Category Archives: Beauty

January 19, 2012 · 5:09 pm

Picture Paris…

Our good friends Brad Hall and Julia Louis-Dreyfus have made a wonderful short film that will make its debut this weekend at The Santa Barbara International Film Festival.

“Picture Paris” will be shown on Saturday, January 28th at 7:40 pm and Monday, January 30th at 10:10 pm. To watch the trailer, click here.

Click here for tickets.

In “Picture Paris”, Julia plays Ellen Larson, a Southern California suburban mom with an empty nest and a longing for the City of Lights. I won’t give away anything else, except that the film – written and directed by Brad – is shot beautifully, the ensemble acting is pitch perfect, and Julia is better than ever. The music is another great character in the film – and Steve (another good friend) Rashid wrote the original score.

It must also be noted that Mr. Hall took meticulous care to get all the details right – on both sides of the pond. Not only do the locations and street scenes in Paris capture the spirit and romance of that grand European capital – exacting attention was also paid to Ellen’s house in Southern California. In fact, after a vast and exhausting search to find the perfect suburban home, Brad and Julia used our house in Woodland Hills. They shot for a week at our domicile this past June while Victoria and I were in Chicago doing “The Vic & Paul Show” at the Prop Theatre with Steve (there’s that name again) Rashid.

See “Picture Paris” soon, if you can. If you can’t get to Santa Barbara next weekend – hopefully Brad & Julia’s charming, funny (and surprising) opus will soon be coming to a film festival near you. Meanwhile, check out the “Picture Paris” blog here.  Adieu, mon ami!

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November 19, 2011 · 1:47 pm

Don’t Miss Larry’s Concerto!

Don’t miss the broadcast of Larry Schanker’s first piano concerto on radio station WAUS this Sunday, November 20th at 6:00 PM Michigan time.

Photo credit: All photos of the Southwest Michigan Symphony Orchestra by Alden J. Ho Photography.

I am delighted to announce that our good friend, the amazingly talented pianist and composer, Larry Schanker, has performed his first piano concerto — Concerto for Jazz Piano — with the Southwest Michigan Symphony Orchestra. Better yet, we’ll all get a chance to listen to it on Sunday November 20th – by clicking this link at 6:00 PM Michigan time.

http://www.andrews.edu/WAUS/listen.html

Larry was the Practical Theatre Company’s first musical director, and played keys for our comedy revues at the Piper’s Alley Theatre: The Golden Jubiliee, Megafun and Babalooney (with Rockin’ Ronny Crawford hitting the skins.) Larry also worked with us on the development of our musical, “Rock Me!” for the Columbia College New Musical project in 1988. He’s also a lifetime member of Riffmaster & The Rockme Foundation.

But Larry is also one of those longhair serious classical artists — and he’s been busy in the past year writing his first piano concerto, preparing the orchestral parts over the summer, and, as he says, “practicing more than I have in many years to make sure I could play the darned thing.”

On Sunday, Larry’s performance with the Southwest Michigan Symphony Orchestra will be broadcast on a local Michigan university radio station, WAUS. Larry says it may only be accessible in real time.

Techincal note: Mac users will need an updated version of Flip4Mac, the program that enables Quicktime to read Windows Media Player files.

Here’s a link to the concert program and program notes.

http://www.smso.org/Concerts/Mendel2.html

Larry’s on the bill with some guys named Aaron Copland and Dvorak.

So, tune in to Larry’s concerto Sunday evening and get a taste of the talent that so many of his friend have marveled at over the years.

Congratulations, maestro Schanker!

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October 13, 2011 · 9:05 pm

Monk’s Musical Advice…

Our band’s lead guitarist, Riffmaster Peter Van Wagner, a stellar musician in his own right, sent me these two wonderful photos (see below). Pete said, “A buddy of mine sent this to me, so I’m passing it on.”

And I’m glad he did.

The photos capture two pages of notes on which jazz saxophone player Steve Lacy outlined the advice he got from the great jazz man, Thelonious Monk.

Lacy played with Monk in the late 50’s and early 60’s.  The notes speak for themselves. It’s impossible to imagine more perfectly profound musical wisdom crammed into two small pages.

If you’re intrigued by Steve Lacy’s notes on Monk’s musical advice, check out this great blog article for more information on this wonderful document.

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September 18, 2011 · 6:55 pm

Is this John Lennon’s long lost cousin?

I’ve been in Evanston, Illinois this weekend (or was it Liverpool?), and I ran into a fellow who purports to be John Lennon’s cousin, Lon Lennon. (See photo above.)

The guy is the right age. Older than me. Plus, he has as uncanny knowledge of rock and roll trivia, especially The Beatles, all the British Invasion bands, and (oddly enough for an Englishman) The Beach Boys.

One thing though: I’ve seen him play a ukulele. However, I’ve seen Paul McCartney play a ukulele.

And I know George Harrison was a ukulele player.

So, he might actually be a legitimate Beatle cousin.

