& nigger with a snot handkerchief is making an entrance in my show."

But-but-buts filled my mind. I guess my jaw dropped because he laughed a not pleasant laugh, and said, "You take care of errands, dear, I'll take care of the art."

So, the distinguished Mr. Armstrong on the Bell Telephone Hour waited on the wagon, and then the lights faded up as Conductor Voorhees said, " The Bell Telephone Hour is proud to present -- Louis Armstrong, and his "boys" (Click the link! It's a great band!)

The tech on Camera One told me afterwards, he'd been told "No close-ups!"

The tech on lights said, "No spot -- they don't want to see Satchmo sweating."

I went back to life as a single woman, worrying about money. I taught kiddie classes, booked a tour, and never did get to be an associate producer.

Our president had a summit meeting yesterday -- beer and talk with the Cambridge cop and the black Harvard professor, and put out that small fire ...

After many, many years, that's what we have to do ... Birthers, blue dogs.. twitterers, bloggers, Tea Party People, all the media publicizing it -- repeating the ugly words the cop and prof exchanged, scrutinizing each word, debating them, booing them, alleluia-ing them -- paying profoundly close attention to racial aspects of having a black president -- everyone repeating the ugly stuff over and over and over and over ... Aren't we brain-washing ourselves even though we know that electing Obama was, and is a wonderful beautiful thing for our nation and the whole world?

We have to stop fanning that old fire -- put it out, put out the embers of a fire that's been burning in America since the first black slaves three-hundred years ago.

NAME DROPPING "LENNIE"

Celebrities, famous people, are always surprising when you are face-to-face with them. It's the larger-than-life image on the screen, the visions of him or her on television, the articles about them in newspapers, and the books about them that make the name/the face historical -- unreal.

I arranged a meeting with Leonard Bernstein. (Practiced pronouncing the last syllable of his last name STINE, not STEEN -- even now I hesitate -- which is it, which was it?)

The second time I was employed by Green Mansions, (resort in the Adirondacks where I had my first job -- see my post "Hoard the Vanished Brand" June 6), I'd created some of the staging for Bernstein's chamber operetta, "Trouble in Tahiti."

Mark Ryder and I were the dance team in residence. I'd worked with the leading lady on her big song --"There is a garden ..." It was a fascinating aria -- confusing libretto, but I loved the music.

The Frankel-Ryder Duo (or Ryder-Frankel Duo -- we were already arguing about top-billing), had just been discovered by the IN culture groups in New York. So it wasn't difficult to get one of our new friends to set up a meeting.

Leonard Bernstein was lying down on a couch, when we came into his study. "Hi" he said.

Shock! When he stood up he was gorgeous -- even handsomer than he looked in the pictures -- bare feet, green striped pajamas -- but gee -- very short.

I was 5.4 in those days. (See my post "Black Coat Lament," May 25, about the inch I lost.) Mark was 6 feet. A Google reference says Bernstein was 5.8 -- mm -- my eye is sharp -- I think he was shorter.

Years later, when Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor were the media King and Queen, Lennie often came backstage for "Hamlet." Richard and JC rehearsed their onstage duel before every performance. Duels, even with blunted swords, are dangerous. Hume Cronyn and I were in the corner watching, Liz was at the mirror, powdering, checking herself.

Into the dressing-room strides Lennie. Richard freezes. JC moving in for a thrust freezes. Richard calls, "Leeeniee!" Lennie cried "Diiickee!" (Dear friends rarely called Burton "Dickie.") They hugged.

I strangled the laugh that welled up in me with a quick coughing fit. Lennie, Dickie kissed -- it was an extravagant, marvelously strange, huggy-kissy kiss on the lips. (Hey, in show biz, kissing on the lips, even passionately, doesn't mean what it means in the ordinary normal real world. )

Lennie dropped in quite a few times. Sometimes before the show -- always with Leeeniee! Diiickee! I got used to it. ( JC and Richard didn't kiss but they often hugged and danced around.) After the show, we'd go someplace for drinks with the various celebrities. (Holy cow, says that part of me who acts like it's nothing -- night after night, everybody who was anybody showed up!)

Liz was in her yellow flowers in her hair phase. I don't remember her outfit, just the black curly hair, the flower, and that marvelous, uniquely beautiful, perfect face -- lavender eyes with that thick fringe of perfectly mascared lashes.

