CURT’S "OKAY" 　

One afternoon, shortly after Curt died, I walked up one flight of stairs to Bobbi Van and Stephen Greenberg’s apartment and knocked on the door. I heard a male voice say, "Howard?"
I answered, "Yes."

The voice said, "Okay." I assumed it was Stephen’s voice and he was on his way to answer the door. When Curt and I designed and supervised the construction of their loft, we added a second bathroom near the entrance door and it was Curt’s idea to tile the walls, as well as the floor.  Consequently, when you were in it and you spoke, it had the same kind of reverberation one hears when singing in the shower. The voice that answered me sounded as if it were coming from that bathroom. As I stood there waiting for Stephen to open the door, I wondered why he was using that bathroom instead of the master bathroom which was some distance away from the front door.

After waiting a few minutes I called out, "Stephen?" There was no answer. "Stephen?" I called again a bit louder. No answer. "Stephen, are you in there?" I yelled. Still, no answer. I thought, That’s very odd.I went back downstairs to our apartment and phoned Bobbi at work. When I told her what had happened she said, "It couldn’t have been Stephen, I just talked to him at his office in New Jersey."

"Are you sure he was in New Jersey? Couldn’t he have called you from home?" I asked.

"I called him," she replied.

"Well, if it wasn’t Stephen, who was it?" I asked.

"Do you think someone broke into the apartment? Should I call the police?" Bobbi responded anxiously.

"Bobbi," I said, "I would have noticed if someone had broken into the apartment. Come to think of it, I distinctly heard the voice say, ‘Howard,’ so even if Stephen was in the apartment, how could he have known it was me at the door?"

"You’ve been under a lot of stress. Maybe you’re imagining things," Bobbi said.

"Bobbi, I am not imagining anything, I know exactly what I heard. I heard a male voice say, ‘Howard.’ Then I said, ‘Yes.’ I am positive I said yes because Dawn, the girl I work with at Citibank, always says yes. I think yes sounds much better than yeah so I’ve been trying to get in that habit. After I said, ‘Yes,’ the male voice said, ‘Okay.’"

I wasn't sure Bobbi believed me, but after I hung up the phone, I came to the realization that it must have been Curt who spoke to me from behind the closed door. But if it was Curt, why did he just say, "Okay?" Why didn’t he say, "I’m okay," or "Are you okay?"

I woke up abruptly the following morning, about 3:00 a.m., got out of bed, walked directly to Curt’s bank of four five-drawer filing cabinets, opened one of the drawers, and my fingers went directly to a hanging file near the back of the drawer which contained a blank manilla envelope I had never seen before. I took the envelope with me into Curt’s music room, sat down on the only chair in the room, opened the envelope, and found six handwritten pages that had been torn off of a legal pad and stapled together.

It began, "I suppose that I should be studying - doing my reading assignments, writing papers due long ago. So in a sense, this is simply another procrastination. But I am seized, this evening, or early morning as the case may be, by a gripping urge to communicate with someone. Since no one is available, I’ll settle for myself. Curt, are you listening?"

The second paragraph began, "I have just returned from a walk which I forced myself to take. The time is 12:45 a.m., June 2, 1974." He had written this before we met, 20 days before his 22^nd birthday. He went on to write about his fears, his ineptitude and inadequacies, his "several personalities," and his battle with self-esteem.

Curt hated mornings and loved staying up late. If we had a workman come to the apartment, he would never make an appointment before 11:00 a.m. I thought it was just a quirk of his but when I read further I found out it wasn’t that at all: "The night is such an inspirational time of day for me. The world is asleep, rather the majority of the inhabitants are asleep. But the world, it seems to me, is so alive, so awake and so feeling. It is so sensitive at this time of the day when it is not being devastated by light and noise. I almost feel that the air listens at night, that the plants are thinking and feeling. Perhaps it is because, in this state of quasi-death, when the light is out, figuratively, I am forced to look for the light inside. The daylight prevents me from doing this; it is so obvious, so blatant, so easy. But the darkness radiates a spirited light all its own. The quiet, the dimness, the invisibility of the world is in itself a kind of illumination; it says to me that the appearance is not necessarily the reality. If I don’t see all the details of a familiar house at night, are they really there? Plato, I suppose would be proud. But he would make mockery of my sophomoric philosophy."

