Smash(ed)

When it started, I was curious about how the TV people would present the development of a Broadway musical.  Well, all you have to know is that they have cancelled next season, so all those questions left unanswered will live forever in our minds…. unanswered. 

When I invest my valuable time in destination TV, it is usually because I like it.  This was not the case with “Smash.”  It was a terrible show. But for those of us in the theater, we were curious about how they would portray “us.”  Or, what we really wanted was to be able to explain to all the people who are curious about what we do, that we were certain characters on the show. Nothing I liked better than to say to folks, “have you ever watched “Smash?” --- well I’m kind of Angelica Huston.”  Although to tell you the truth, I like the Jerry character, because he’s a Producer with endless funds. 

When I started writing this blob, sometime about two weeks ago, I had no idea that a performance at the White House, was in my future.  Yes, that White House. But last week, Gefilte Chronicles the Musical, invited us to the White House in honor of Jewish Heritage Month.  Who knew there was a Jewish Heritage Month? Although it is certainly a Religion with lots of Heritage, and good fish. 

Anyway, I have been spending most of my time like Angelica Huston. Except, she has people who work for her.  One does the PR, in a kind of a sleazy way.  She plants false information with people on the Tony nominating committee which discourages them from voting for anyone but her client.  This woman is truly offensive. Yes, there are sleazy people in the business but never as obvious as this woman.  It’s important to keep reminding myself that it’s only a TV show.  And on television there has to be drama, tension, heroes, victims, liars, sex, villains, and most importantly, pithy dialogue.  Unfortunately, the scripts for “Smash” were terrible.  They made some wonderful talented actors into blithering idiots. Well, maybe they didn’t blither, but it came pretty close. 

So, was there any good news about “Smash?” Of course there was. It gave a great many out of work Broadway actors a salary and benefits for at least, the time it was on.  Plus six weeks.

Back to the White House.  We are thrilled and honored to have been invited.  We are kind of like “the little engine that could.” We just keep moving forward with our gem of a show, and eventually we will have audiences all over the country and maybe even the world…. Toot, toot, toot.   We’re just sayin’… Iris

Da Fridge

When I look at my fridge in the NYC apartment, ( I can’t do it in our place upstate because it is stainless and nothing sticks but fingerprints), I see a visual diary of moments and people that are important to me.  When did putting stuff on the fridge become something people did?  (Even Wikipedia doesn’t know). And why do we make it the place where we keep these treasured memories?  Even when we were going to sell the apartment and the real estate agent said that we had to remove anything that would divert the potential buyers attention from thinking about it as theirs, the first thing we did was remove all the stuff on the fridge.  It was lonely without those things in which I found such great comfort and so much of our history.

Here’s what we have in our kitchen behind a variety of amusing magnets:

Pictures of our grandchildren and those close enough to be grandchildren.

Pictures of our children and their friends who we have come to know and love enough to attend any performance we can, within a regional geographical distance.

Sweet little notes that remind us of special days.

Telephone numbers we don’t want to lose.

Remembrances of events we attended and we liked or we hated but the pictures were good.

Pictures of people we may not know, but would like to. For example, we have a picture of Amanda Green, who produced Law and Order SVU – which we love and could watch 24/7.  As it happens, her father is a photographer who David knows, and I have met.  He’s a lovely guy, and we told him we worshipped his daughter (I think that’s how we got the picture), but we failed to mention that Jordan wanted to be the dead body at the beginning of each show.  Still we admire her genius and she has earned a place right up there.

So what criteria does anyone use for refrigerator prominence? We mostly stick things up when we have nothing else to do with them. Then we search for a magnet that will hold it, until we replace it with something more timely or meaningful. We do not have special attractive magnets that might also mean something.  We just use giveaways – so as not to take away from the importance of the stuff.

 The most interesting memento on the fridge is a drawing given to Jordan by someone who’s name got wet, so we don’t know who it is --  Ann something. But we like it so it remains. Oh yes, and a lovely note from Julie Harris, a remarkable actress, also written to Jordan.

 

Anyway, take a look at what you have saved in this prominent place and see if it creates a picture of who you are or aspire to be – ours has nothing to do with any of that, but at least I know where to find the telephone number for the garage.

Shows and Shows...Does it Show?

Of course we are not surprised that the air traffic controllers are going back to work.  A few days ago I told David that as soon as the Congress and their friends were inconvenienced, they would find money.  Who didn’t know that?  Yet, the unmitigated chutzpah, of doing that and still not restoring funds for programs involving the elderly and children, is almost unbelievable.  But who didn’t know that?  Oh, and they also got rid of a law that prevents them from having to  disclose any inside trading.  Aren’t we all looking forward  to their return from their nine day vacation – to which they can travel because they brought the air traffic controllers back. 

Since we all know everything, let’s move on to something about which we can discover something new.  Maybe not. Oh, I know, let’s talk about the theater.  It’s my favorite non controversial topic.  In the last few weeks,  I saw “Lucky Guy.”  If you are or were a journalist this is an especially remarkable show. If you are not, it’s still well worth seeing not only for Tom Hanks, (who got nominated for a Drama Desk but the show didn’t) but the rest of the cast is terrific as well.  “Kinky Boots” is so much fun. The spirit and costumes reminded me of “Pricilla Queen of the Desert,” and that’s very good, especially for people looking for visitors looking for a real “Broadway” show.  “Matilda”, is beautifully stage and precise. The kids must have worked (all of them) 24/7, to achieve the perfection of what they did. It’s a show with a message and every once in a while the public needs that.  “Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike.”  (I couldn’t remember the name unless I  thought of my mother and her sisters whose Jewish names were Basha, Sasha, Fasha, Rasha -- or something like that).  Which was not giving this incredibly hilarious show the notoriety it deserves. I usually laugh at a comedy, but I laughed so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath.  Next week we’re seeing, “I’ll Eat You Last” for which Bette got a nomination – no surprise.