Somehow, I don’t think we’ve heard the last (have we even heard the first?) of Lon Lennon.

Did Lon introduce John to the ukulele? Or was it the other way around? I should have asked Lon when I had the chance.

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September 12, 2011 · 12:50 am

You CAN Go Home Again.

In his 1940 novel, You Can’t Go Home Again, Thomas Wolfe’s protagonist, George Webber, is an author who writes a book about his hometown – and winds up pissing off his old hometown peeps to the point where he gets death threats. In the novel, Webber comes to the realization that, “You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood … back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame … back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.”

Over the years, the phrase “You can’t go home again” has entered the popular vernacular, representing the notion that once you move away from the place of your birth – especially to a bigger city — it’s impossible to return to your old stomping grounds and find satisfaction. Your fond, gauzy memories of the past will be disappointed by what you find upon your return.

Well, if Thomas Wolfe had come along with me on my trip back to Cleveland, Ohio this summer, he might have re-written his famous novel. You can go home again. At least you can go home to Cleveland.

I had two good reasons to return to Cleveland this past August. First, it was time to spend some quality time with my mother and sister – who still live in the same West Side neighborhood that I grew up in. Second, my high school, Cleveland Central Catholic, was hosting an alumni event, culminating in a football game on our brand new football field. (We never had our own home field when I toiled on the gridiron for CCC.) It was a happy confluence of events: a chance to see old friends and family.

The first impression I got as I drove my rental car into my old neighborhood on Cleveland’s West Side was that the ‘hood had seen better days.

In my youth “Old Brooklyn” was always a working class neighborhood – but that was at a time in the early 60’s to mid 70’s when the working class was more upwardly mobile. The sons and daughters of increasingly unionized factory employees, union steel workers and public school teachers were going to college in record numbers. And I was one of them.

I’ll spare us all the rest of my socio-economic rant. Suffice to say that, like all the big, brawny Rust Belt manufacturing cities that flourished for a hundred years on the Great Lakes, Cleveland has struggled economically in the post Free Trade economy.

But while it may no longer claim to be “The Best Location in the Nation” – or the largest city in Ohio (the former state capitol backwater, Columbus, now holds that title) — my hometown is a proud old metropolis with strong cultural institutions, from the Cleveland Orchestra to The Cleveland Playhouse, The Cleveland Clinic and it’s beloved Browns and Indians, long-suffering sports franchises with storied histories of heartbreak and glory. It’s the city of Bob Feller and Jim Brown.

‘Nuff said.

The neighborhood I grew up in from first grade until I went away to college is on the West Side near the Cleveland Zoo. My mom’s house is just a block away from the intersection of Pearl Road and State, near the bus barns. (When I was a kid, on a hot day in late summer, the old streetcar tracks could still be seen peeking through the receding asphalt, fanning out from the bus barns.)

A while ago, folks in my old neighborhood were given the choice of keeping their red brick streets or having them paved with asphalt. My mom’s block voted to keep their bricks. It was good call. Cleveland winters are hell on blacktop. Plus, the brick street gives my mom’s block character. Those bricks were unforgiving when you wiped out on your bike or during games of street hockey and “kick the can” – but they sure look good. Still do.

I took a walk around the neighborhood, down my own Spokane Avenue and along my old paper route on adjacent Henritze Ave. (Oh yeah, remember when ambitious kids could earn some cash and gain experience as young entrepreneurs by delivering the daily newspapers? Don’t get me started.)

My solitary ramble through this familiar landscape was revelatory. All along my street, and on my old paper route, I saw tidy, well-maintained, middle class homes interspersed with properties that had clearly seen better days. Yet, throughout the neighborhood, I saw people painting their houses and working on their landscaping. I also saw something you don’t see much of in my suburban neighborhood in Woodland Hills, California: porch life. People sitting on their porches and front steps, chatting with neighbors and watching the world go by. And, in this case, one strange, expatriate wanderer.

But at the corner of Henritze and West 41st St., I came face to face with a clear and undeniable sign of my neighborhood’s decline: a grassy empty lot that was once Memphis Elementary School. In my day, Memphis School was a vital center of activity in the neighborhood. I never went to school there, but I swung on its swing sets, took advantage of its summer youth programs, and played “strikeouts” against boxes drawn on its walls. And yes, I also learned to avoid the unsavory elements of “The Memphis Gang”. Now, all those childhood memories have been reduced to a patch of lawn.

When we first moved to Spokane Avenue in the early 60’s, huge, majestic elm trees on each “tree lawn” dominated the far end of our block – their branches reaching across the street to embrace each other. Riding down the street to Scott Tyndall’s house was like entering the forest primeval. Our end of the block had no trees. I remember when the city planted a little maple tree sapling in front of our house.

By the time I began high school, the ravages of Dutch Elm Disease had claimed the big trees down the block – and today, more than three decades later, our little Maple trees now dominate Spokane Avenue. And the tree in front of my house is one of the biggest on the street.

