A 44 year wait

On August 2, 1970, I was at the Forest Hills, New York, tennis stadium, waiting for a concert to begin. I had left Notre Dame in mid-May after the murders at Kent State and had spent the summer living in my brother's Bronx apartment and working at Steak & Brew at 51st and Broadway -- a former location of Lindy's, for those who care about cheesecake and New York landmarks (see Guys and Dolls). After working at McDonald's in high school, Steak & Brew was my first real restaurant job and I wouldn't shake the habit for another sixteen years.

There are great stories to tell about my time at 51st Street, like the afternoon I "almost" knocked over Katharine Hepburn; or the busboy who stuffed doggie bags full of lettuce, keeping the steak morsels for himself; or the day one of our waiters landed a job on a soap opera -- I was the only one on the schedule who wasn't trying to break into show business.

But this story is about that night at Forest Hills and the forty-four year disappointment that was partially addressed last night. We were waiting for Janis Joplin to take the stage, but the skies had been threatening since late afternoon. By concert time the rain was falling softly and an announcement was made that the show would be postponed for a bit as we watched the skies. We waited over an hour, but the rain only fell harder. Finally we were told, "sorry, folks, it's not gonna happen tonight."

We were disappointed of course, but we were stoned, we were off work, we were young -- it wasn't that big a deal.

Until Janis died two months later. I had missed my chance to see one of the iconic rock and roll stars of all time.

Fast forward almost forty years. A Night with Janis Joplin opened on Broadway on October 10, 2013, to mixed reviews. Mixed for the show that is; near-unanimous praise for its star. Charles Isherwood in the Times wrote,

Mary Bridget Davies, whose positively uncanny vocal impersonation of Joplin keeps the house rocking for much of the show’s running time . . . rockets through at least a dozen of Joplin’s best-known songs, and sings them with a throbbing fervor that is often riveting. Her ability to match Joplin’s highly emotive style could probably give members of the audience who saw the real woman something close to a contact high — or maybe a nostalgia high is the better term.

I meant to see that show, I really, really did, but I didn't act quickly enough. It closed on February 9, 2014. But then in a highly unusual twist the producers announced they would bring the show back, off-Broadway this time. I hurried to get tickets.

Then, forty-eight hours before the first performance of the revived Night, it was abruptly canceled. Bummer. No, BUMMER! The producers blamed slow ticket sales; insiders complained the show wasn't given a chance to find its audience. In the most ironic footnote to the story, Mary Bridget Davies was nominated for a Tony for the original Broadway run. She lost to Jessie Mueller's amazing portrayal of another rock goddess, Carole King, but the nomination confirmed the critic's praise.

I never saw A Night with Janis Joplin but I am ecstatic to report that I did see Mary Bridget Davies, last night at B B King's in Times Square. In a concert that included lots of Joplin's best known tunes -- and a surprising amount of other music -- Davies dazzled, leading an amazingly tight seven-piece band that sent the mostly-my-age crowd into a rock and roll frenzy. But it was her show, or rather, her's and Janis's. When she sang Ball and Chain I truly felt that Joplin had returned to 42nd Street and Davies's final number, Piece of My Heart (of course) was an everybody-on-your-feet, fist-pumping, lyric-shouting adrenalin rush like I haven't experienced in quite a while.

If there is any justice in this world -- and that, I admit, is a huge if -- Mary Bridget Davies will be a mega-star.

Elaine Stritch 1925-2014

There has never been,

there will never be,

another.

RIP you glorious dame!

Syn City

I spent the weekend in Las Vegas, attending the reunion of the school I went to in Japan in the early 60s. Zama American High School included grades 7-12; we left Japan after my freshman year and my brother's graduation. I have many, many fond memories of our time there.

The reunion comes around every two years and, unlike traditional reunions, welcomes anyone who ever went to the school, regardless of graduation year or whether one in fact graduated from Zama. Two years ago it was in San Francisco and I meant to go; four years ago it was in DC and I was in town, though not part of the reunion. I did manage to hook up with two women I had not seen in 47 years! It was a delight but, alas, neither came to Las Vegas.

In fact no one I was close to fifty years ago was there. My buddy Will, with whom I am in occasional contact, didn't make it and of course my friend Gary, who I have longed to see for five decades now was once again among the missing. I did chat with several of my brother's friends and met a handful of people, but I'm not great at the meet and greet stuff.

I'm much better at having a good time on my own, and the weekend gave me plenty of opportunity to do that. I saw two Cirque du Soleil shows: Kà at the MGM Grand and Love, the Beatles show, at the Mirage. They were both excellent. I especially loved hearing the Beatles music at very loud but perfectly clear volume and was also dazzled by the stage craft of both shows.

I rode the High Roller, the Vegas version of the London Eye. It was delightful and was the one time I truly felt relaxed with a bunch of Zama people I mostly did not know.

Las Vegas is a city of blistering sidewalks, and I walked them for blocks and blocks. I am mysteriously drawn to the fountains at the Bellagio. I truly do not understand it. I am something of a world traveler and I think of myself as jaded, but those damn fountains mesmerize me. I twice took the long hike in 90+ heat to have a look.