It is seldom that I agree with the Drama Desk nominations, but that’s what makes the world go around – much like the truck in “Hands on a Hard Body.”  Which eventually made me sea sick.  To tell the truth, I didn’t make it through “Hands on a Hard Body.”  It has since closed. But Keith Carradine, who I worship, did get a nomination.  Which was not a surprise to me. However,  someone likes the show, the producers, the talent, whatever, because they got any number of Drama Desk nominations.   A year ago I was involved in producing a show based on the event, not the documentary, about these hold-onto-a-truck contests.  Ours was called “Slow Dance With a Hot Pick Up.”  It was much better.  So this hopefully will be like it the situation when the there were two “Wild Party” shows;  one went to Broadway, but the other was much more popular.  We never thought our show was meant for Broadway, but we did think it would be successful as a regional production.  Who said Washington is the only place where there are serious politics?  We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Welcome to Our Own Millenia -- WJS # 1000

In a world with very few personal blob(g)s lasting more than a week or maybe a couple of weeks (kind of like Gym Memberships which start on January 1st).... we are proud to present Blob # 1000 of "We're Just Sayin' "   The editor acknowledges that a large majority of the entries have been penned by Iris (probably about 60-65% but who's counting!?)  but since April, 2006 -- 7 short/long/incredible/boring/amazing years we have struggled to maintain our editorial POV in an ever changing world.  If we had started Twitter or Instagram then, who knows what the world be like now, but instead, we just chose to share with our small, dedicated, vast readership, our views (and reviews) of what's doing.  Thanks for tuning into the Blob, and in honor of #1000, we'll first reprint #0001, April 19, 2006, followed by Iris' latest, penned, as many of them were, on a plane to NY this morning.


This is the first line of the first graf of the first post, and so far, blobbing has been extremely exciting. We couldn't just sit by and let all the other Blobbers just post blob after blob, and not react. I mean, what are we chopped Liver? (You CAN enjoy chopped liver during Passover, but somehow it seems to take a back seat to gefilte fish, but that's another story.) So we started blobbing, and it really seems easier than TYPING 101 Class: just let it flow, let it run, and you're blobbing. Wow, we're blobbing. Well, here we are, blobbers and happy to be here. This space in the future will be occupied by various observations, travel memoirs, rants, witticisms, and other wise uncorroborated opinion (apparently in blobbing, contrary to ACTUAL Journalism, you're not supposed to either verify information, follow up rumors by checking them out for veracity, nor be sure what you're saying is for real) which we hope will cause our readers and viewers (yes, as a photographer unleashed, images will find their way here too) to feel that Blobbing is the wave of the future. So enjoy We're Just Sayin, because, after all, I mean, you know, We 're Just Sayin.

Correction:

Apparently it's supposed to be BLOGGING not BloBBing, however given what we've actually read online, we think BLOBBING makes a whole lot more sense (see the original film The BLOB, 1958 and you'll know what we mean). Come BLOB with us.

Iris Burnett ( political operative, novelist, world traveller, humorist, entrepreneur, mother, discount shopper  & now Musical Producer)
David Burnett (photojournalist, world traveller, beer gourmand, mimic, possessor of a keen eye and keen wit)


#1000:

Flying is just not what it used to be.  On our trip to Palm Beach we discovered that

Mr. Bland, who was asked to identify himself, had been upgraded to 3A.  Wow, Mr. Bland is a lucky guy, he’s going all the way from 12 B to 3A.  In the short term this was good news, but in the long term, people like us felt only sorrow because he is stuck being identified as “bland”, for the whole of his life.  You can only imagine what that was like, which we did by imagining that people would shout, “try to be a bit more colorful.”  (Or you finish the shout with something equally smart.)

That was amusing, right?  Today we were flying back to NY on a plane that was crowded beyond belief, or maybe it just felt that was because we were sitting with our legs above our heads, in some kind of a distended yoga position.  In the middle seat of the row behind us was a big elderly woman.  The aisle seat was occupied by a portly gentleman and, briefly, the window seat was unoccupied.  When the passenger in 11A arrived, the gentleman stood.  Not so the woman in the middle.  There was a brief pause while Mr. Window seat waited for Ms Middle seat move.  After a few minutes and uncomfortable eye contact, the woman said, “Jump!”   She was not kidding and he was a bit bewildered, but he jumped.  It wasn’t pretty.  The only thing we hoped was that he would not have to go to the bathroom. Two Jumps might have killed him.  I was reminded that the mini-STOP signs at the club where we were staying (either meant for small dogs, or to make it clear the STOP sign wasn't for cars, just golf carts....)  would have been handy.

There was a horrific bombing during the finish of the Boston Marathon, about which I am not going to talk.  There really is nothing to say, since the media covered the news 24/7 and made sure to tell us over and over that there were arms and legs all over Copley Square and in front of the Boston Public Library.  Maybe we should change the name of our country to Americarnage.  Too long.  Australia is almost that length but seemingly with a few Alligator incidents, instead of violent attacks on children and people who like to run.