Ah, my house. I love this house. My family moved here in 1964 (or was it ’65?). I thought we’d moved into a mansion. Built in 1910, as was much of the housing stock in the neighborhood, it’s a 3-story, 1,366 square foot modest Victorian masterpiece – and it served our family of five very, very well. My mom still lives in this house, and she’s done a great job of fixing it up. Adding a bathroom downstairs was brilliant! Renovating the bathroom upstairs was also a great idea.

And leaving my old second floor bedroom untouched is all right with me.

Seeing it now, it’s hard to imagine all the things we did in my backyard.

It looks so small now – but, back in the day, my pals and I found plenty of room to play football (complete with NFL Films-style dramatic self-narration), recreate scenes from “Combat” and “Lost in Space”, play games like “Red Rover” and “Kick the Can” – and compete in our version of “Home Run Derby.”

“Home Run Derby” was played with a Wiffle ball. Teams were usually 2 versus 2 — or 3 against 3. The batter stood at home plate facing the back of the house. The pitcher threw the plastic ball – and the batter did his best to loft it onto the second floor porch (a home run) – or onto the roof (also a home run). However, if the ball was hit onto the roof, the fielders had a chance to catch the ball as it rolled off the roof. If they did, the batter was out. Batted balls that hit the house below the second floor were singles. Balls that hit the second floor were doubles. Balls that smacked against the third floor were triples. In every case, if the fielders managed to catch the ball as it rebounded off the wall – the batter was out.

We played “Home Run Derby” for hours. We broke a lot of windows, too.

That evening, I drove my rental car north to meet some of my high school teachers and friends at Sokolowski’s University Inn, a Tremont area institution that sits on the western rim of The Flats – the industrial flatland through which the Cuyahoga River winds to Lake Erie.

Across The Flats, in downtown Cleveland, The Jake was hosting a Cleveland Indians game.

Now, I know that a big insurance company purchased the “naming rights” to Jacobs Field — but I’ll start calling that great ballpark “Progressive Field” about the same time I refer to Sears Tower in Chicago as “Willis Tower”.  Which is never.

And speaking of “You can’t go home again” – tell that to former Cleveland Indians star and future Hall of Famer Jim Thome, one of eight Major League ballplayers to hit more than 600 career home runs. On the same weekend that I was returning to my hometown, Jim Thome was at The Jake playing his first game in a Cleveland uniform since the dark day in 2002 when he accepted a six-year $85 million offer from the Philadelphia Phillies.

The CCC welcoming committee in front of Sokolowski's. (Photo by Allen Clark)

As Cleveland’s baseball fans warmly welcomed Thome back to town, so too did the Cleveland Central Catholic community gathered at Sokolowski’s welcome the prodigal son who left in 1976 to go to Chicago and attend Northwestern University.

Among the hometown heroes I reconnected with that night were my former Social Studies teacher, the ageless Elda Borroni, my former Art teacher and beloved mentor, Ellen Howard (Ellen Fasko in those days), and my classmate and quirky, creative buddy, Dancin’ Dave Wicinski.

Me and Dancin' Dave, one of my best CCC buddies & a classic character. (Photo by Ellen Howard)

With Elda Borroni, a teacher who challenged me politically and intellectually -- and still does. (Photo by Allen Clark)

With Ellen Howard: my Art teacher, Yearbook advisor, mentor and lifelong friend. If you only have a few teachers like Ellen in your high school years -- you're damn lucky. (Photo by Allen Clark)

The next day, I brought my mother Mary and sister Nancy to the East Side campus of Cleveland Central Catholic for a back-to-school event for alumni – and a football game at my alma mater’s brand new football field. Before the game, we took a tour of the Forman campus (the former St. Stan’s High School) where I’d spent so much time during my high school years, especially at football practice and in the basement where the Art Department was housed.

I was thrilled to see some of the school calendars I helped create have been preserved and installed in the Art Department hallway. (Note the "Music Man" poster. I was Prof. Harold Hill in that production.)

I played football at CCC for four years as an enthusiastic but seriously undersized defensive back and running back. By senior year I was a starting cornerback – and the smallest player on the field in every game I played. And in all those years, we never had our own football field. Our varsity home games were played at Garfield High.

Now, thanks to the generosity and community-minded spirit of the Stefanski family and other CCC alumni donors, we have a splendid new stadium that has helped to rejuvenate a downtrodden, once-proud neighborhood. It’s truly amazing. It’s clear to see that Friday Night lights will be a big deal at CCC.

Check out the following game photos by Central Catholic’s talented official photographer, Allen Clark.

The Cleveland Central Catholic Ironmen won the game, too!

The new football field has truly transformed the whole neighborhood. (Photo by Allen Clark)

Over the course of the weekend I got to reconnect with my wrestling coach and all-time inspirational hero, Joel Solomon, his younger brother (and my football and wrestling teammate) John Solomon — and Martha Benek, the girl who played Marian the Librarian opposite my fast-talking charlatan, Harold Hill in “The Music Man”. Amazingly enough, Martha is now the librarian at CCC! (I have not, however, been selling marching band instruments from town to town.)

