GO AWAY: Some Memories of Fred Ebb

You can spray wherever you figure

The streptococci lurk
You can give her a shot
For whatever she's got
But it just won't work

If she’s tired of getting the fish-eye

From the hotel clerk

A person could develop a cold

                From “Adelaide’s Lament” by Frank Loesser (“Guys and Dolls,” 1950)

After charmingly singing this verse with his native New York accent on “Broadway: The Golden Age,” a touching documentary by Rick McKay released in 2004, the year of Fred’s too-early death at age 76, lyricist Fred Ebb said, with his signature frankness, “Augh!  I would kill to have written that.”

Always modest, he doesn’t mention all that he did write during his 50 plus-year career (which preceded three shows that were produced on Broadway posthumously), including 17 stage and screen musicals with his long-time song-writing partner, composer John Kander, the time-honored smash hits Cabaret, New York, New York and Chicago being the most famous of them. 

One of my favorite Fred Ebb lyrics is from a lesser-known, light-hearted and humorous ditty, “Arthur in the Afternoon,” from The Act (1977), a thin-plotted star vehicle for Fred’s beloved protégée Liza Minnelli, who famously sported elegant costumes designed by Halston for the spectacle, and who won a Tony Award for her block-buster performance:

He has a small apartment in the center of town
I'd hardly say it was posh
But I gun my Hyundai and I hurry on down
To hear the banister squeak and the waterbed slosh

While there is a simple A – B – A – B rhyme scheme in this verse, I love Fred’s cleaver use of mid-line alliteration and rhyme.  In many of his songs, Fred shows us time and again that alliteration can be just as, if not more, effective than rhyme in songwriting ("Hyundai" and "hurry" in this example).  I also love the mid-line rhyme of “gun” and “Hyun(dai).”  Seemingly insignificant word choices like these were labored over by Fred during his creative process, and the results made you want to listen to the songs over and over, in the same way that so many people are finding the “Hamilton” cast recording addictive today.  Even Fred’s name plays on his technique, with his monosyllabic first and last names both playfully sporting a short /e/ sound.

The storytelling in Fred’s lyrics is also fabulous.  My favorite example is, “Ring Them Bells” from the television concert Liza with a Z (1972).  When I told Fred how much I love that song, he said, “It’s a true story!”  He was so proud of that.  My family groans every time I launch into that song, because it’s long, but I love it.  It starts with, “Gather around, I’ve got a story to tell, about a Manhattan lady that I know very well…”  Aren’t you just dying to know more?!  Ditto for the introduction to “Cabaret:” “I used to have a girlfriend known as Elsie, with whom I’d share four sordid rooms in Chelsea…”  Tell me more!  (Note the internal rhyme of "four" and "sor(did)!")

But Fred’s genius never got the attention it deserved, primarily because he didn’t want it.  One time, when we were out to lunch together and he was beguiling me with fabulous stories of his life, I suggested that he write an auto-biography, or have someone write a biography of him.  He demurred, saying that he hated those tawdry, “tell-all” books.  Plus, I knew he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself because he was humble, to a fault in my opinion, but I pressed him anyway.  I told him that his book didn’t have to be a “tell-all,” but he wasn’t convinced.  Finally, in 2003, the book Colored Lights: Forty Years of Words and Music, Show Biz, Collaboration, and All That Jazz came out in the form of a long interview of the duo “as told to Greg Lawrence.”  Since only around four people read this blog, I figure I’m safe to shower Fred with accolades here.

I was introduced to Fred by his musical partner John Kander in 1991, when my dear director friend, Jay Berkow, proposed to me that we produce a revival of The Rink (1984).  I had met John while I was working at Theater for a New Audience and we were producing Romeo and Juliet at the Victory Theater on 42^nd Street (before it was renovated).  When I told him of our interest in The Rink, he confessed that The Rink was a favorite of his and Fred’s, and would love for us all to have a go at it.  John and Fred were always very supportive of young, talented enthusiasts.  (We were both in our late 20s.)