Speaking of Alligators (nice segue´ huh?), We spent the week in West Palm Beach, staying with cousins in their home, on a golf course where there are alligators, who don’t bother anyone, not even the Woodstorks  (who did not go to upstate New York to protest the war, and stay with hundreds and thousands of their closest friends listening to music. Nor did they smoke dope or bathe in puddles left by gargantuan rainstorms.) Did I digress?  One of the things I like about Florida is the tropical vegetation. For example, there are camellia bushes as big as trees, and some folks cut and shape them and use them as hedges. And there are palm trees and birds of paradise as well as lovely little birds, who, without an announcement, know enough to stay away from alligators.  I also like the weather, the fruit, and the shopping centers on every block.  You are never more than a half mile from any discount clothing shop. I could do without the people who drive their cars but who, at no time, can see above the steering wheel.

Anyway, it was a busy week for “Gefilte Fish Chronicles  - the Musical,” which has yet to find a tropical home, but there is certainly interest.  And the best news is that Zachy is six years old, cuter than any of the three cats in his house, and smarter than almost any other kids who are not my grandchildren.  It’s my blob, I get to say anything I want.  We’re just sayin’… Iris 

About Passover

The writers of this blob take great pleasure in letting you know that, in a world of most blogs lasting  a week or maybe a month,   this entry is # 999, in the sixth year of running, and we salute the hard core followers of “We’re Just Sayin’”  for staying with us, through all the typos and trailing prepositions. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_jvKfKJhPBw.  While it is unusual to begin a blob with a Youtube link, in this case you will be glad I did – or perhaps you won’t. 

What with the opening of ‘Gefilte Fish Chronicles - theMusical,’ followed soon after by  the actual holiday, the last few months have been particularly busy. Passover has always been one of my favorite holidays. When we were kids our mothers/aunts began the  special preparations weeks ahead of time. They scrubbed every counter in the house, washed the windows, shampooed the carpets and changed all the dishes to the glass dishes with little bubbles that could be used for meat and dairy (glass was cost effective and made my grandmother happy when she did her yearly list of questions.)  We studied the Four Questions, watched Aunt Peppy ferment the beets for the horseradish, and dream about the silver dollars we would receive from our uncles (who we were sure had a silver mine), for finding the treasured Afikomen.  Oh, and we were permitted to drink a glass of wine, which we knew was wrong – and that made it even better. It was always a joyous time, one to which we looked forward.

As I reflect on Passovers past, it seemed so many important things have happened to me on or around it. The most important of which was my first date with David in 1979. It wasn’t a particularly romantic evening (everyone invited was told to wear a colorful hat) but he schlepped a  half case of Manischewitz Cream Concord along with a few bottles of actually drinkable wine. The extended family Seder/reunion, was usually on the second night of the holiday, and for many years it was a holiday that was also a reunion.  Then it became a study of the Haggadah, which was interesting, but it was not easy to catch up.  So I had my own Seder on the first night. It was a real Seder, but since a number of people weren’t Jewish and I wanted it to be memorable, we did things like wear silly hats. It somehow made the Four Questions make more sense when read by someone wearing an Orioles cap.

As our Aunts got older and a little less likely to stay awake all night plucking chickens—they played cards instead— the next generation was called on to give a hand hocking the fish, making the sponge cake, assembling the cholent, and grinding the horseradish.  It took them six weeks to prepare for the holiday (we have since done it in 3 days), but they loved to be together arguing, remembering, crying and laughing.  What a gift they gave to all of us who were ready to unwrap it.

David – having been raised in Salt Lake City in what was definitely a “less Jewish” atmosphere, was fascinated by six week process which duplicated what the family had been doing every spring for a hundred years. “The GefilteFish Chronicles”  started as a little family home movie to record for the kids as yet unborn, just what life was like, and became an award winning documentary. And now, to continue this celebration of family, it’s a musical show.

This year we hosted 62 people for the Seder.  We (I hosted, but it is not my Seder—it was a shared family project) cooked for 80 just in case, though once you’re over 50, it doesn’t really matter.  We celebrated the Seder the day before Passover because that was when most cousins and their children could come.  There was some controversy about having a Seder on a day that was technically not Passover—but it was Passover somewhere in the world and it certainly was in my house in Newburgh – with my grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends.  They were all watching over us, and saying (to each other and in our minds) “…. look at the children.  They’re making an effort to do exactly what we wanted them to do – they are all staying connected.”   I feel sure they said this while they were playing cards, and I know it made them happy, because it sure made the rest of us enjoy the celebration. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Keep on Truckin

If I were still writing my Bulletin's Over Broadway Blob,here's what I would have written.  Passover plus, which I am writing tomorrow will be our 999th blob. Almost 1000.

Sometimes the unexpected happens, unexpectedly.  For example, the “Wild Party” was a musical with a book by George C Wolfe and music and lyrics by Michael John LaChiusa. It was based on the 1928 Joseph Moncure March narrative poem of the same name. Oh wait.  “The Wild Party,”was a musical with book, lyrics, and music by Andrew Lippa. It too was based on Joseph Moncure March's 1928 narrative poem of the same name. They both debuted during the same theatre season (1999–2000). While one was well funded and peopled with popular stars and a well-known creative team, the other emerged as the “Wild Party” of hip choice.

Two years ago, “Slow Dance with a Hot Pick-up” (having been work-shopped previously at Indiana University’s Premiere Musicals Lab, selected for development at the New Harmony Project by Tony Award Winner, Anna D. Shapiro, further developed at the Florida Studio Theatre and the legendary Barnstormers Theatre in New Hampshire where it won the New Hampshire Theatre Award for Best New Musical and then selected to be presented in Montreal at the 2009 Next Wave Festival of New Musicals), had its World Premiere in Boulder, Colorado at the famous Boulder Dinner Theatre.  A few months later “Hands on a Hard Body,” (based on the documentary of the same name), with the exact theme and similar story, was work-shopped in California, prior to its Broadway debut this month.