Another thing that mesmerizes me is the parade of Americans one sees in Las Vegas. Wow, are we a fat culture! And boy, was taste given out sparingly when most of us were born. May I say this to many of the men I saw: Hawaiian shirts are NOT meant to be tucked in. They are meant to flow loosely, evoking the breezy island life. And about t-shirts with stupid writing on them I offer Fran Lebowitz's immortal words, "Most people don't want to talk to YOU. What makes you think they want to hear from your clothes?"

On previous trips I have taken advantage of Las Vegas's well deserved reputation as a fantastic food destination. I remember wonderful meals Ransom and I had at Aqua in the Bellagio and Renoir at the Mirage and solo stops at Spago and Commander's Palace. None of that this trip. I ate cheap Mexican, late night pizza, a scrambled egg crepe and the very best Palmier ever at Jean-Phillipe, but no sit-down expensive outings. Just not the same when I'm alone.

I'm glad I went, I'm glad I faced my fears about going and I really felt the pain of having lost touch with so much of my past.

Gary Winston, it's been 51 years since I've seen you

and still I miss you a lot!

Death Watch

Gotta have one of these! Or maybe not.

A countdown clock that tells me when I'm going to die. How uplifting! As pictured, someone has fifty-four years left. That's easy to swallow and by the time s/he gets even a quarter of the way there the clock will no doubt have stopped working. But I'm about to be sixty-six years old. What would my watch display? Not sure that I want to know.

And you know what, I'm not entirely sure I trust these people. They claim, "It also gives you the correct time."

Is that so? Tell me exactly where in the world "12:76:08" is the correct time, please.

Sometimes stupid people are helpful

I subscribe to the New York Times Friday through Sunday. That's enough; I don't miss the stack of papers glaring accusingly at me from the coffee table (Read Me!) But I do miss a regular Monday morning column, Metropolitan Diary. New Yorkers send in short vignettes of life in the city. I came across this one online the other day; it's perfect; I can add nothing to make it better.

METROPOLITAN DIARY
Jul 9 8:36 am

Disappointed Fireworks Fans in Brooklyn
By GORDON ROTHMAN

Dear Diary:

To unhappy fireworks fans on the Brooklyn Promenade,

We know you were disappointed, as you streamed away from the waterfront by the score. Many of you bellowed in frustration that the Fourth of July pyrotechnics were too small and too far away. You shoved and snarled through the elbow-to-elbow crowd to make your escape.

Most of us, it seems, recognized that those bombs were actually bursting in Jersey City’s air, and that our show had yet to begin. Perhaps we should have set you early departers straight. But we hated to embarrass you in such a public forum. And we did appreciate your letting the rest of us get a little closer to the action.

I Believe in Miracles

I've loved music since I can remember. My first 45 RPM record was Elvis's recording of Love Me Tender. Through the 50s and 60s I listened mostly to rock and roll, although, considering what was to come, it's probably better described as pop/rock. Later on I came to like guitar-driven hard rock, classical, a little country and, yes, disco. I admit it. The Pointer Sisters Jump! still sets my heart racing and Gloria Gaynor's classic medley of Honeybee/Never Can Say Goodbye/Reach Out is still eighteen minutes of bliss --  sorry, couldn't find a link to the whole medley.

Hot Chocolate's You Sexy Thing has never been a favorite but today I can't get its opening line, "I Believe in Miracles," out of my head.

I needed a plumber. I checked Craig's List, but who knows what I'd get if I went with someone there. So I looked at the Better Business Bureau website. There were lots of nearby plumbers, but only one was BBB accredited. I called them.

A pleasant woman answered the phone and when I told her what I needed she said, "well, I don't think we could get there this morning."

This morning? OMG, I would have been happy if she had said someone might get there the last week of July. She went on to promise someone would call me after 1pm.

I don't know if miracles are ranked by the church like sins are (venial and mortal), but I'd call it a minor miracle that someone from Jiffy Plumb actually did call me back. He said he would stop by between 5:30 and 6.

And then the major miracle. He actually DID show up at the appointed time and, right then and there, did the job, quickly and politely.

A tradesman showing up on time and getting the work done quickly? That is indeed a miracle.

Years ago I had someone come measure our driveway for paving. He spent an hour at the house. We talked at length and got along well. He promised to send me an estimate.

Never heard from him. He ignored my three voice messages. What's that about? Why would he spend an hour of his time and then just disappear? Maybe he was abducted by aliens. Yeah, I bet that's it.

But Jiffy Plumb -- praise the gods! They make me believe.

The message is clear

Ever since returning from our May cruise I have been trying to eat sensibly. I start my day with either a bowl of cold cereal and almond milk or a breakfast sandwich: one egg, two small sausage links and fat-free cheese on an English muffin. Lunch almost everyday is the same: a container of yogurt with an apple, an orange and a banana mixed in. At dinner I eat a smaller amount than usual. I have in fact lost a few pounds.

Today the drill was the same except that at lunch time when I diced my perfectly fine-looking, blemish-free apple, this is what I got:

I don't know about you, but I think the message is clarionly clear: eat a cheeseburger!

But I'm an ex-catholic who would feel too much guilt to do that and, anyway, I don't believe in messages from above, so I ate the yogurt, the orange and the banana.

And I'm hungry, dammit.