From a video I found on YouTube posted by the Inge Center in Kansas in 2012 (although it seems to have been filmed in 2003 or 2004), here is what Fred had to say about the Broadway production:

It looked like a sure thing, but those are the projects to beware of.  The sure things really aren’t, ever.  And there we had Chita and Liza and five wonderful guys – Jason Alexander being one of them.  It was quite a piece.  And I thought it was wonderfully well directed, which it was, and wonderfully performed, which it was.  And, I don’t know.  It just didn’t seem to appeal to the critics – who I hate anyway - but they didn’t buy it.   I don’t even know why, not even now do I know why.  Some shows, if they don’t get everything you wish for them, you can read a review and say, “Oh, yea, well I can see why he didn’t like it.  I don’t agree with him, but I really understand that.”  And I don’t understand “The Rink.”  I just don’t.  It was just really well done.  Everybody was at the peak of their powers, I thought.  Chita was magnificent.  Liza bit off a part that nobody expected her to play, which, by the way, I didn’t think helped us.  You know, they wanted these Halston sequin things, and she played the whole thing looking like kind of a schleppy girl.” 

In a nutshell, that’s what Fred told Jay and me back in 1991.  It turned out that Fred and John both lived close to me on the upper West Side, and invited us to attend several meetings at Fred’s apartment, where they introduced us to Terrence McNally, the book writer, and we set to work on The Rink.

John was, and still is, such a kind man.  I didn’t know what to expect when I met Fred.  After all, he’s the guy who wrote some hysterical but caustic lyrics, like these from a show I appeared in in college:

Now, every son-of-a-bitch

Is a pain in the ass

Whatever happened to class?

            - from “Chicago” (1975)

When I nervously arrived at his apartment for that first meeting, I was greeted by this doormat:

Gulp! 

Fred and Terrence weren’t as warm as John was in the beginning of our relationship, but as I got to know Fred, I discovered that he was a pussy cat.  He was sweet, sensitive, kind, and thoughtful.  I will always treasure the gift from Tiffany’s he sent when my first daughter, Jackie, was born in 2000.

And I’ll never forget that lunch we had when we talked about a possible book.  I mentioned to Fred that I would be moving to France for a year with my husband, and he told me that when he was in grade school, he won a prize for his recitation of a famous fable by Jean de la Fontaine (1621 – 1695), Le Corbeau et le Renard.  Then, without missing a beat, he launched into it:

Maître Corbeau, sur un arbre perché,
Tenait en son bec un fromage.
Maître Renard, par l'odeur alléché,
Lui tint à peu près ce langage:
"Hé! Bonjour, Monsieur du Corbeau.
Que vous êtes joli! Que vous me semblez beau!
Sans mentir, si votre ramage
Se rapporte à votre plumage,
Vous êtes le Phénix des hôtes de ces bois."
A ces mots le Corbeau ne se sent pas de joie;
Et pour montrer sa belle voix,
Il ouvre un large bec, laisse tomber sa proie.
Le Renard s'en saisit, et dit: "Mon bon Monsieur,
Apprenez que tout flatteur
Vit aux dépens de celui qui l'écoute:
Cette leçon vaut bien un fromage, sans doute."
Le Corbeau, honteux et confus,
Jura, mais un peu tard, qu'on ne l'y prendrait plus. 

I was so charmed, and I was kicking myself for not having thought of bringing a tape recorder to our lunch.  (These were the days before cell phones.)  How I wish I had recorded our discussion, although in my heart of hearts, I know he probably wouldn’t have allowed me to tape it. 

I had no trouble imagining how adorable Fred must have been as a child.  He even admitted it, in his own self-effacing way, early in the 2003 book, when he says that he used to win talent competitions in Atlantic City, because, “I guess I was sort of cute.”

In reading the book, I often smile to myself, because several times in the first chapter, when Fred refers to a certain lyric, John says, “Go on.  Recite it.  I know you’re dying to.”  And then he does.  I can just see the twinkle in both of their eyes.  And I’m so glad I got a private recitation, in French even!

Throughout our working together on The Rink, I always tried to figure out the essence of John and Fred’s relationship.  I watched them closely.  I looked for a crack in the veneer, or for mutual affection.  But all I ever really saw was professionalism and respect.  I remember sitting at Fred’s kitchen table when John arrived for a meeting one morning, and John greeted him by saying, “Hello, partner!” to which Fred replied, “Hello, partner” in return.  And then we got to work.