“Hot Pick-up” which was inspired by these same Hands On contests that came about during the 1980’s was researched and written by John Pielmeier (Agnes of God,  Pillars of the Earth , and many screenplays). Music and lyrics for “Hot Pickup” were penned by Emmy awarded winning composer Matty Selman (“Goddess Wheel”, and “Uncle Philip’s Coat”).  John and Matty’s story, about a grueling marathon contest, where the prize (a pick-up) was awarded to the last person still able to hold  on to the truck, was not based on the documentary.

“Hands on a Hardbody”, has a book by Pulitzer Prize winning Doug Wright (I am My Own Wife)  with music and lyrics by singer song writer, Amanda Green (Bring it On) and Trey Anastasio (Phish).  Both these shows, have notable creative teams and a “real American” tale to tell.  Both revolve around dignity, dreams, and frustrated aspirations to succeed in lives where they have had only disappointed expectations. Both are musicals.  Both are passionate and musically appealing.  But only one was able to be a Broadway show. Because only one had the financial backing to stay alive long enough to find out if the public is interested in watching what they have produced. It appears they aren’t.

Like “The Wild Party,” there seemed to be room for both productions. And like the Wild Party, one went to Broadway, while the other remained Off Broadway.  Broadway loves new visions for an old story (revivals) and themes that are universal, (love, hate, struggle).  But Broadway has room for only one production of the same story and that production has to be, if nothing else, well funded.

There is a kind of sadness in this theater reality. It doesn’t matter who was first or which show has the most merit. It’s not about talent since both of these productions are notable.  But it is incredibly expensive to produce a Broadway show, so the only thing that is for sure is, that if you have access to the money,  (are Phish, have parents who are legends, or have won a Pulitzer Prize), you will have the funding necessary to support an artistic effort.  And, if you fail, it will be considered a successful failure, because you raised millions of dollars, and you will not have to worry about being able to buy your own lunch.  It will be interesting to see what happens to both productions in the next few years.  Once a show is produced, whether it’s on Broadway, off, or off off off, it has a life of it’s own.  It can tour, or be licensed by almost anyone. If the show has a compelling story, memorable music, and interesting characters, it can play somewhere forever, as long as it costs a lot less than a million dollars. We're Just Sayin...... Iris

Painful doesn't beGIN to describe...

 

An old writer friend opened a show off off-Broadway recently.  It was a painful but productive experience for him.  Speaking as a novice musical theater writer I cannot imagine why he didn’t have a nervous breakdown.  But I am told this kind of thing happens more often than any of us can imagine.

He didn’t care that there was no red carpet, he didn’t expect one and having never had one before, didn’t miss it.  All he wanted was for the actors to know their lines and for the musicians to be somewhat practiced.  Not so fast—apparently, it was too much to ask.

I could go on and on but it wouldn’t make any difference. We all (aspiring producers) invest a great deal of time on stuff that has nothing to do with what we envisioned. So moving on, I am always amazed at the depth of the correspondence on Facebook.  I love Facebook because it allows me enter into the lives of people who I have known for a long time, or are people with whom I would like a continuing relationship.

Let’s get back to my pal for just a brief moment.  Should he have known better than to trust strangers with his baby?  Should he have choreographed the piece so no one could make mincemeat of it.  Should he have been skeptical enough to know that the people with whom he entrusted his vision didn’t have a clue? Probably. But none of that happened, so what next?

Artists are a curious lot.  Unlike most normal people, artists think they are special.  They have to think they are special because they put their work out in public, where anyone can make judgments about what they have done.  If artists doesn’t believe in their work themselves, then why should anyone else think it’s special?  When an artist produces a work of art, be it a play, a song, a book, whatever, it’s like giving birth to a baby.  For some period of time, the artist wants to nurture what they have produced.  They don’t trust a stranger to protect its integrity, or give the baby the same attention they will give it.  As the baby grows the artist will give relinquish control but not until they know that they have left their baby in competent hands.

And on a totally different subject, (which I could connect but it would be too painful for our readers) has Mayor Bloomberg driven uptown, crosstown, or downtown in NYC?  Probably not,  because the construction and the condition of the roads are abhorrent.  Yesterday when he announced his concern over displays of cigarettes, and last month with his push forbidding 32 ounce drinks, I said (to anyone who would listen) “this guy is totally out of touch with the important issues.  He’s so busy monitoring our personal behavior that he has totally lost his focus on problems that effect those of us who try to live in NY.”  I want to yell, WAKE UP BOZO!, but it’s not respectful, much like someone decimating a lovely musical show because they have lost their ability to distinguish between what is worthwhile and what gives someone immediate gratification. We must protect ourselves from the people who only see superficial, and be on the lookout for those who value expediency over thoughtful decision making.  We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Lost..... and Found? No, Just Lost

English language words can be fascinating or bewildering.  So many of the words we use either mean more than one thing, or they are not pronounced the way they are spelled.  Such things as silent ough’s or a ph that is pronounced as an f, don’t make it an easy language to learn. It’s always been an amazing to me that a little child can speak and pronounce confusing words correctly. 

The other day, as a direct consequence of my exhaustion, I lost a day.  It is unclear whether it was Monday or Tuesday, but it got lost.  When I got out of bed on Wednesday, despite the fact that the trash cans in our neighborhood were all awaiting a Wednesday pick-up.  And, although I had watched NCIS on the previous evening.  When I went over to my cousin Debbie’s just to say hello, she asked if I was meeting my aunt for lunch the next day. “Yes,” I said. “I told her I couldn’t meet on Thursday so I was going to meet her tomorrow, on Wednesday.”