Okay, back to the Frankel-Ryder story -- Lennie gave us permission to work on a "Trouble in Tahiti" ballet. Alas, it didn't happen. Maybe as novice choreographers we just couldn't figure it out. The construction of the music was based on a libretto that didn't lend itself to a choreographic version of the plot as a duet.

My partner and I went on to other things. My "Haunted Moments" ballet to sound effects caught the attention of composer Walter Piston, at Julliard -- there was a flurry of almost-but-not- quite collaborations.

I never did manage to put my meeting with Lennie in a novel, though Cordelia cancels her interview with him in "Somebody" Book I, chapter 27, Installment 4. p. 475, "Mrs. Wife."

Anyhow, DVD's of Lennie's passionate conducting -- the cajoling, powerfully evocative way he demonstrated the emotion he wanted his orchestra to convey -- Bernstein's recordings of Mahler and Beethoven, are unforgettable.

Years later, after Bernstein's wife was gone, we heard the rumors about his sexuality. It was a time when everyone wondered about what everyone else did or didn't do. Most of the celebrities we palled around with, were talking about "playing it both ways."

A young conductor with whom we were creating a musical told us about his meeting with Lennie. "Sad lonely, guy no family around -- the poor guy made a pass..." The casual, cruel picture our young friend painted made me want to weep -- the handsome, gloriously passionate Bernstein exciting a 90 piece orchestra, begging a young man to stay the night ...

Yes, as we ourselves were growing up and growing older, we've heard and seen other sad stories -- inside, behind the scenes, some very private stories that maybe I'll share in some other posts.

The other night we watched the movie "West Side Story." Knowing all the creators, the original cast, seeing the stunning film Robert Wise made ... (He came here, took measurements of my studio, photos of the bars. the floor, the mirrors, close-ups of yellow-pad of dance notes that hangs on the cork board -- used my studio in his "Two for the See Saw" film ...) Enough with the name dropping -- what stays with us, even with all the personal, irreverent, hodgepodge of memories, is the music for "West Side Story" -- the towering talent of Leonard Bernstein the composer.

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.

SCARY MOVIES

I can't, I won't, I refuse to see them. I blink away the ads.

Except maybe ... well, I love John Landis, especially his "Blues Brothers" movie ...

"Shh ... The Octopus" -- who in the world took me to see it. Was it one of my sisters or Ann, the live-in maid who'd become part of our family? How old was I? It scared me. I had nightmares about it for a long time.

What would happen to me if I were a child now? Would I have the comic book vision of art? Or would te murder-death-news be shaping me and my imagination.

Current ads, sales pitches -- (the ads that immediately turn me OFF) -- seem to have been created by young, raw, murder-death-comic book minds. The humor that is meant to be ha ha, isn't funny--not to me. It's crude, toilet-bathroom-snickering.

Wait a minute, haven't ads always been annoying? Yes.
Aren't they more amusing, more interesting, and less stiff nowadays? Yes.

Maybe what's wrong with the current ads is the repetition? Yes.

What does this have to do with "Shh, The Octopus?" Everything!

The movies we see --the big hits, the money-making, record breakers are explosions, crashes, killings, murders, suicides, hideous bloodletting, unending horrors suspensefully arranged, to keep us yearning for the next shocking event, and the next.

And television shows -- briefer versions of the same thing -- are larded, with murder-death, and comic book bang! splat! visions, hammering in that snickering toilet-paper point of view. They're telling you and me to crumple it up, quickly wipe yourself, and aim it -- shoot it into the basket like a Michael Jordan, and wowy --you've won those extra points for yourself.

(Excuse the image -- I guess the toilet scenes in the hit shows are corrupting me.)

"Shh ...The Octopus" did infect me, corrupt me. Early on, creatively, in ballet, and in writing I wanted to shock, show uniquely ugly forbidden things. I outgrew it. I figure the current crop of ad creators, and screen writers, film directors, will outgrow their jobs (at an earlier age than I did, because younger folks, with all this sex stuff in the air, are growing up faster and faster).

And the guys who make oodles of money from these blockbusters, and ads will pretty soon be hiring the newest youngest generation. And they ... well ...with global warming, stock market crashes, economic disasters, lying-cheating-unfaithful governors ...