Harold Hill (Paul) and Marian the Librarian (Martha). She's really a librarian!

On Sunday, I drove out to Twinsburg, Ohio to spend a delightful afternoon with my former Scranton campus principal, George Costa — and his wonderful and witty wife, my high-spirited high school theatre director, Mary Ann Zampino.

George was the coolest principal you can possibly imagine – and “Zamp” cast me as Marryin’ Sam in “Li’l Abner” and honored me with the title role in “The Music Man”.  She was also the person with whom I performed in my first comedy revue.

How can you ever say “thank you” to such people? The only way is to see them more often — and share more than just memories.

It was an awesome three days in August spent with wonderful people in the Best Location in the Nation.

You can go home again.

And you should.

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June 19, 2011 · 11:30 pm

A Retro Romance…

The 19th century was a more romantic time. Long before e-mail and text messaging, in the era of Jane Austen, relationships developed slowly, in the fullness of time…

Dear Reginald,

I was very happy to see you last spring at high tea in honor of our grandmother’s birthday.  It is always wonderful to share your company, dearest cousin, and you may remember that on that occasion you were in the company of a certain gentleman, Roland Masterton, who impressed me greatly with his wit, good manners, and dignified carriage. Of course, we spoke not a word to one another, and yet I do believe we shared a glance. And if I may be so bold, I dared to believe that our glance, shared in a fraction of an instant as mother poured his tea, contained the unmistakable glimmer of mutual interest.

Dearest cousin, it would give me joy greater than you could imagine if you might arrange some undertaking in which I might have an opportunity to share a moment’s parlance with Mr. Masterton. I ask this in the greatest confidence, knowing that you would never betray my trust by sharing this disclosure without my approval. Let me know by return post if I have overstepped the bonds of friendship and family in making such a bold request. Dare I dream that Mr. Masterton and I may one day take tea together?

I remain, trusting in your discretion and friendship, your most humble, faithful and obedient cousin,

Elizabeth Cuddleton

My great and good friend Reggie,

It was with great pleasure that I recall an evening perhaps six months ago when I attended a birthday celebration for that great antique lady, your grandmother. It was a stately affair and a quite congenial assemblage of company. I would like to inquire further concerning one of your relatives who made a distinct impression upon me that evening. I believe I shared a glance with your cousin, Elizabeth. She cut a most elegant figure, although I did not presume to dance with her, or to speak with her directly, as I was not certain if my advances would be welcomed by her or by your esteemed family, whom I have taken to my bosom as my own.

Would it be possible for you to arrange some circumstance in which I might one more be given the privilege of Elizabeth’s company? I propose this only to you, Reginald, and would not presume upon our friendship but I know that you will keep this in deepest confidence.  Of course, if I have trespassed upon your trust by proposing this to you, let me know and I will speak no more of it.

The matter will be entirely closed between us, as I will forever remain your most faithful and humble friend and servant,

Roland Masterton.

Dear Reginald,

You simply cannot imagine my delight in receiving an invitation from you this afternoon – a mere two months since last I wrote.  A picnic on the lawn at Pemberley!  I am delighted to accept dearest cousin and, although it is three months hence, I shall think of it as twelve short weeks ‘til then. I have already begun the embroidery on a thank-you pillowcase that I will present to you at Pemberley!

In the interim, please rest assured that Aunt Miranda and I will bake some delights for the occasion. Could you by some stratagem ascertain whether Mr. Masterton enjoys sugar cookies? Or might he prefer pie? And if so, what flavor pie would be preferred? I apologize for being so forward, but a proper pie of the appropriate flavor is always a picnic favorite. If sugar cookies are desired, our family recipe awaits.  Aunt Miranda and will put our heads together to determine the proper recipes for the day.  Please answer me by return post, as I am desirous of getting these important preparations underway within the month.

I remain, forever, your most affectionate,

Lizzie.

Reggie!

Thank you so very much for the wonderful picnic at Pemberley last week. What a marvelous day, my dearest friend! It was a particular delight to meet so many of your friends and family. Of course, I fervently hope to have made an impression upon your cousin, the incomparable Elizabeth!

Shall I describe in detail the way the sun fell upon her magnificent brown locks that day, as we feasted upon her magnificent sugar cookies. How could she have known that sugar cookies are my most favorite dessert? When Eliza’s cookies were presented, I confess I blushed to the root — and this most unseemly from a man of 24. My passion shames, me dearest Reginald.

Of course, your Aunt Miranda came swiftly between us, but before our parting, your cousin and I shared a most promising exchange. Addressing me directly, she inquired if I would like a sugar cookie. To which I replied, “Yes, I would, indeed.”  Aunt Miranda then intervened and yet, in that moment, I detected a mutual bond of like-minded souls, sharing a moment of peace amidst the chaos of modern life. My only regret is that, unlike a flower, when pressing a sugar cookie into a book, the result is most unsatisfying. I was unable to consume the entire cookie for fear of losing that part of Elizabeth which is all I have.