“But” she said, “today is Wednesday”.  I argued for a while, but she was right.  It was 9:30 and I had to pick  Auntie up at 11:30.  The trip would take an hour and fifteen minutes.  “Guess  better move my touchas or Auntie is going to be standing in the cold for way longer than she expected.”

There are a number of definitions for this four letter word.  It can mean no longer possessed or retained: lost friends.  No longer to be found: lost articles. Or having gone astray or missed the way; bewildered as to place, direction, etc.: lost children. It can also mean one has missed an opportunity to win some kind of a race.  The first “lost” I discussed does not really fit any of these. The closest it comes is to be bewildered. I was not bewildered or befuddled.  I was as sure of the day, as I was of my own name. And I was wrong.  I spent the day (after lunch) trying to figure out if I lost Monday or Tuesday, when I realized it didn’t make any difference.  The weird thing is that I knew exactly what I did on Monday and Tuesday,  and still, I insisted it was Wednesday.  Lost? Maybe.  Definitely.  Lost.  We’re just sayin’.. Iris

Measuring Silly

How do we measure our lives?  T.S Eliot, said that J. Alfred Prufrock did it in coffee spoons. Sports teams do it in number of victories.  Doctors may measure in the number of lives they have saved. Business people will likely measure in money and material success. Those of us whose lives have been more eclectic, find alternatives to the win/lose or money earned/spent evaluation of our lives.

Yesterday, when we needed to make some changes in our EZ-pass, David got on the phone and pretended to be me. When David was pretending to be me, he mentioned, in passing, that the EZ-pass had been passed on to the next generation because Rose was dead.  They insisted however, on speaking to her (“sir… only the account holder can change the account….)  So I got on the phone, and passed myself off as my too colorful mother.  After about five minutes of question answering, the EZ-pass representative hesitated and said, “just a minute, I thought someone said that Rose was dead.”  I laughed and said, “how can I be dead, I’m talking on the phone.” It felt great.  When mom was alive and we would have to do business on the phone for her, banking, bill paying, insurance issues, David would initiate the call.  Whoever he was calling was insistent on speaking to my mother. I would then get on the phone and drive the person we called so nuts, that they would insist I put “the nice young man” back on the phone.

One of the ways we measure our success is by how we deal with people who call during dinner to sell us something we will never buy.  Usually David takes these calls because he was never a bad boy.  I have never been a good girl—in the most innocent ways. In college when the pay phone in the hallway rang – we didn’t have our own phones, and cells were a thing to be discovered thirty years later, we would all rush to the phone because a call on the pay phone was assuredly a pervert call. Perverts were the only people who had the phone number.  (No one in the dorm knew any of the pay phone numbers.)

As children we would play this game where we would compete to gross out the pervert.  It was a timing thing.  The idea was that whoever grossed out the pervert the quickest, would win the game.   It was an incredibly challenging competition, where the language and energy knew no bounds. Let me say, (I don’t think you’ll be surprised), I was usually the champ.  It was such fun that when David and I started to get these dinner interrupting phone calls, I didn’t want to deny him the opportunity to have some fun.  His responses  took a number of forms.  This is not a complete list but, sometimes he would pretend to be hard of hearing, sometimes he would be pretend to be screaming at his uncooperative wife, and sometimes he would pretend not to speak any English.  There was even a conversation which included the phrase (yelled to a theoretical off camera young child,) " I swear if you drop that watermelon I'll crown you with a Sand Wedge!"   Whoever the character, it was always hilarious.

You remember that there was a ‘no call’ list.  If you signed up, you were not supposed to get any of those tiresome solicitations or pesky non-stop political sales (yes they think they are selling a product).  Despite our attempt not to get calls, we continued to be bombarded by optimistic, hopeful, soon to be discouraged, sales personnel who, at their expense provided us with a way to measure our creativity. Anyway, one of our measurements for success and personal growth, was the ability to delight in getting rid of unwanted dinner interruptions, as well as ability to entertain one another. Humor is an excellent measure of personal growth,  as well as  proving that no matter how old someone gets, you’re never be too old to be silly.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Michael Kelly

 

Michael Kelly made the best Irish Soda Bread ever. Ever.  Knowing that I loved Irish soda bread, people were constantly suggesting places to buy it. And since we no longer live in a geographically preferred location, I went store to store trying every one I could find. But never did I taste any one which could compare.  Michael was one of a kind.

He loved being in the kitchen, and beyond bread, was a fabulous chef.  He never let anyone venture into this sacred space.  It was a challenge for me to get him to trust me and permit entry.  Eventually he did, but it was about my challah recipe rather than my ability to cook as well as he did.  He just made me laugh, about anything.

This morning we received this note from Halle, a mutual friend:

We lost Michael Kelly this morning.  He developed an infection on Thursday and it proved to be too much for his body to handle.  Ultimately, he died of liver cancer and the complications of a life well lived.

A life well lived.  That’s how everyone breathing would like to be described.  And we were so lucky to be a part of that for Michael.  When you were with him you learned immediately that he was smart, and funny, and understood how to live.  He split his time between Washington and a Beach house in Delaware. Whenever he went he was in charge – even with me, and that’s not easy.  It didn’t matter how silly the request, he was generous with this time, his advice and his laughter. 

