Déjà Vu All Over Again

All the big movie studios kept stock architectural elements on hand to reconfigure into new structures for different films. Perhaps the best-known example is from Gone With the Wind: the burning of Atlanta is, in fact, the burning of Skull Island from King Kong.

Well, I just spotted another instance of a dream factory being more factory than dream: I’m watching A Place In the Sun (I guess this is also a follow-up post to “An American Tragedy”) and during the lead up to the big, fat close-up of Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift as they’re dancing, they walk past a curving staircase.

Hold on a minute, thought I. That staircase rings a bell. Let’s see. A Place In the Sun… Paramount… 1951. What else was made around that time by that studio? What other movie might have featured a grand, curving staircase?

Altogether now: Sunset Boulevard, naturally.

And in a mere two Google clicks I found the evidence I needed and which I present here. I like to think of Norma Desmond lurking at the top of the stairs and wondering who are all these little people desecrating her mansion.

“Max!”

The Longest Mile

I’ve already written about the Rear Window view from my porch through the alleyway entrance and onto the street. Of the endless parade of tourists and daytrippers, pedicabs and shirtless muscle men (and not-so-muscle men.) But the activity back here in the parking lot itself is not to be dismissed. From the (way too) early morning sorting of the recyclables bins to the periodic gentle thuds as the restaurant workers drop empty cardboard boxes from the second-storey kitchen landing. (The “bombs away!” is implied.)

But the image that has really tickled me over the summer is brought on by the surface of the lot itself; a medium-size gravel. It’s not my beloved Item 4, which eventually compacts into a solid mass. It’s a loose, gray stone roughly the size of Kraft Caramels. It shifts here and there based on the 3-, 4-, 5- and 6-point turns that vehicles must make to facilitate driving forward through the narrow alley rather than having to back precariously into the very busy street.

Sometimes, if I’m not really paying attention, I’m fooled into thinking there’s a light rain falling outside when the gravel is trod upon.

But beginning in the late-afternoon—every day—when I can often be found reading on my porch, I get to witness a lovely and unique procession: The Art House Drag Queens. Many of the acts booked here at The Art House are, in fact, drag acts. For that matter, a good percentage of the shows all over town feature male performers in fabulous female garb. Clearly, it’s one of the things visitors expect when they come to this last town on the Cape.

Since all of us performers have to promote our shows by handing out fliers on the street (“barking” is what we call it) the drag acts have to spend countless extra hours in makeup and costume. God bless ‘em, I say.

So ‘round about 5 o’clock, depending on the lineup that evening, the Ladies start to trickle out from the dressing rooms, which are behind my apartment near the stage door. And this is the part of which I’m so enamored: most of these gals sport precariously high heels for optimum dramatic effect. But high heels + gravel doth not a happy marriage make! So I drop my book to my lap and peer over my (2.00 strength) dollar store reading glasses and watch unseen as the queens traipse across the expanse of gravel to the brick paved sidewalk at the street end of the alley. It’s about 50 feet from the dressing room area to the bricks and depending on the heels (and the confidence of the Ladies) the voyage can be tricky or, well, trickier. I hear them as they march confidently up the concrete ramp from behind the theater and step onto the loose stones.

And at that point the pace slows to a crawl. They focus their gaze on the ground ahead. Weight is shifted from the heels to the balls of their feet. Ankles wobble. Hands are deployed to the side--highwire-like--to achieve balance. Some delicately arc one foot in front of the other like great plumed birds. Others glide their feet mere centimeters above the ground. But no matter their individual techniques, they are all Elizas on the ice crossing the river of gravel to the distant brick-paved shore.

And here is the glorious part: the instant those size 12 slippers hit solid ground, these wary creatures (that up to this moment very distinctly resembled nothing but men wearing dresses) swan out into the street as poised, regal, confident, fabulous Drag Queens.

And all’s right with the world.

Double Your Pleasure

I love a double boiler. The obvious uses for it (melting chocolate, uh... melting chocolate,) are, well, obvious. But it also makes the best oatmeal possible. The oats and water never actually boil and bubble when it cooks. It simply becomes oatmeal. The smoothest, creamiest, most non-scorched oatmeal you've ever had. And, as I've written recently, it cooks and incorporates fruit into the porridge to create a breakfast that very much resembles dessert.

But for my money, the thing a double boiler does best is re-heat. Things with a high liquid content (leftover spaghetti with sauce, say) heat up without drying out. Cooked vegetables stay crisp. Even something like a grilled chicken breast gets hot and actually gets juicier from the process.

Unlike a microwave or a toaster oven, the food reheats evenly and thoroughly. Granted it takes longer than those other methods, but it's definitely worth it if you've got the time.