Okay, we might have newer worser visions for a little while longer, but their children, and the children of the children ... their visions ...

Hey babies read at 2 -- toddlers learn facts of life at 5 -- working at 7, 8, and 9 -- their ads, their movies might be fine! We'll laugh at clowns, applaud the puppies...rappers can rap/sing "roses are red and violets are blue" ... Hey, why not ... sweetness and light could be hot ...

What goes around always comes around ... And older folks who grew up on yucky ugly stuff could always pop in a CD, and see the "Blues Brothers" one more time, and secretly love John Landis.

THE LURK

This person, a female in a skirt, stood outside, across the street, at the corner.

At first I thought she was someone who worked in the neighborhood. I wondered what kind of job she had, who was her employer, and why she was always there.

I saw her on a couple of rainy days. The season was changing. Her outfit changed. Then, one day when JC and I went into the A & P, I noticed her across the street.

After we'd returned home, unloaded the groceries and had a snack, I saw her on the street in the usual spot.

JC said, "She's a fan. I guess she's at the theater every night." He'd observed that she always stood across the street from the stage door.

We both noticed her across the post office, when we picked up a package there.

One day, when JC and I flagged down a taxi to take us to a meeting on 43rd Street, I saw her. I saw her outside the building after the meeting. I was shocked. Scared. How did she get there. In a taxi ? Did she get a cab to follow ours when we were heading to the meeting?

We discussed her whereabouts and made notes on a yellow pad. Was she across from the stage door last night? Was she waiting after the matinee? Was she lurking when he picked up his prescription?

It makes your heart beat faster when someone is lurking, following you, always there even when you take a subway. She was apparently following him where ever he went.

Then I saw her when he had stayed home. She was also following me ...

I called the police. They referred me to another person, who referred me to another precinct. I was told there was no law that could be applied, no way to stop the Lurk. (That's what I called her.)

We discussed it with our lawyer. He'd heard about a similar situation. He suggested we approach her. Ask her for her name.

JC tried to, but she rushed away as he approached.

His show closed. She was outside our home every day. Then suddenly, we didn't see her anymore.

More than a year later, when he was in another show, JC saw her outside the stage door. The pattern resumed. She was back outside our home.

At some point JC found out her name. He isn't sure when -- he remembers approaching her, and asking what's your name, and her saying it was JJ.

Off and on, for more than fifteen years -- JJ is outside the theater wherever JC performs. He nods and greets her sometimes -- ever since his opening night for "August: Osage County," she's been outside the Music Box Theatre.

And this winter when JC was performing in "Heroes" and "August: Osage County," JJ was outside both theaters -- for matinees as well as all the evening performances.

JC casually mentioned there were three of them nowadays -- JJ, Vera and Letty. He's given Vera and Letty the autographed pictures they've asked for when they came and saw him in "110 in the Shade" three or four times last summer. He didn't want me to worry but all three fans were at the Music Box after every show.

They're needy, not well people, and these days the not well people have become more dangerous. The fact is, the show at the Music Box closed last Sunday. But I think I saw JJ on our street on Tuesday, same spot, at new store on the corner -- and I worry.

INDEPENDENCE DAY YAY

Watching a television program on Jimmy Hendrix, waiting for him to smash his guitar, we switched to New York City's fireworks.

We're in walking distance from the Hudson River. The explosions made it seem as if our home was surrounded by the enemy attacking in the area. Bombs rattling the windows in New York ... that is a terror to which you cannot reconcile yourself.

We switched to a view of the explosions, immediately aware of more colors, more glittering, cascading flowers, in the sky. The orchestra was playing loud lyrical music when we tuned in, tunes that didn't seem to fit the fireworks, though we knew that the explosions were computerized.

Back to Hendrix, playing left-handed with his instrument behind him, over his head, under a leg, guitar upside down, or flipped over on the floor -- one hand plucking, teeth plucking. His pounding, louder and louder climatic, full-out sounds got us contagiously nodding, toe tapping and thinking "this is sort of tiresome." As were the fireworks --impressing us, not thrilling us.