Michael and his partner Jim, (who I met first), were two of the finest human beings we ever encountered – and we have encountered a lot of beings, human is always a question.  They made you feel comfortable and welcome in their lives, and in their world.  Losing Michael is not going to be easy Jim, or for any of us,  We feel an absence of him already. Even though he was undergoing treatments which left him weak and tired, no one expected him to lose his battle – not so soon and not so quickly.

Our thoughts and love are with Jim.  Michael will always be a part of our lives, never just a memory.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Love Notes, 2013 Variety

This year there was a half page of love notes in the “Washington Post”. You probably don’t know how important a “love note” was and is, because people only express their feelings electronically or using someone else’s words in a card. But starting in the 80’s, on Valentines Day, people would write love notes to their beloveds and post them on a special page in the Wash Post. Over the years, the number of notes posted on Valentine’s Day grew, until there was an entire section (4 or 5 pages),of the paper dedicated to them. But, and I think unfortunately, as a consequence of the popularity of electronic communication, yesterday, it had dwindled to half a page.

There was a time when I loved that holiday, and then, things happened and it was no longer on my top ten, until sometimes in the 70’s when we started to have a girlfriend lunch with Michael Berman.  When it started there were about five of us.  Just a small  group of political friends wanting to celebrate a holiday that commemorates Love and Relationships. 

The luncheon continued to grow.  None of us remember how fast, or how it happened but first we were five and then we were 120. You might think that the number of people make the celebration less important, but not true.  It is a great leveler. The most important women in Washington, media, politics, PR, lobbying, are all there. (Even Hillary stopped by.)   It is the one time a year that women friends have a chance to get together socially and don’t worry about business. Or it is an opportunity to do business with friends.  Or it is just a time to catch up.  Since I am not part of that conversation anymore, it is just a great way to bond with people who I have known for years and years, and never get to see anymore.

What a great many people do not understand is that Michael is more than a lobbyist and strategic communication expert, as well the person who hosts the best party in Washington.  Many of my closest female friends, who have not ever been there, think it is the most important ticket in the city.  He is a very generous, incredibly smart guy,  who mentors, not only young women, but Senior government people looking to take the next step in their lives. We have been good friends for more than thirty years.  I am no longer an important Washington character, but I get my invite every year.  The women who go to the luncheon all think they have a special place in his life, and they do, because he has made such a difference for them in their careers. Of course, his wife says, “All of you can stand in line, I married him.” And she is a truly wonderful addition to his life and, of course, the luncheon.

It’s a special day for me.  It is a lovely expression of love in a town where connections, not love, is the key to success.  Last year I was traveling and couldn’t make it and I was upset beyond words.  I love to go because it is a reminder of who I was, and what I have become. Both of which are just fine. Michael has always been a friend, a mentor and a gift. He liked the “love note”  David posted in the paper, never get too old to be important or meaningful.  They are both a wonderful expression of love.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Last Five Years.... redux

“Till there's no one left  Who has ever known us apart”

What a wonderful sentiment on which to reflect a few days before Valentine’s Day. That’s my most favorite romantic line in my most favorite show, “Last Five Years”, by Jason Robert Brown.  The other night I went to a “works in progress” at the Guggenheim, where Jason Robert Brown, the two actors in the new Second Stage production, and a host, discussed process and sang songs from the new production as well as the development of some music. 

OK, I do love this show.  In fact, I love all of his work.  To hear him talk was a joy. But the best part of the evening, from a novice producer’s perspective, was his discussion of the orchestrations and the decision to use just string instruments and a piano. There are no drums because he felt percussion was too heavy for the songs and the story.  The other most interesting thing he said had to do with feedback.  He explained that as the author of a work, you have to believe you are awesome, as is the work.  He told a story about Stephen Sondheim giving him tickets to a new work he was producing.  Brown didn’t like it much and intended to tell Sondheim the truth.  When the time came for Brown to tell Sondheim how he felt,  he said nothing, which was a awful as saying something negative. 

When they finally, much later,  had a conversation, Sondheim told him that he didn’t want to hear anything but that it was great. ‘If someone you know gives you tickets to a work they have created, they do not really want to hear anything negative.’  It takes a great deal of courage for an author to make their work public.  They need support from the people closest to them. All they want to hear is, “It was great.”  If it’s awful, they will find out when the critics review it and the audience stops buying tickets.  There is enough time for that.

This show is special to me for many reasons.  First of all it’s brilliant.  Second, despite the oft present humor in the music, it’s the saddest musical ever created.  You know from the beginning that the two characters are doomed.  They will never get it together to have a relationship.  It is a two character show that opens with Jamie, (the male), telling the tale from the beginning of their relationship, and Kathy (the female) telling the story backwards, from the end of the relationship.  So, before it begins you know it’s over.  The only time they are in sync is in the middle when they get married, (and are in a boat in Central Park) and then they drift past one another to the inevitable sorrowful end. 

 Paul and Jordan,  L5Y: 2004, Arlington

When Jordan was a senior in high school she produced and starred in this show with her friend Paul, who took a metro from Maryland every day, traversing the whole of D.C. in order to rehearse.  They did an amazing job, especially when you know they were seventeen and had no life experience at all.  Even without caveats, they were sensational.  And the show earned a permanent place in my heart. 

I sat with two people who had directed the show, on and off Broadway.  Watching them react to the music and the conversation was priceless.  They were clearly still in love.  How can you not be?  The show has never known any notable success.  It does have an enormous cult following and whenever it is produced, the tickets are sold out. 