But, enough talk of treasured baked goods. Please tell me what you can of your cousin’s feelings. Is there a possibility that she (and her zealous chaperone Aunt Miranda, of course) might accept my invitation to attend a cricket match at Ashwood in three months?

Rather hoping to impress Eliza with my skill as a batsman, I remain, evermore, your passionate and obedient servant,

Roland Masterton

Dear Reginald,

I write in a fit of nervous passion to share with you the burdens of my heart.

Last month, as you know, Aunt Miranda and I attended Mr. Masterton’s cricket match at Ashwood. She has scolded me repeatedly since then for an unfortunate event which occurred late in the match, when, quite unexpectedly, Mr. Masterton, exhausted from his manly exertions on the pitch, sat with me for but a moment, at which time I offered him my handkerchief to wipe his brow.

I did not mean to be so forward, although I must confess, I devoutly wished him to take it. Father and mother, enraged by Aunt Miranda’s account of this foolish affair, consider my impulsive behavior an affront to family honor, and I am now heartily sorry for my emotional recklessness.

While I admit that I desired Mr. Masterton to accept my kerchief as an innocent token of fond friendship, I have no desire to be assigned to that low class of woman whom we both abhor.

Please visit us at once Reginald. I am sick at heart. Please bring me the comfort that only a cousin’s reassurance can bring.

I remain your most affectionate cousin,

Elizabeth

Dearest friend Reginald,

I fear that something dark has come between us. I have not heard from you for three months since the cricket match at Ashwood. I hope you did not think it beastly of me to step off the cricket pitch and pass a moment with your cousin in such a base and sweaty state. The angel Elizabeth offered me her handkerchief, which I impulsively took as a token, feigning the part of a medieval knight tilting at tournament. I shall keep her kerchief about me always with the remnants of the sugar cookie she presented to me at our second meeting: a shrine to her perfect memory.

I can only hope that, by my well-intentioned yet perhaps too brazen public acceptance of Eliza’s token, I have not scandalized your family in some way. Please, alleviate the pain of my heart and let me know posthaste whether I am still welcome in your circle. I fear that if I cannot see Elizabeth again, I know not what I shall do.

Your nearly despairing friend and servant,

Roland Masterton

Dear Reginald,

Imagine my surprise this morning when a servant delivered the enclosed card from Mr. Masterton.  A fine card it is, do you not agree?  I share it only under the absolute condition that you return it to me by return post.  My servant will wait for it.

Mr. Masterton has asked my permission to allow him to greet me after church next month. This comes a mere four months after his cricket match at Ashwood where I was, I am certain, too forward in offering him my handkerchief. How shall I respond to his request? I am inclined to allow such a meeting – properly chaperoned, of course. But am I progressing too rapidly? Too boldly?

Dear friend Reginald,

Failing to hear from you, I fear I have committed a most hasty and perhaps desperate act. I ordered my servant to present your angelic cousin with my card, proposing a direct meeting with her after church in two Sundays. Am I too rash? Is this proper? My fervent longing for the company of your cousin is beyond my power to deny or conceal. You must write to me with good counsel within the fortnight, friend. It is urgent.

Dear Reginald,

Has Mr. Masterton gone mad? After church this morning, he appeared before Aunt Miranda and I, requesting a private audience with me. He was disheveled in appearance and quite antic in his manner. What can he be thinking? Aunt Miranda was scandalized and escorted me to our carriage immediately. Is Mr. Masterton quite well? I really do wonder at his behavior today, although I must confess, he did look quite handsome despite his wild and agitated state. I flatter myself to think that I have moved him to such an extreme.

I beg you to send Mr. Masteron the tea cookies that I have packaged with this letter. I am told they are good medicine for colic. Please send me more news of Mr. Masterton by return post.

My dear friend Reginald,

I write to you from the bow of a great ship, as I sail to India with a heavy heart. I will remain on the sub-continent for several years, searching my lost soul for the reason why I approached your lovely cousin without an escort after church two weeks ago. I am at a loss as to why I confronted her in such a heedless and unbridled manner.

I cannot imagine that my darling, sweet Elizabeth could find it within her sweet soul to forgive me for being such an impetuous fool. I can only say that it was my passion for her that possessed me at that moment, driving away all reason and propriety.  It is, indeed, a weakness with me that I sometimes act from my heart and not my head; but rest assured that my feelings and intentions with respect to your lovely and divine cousin are of the purest and most honorable stuff, as befits a lady of her station, breeding and beauty, inward and outward.

Why, oh why, did I behave in such a rash and heedless manner? That such behavior should have been on display in a place of worship, I am profoundly ashamed.  In penance for my impetuosity, I have taken a position with a pious missionary, the very Reverend Thomas Jacob Dimplethorpe, who, while we labor together among the impoverished heathen in India, will attempt to purify me, and make me, once again, worthy of numbering myself among your divine cousin’s suitors.