I found myself thinking Macy's spent too much money on this. And Hendrix madly inventing new, crazy, wild positions for plucking away, singing while chewing gum, seemed to be wowing us, not with his music, but with his tour de force technique ...

The orchestra went into its final medley of "America the Beautiful," "Stars and Stripes," "Glory Hallelujah," with views of amazed youngsters, views of blandly pleased adults. With me thinking, "Enough already," glad it was going to be over in a minute, clicking back to Hendrix out of control, burning, bashing, and destroying his guitar.

We watched the Chuck Berry segment that came next, restlessly waiting, and peeved -- we wanted to hear him play his guitar and perform, and all we heard was experts and Chuck himself explaining his importance to Rock & Roll. Finally, a minute before the show ended, we saw a film clip -- Chuck playing four bars of his "Maybelline" hit song, and three seconds of his duck walk.

It brought us back to news, about the moon-walking Jackson's funeral. Over and over the tale is being told, making much of the sadness talk dreary and unreal.

Spur of the moment we tuned in "1776"' to see JC playing the South Carolina senator, and our personal friends -- Bill Daniels (Adams), Virginia Vestoff ( his wife), Howard DaSilva, Ken Howard , Billy Duell -- the list goes on -- we haven't seen the film and these friends in a very long time. JC was in the Broadway show "1776" when my back was broken in a car crash. Members of the cast chipped in, and bought us four flights of a gliding stairway, so that I could get physical therapy at the hospital.

The movie -- that's a trip -- to see the young spectacularly masculine, sexy, commanding Senator, hear John Cullum singing "Molasses to Rum."

That was a thrill -- the lump in one's throat one gets as we are pulling for the senators to sign the Declaration of Independence -- the final freeze bring tears to our eyes as the Liberty Bell clangs.

Fireworks, Hendrix, Berry didn't say much to me -- but "1776" -- our friends, the music, the songs, the vision was deeply moving.

TURN OFF THE LIGHT, DEAR

Save water -- DO NOT leave the faucet running while brushing your teeth! (See my post, "Doodler Hints").

Clearing the table after dinner, oif course, go ahead and rinse dishes before loading them into the dish washer. But DO NOT walk away and get more dishes with the water running!

These are small ways of saving water in a household where one of the occupants loves to learn his lines, practice his songs while taking a long long shower.

So, what about turning off lights?

Both my guys were always light-leave-on-ers, even before the days of energy saving bulbs. Both invariably groaned when Mom/Wife would invariably remind them to turn off the light please. And in the way irritants progress, when Mom/Wife could later be seen turning off a light in a closet, the light over the chair, or the light on the desk that no one was using -- of course they would quietly groan.

So what did I do Friday night? I didn't exactly nag, but in a semi-nagging, wifely tired-tone, I reminded JC that he'd left the lights on in his closet, and bathroom.

This after he'd been rehearsing, then performing "Scottsboro Boys" at the Vineyard Theatre, then rushing off to perform in his show at the Music Box Theatre.

The staged reading was Friday afternoon ... (A hellish day -- One Glove Michael would have hated the hullabaloo over how he died, but loved the evocations of him, praises, touching elegies and tributes by celebrities.)

The Scottsboro boys were the focus of a powerful race prejudice case in 1931. (I used it in Somebody, Book 1, p. 296.) Nine young blacks were found guilty and sentenced to death for raping two girls, retried, convicted again, and only years later found innocent and released from jail. Composer John Kander (who wrote the song "New York, New York" and created "Cabaret" with Fred Ebb) has turned the story into a minstrel show, and JC was playing the interlocutor for the reading.

But the moment they started the reading, some of JC's music pages got stuck on the glue he used to patch in some changes. Joel Grey was part of the invited audience, which included producers, backers, and JC's manager. Paranoia momentarily flared. Joel and JC are friends, but if the musical gets done, one never knows what will happen with the casting.

And Em at bed time mentions those lights ...

JC, who grins and bears it usually, said, "One of these days I'm going to remind you about your inconsistencies."

"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ..." And parting at night, saying goodnight when you're pooped and somewhat frayed ought to be sweeter ...

The subject was dropped. "I wanted to say "You hurt my feelings" -- thought about saying it, was ready to say it, but he was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Marital trouble? A spat?

This morning he made me my coffee. I buttered his bagel for him.