Jason Robert Brown has shared himself (although he denied that it was autobiographical), with the theater going public in the same way that we want to share “Gefilte Fish Chronicles the Musical” with the rest of the world. Although in GFC it’s mostly good news, it, like “Last Five Years” is a living, loving tribute to relationships, the power of family, food, music and tradition.  Both are well worth seeing.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Nemo, Stage Two

The STORM OF THE CENTURY is over.  There must be at least ten inches of snow, no wind, and the sun is shining. This morning, when I chatted with the children of the Century, they were playing blocks and were building the tower of the Century, which was taller than both of them and almost as high as the snow outside their window.  They did have more of a snowfall and blizzard conditions than did we, but they seemed to have survived.  They wanted to play outside and build a snowman.  When Seth was awake they plan to have him open the door – which they could not do without his brute strength.

We’ve heard from just about everyone, except Tracey and Jack – so give a shout if you have phone service.

As I said before, I am relieved that the storm of the Century is over.  I expected the TV networks to find some other crisis to cover today.  But alas, they love beating the dead horse of the Century, so now they are 24/7 about the after-effects of the storm.  I could write their scripts.  In fact if I did write their scripts, they would be funnier and shorter.  It would go something like this….

“Well folks (that always makes people feel like they are your friend, and you are about to have a chat).  It snowed yesterday.  In some places like New England, they got a lot of snow.  Not quite the hurricane of ’38, but a lot.  Today, it is not snowing.  It’s a little windy, but far as we know, there’s not much to tell -- no one has been killed by flying anything, so we can’t talk about that.  Most of the roads are open, so we can’t talk about serious delays, and it’s Saturday so no one is in a rush to get to work.  Maybe something terrible will happen in the world today, and we’ll have something to talk about. But for right now, be happy and safe, and watch a cable network that has a movie. (That’s another way to seem friendly without intruding).”

Oscar and the mighty snow-blower

David shoveled the front steps of the century.   He wanted to get some exercise this century.    Our friend Oscar is here snow-blowing our driveway of the Century.  He’s already plowed out his house, his tenants house and he’s on his way to his mother’s.  He’s a wonderful friend and we are grateful that someone has been able to rescue us from one another’s company.  We have not heard about any emergencies.  As far as I know, no one has asked Oscar to deliver provisions, show up with a cognac-laden St Bernard, or leap tall snow banks in a single bound.  People know they will be able to get out of their houses and there will be food available.  Last night there was meant to be a 10 city link up for Colorado College (David’s alma mater) alums, in bars all over the country to watch the vaunted CC-Denver University hockey game.  For decades this clash of Rocky Mountain powerhouses has been noteworthy and noticed.  About 6pm, David got an email advising that “because of the Nemo storm, the get-togethers in New York and Boston would be cancelled.”   David’s reaction was spot on: “How is that POSSIBLE? We’re talking Ice Hockey, not Canasta!!”

the  poor little Miata, under the Mini cover, chilled to the bone

You are probably wondering why I would blob about a horrible storm that was just some snow.  (Need I remind you that in our parent’s generation, they just called it “Winter.”) Was the storm like a drug and I needed to find a easy way to withdraw from the storm addiction?  No, I was just looking for a way to express my frustration about what passes for the news these days.  If you want some real news, here goes… Once you’ve tasted the grapes of wrath, you’ll never be satisfied with bananas.  Yes, I’ve said it before but not 24/7.  It’s a gorgeous day, we’re going for a walk. We're just sayin'... Iris

David, with the balaclava of the Century

Storm of the Century? Which Century?

 

There is no shortage of hype about  “THE STORM OF THE CENTURY.”  It probably doesn’t matter but, last month we had another storm of the century.  And sometime last summer we had a hurricane,  that was also described as the storm of the Century. It’s a great many storms of the Century for only thirteen years of a century.  Let’s not nit pick.  Today is truly going to be the storm of the Century. 

 9 hours into the Storm, and this is what we have

Two days ago was Jordan’s birthday of the century.  There was no other birthday that had such an impact.  Except maybe Zak’s birthday, which was also the birthday of the Century.  Wait a minute, there was Rosie’s birthday, it’s a close call – that could very well have been the birthday of the Century. 

 and still the snow arrives

What does someone do when there is a storm of the Century?  In Virginia, whenever two flakes fell, everyone rushed  to the supermarket and cleaned out the eggs, milk and bread.  Sometimes they bought all the water – and in Virginia, because you can buy wine in the market, there was also a shortage of drinkable alcohol. The most stunning thing about snow in the Mid Atlantic, is that it’s not unusual for it to snow.  But every year the government seemed totally surprised.  Actually, in the DC metropolitan area, weather of any kind, (two cold, too hot, too rainy), sent people into a tizzy.  There were one or two storms of the last Century, and since they aren’t prepared to plow, people couldn’t get out.  Sometimes for days or sometimes the temperature would reach 50 degrees. Immediately after the storm, so the snows of that century just disappear.. 

When you have a home in moderately northern New York, bad or snowy weather is not unexpected. People do stock up on food, and water and they fill their gas-tanks, but generally there is no hysteria.  Having been through a number of storms of the Century, people behave in a more composed and adult manner – and the snow removal people, do know how to remove the snow.  Almost no one thinks they will never ever get out of their houses.