Until my spiritual renewal is attained, I remain your most humble, and faithful servant,

Roland Masterton

Dear Reginald,

I write to inform you of some very troublesome circumstances concerning your cousin Elizabeth, who has, apparently, not eaten in the last two weeks.

Elizabeth has taken to bed with the vapors, increasingly weak and apparently unable to speak or describe what ails her, although I surmise that her fading condition is the handiwork of that imbecile Masterton fellow, whom I chased away after his abominably boorish behavior after church last month. Has the man no breeding at all? Fie on him!

Now, I have learned that this dimwit Masterton has sailed off to India with that egregious charlatan Dimplethorpe to attend to some savages. Off to India? I fear for that blasted corner of our noble Empire with Masterton and Dimplethorpe in cahoots.

You have truly bungled this situation, Reginald. And now, poor Lizzie is wasting away as I write.  If we are unable to fetch this moronic Masterton fellow within the year, I truly fear for Eliza’s wellbeing. Fix this, Reginald. Do what you must, but do not compromise your dear, suffering cousin by disclosing to Masterton the source of her anxiety.

Your long suffering Aunt Miranda

Dear Miss Cuddleton,

I have spent, as you know, the past year on the Indian subcontinent, where I have done my best with the reverend Dimplethorpe to alleviate what suffering I have seen. I have taken this duty upon myself in penance for my heedless and precipitous behavior at church and at cricket so long ago.

My tenure here will be resolved in another year. I pray that you will honor me with the privilege of an audience upon my return. I do not dare to hope that I am deserving of your company, but I devoutly wish to share a word or two with you, and upon bended knee, make my most humble apologizes.

Your most humble, penitent and contrite suitor,

Roland Masterton

Dear Reginald,

I have received a most troubling letter from our mutual friend, Roland Masterton. He appears to have gone off to India out of a misplaced notion that he has in some way offended me. Where did he get this idea? Was it from you dear cousin? Or is this some mischief on the part of our Aunt Miranda?

Please reassure Mr. Masteron that, while his behavior toward me has been admittedly, and dare I say flatteringly, impulsive at times, I am inclined to forgive him for his lapses of etiquette at cricket and after church two years ago. I only wish now that Aunt Miranda had not come so hastily to the defense of my honor, and that I had taken a moment to hear what Mr. Masteron had come to church service to tell me. He has certainly redeemed himself in selfless devotion to his missionary work with the Reverent Dimplethorpe, whom Aunt Miranda also despises, despite his sterling reputation among the more devout in our congregation.

I am wasting away, Reginald. You must appeal to Mr. Masterton and speed his return to London. It is most urgent. I must see him within 5 years!

Fairest Elizabeth,

I sail home within the decade! In the meantime, I continue to keep a treasured talisman at my breast: your sacred sugar cookie.

Dearest Reginald,

I am joyous at the prospect of Mr. Masterton’s return from his long journeys.

3 years! How time flies!

Alas Reginald,

Our ship did founder as we rounded the Cape of Good Hope, and I shall not be home for many months.

Until then, I must suffer the low company of gypsies and pirates. Pray, give me news of Lizzie, or, between you and me, my friend, I shall drain the rum from every tavern on the Cape and forget myself in the bosom of a naked savage.

Please deliver my enclosed note to Elizabeth personally.

Reginald!

Your bumbling servant arrived very early this morning, confused and juggling two envelopes from Mr. Masterton — and unable to remember which of the two was for me.  Alas, I opened a message clearly meant for you. I do not believe that Mr. Masterton intended me to read of his intentions to drink Cape Town dry of rum! Or to fornicate with the local savages!

What fever could have possessed him to describe his intentions in these brutish terms? I will take to bed until you can explain to me what has possessed Mr. Masterton to scribble such low thoughts either to you — or to me! I am most disappointed and grievously compromised.

Elizabeth.

Dear God, Reggie!

Your servant has tragically bungled the delivery of my missive to your cousin. She has clearly received the wrong letter. And now, I am mortified to learn that my angel Elizabeth regards me as nothing more than a worthless, philandering rum sot!

That you would entrust such a sacred task to a nincompoop is an affront I cannot bear. I have no choice but to challenge you, Reginald, to a duel.

I am sure that you will give me satisfaction on the Ashwood cricket pitch at daybreak next Tuesday.

Reginald!

What can you be thinking to fight a duel with poor Mr. Masterton? It is most ungracious to welcome home a man who has been saving heathen souls in India by dueling with him.

I have dispatched letters to Mr. Masterton via my servant that shall be waiting for him at the docks upon his return. I hope he is not too diminished by his wanton consumption of rum, which was, no doubt aggravated by your brutish handling of our delicate correspondence.

Never write to me again.

Dearest Elizabeth,

I write to you as I lie upon the field of honor. Reginald’s shot was swift. His aim was true. It struck me in the heart.

Reginald’s bullet would surely have been my doom, had I not kept at my breast these past four years your fossilized sugar cookie. I send it now to you as a token – with Reggie’s bullet still lodged within! You have saved my life, Elizabeth. Fly to me my dearest and we shall be wed!

