DEAR, OR NOT DEAR FRIENDS

Who is on the friends list in my heart?

When I was eight, I embroidered a sampler "TRUE FRIENDSHIPS ARE ETERNAL"
Eternal seemed to be connected to people who believed in Heaven, and the God they worshiped in church. But like my heroine, Cordelia (see "Somebody Book I" Installment A, page 32 ), I didn't have a church to go to.

My daddy's dictionary said eternal meant lasting or existing forever, but nothing did that -- not food, plants, pets, or people -- my grandparents, my favorite uncle, and a boy in my class had died -- they were gone forever.

So who are my friends? What about my pals with whom I had a great rapport, when we were working on a show -- my assistants, or dancers I employed? They are in my memory, mostly affectionately, but not in my heart.

My Malibu friend, my Seattle friend -- I still correspond with them. We chat in our e-mails. I enjoy keeping track of them and they keep track of me. It's long distance love, but they are definitely on the list in my heart.

And Doro, Fran, Sue, Bethy -- with whom I work with now, they're on the list! I need them -- I turn to them -- I love to hear from them, and when I do I am totally involved with the moments we're sharing. In my mind and heart, in some way every day, I connect with them.

Okay, Why am I writing this? I think I'm discussing this to explain to myself, why I don't want to get together with the couple who were our best friends for many years.

When JC was in "Northern Exposure," they came to Seattle when we were performing "Shattering Panes" at a fringe theater on weekends. After the show, at the Top of the Needle, during the dinner I'd arranged for the four of us, they said nothing about the show.

Nothing ...? It was very strange. They'd just seen my play -- I'm sure they knew I'd worked on it for umpteen years. Did they hate it? Is that why it wasn't brought up?

The dinner seemed interminable. During their jokes, and recollections about our weekends together on Fire Island, talk about the leg she'd broken when they'd skied in the Alps ... (It was the same time my back was broken in a car crash )... Hey. whoa, why wasn't that mentioned? Why wasn't a single word said about my play?

Well ... I haven't seen them since then.

They phone whenever they see an announcement about JC opening in a new play. I greet them sweetly, and transfer them to JC's line. He arranges tickets for them, and murmurs something about his busy schedule -- he knows I don't want to socialize with them.

Or socialize with my Vancouver producer friend: Two weeks ago I heard from her. She needed a phone number. I emailed it, and told her, in a very honest, matter-of- fact way -- "Eight months ago I wrote you about my Website, and sent you a link -- so did you visit it? Why haven't I heard from you about my work?"

And that question, and my not socializing, has spread to other friends in the arts and show biz, whom I emailed about my Website -- people who call quite often, chat about their work and want my opinion or encouragement, but don't get around to asking me about my work.

(Time for "shh-shh" reality -- when you're married to a legendary Broadway Star like JC, even if you're a well-known dancer with plenty of artistic credits, your friends are much more interested in his career than yours. Of course my play, or my latest new project doesn't thrill them or really concern them.)

Geemininny -- why don't I just maintain the friendships?

I don't want to. My work is me. I need friends who know who I am. I don't want to hang out with people who aren't interested in what I'm doing. Right now I'm digging into myself daily as a writer, trying to say what I really think and feel about things -- that's my work. That's what's important to me.

CATCH A DAY HALF-WAY

Dr. Em's prescription: Read this to yourself out loud:

If you've waked up grumpy, anxious, and blue --
With something vaguely nagging, gnawing at you --
Avoid "Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of us all!"

Got an appointment?
A meeting? Important things on the docket?
Shove your mood into a temporary pocket --
If you must put on makeup, do it quickly, not thickly!
Don't check what you've checked before -- remember less is more.
Don't review the lines, a crinkle, a droop, or a wrinkle.

"Mirror mirror on the wall ..." It can put a pall on all your plans ...

Sure, glance at your reflection, but don't seek perfection.
Just do your day the regular way.

Ah, mirror mirror looking glass --
A female-girl-lady-woman can be such a ass!
I worried about my looks the very first time I saw a pimple!
And blackheads ... yow ...that was scary!
I saw that old women over twenty, had fat dimples --
I hated that! Resolved to be wary, and never ever
get thighs that were fat!