Moving on (almost), in order to avoid being bored, I  made a bread of the Century and a soup of the Century.  I did not declare a state of emergency and close my kitchen.  There is enough food for a month.  I’m just hopeful that my cousins of the Century will be able to come over and pick up the surplus.  Not because they have to trudge through the storm of the Century, but because it’s wet and cold. 

please note: this IS the Challah of the Century

To be honest, I am hopeful that the cold of the Century, will kill all of the pesky bugs and spiders that didn’t die last year, when there was a dearth of storms of the Century. David is presently going through his pictures of the Century and paying our bills of the Century.  There are reports of heavy traffic in the NY tunnels of the  Century and on the highways of the Century.  But it’s Friday at rush hour, and there is always a weekly backup of the Century.

the soup of the Century

While it’s true that I get tired of repeated bad news – like the murder of the Century, or the dumbest congress of the Century – weather is weather and no one needs to hear about it on the news 24/7.  But since there’s no news anymore, just entertainment. When there is any change in anything, all the networks cancel their regular programming and just hope that the winds of the Century will blow hard enough to cause the blackout of the Century, and that there will be a disaster of the Century, which will give them something to talk about tomorrow, when the storm of the Century ends.   We’re just sayin’…. Iris

the Birthday Girl

At 10:24 p.m.  on February 6, 1986, Jordan Kai Burnett made her entrance into our lives. And she was gorgeous.  People always say that about their kids, but this was true. She was born a true diva.  She never had to struggle through a birth canal.  She never had to waste an once of energy on actually getting born.  No, she popped out relaxed and lovely.  Like the announcement of a long awaited musical opening, she established her place on  earth, with the proper amount of fanfare and tremendous expectations.

When we went to the hospital it was raining. The weather in February in Washington was always unpredictable, we were happy that it wasn’t snowing, Since the newborn was the second child, we thought it would be an easy couple-of-hour birth process.  We played Yatzee for a few hours, and nothing was happening.   “Well, we should maybe try to speed this up a bit,” Dr David suggested.  “Sure,” we agreed, “but  I think I need to have a booster of that stuff that numbs you, so you feel nothing but bliss.”  Dr David said he would arrange for that.

Perhaps, you who are thinking,  “What a wuss.”   You should know that when I delivered Seth, my first child, it was an unmedicated natural birth.  Now they call a natural birth anything that isn’t an operation, but this was not the case.  My first labor, which was a back labor, (so no breathing exercises made any difference in controlling the pain), felt like I was being run over with a Mac Truck every thirty seconds.  The doctor asked if I wanted medication and I said, “No,” I simply wanted him to kill me. It was not an experience I wanted to repeat.

Anyway, he gave me a booster of the pain medication and within a couple of minutes I felt the life rushing from my body. Yes, I had some kind of unpredictable reaction.  Luckily, Dr David, who had stayed in the hospital with me the whole day, saw on the monitors that I was in trouble.  He raced into the room, turned me upside down on all fours, and informed me that it was time for the baby to be born.  We agreed, but I asked him to wait for David to get into the operating room before he did the caesarean.

And he made it so. David got into his scrubs and readied himself for the big event. The people who have recounted tales of their births, have said that their deliveries took forever.  Not mine. It was as fast as, “OK we’re going to start… here she comes.” And there she was.  Not smushed, not exhausted, not stressed.  Nope, the diva appeared, rather than was delivered.  By the time she was born (10:24PM), all I wanted was a hot fudge Sundae.  OK, now I know you are not supposed to eat if you have stomach surgery, but all I wanted was a hot fudge sundae.  David will have to tell you the rest of the tale but, he didn’t have enough money to take the car out of the parking lot and all the ice cream joints were closed.  But somehow, he managed to get me a hot fudge Sundae, and even got it comped.

With Jordan in my arms, I devoured that Sundae.  Neither of us could believe that she was so beautiful, but we were not up to looking “a gift horse in the mouth.’  She was a gift from, who knows where, and it was never any different. Now, only 27 years later, we say Happy Birthday to our  amazing baby – you have always been a joy and a wonderful gift,   We’re just sayin’…. Iris

The Man, the Ghost, the Legend

For people who were in love during the 70’s, there was no more important composer/entertainer, than Barry Manilow.  The songs were easy to sing. And every song he sang reminded you about a time or person in your life who made an indelible impact.  Among the songs that was most memorable for me was “Mandy.”  Because it was a song I shared with my 2 year old son. He would find his little portable record player and put it on.  I would listen and weep.  He curled up in my lap and sang along with me and cried.  Neither of us had any idea why we were crying, but he played it over and over until we were both cried out. 

 "the man, the ghost, the legend..."

That being said, last night my lifelong dear friend and I went to a Barry Manilow concert, on Broadway.  It’s at the St. James Theater, a smaller venue.  The producers were so smart. There was never an announcement about recording or taking pictures, because the lighting was such that it was impossible to take a picture where you could actually see the great Mr Manilow.  Along with the picture taking and recording, people know the  words to every song and they sing , while he sings, but louder.  He did invite the audience to join him on a few songs but the woman behind us didn’t need an invitation.  The tickets were expensive. But  you pay the price if you want to hear him sing –which he still does quite well despite the fact that he has had so much surgery  he cannot open his mouth.  I was about to ask this rude woman, with a horrible voice, why she would pay to hear herself sing.  It would have been cheaper (and certainly more pleasant for us) to  buy an album and sing anywhere she wanted – other than at the St. James.  Believe or not, I did not do that.  She was drunk and wanted to have a fight. I had no desire to make her happy.

Most of the audience was well behaved.  Hard to imagine that people wouldn’t behave – it wasn’t a rock concert. They had “we love you” signs, and teary responses to some of what he sang and said. 

Who goes to a Barry Manilow concert?  Not who I expected.  Mostly couples out for a romantic evening, middle aged women, gay guys, and lots and lots of young women who must have sat on their mother’s lap while she cried her memories to sleep.

Every once in a while, this kind of evening serves as a reminder for how important it is to have friends with whom you share memories.  And how full your younger life was,  and your older life continues to be.  We’re just sayin’…. Iris