Dear Roland,

Let us not be hasty, my love.

It was joyous to see you looking so well at Reginald’s funeral two weeks ago, though propriety would not allow us to share more than a glance on that unhappy occasion. You did, after all, kill my cousin.

I look forward to our reunion after a suitable mourning period of 5 years. ‘Tis but a moment ‘til then.

And now, that same relationship as it might play out today…

LIZZIE:     Hey, Reg. Great party. Hot guy.

ROLAND:     Yo, Reggie! Who’s the hottie? Great boobs.

LIZZIE:     Tweeted me. I’m sexting.

ROLAND:     Her pics are hot. Asked her to chill. Possible BJ.

LIZZIE:     Googled him.  Loser.

ROLAND:     She flaked.

LIZZIE:     Sucks!

ROLAND:     What a waste…

LIZZIE & ROLAND:     Of an entire hour!

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May 6, 2011 · 11:03 am

Quackery in the Backyard

First it was this guy. He appeared about a month ago, swimming in our saltwater pool, looking very picturesque: obviously a male duck (known as a drake) – and clearly a Mallard. Mallards are, after all, the most common wild duck in the U.S.

My wife and daughters and I were delighted to see him – and, as with all our pets, we christened him with a Shakespearean name, Shylock.

We were pleasantly surprised when Shylock kept returning to our pool. There were no fish in our pool, no minnows, no water plants, no edible fauna or flora of any kind (thanks to our pool men) – so clearly, Shylock was just passing through.

Neighbors and other pool-owning veterans warned us that ducks would make a mess of our pool, clogging the filters and fouling the bottom. But I figured, how much damage can one duck do?

Then, a couple weeks later, she showed up.

She was obviously a female (known as a hen)– and thus was dubbed Lady MacDuck.

From our hasty research, we learned that Mallards usually begin their migration back from Mexico and points south to their northern breeding grounds in March and April. So Shylock and Lady MacDuck were right on time.

But where would they choose for their breeding ground? Surely, our backyard pool — a lifeless saltwater pond – held no permanent attraction for a pair of mating Mallards?

Then, two days ago, we looked in the backyard and saw this…

Lady MacDuck was proudly leading a squadron of twelve newborn ducklings around our pool. (Ducklings are precocial — capable of swimming as soon as they hatch.) Their nest, it turns out, was hidden in the landscaping next to the pool.

The dozen ducklings have also acquired names, all from The Scottish Play: Malcolm, Duncan, Macduff, Donalbain, Lennox, Ross, Banquo, Macdonwald, Fleance, Lady Macduff, Lady Macbeth and Cawdor. (Though I can’t tell one from the other at this point.)

The current breeding population of Mallard ducks is estimated to be almost 10 million. 14 of them are now living in and around our pool. But for how long? We clearly can’t run them out. They’re too damn cute. (We’ll have to keep a wary eye on our killer cat, Caliban.)

From what I’ve read, the ducklings will be ready to fly in about two months (50–60 days to fledgling). Though, before I left for work today I looked around the backyard and didn’t see them. Which isn’t too alarming. Heck, I missed the whole 28-day egg laying, nesting and hatching process – and it was going on right under my nose!

I’ve also read that female ducks tend to breed near the place they were hatched — or near a previous breeding site. If so, unless I missed all the previous backyard duck breeding action in past years, Lady MacDuck is an oddball. But, for now, she’s our oddball.

And her dozen ducklings are just about the cutest little cruisers you can imagine.

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December 26, 2010 · 11:04 pm

Farewell, Maria…

My darling mother-in-law, the witty, beguiling and wonderful Mary Zielinski, passed away early on the morning of December 26th at the age of 88.  Mary is one of the Greatest Generation – a woman born to immigrant Greek parents who overcame the Great Depression, graduated from college, established herself as a professional woman in the late 1940’s, married a doctor serving in Patton’s Army, lived in post-war Europe during the Occupation, and returned to the Southside of Chicago to raise her family.

Mary & Victor, Young and Fabulous.

I am eternally grateful that Mary and her late husband, the brilliant, passionate and challenging Victor Zielinski, welcomed me into their family and allowed me to share in their rich family traditions, including the rituals of the Greek Orthodox Church, their neighborhood of Beverly, and the fellowship of their “pareia.”

I’m a lucky man, indeed, to have had the good fortune of being Mary Zielinski’s son-in-law.

For those of you who knew Mary, here is the obituary that will appear in The Chicago Tribune on Monday and Tuesday, December 27 and 28, 2010.

ZIELINSKI

Mary Zielinski (nee Kamberos)  beloved wife of the late Victor.

Loving mother of John, Christine (Jon) Noffsinger, Victoria (Paul) Barrosse and Anne (Keith) Schaible.

Cherished grandmother of Matthew, Michael and Peter Schaible, Maura Murphy-Barrosse, Emilia and Evangeline Barrosse, and Rebecca and Zachary Noffsinger.