At the beginning of a compilation of Kander & Ebb sheet music published by their friend Tommy Valando, there is a brief interview with the pair, and the last question was, “Would you consider yours a happy collaboration?” Fred replied, wearing his heart on his sleeve, “Having been brought up to be truthful, I will tell you exactly how I feel.  Our collaboration is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

But for all Fred’s success, it was clear to me that he was fundamentally a lonely man, and I didn’t quite know what to do about that. He was envious that John had a longtime relationship.  He told me, “I don’t have that.”  I felt helpless.  I wished there was something I could do for him.

I also know that Fred felt that John had a privileged upbringing in Kansas City compared to his own in Manhattan.  He mentions something in the book that he once told me: “John was brought up on warm goat’s milk!  I didn’t have that.”  Frankly, at the time Fred told me that, I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want warm goat’s milk.  But I guess it's a generational thing!

More often than not, when I saw Fred, he was wearing his NYU hoodie.  He was an undergrad there, and I went to grad school there, so I felt we had a connection.  This is how I will always remember him.  I never took a photo of us together, in my effort to hide my dumbfounded admiration and to appear to be professional.

I wish Jay and I could have made a big hit out of the revival of The Rink for Fred.  Who knows?   Maybe we will someday.  

Detail from an autographed poster from “The Rink,” 

a gift from my former English professor and dear friend June Schlueter.

For further reading:  http://www.broadwaycares.org/fredebb2014

A Word about Teachers

See if you can follow this: I have a friend here where I live, whose sister has a friend who lives in Australia.  My friend's sister told me that, immediately after her Australian friend gave birth to a child with special needs, a check from the Australian government arrived in the mail.  No forms to fill out.  No evaluations to schedule.  The Australian government understood that there would be extraordinary expenses associated with having a child with special needs, and they were pro-active and generous.

Not so here in the US.  Ask any parent about his or her experience in raising a child with special needs, and you will hear one harrowing tale after another.  My husband and I had our daughter Audrey evaluated when she was still a baby, and she starting receiving Early Intervention services by her first birthday.  But we discovered rather late in the game that these public services (speech therapy, occupational therapy, physical therapy and cognitive therapy) were generally inferior to those offered by expensive private practitioners.  So, we shelled out some big bucks for supplemental “out-of-network” services.

When Audrey was three, Early Intervention ended, and she was enrolled in Special Education through our public school system.  The teachers there didn’t know what to do with her.  In our efforts to have her placed in a “least restrictive environment,” we ended up with teachers and administrators who were clueless about how to help a child as severely disabled as Audrey is.  I spent a stressful and depressing year meeting, arguing, cajoling, and fighting.  It was awful.  The next year, we placed Audrey in a more restrictive environment, where she was surrounded by other severely disabled kids, and where she was generally ignored for two academic years.

Enter the Rock Brook School.  Actually, Audrey’s class pictures tell the story best.  When she was three and in a district school, the school photo came home of her crying, and a teacher’s arm was in the frame trying to keep her from bolting off the stool.  The next two years’ photos weren’t much better.  Then - and I still thank God regularly for this - Audrey was moved to the Rock Brook School.  Here is her 2011-12 school picture:

What a smile.  And as we are completing our fifth year at Rock Brook, the photos still tell the story.  Not that it’s all about the school pictures.  Audrey loves Rock Brook, her friends there, and her teachers.  Plus, she’s learning!

At every Rock Brook parent-teacher conference and IEP meeting, I thank Audrey’s teachers and therapists, and the school’s administrators.  I say something along the lines of, “We are so fortunate to have you and this school in our lives.  I don’t know what we’d do without you.”  And my eyes well up.  Even as I write this, I’m tearing up again. 

The Rock Brook team is knowledgeable, loving, patient, generous, dedicated, selfless, and nothing short of a blessing to our family and to all the families it serves.  During Staff Appreciation Week and throughout the year, we can’t show our appreciation enough for all that they do, and the peace of mind that they give us beleaguered parents, who can rest assured that our children are being given superlative educations.  Imagine my elation when the school announced its expansion into high school last year.  What a relief to know that Audrey can have the benefit of staying at Rock Brook for ten more years. 