Today, I had the time. And right now that leftover rigatoni with turkey meatballs and broccoli is looking mighty good.

10 Things Guaranteed to Make Me Happy.

1. The Lady Eve.




2. A visit with the in-laws.




3. “South American Getaway.” (click on album cover to listen.)




4. Re-reading “Comfort & Joy” every December.




5. Frank Lloyd Wright.




6. Audrey Hepburn singing “Moon River.” (click on picture to listen.)





7. Letting “A Confederacy of Dunces” fall open at random and reading whatever chapter it happens to be.




8. Sitting on my deck in the evening with a glass (or two) of ice-cold, bone-dry Chablis.




9. An early morning row.





10.

"Places, please!"

It’s 8:52 PM and I’m about to go on in “The Loose Chanteuse”, the show I’m doing here in Provincetown with Varla Jean Merman. This is one of my favorite times of the day; we’ve finished setting up the stage (our little crew has turned into a well oiled machine), I’ve gotten into my costume and I’m listening for the preshow music which is my cue to wait outside the stage door for my entrance. My apartment is literally six feet away from the wall of the theater and I can hear the music from my front porch. For that matter, I can hear it from here inside, where I am now typing this entry. At this point in the season it’s already dark at curtain time, so if I want to read on the porch I have to turn on the porch light. Sometimes I’ll work on the concertina during these last minutes before the show, but most often I prefer to just sit out on the porch--illuminated only by the Christmas lights I brought from home—and enjoy the cool night air before going on. There are no wings at the theater so the stage door opens directly onto the stage. There’s a single chair parked outside in the alley and that’s where I sit just before going on. Varla shows some (very witty) commercials before the show and there’s a line in one of them that I use as my cue to go through the stage door and onto the stage, pressed up against the wall so I’m hidden from the audience, and wait for my introduction. At the beginning of the season it felt like the audience was clapping for "the piano player," but over the past few weeks, as my own show has become more successful, I’ve started to feel like they’re actually applauding, well, me.

Oops, there's that preshow music. See you onstage!

The Singles

I’m tearing through a terrific new biography of Karen Carpenter, thanks to James Gavin's review in the Times. I was a hu-u-u-u-uge Carpenters fan when I was a kid. Still am. There’s lots of fascinating behind the scenes stuff in it, including recounting individual recording sessions. (They recorded three different versions of "Close To You"? Who knew?) Perhaps the most interesting thing I’ve learned is that the name of the group wasn’t “The Carpenters,” it was simply “Carpenters.” Only took me 40 years to find that out. Of course, knowing the outcome of the story, it’s a poignant read from page 1, but I’m happy to learn that Karen really was as wholesome and unaffected as her public persona.

But that’s not what this post is about.

Each of their albums is gone over in some depth and when I read the chapter about their first compilation album (“The Singles”, released in 1973) I had a flashback to January of '74. Debbie Johnson, who lived on my school bus route, had gotten the album for Christmas. One morning we sat together on the bus and pored over the liner notes. I realized I didn’t need to get “The Singles” because I had all of the songs on their original source albums.

And then it occurred to me: we used to bring record albums to school. We used to bring record albums to school!

To what end? It’s not like we played them in class ever. (Well, except for that stoner guy who somehow got Mr. Berger to let him play “Physical Graffiti” every fucking day during 4th period art.) There was no students’ lounge with a record player. We could only play library records (in their heavy, thick clear vinyl covers) in the library. But I distinctly remember carrying records along with my schoolbooks under my arm throughout the day. Why?

I guess they were like any other prized possession we wanted to show off. And, of course, our music choices defined our personalities, so I guess we were making a passive statement while displaying our record collections, one disc at a time.

That's just a guess. I dunno why we did it. But we did.

Gosh, looking back on how it was in years gone by—and the good times that we had? It makes today seem rather sad. So much has changed.

A Heart of Stone

My friend Jessica once told me her secret of putting the bananas in the oatmeal before cooking it. That way the bananas cook down and incorporate into the oatmeal and the flavor intensifies. I’ve been doing it that way ever since (in the double boiler, natch) but have taken to adding additional goodies beforehand such as strawberries, raisins, walnuts and minced candied ginger. And cinnamon. The strawberries don’t really incorporate like the bananas do, but their flavor does become richer. You don’t even need to add brown sugar or maple syrup. I suppose pretty much any fruit would do and I’ll try just about anything. But not peaches. Peaches are my favorite fruit and when one is lucky enough to find a good juicy one, it must be enjoyed in its raw state. That doesn’t stop me from slicing it up on top of the oatmeal, though. When Johnathan was here I made oatmeal with all of the above-mentioned ingredients, and threw diced raw peaches on top.