Upon finishing his letter, I realized that Curt’s "Okay" meant Okay, if it hurts you so much that I never shared many of my intimate feelings with you, I will lead you to the only thing I left behind that will enlighten you. At the exact moment of my revelation, I felt a surge shoot through my body like a lightning strike and I began witnessing something one occasionally hears about but seldom experiences. All at once, from very high above, I was watching myself still sitting in the chair, but the chair was now spinning and darting back and forth as if it had wheels.

Agonizing, hideous sounds poured out of me, sounds I could not control, moans and cries one usually associates with hurt or dying animals, not humans, as I moved from one grotesque position to another, intermittently grabbing and clutching my body as if I were being stabbed or beaten or both, and flailing my arms in the air in an effort to ward off an unseen attacker.

I have always considered myself to be squeamish to a fault. Yet, I watched that scene and listened to those plangent sounds with a feeling of curiosity rather than horror. I remember thinking that it reminded me of an overhead camera shot in the movie Snake Pit when Olivia de Havilland is placed in an insane asylum. I don’t recall how long my out-of-body experience lasted or how it ended. The next thing I remember is waking up on the floor of the music room the next morning. The pages of Curt’s letter were scattered about the room and although my body ached a bit, there were no bruises. Even though I have always felt everything I remember happening that night was real, if my screams were as loud as I thought they were, I could never explain the fact that no one in the building came to my rescue. I had never experienced anything like that before and never experienced anything like it since. Until now, I don’t know that I have ever mentioned this to anyone.

Curt was one of the most optimistic and seemingly in-control people I have ever known so the person he wrote about in his letter is someone I never knew. He loved to talk, had a very tender heart, and was never shy in verbalizing his love for me, which he expressed in a number of ways on a daily basis. Curt’s greatest emotions, however, were reserved for piano music, and in particular, the piano itself. I often joked that Curt was a piano.

Curt never discussed the seriousness of his illness with me and I found out, with one exception, that he had never discussed it with any of his closest friends. His good friend Cheryl Floyd told me he only mentioned it once when he asked her, "If this is serious, what’s going to happen to Howard?" That comment is the essence of the Curt I remember.

While Curt never spoke to me with his voice again, he began communicating with me through rainbows. When Curt and I met, as I mentioned earlier, I had a collection of rainbow books, greeting cards, pins, and small hangable objects. Shortly after we moved in together Curt gave me a present he made for me: a framed eight by 10-inch mirror, on which he had painted a rainbow with the words, "You are a rainbow."
Even though I’ve never been particularly religious, I once had a fondness for religious objects and I had a collection of crucifixes, small holy-water fonts, and angels. When Curt and I traveled to foreign countries, we also collected small souvenirs that could be hung on the wall. I created a large, horizontal oval approximately six-feet wide by hanging all the objects on the only wall of the dining area. It was quite spectacular and first-time guests to our apartment never failed to rave about it.

One day, while I was talking on the phone to our attorney Sidney Moskowitz, who adored Curt like a father does a son, a small diagonal slash of a rainbow, perhaps five-inches wide by ten-inches long, slowly began to appear on one of the crucifixes. As Sidney and I continued our conversation, the rainbow slowly disappeared. Then the rainbow began appearing on one of the angels. I was transfixed. When the second rainbow slash disappeared and then reappeared for a third time on yet another crucifix, I said, "Sidney, you’ll never believe what’s happening on the wall of the dining area," and I told him what I was seeing. He asked if I wanted to get off the phone so that I could watch it alone. I said, "No, Sidney, Curt is communicating with us and I’m sure he wants me to share this with you as it happens." I continued watching and describing everything I saw to Sidney until the rainbow slash had appeared on every religious object, without ever touching any of the objects we had collected during our travels. It was mesmerizing. Afterward,
I was puzzled by the fact that Curt would choose to communicate with us in that way because he, like me, was also not particularly religious.

When the rainbows finally disappeared, the only thing I could figure out that could explain their appearance was that a multifaceted crystal paper weight, which Curt’s Uncle Paul had given us as a Christmas gift, had been catching the afternoon sun and reflecting the rainbow images onto our dining room wall. The next afternoon, and many afternoons after that, at the same time of day, I waited to see if the rainbow phenomenon would occur again, but it never did, at least not by appearing on those religious objects.

Curt, with the financial backing of his pupil Thelma Dinkaloo, had opened Curt Swidler Artist Pianos, a 3,000-square-foot showroom on 57th Street, just over a year before he died.  The cost, including the best pianos money could buy, ended up costing three million dollars but Thelma was an extremely wealthy woman and had great faith in Curt expertise, enough to name the store after him. 