THANK YOU, Rock Brook staff, for all you do for our precious children!!!!!!

Rock Brook School * 109 Orchard Road * Skillman, NJ 08558

www.rock-brook.org * Telephone: 908-431-9500 * Fax: 908-431-9503

Music as Motivator

On Monday and Friday mornings at our local YMCA, a group of indomitable women meet to stretch, run, "chasser," dance and smile.  We are attending "Spanda," a fitness class that combines yoga, aerobics and music with a beat.  Jane Eldridge Miller, a writer (specializing in feminist literary history) and former university lecturer, has been leading the class for nearly 8 years.  While men are always welcome, they generally aren't in attendance.  Their loss!

In the words of its creator, Dr. Jaime Stover Schmitt, Spanda is a Sanskrit term for the subtle creative pulse of the universe as it manifests into the dynamism of living form. Spanda can be translated to mean “vibration,” “movement,” or “motion,” referring to waves of activity issuing forth from an unseen source of spontaneous expression.  See spandayoga.com for more information on the practice.  Jane started taking Spanda classes with Dr. Schmitt nearly 25 years ago.  Some of the women currently taking the class started with Dr. Schmitt more than fifteen years ago.

Jane Eldridge Miller leading a Spanda class at our local YMCA

Watching the participating women move together across the dance studio floor, one can sense their profound enjoyment as well as their sense of community.  One time, in between songs, a classmate said to me, "You're always smiling!"  I hadn't realized it, but upon reflection, I noticed that she was right.  I responded, "Because it's fun!"

“I love the community we've all created together in Spanda. We support one another in class and have formed friendships outside of class, and that makes me very happy,” Jane says.

Age, body type, and athletic ability vary greatly at any given class.  There are participants who clearly have a dance background, and then some who clearly don't, but are keeping up all the same, and getting just as much out of it.  There is no equipment for this class, and everyone generally comes in casual stretchy pants, a t-shirt, and running shoes.  An exception is Lin, who is one of those people who does have a dance background. "Standard workout shoes are uncomfortable to me because the soles are so rigid. I was very happy to find split-sole shoes that allow you to flex and stretch your feet," she explains.

While the exercise steps range from simple to complex, when I first started taking the class last year, I could feel some of my under-used brain synapses firing anew when I moved in ways that I hadn't for years.  And while I enjoy the challenge that some of the steps present, for my part, it's the music that keeps me coming back week after week.  Jane puts together a carefully selected playlist every session, which keeps the class fresh and up-to-the-minute.  

“I love collecting music and creating original playlists for the class,” Jane says.  The music is inspiring and motivating. It's multi-cultural, and multi-generational.  One playlist may include a Spanish rap song ("I hope they're not saying anything bad!" Jane confessed to the class one time), a typical Indian Bolly-wood song, pop music from the '80's, and modern funk. Think: "She's a Bad Mama Jama" (Carl Carlton, 1981), "The Obvious Child" (Paul Simon, 1990), "Quién Manda?" (Mala Rodriguez, 2013) and "The Clean Up Woman" (Betty Wright, 1972).  Check out these songs on YouTube if you’re not already familiar with them, and you’ll see what I mean!

Students have loved the music so much that Jane has taken to emailing the playlists to everyone so we can download our new favorites.  "I was driving my teenage daughter and "What You Don’t Do" (by Lianne La Havas, 2015) from our class came on the radio," Laura told us at a recent potluck dinner students gathered for. "I started singing and moving to the music, and my daughter was stunned.  'How do you know that song?' she asked me.  I felt so au courant!"

The music is not only energizing, but also empowering.  While chassé-ing across the floor, I often feel an overwhelming confidence that I can do ANYTHING.  "I'm the king of the world!" I think.  That is, until we get to the combination of 8 counts of walking in a comma-shaped pattern while keeping low to the ground, followed by a double Charleston. Not tripping over my own feet becomes my primary focus then.