It was like dessert for breakfast.





[My view kind of reminds me of "Cannery Row".]

The Sincerest Form of Flattery? Let's Hope That's It.

Should I be looking over my shoulder for “Mad Men” creator Matt Weiner? I mean, he did cast his real-life son in the creepy role of Glen so you do have to wonder about his motives. And while I love having my life and current theatrical endeavor constantly referenced in the show, Sunday’s episode started to make me feel like Bridget Fonda in Single White Female being aped (literally) to death by crazy Jennifer Jason Leigh.

Exhibit 1a: Last season featured an episode where Joan threw a dinner party and was goaded by her husband into whipping out her red accordion to perform “C’est Magnifique.”





Exhibit 1b: My red accordion.




Exhibit 2a: Season 4’s opener saw Don Draper receiving a canned ham from a client.




Exhibit 2b: Do I even have to say it?




Exhibit 3a/b: The “Mad Men Yourself” app on AMC’s website created the image below (L) from their myriad wardrobe/accessory options. For your consideration, here (below, R) is a snapshot taken of me taken about 25 years ago (when I was 3.) Please note, even the angle is the same.




Exhibit 4a: Creepy Glen himself working at the Christmas tree stand where he first hatches the scheme to stalk Sally Draper. Oh, look! What’s that in the background? Could it possibly be a camper? Of the style affectionately nicknamed “canned ham”?




Exhibit 4b: My “canned ham.” Oh, and what a coincidence! I’m standing in front of it playing a red accordion.




Could all this be mere happenstance? I suppose so. Lots of people eat ham and have flat top haircuts and play red accordions in front of campers. I’ll let you judge the preceding. But one moment in Sunday night’s episode really gave me the heebie-jeebies. And that brings us to…

Exhibit 5a: At SCDP’s cringe-inducing Christmas party Joey, the new (and very adorable) art director peeks his head in the doorway while wearing his groovy black-and-rust plaid dinner jacket.




Ladies and gentlemen, I present Exhibit 5b: My groovy black-and-rust plaid dinner jacket hanging in the doorway of my “canned ham” camper with my accordion in view! I’ve owned that jacket for more than 20 years and have worn it onstage many times where anyone (oh, I dunno, maybe Matt Weiner?) could have seen me.




Color me “paranoid” but after seeing that jacket on the show I had to look in my closet just to make sure mine was still there.

OK,, Matt Weiner, I give up: you’re the pretty one. Now please just leave me alone!

Honestly, Girlfriend!

Maureen Dowd yesterday provided me with a follow-up blog entry to my post about her previous column which I called plain old filler. In that column she mentions the recent book about the making of Breakfast at Tiffany's. In her latest column she talks about how the author of said book contacted her after her column and they had an e-mail correspondence re. the sorry state of romantic comedies. most of the column is the book's author's e-mails (the italics are mine.)

Thanks, Maureen, for confirming my suspicion (and thereby giving me a follow-up column as well!)

Will this reflexive/post-modern/meta/mirror-in-a-mirror crap never end?!

Concertgoers

These are some of my new friends here in Provincetown who have listened patiently—and without comment—as I squawk away on the concertina this summer. The wide shot is of the hill where I’ve been sitting, shaded above by the spreading boughs, cushioned below by a bed of pine needles and wheezing contentedly—if clumsily—away on sea shanties that my reclining neighbors might have whistled along to had I but arrived two centuries earlier.

[N.B. I shall be away from the computer for the next two days--therefore there will be no blog entries.]

Soul Sisters

What do Maureen Dowd and I have in common? We’re both filling today’s entries with sorry, half-hearted excuses for a subject just to fill space. In today’s Times, Ms. Dowd pens 1,000 words comparing Holly Golightly to Betty Draper. She throws in generous chunks of quotations from the original Capote novella and recycles quotes from a Vanity Fair interview with the author of a new (and very fun) book about the making of the movie version of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. At one point she even resorts to describing retail window displays in her own neighborhood. It makes one wonder if she trolled the streets of Georgetown early Saturday morning desperate for ideas.

As much as I enjoy reading Maureen Dowd and appreciate her insights and opinions, today’s column is pure filler. Every once in a while her column will reek of that “synergy” thing they trumpeted a decade ago when media conglomerates were swallowing up other entertainment behemoths and cross-pollination ran rampant. Our Maureen sometimes plugs books or movies by people whom one suspects are good buddies. But this column today? I dunno. One can picture her typing away with one eye on the word counter, her breath coming in shallow gasps as it approaches the one-thousand mark.

Shameless! Shocking! How anyone could write a column about nothing just to have something to post is beyond me.