Dear sister of the late Helen (the late Ken) Cooney, Mary D. (the late Constantine) Kamberos, Irene (the late Emil) Simich and Constance Kamberos.

Mary was a loving aunt, great aunt and friend to many.

The family will receive friends on Tuesday evening from 6:00pm to 9:00pm at the Brady Gill Funeral Home (Heeney-Laughlin Directors) 2929 W. 87th St. Evergreen Park. Trisagion Service at 7pm. 708-636-5500

Funeral Service Wednesday 10am at St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church 10301 S. Kolmar Ave. Oak Lawn, IL 60453.

Interment Evergreen Cemetery.

In lieu of flowers, memorials to St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Endowment Fund are most appreciated.

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October 10, 2010 · 10:48 pm

“The Vic & Paul Show” DVD

“The Vic & Paul Show” experience is now available on DVD, in classic early 1960’s black & white.  The entire show, from musical director Steve Rashid’s elegant and jazzy introduction to the passionate show-closing love tango between Antonin Scalia and Sonia Sotomayor can be yours for just $5.00. (Basically the cost of production and delivery.)

Host your own “Vic & Paul Show” house party this holiday season – or stuff someone’s Christmas stocking with more than an hour of music, merriment, and comic mayhem — written and performed in June 2010 at the Push Lounge in Woodland Hills, California by Paul Barrosse, Victoria Zielinski and Steve Rashid.

TO ORDER YOUR DVD, PLEASE REPLY WITH YOUR NAME, NUMBER OF DVDs, AND MAILING ADDRESS TO THIS POST. (Send your check after you get your DVDs!)

Allow a week or two for delivery.

“The Vic & Paul Show” was captured on camera by Robert “Robby Gandhi” Mendel, Rockin’ Ronny Crawford and Daniel “Yamo” Rashid — edited by Paul Barrosse.

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September 20, 2010 · 10:56 pm

The Wondrous Watts Towers

I’ve wanted to see the celebrated Watts Towers for a very long time.

Finally, after seeing the urban folk art mosaics of Isaiah Zagar in Philadelphia this year and, shortly after that, reading my friend Sally Nemeth’s blog post on her own visit to the Watts Towers – I was determined to go to Watts and explore this singular work of art for myself. So on Sunday, September 19, 2010, Victoria and I headed south down the 405 freeway, then east on the 105, bound for the Watts Towers.

I remember first becoming aware of the Watts Towers as a kid when I saw them on an episode of Dragnet. At least I had that image of seeing the towers on Dragnet lodged deep in my mind. In doing a little research for this post, I learned that this memory of mine is about 40-years old, as the Watts Towers did in fact appear on a Dragnet ’69 Season 3 episode called “Management Services.” So, it wasn’t just my imagination.

The Watts Towers are Simon Rodia’s imagination. Writ large. Very large.

It took less than an hour to get from my house in Woodland Hills to the tough, working class Watts neighborhood where Italian immigrant Simon Rodia lived and worked – and built his incredible, deeply-personal, monumental masterpiece with his own gnarled hands.

Rodia bought his lot on 107th Street in 1921, and for 34 years, he crafted his elaborate towers all by himself. Rodia didn’t use machines or scaffolding or bolts or welds. He used simple hand tools. Rodia didn’t even work out his complex designs on paper. His wondrous creations of concrete, steel, glass and ceramic odds and ends sprang day-by-day, year-by-year, out of his head.

Simon Rodia once said, “I had it in mind to do something big and I did it.”

Yeah, he sure did.

Somehow, this hard-working immigrant laborer and tile setter, with very little money, managed in his spare time to create an artwork that has become for the humble community of Watts what the grand work of the great Antoni Gaudí is to Barcelona, Spain: a source of artistic and civic pride.

The tallest of Simon Rodia’s towers rises less than an inch shy of 100 feet and contains “the longest slender reinforced concrete column in the world.”

The Watts Towers installation also includes a gazebo that has been used for church services and baptisms by a number of local congregations, three birdbaths, and a ship sculpture based on Marco Polo’s ship.

The outer wall running along 107th Street is fantastically adorned with tiles, seashells, broken pottery, glass bottles and handcrafted designs – which obviously helped to inspire Isaiah Zagar’s work in Philly.

The Watts Towers were designated a National Historic Landmark in 1990. Good call. The Towers have taken some hits from earthquakes over the years, but it’s impressive that, despite being located in such a tough neighborhood, they’ve suffered scant damage from vandals. No graffiti mars Simon’s amazing wall – and nobody has dared to tag the Watts Towers.

If you live in Los Angeles, go see the Watts Towers as soon as possible. If you visit Los Angeles, make sure you put Simon Rodia’s masterpiece on your agenda. There’s nothing like it in the world.

It’s hard to believe it took me 20 years since I moved to L.A. to visit them. But, now that I’ve seen the wonders that Simon Rodia wrought, I know I’ll be taking people to see the Watts Towers for many years to come.

Until you get there to see them for yourself, here’s a gallery of photos from our visit…

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