“The biggest challenge for me,” Jane explains, “is creating movement patterns that are interesting and challenging for my experienced participants but which are also accessible for new participants and adaptable for participants who might have injuries or restrictions. I always want to insure that everyone feels welcome in Spanda and feels able to participate at a level that is right for them.”

“I love that my class gives the women in it the strength, flexibility, endurance, and energy they need to live healthy, active lives,” Jane says. Personally, I can be really dragging on a frigid winter's morning, but as soon as I arrive at the studio, sense the sisterhood in the room, and that music gets going, my mood improves immediately, and in spite of myself, before I know it, I'm smiling again, and grooving to the beat.  I defy any newcomer to respond differently.

A New York Moment

I was walking from a meeting near Union Square back to Penn Station.  It was a chilly day, and I was energized because I was looking forward to stopping at one of my favorite food spots, Eatily, to get a cannoli for the ride home. Yum.

But, on Broadway's crowded sidewalk, I had my expressionless "walking face" on, as did everyone else.  I found myself keeping up a brisk pace behind a tall, young woman, whose "look" could not escape my attention.  Her height was enhanced by high-heeled, thigh-high boots.  She wore a short, short mini skirt, and a short red leather jacket.  She had un-natural red hair that was straight and cut in a severe bob.  It was probably a wig. She wore huge hoop earrings.  I never did see her face, but I'm sure she was wearing lots of makeup and maybe even false eyelashes!  I felt short and funny behind her, carrying my over-sized bag and wearing flat shoes and conservative clothing.

To our right, there was a man handing out flyers.  You've seen the type.  They, too, always keep a straight face. They often make a noise with their papers to get you to look at them, and then they try to give you whatever it is they are handing out.  I've mastered the art of saying, "No, thank you," without breaking my stride.  At least I'm polite and don't ignore them, as most New Yorkers do!  The woman in front of me ignored this man.  When it was my turn, I said my, "No, thank you," but then locked eyes with him and smiled. He was going to move on, stone-faced, to try to hand a flyer to the next person, but first, he quickly and broadly smiled back at me. Without uttering a word, it was our way of saying, "Get a load of HER!"

I smiled all the way to Eatily, and then on to Penn Station.  That moment made my day, even more than the cannoli.  I love New York.

The Book Club Boogie

Several years ago, a neighbor and friend told me that there was an opening in her book club, and she was pleased to be able to ask me if I would like to join.  They carefully monitor the number of members, not wanting the group to get too large.  She had previously told me about this exclusive club, which was founded and organized by a high-profile intellectual/personality in the elite college town that we live in.  What makes this club special is that the author of the book to be discussed always attends the meeting.  One time, the assigned book was by Steve Martin, and yes, Steve Martin himself was at that meeting.

My friend told me that she thought I would enjoy participating in the club, but she warned me that it was a fairly serious commitment.  The founder gets angry if you miss a meeting.  Members are expected to complete the books on time and be at all the meetings.  After all, a great deal of effort is put into getting the authors there.

I didn’t have to think about it long.  I responded that, as much as I appreciated the invitation, I would have to pass.  Between work and childcare, I didn’t have a lot of time left to read.  And when I did read, I’d rather be able to choose my own books and read them at my leisure, without a deadline.  Sure, it’s sexy to meet some really great authors, but a group where the founder routinely gets angry at members is not where I’d like to spend my time.  I have enough challenges.

I really enjoy reading, or listening to audio books, as I’ve been doing more and more lately. Non-fiction is my favorite, although the occasional novel slips in.  I also enjoy talking with friends about books I’ve read.  At a party about a year ago, I was chatting up some books with an acquaintance, and a few weeks later, she emailed me to invite me to join her book club.  She said that it was a really laid-back group that meets only every six weeks, and that they read only fiction, to keep the atmosphere light.  You don’t have to attend every meeting, and you don’t even have to have finished the book to come to the gatherings, which members take turns hosting at 9pm, after the kids are asleep.  “Ok,” I thought, “I could swing that, as long as most of the books are available on audio,” which turned out not to be a problem.

At the first meeting, I admit to feeling a little intimidated, as several of the members taught at our prestigious local university.  Luckily, the others didn’t, so I was comforted by the fact that I wasn’t alone.  I enjoyed the conversation and the society, so it seemed like a good match.