So here's my advice :
After one quick look in the mirror --
Making sure mascara isn't spotty, outfit's clean, no lint, or loose hairs --
Don't stare or pout or be a goose -- just go out.

And pay attention to any subject that's mentioned, and laugh. Look around like an elegant giraffe at all the other girls, and it's done --you've won. You caught the day half-way and turned it around, found a way to say BOO to the glassine you.

GHOSTS OF PAST TENANTS

Bandler played his drums in the morning. He played them anytime he felt like it during the day. His favorite time for playing was late at night. Ordinary neighborly complaints affected him NOT AT ALL.

This guy is in my gallery of people who inspire me to devastate them with words, shoot darts at them, forever beware of. (I've mentioned him before, in my 3/21 post, the "Go Spirit.") Before we bought this building, Bandler occupied this floor where we have our offices and our studio theater.

I'd phoned. I put a "please don't play after 11 p.m." note on his door. I complained to the landlord, who liked us and wanted to help us. He called Bandler. The noise continued.

Bandler usually practiced on his drums for about 45 minutes. He'd take a break, then play for another 45 minutes. Then, there was no noise for an unpredictable while -- a midday break for an hour, a few hours -- then the drums started again.

I tried vacuuming. We had a noisy Electrolux, the type with a tube on sliders. I vacuumed my wooden studio floor that was above his living room -- vacuumed back and forth dragging the tube like a recalcitrant puppy, so that it created a noise on Bandler's ceiling. Then I stood the tube up on the end from which the machine's noise emanated most strongly, and let the machine run.

It didn't seem to bother Bandler. I pounded on the floor. I did it with a shoe. Then I pounded with a heavy duty hammer. Day after day, I vacuumed, dragged the puppy, left the machine on, pounded, stamped my foot, kneeled on the floor and yelled STOP THE NOISE, and wept.

One day, returning home from class around noon, I saw Bandler at the window. He had a shotgun. He was pointing it downwards toward the street below, aiming it at people walking on the street, same as I was. Was it a game? His lips were moving ... was he saying "bang bang?"'

I saw him at the window the next day -- lunchtime seemed to be his time for playing whatever horrible game he was playing.

He never knew that I was the one who called the police. The police came. Two days later, Bandler moved.

A major noise problem developed when Stafford Recording studio rented a loft space on the 3rd floor of the building next to ours.

Oh no! Oh yes -- Stafford worked odd hours; walls of his insulated sound studio rested against my wall with the wooden barre I hold onto when I exercise. Oh sure -- there was brick in between, but oh my -- his clients -- vocal artists, bass players, horn players, and of course drummers. Lots of rhythmic noise invaded my studio.

I hired a contractor who insulated my wall with a layer of pink insulation material, and plaster-board, then another layer -- two layers were what were recommended. I had three layers installed. And still ...

I did a dreadful, revengeful, ridiculous, ineffective, nonsensical, truly foolish thing.

I put four loudspeakers on the ledge outside my rear window that focused on Stafford's studio wall. Using my theater amplifiers, (sound equipment that could fill a large theater) I played Mahler's "Fifth Symphony" at top volume.

While it was playing, JC, more than a block away on Fifth Avenue, heard the Mahler's Fifth resonating.

No comment,, or response from Stafford, just a response JC who said, "Don't do that again, Em. We have to solve this another way."

We hired a lawyer. Our lawyer, Stafford's lawyer and the three of us met. No solution evolved. When he worked, I couldn't work. and I had no ability to control his schedule.

John suggested we hire Stafford record the sound effects for my play, "People in Show Biz Make Long Goodbyes." Stafford did a good job. And that kept me at the Orpheum theater, out of my studio for nine weeks.

Stafford sold his studio. The buyer turned it into a party room and if he gave parties, we never heard a sound. (Three layers of insulation took care of it.)

Even now, when a car drives by with its radio playing, the rhythm bothers me. I'm not able to think, work, dance, or do domestic chores while someone's invading my space. Once they drive on, I'm okay.

Yes, I'm damaged goods. If someone parks on our street and listens to their radio ... I pop in my Flents foam ear plus -- I've got sixteen boxes -- 25 pairs per box -- sitting on my shelf.

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.