Further down the road, we read and discussed, upon my recommendation, “Loving Frank,” by Nancy Horan, a based-on-truth novel about Frank Lloyd Wright and Mamah Borthwick Cheney, the woman for whom the famed architect scandalously left his wife and six children.  I like historical fiction as a second choice to non-fiction, and have long admired the work of Frank Lloyd Wright.  Spoiler alert: The end of the book describes how, in 1914, Mamah and her two children were murdered by a disturbed black man from Barbados, Julian Carlton, who was in the service of the unmarried couple in their home in rural Wisconsin.  Most of the people in the book club weren’t crazy about the book, but it did spark some lively conversation.  One woman, a teacher at an area public university, expressed her shock and scorn for the author, who ignored how Carlton must have felt as a black man living in isolation and service.  I was surprised by this reaction, because the book wasn’t about Carlton, it was about the relationship between Wright and Chaney.  Carlton’s emotional backstory never even entered my mind.

 

This should have been a hint to me about this particular club member’s feelings about race relations, but I missed it.  A few meetings later, we discussed “Americanah,” a really great book by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, about a young woman from Nigeria who leaves her home and boyfriend to come to the US and attend the private university in our town.  (I highly recommend it!)

Now, after the fact, a friend of mine told me, “Don’t you know to avoid talking about race, politics and religion at all cost?”  But anyone who knows me knows that I believe in open dialogue about all subjects.  Sometimes, the more sensitive, the better.

The public university teacher told the group about the struggle some of her students have in writing in what is generally accepted as “proper” English.  She explained that she is careful not to discourage her students from writing by being too critical, although often some students write like they speak, in broken English, in street vernacular, or in “Ebonics.”  She tries not to “over-correct” their papers for fear of discouraging them. 

As a perpetual student of French, I appreciate it when someone corrects a grammatical or pronunciation mistake I make.  People more often than not don’t, for fear of offending me, but I wish more people would.  But not everyone is me.  Still, I told the story of how, at a street fair a couple of weeks prior to the meeting, I was talking with two young teens from the black Baptist church I attend.  I was scheduled to perform with the church choir that afternoon.  One of the girls asked, “Where you singin’ at?”  I looked at her and said, “Excuse me?” in a playful way.  The other girl nudged her and said, “Where are you singing?”  The first girl got the message, so she repeated, “Where are you singing?”  I answered her question, but I could tell she was annoyed by my prompting her to use proper English.  Well, the public university teacher was appalled.  She berated me, saying, “You mean to tell us that this young person let you into her world and spoke to you like a peer, and you corrected her, right there in the middle of the street fair?”  I said, “Yes, I corrected her as I would have corrected one of my own children.  We are members of the same church family, but I am not her peer.  I am her elder.”  She said, “I don’t think you would have corrected your own child like that.”  I said, “I most certainly would have.  You don’t even know me!”  Anyway, it wasn't pleasant, but somehow we got past the scrape, and at the end of the meeting, we agreed on the next book.

Five weeks passed, I finished the book, but I hadn’t heard where the next meeting would be.  I offered to host it, since I had yet to host a meeting.  I had no response.  Finally, the morning of the meeting, I got a call from my friend who had invited me to be in the group.  She said, “Some of the members are super uncomfortable with the disagreement you both had at the last meeting, and they asked me to tell you that they would rather you not continue participating in the group.” 

Here I was, worried that I wouldn’t be up to snuff with some of the intellectuals in the group, and now I was being told that if there is a difference of opinion, better keep it to yourself.  My friend said, “We should just chalk it up to a bad match.  You know I respect you very much, which is why I invited you to participate in the first place, and I’m really sorry about this.”  I was stunned, hurt, and disappointed.  I had made friends with some of the people in the group.  To this day, no one has been in touch with me.  I even Facebook messaged a couple of members from time to time to say, “Hi,” but no one wrote back.  The level of immaturity and cowardice is stunning from a group of highly-educated and presumably civic-minded individuals. 

I was ashamed of having been kicked out of an elite college town book club for many months.  Then, as time distanced me from the bitter experience, I was finally able to talk about it, albeit cautiously.  I told the story to one close friend, who howled with laughter.  “I always thought you were a cool person, but this seals the deal!  You were kicked out of a snooty book club!  Awesome!  You should be proud of yourself for standing up for what you believe in!” she said.  I feel a lot better now.

"Ew"

I was sound asleep.  I remember feeling warm and comfortable under my feather duvet. Unconscious. It was nice.

Then, I felt a light tap on my shoulder, and I heard my daughter, in her little girl voice, say, "Ew." Before I even opened my eyes, I knew that "Ew" could only mean one thing: she made a messy caca in her pullup.

What time is it?  I squinted to see my clock.  5am.  I forced myself awake.

"Come on, Audrey, let's go to the bathroom."

She had not-so-neatly already removed her pullup there.  It was on the floor, along with the fluffy pink tutu that I had brought back for her from France last summer, now soiled, along with the soiled bath mat, footsie pajamas, tile floor and the toilet.  It was going to be a big cleanup.  Why must she always insist on sleeping in that tutu?...

:-(

Reading Between the Lines

A word on the conclusion of my last blog post, with your permission, gentle reader, before I get started on the new one.  Many people mistakenly think that Horatio Alger, Jr. wrote about immigrants who worked hard and became successful, and I didn't want to promulgate that falsehood.  Immigrants were not his subject matter.  He wrote about American people (men or boys) who started out with nothing, and by sheer hard work, determination, intelligence and honesty, turned their lives around.  He wrote what amount to morality tales (see Ragged Dick, for example) about these simple values and how anyone who sticks to them can flourish and thrive.  My mother calls me "the eternal optimist," but I'd like to believe that these are among the only values required for success.  Of course, women like me know that it is nearly impossible for working mothers to reach their professional goals because of the time and financial burdens of childcare, but I would like to think that politics, "playing" people, and strategy are of lesser importance, or of no importance at all.  Hence I will never seek a position in public office!

And now, on to this post's subject.  Last month, I mentioned the fabulous new Broadway play, "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time."  A friend told me that the (rather cumbersome) title of the original book came from a line in a Sherlock Holmes short story, "Silver Blaze."  This lead us to talk about Agatha Christie, and her indomitable hero, Hercule Poirot.  My friend posited that by the final Poirot novels, it was evident that Christie had tired of writing about him.  He said that you could tell by the writing.

I said, "I know exactly what you mean.  I feel as though Alexander McCall Smith was sorry that he had his heroine in The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency books, Precious Ramotswe, adopt two children, because he never has any idea what to do with them, and basically writes them out of nearly every story."  My friend was surprised that the author of these mystery novels is a man, because he writes women so well, and I would agree, with the exception of the subject of motherhood, which McCall Smith has no idea how to write about.

While I would definitely recommend any book or story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie or Alexander McCall Smith, especially to someone who enjoys mysteries, I am reminded of two books that I read (or rather "listened to") recently that I would not recommend.  My preference is generally for non-fiction, so I had high hopes for these two memoirs: Yes, Please by Amy Poehler, and Seriously, I'm Kidding by Ellen Degeneres, but, in "reading between the lines," I felt that in both cases, the authors were told by their agents, "Listen, you're at the height of your popularity.  Now is a time to write a book.  All your fans will buy it.  It's a new way to make money."  So, they were talked into it, and signed a contract with a publisher, and then, when they got down to the hard work, realized that they didn't want to do it after all.  Writing was too hard, too time-consuming, too lonely. So, they tried to get out of their contracts.  But they found that they couldn't - well, not without great expense.  So, they begrudgingly wrote their memoirs.  (This is pure conjecture, mind you.)  They filled the pages with anecdotes, musings, and remembrances.  There were a few interesting tid-bits in each of them.  But for the most part, both of these books just screamed at me, "I have to write this damn book, so I'm writing it just to write it." I could not really see past the greed.  I fear that even Alexander McCall Smith may have a contract to turn out a Precious Ramotswe book every summer, because I'm reading the newest one, and it's striking me as rather itinerant.  But maybe it's just that my eternal optimism is waning with age...