Having sold our loft and with packing boxes all over the place, the men arrived to move his two grand pianos back to the store that beared his name.  As they did, two mammoth rainbows, unlike the small slashes, appeared on the ceiling of the entire dining area. There was no sun in the room that afternoon so they couldn’t possibly have been created by the paper weight.

Once I left New York and our apartment on 17^th Street, I tried recreating that oval of objects in the next three places I lived. But I was so angry at God, or whomever was responsible for taking Curt away from me, that I couldn’t bear seeing those religious objects on a daily basis. I finally felt the need to rid myself of them altogether and I placed my collection in a consignment gallery in San Diego. The proprietress of the store was dubious that they would sell. Two days later, she called me and wanted to know if I had more because they were selling like hot-cakes.

Curt continued communicating with me via rainbows for years afterward. I became accustomed to seeing them on special days like birthdays and anniversaries. The last one Curt created for me was on January 13, 1977, eleven years and eight days after he died, in response to my emotional plea that day begging him to send me some kind of signal that it was "okay" for me to finally say good-bye to him.

The above was originally written about six years ago for my planned memoir called "WILL THEY LET ME DANCE IN HEAVEN? which I later abandoned.  I am publishing this on April 26, 2012.  Curt and I were together just over ten years.  Curt died January 5, 1986 at the age of thirty-three.  Four days ago, on April 22, 2012, we would have celebrated his sixtieth birthday.  Curt majored in English literature and was the smartest person I have ever known.  Without his constant correction of my grammar, which I welcomed, I would never been able to write as well as I do and for that I am forever grateful.  .

When all is said and done, life does have its way of going on.  Two days ago David Greenberg, the son of Stephen Greenberg whose voice I thought I heard behind that closed door almost thirty years ago, and I celebrated our 14th anniversary.  June 26th of this year marks our fourth wedding anniversary.

If anything, LIFE itself is tricky and strange and sometimes too unbelievable to be true.  In this instance, however, it is exactly that... true.  "Believe it or not." 

"Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards and in high heels." Faith Whittlesey
 Ginger Rogers: July 16, 2011 - April 25, 1995

The year was 1980.

The day before Bob Jani, the producer, and I were scheduled to fly to California to meet with Ginger at her home in Rancho Mirage to discuss the show A ROCKETTE SPECTACULAR with GINGER ROGERS, Bob told me something urgent had come up and he had to cancel. I wasn’t at all happy to hear that because it meant I would have to meet with Ginger alone. I had worked with her in the 60s, when she was often a guest on Red Skelton’s TV Show, and I knew – first hand – how difficult she could be.
Tom Hanson, the show’s choreographer, usually worked out the production numbers for the guest stars with his assistant Leona Irwin, who learned the star’s part as well as the dancers’ parts. The star would arrive a day or two later and Leona would work with them privately. Then the dancers were brought in and all the elements of the numbers were put together.

Ordinarily, Leona danced all day with never a hair out of place. When Ginger was the guest, however, Leona looked like she had been pulled through a wringer by the end of the day. Taping days were the worst. Dancing the star’s role off to the side of the cameras, Leona became the star’s "cue card." Ginger, on the other hand, was always so busy smiling and selling to the red light on the camera, more often than not, she forgot to watch Leona. And every time Ginger made a mistake, which was quite often, she stopped dead in her tracks and wanted to take the entire number from the beginning. Time and time again, Howie Quinn, the assistant director explained to Ginger that she should try to recover from the mistake and continue the number as best as she could because he could always do pick-up shots and correct the mistakes. His pleas fell on deaf ears.

Taping days usually ended by 10:00 or 11:00 p.m., but with Ginger, the delays were so frequent, the dancers and the crew always had a pool to see what time we would finish. One particularly hateful night, Seymour Berns, the producer, was tearing his hair out because we didn’t wrap until after 2:00 a.m. That sent his budget through the roof because of all the overtime involved for the cast, as well as the crew. At that point in time, Ginger was only in her 50s and she literally did not know her right foot from her left foot. None of us could ever figure out how she performed all of those intricate dance numbers with Astaire, often in a single camera shot. Now in her 70s, I could not imagine the headaches I faced choreographing an entire show, which she had to perform live every night for 3 weeks at the legendary Radio City Music Hall.
After arriving at LAX, I rented a car and drove to Rancho Mirage, where I checked into a motel. I had to be at Ginger’s at 10:00 sharp the next morning even though I had my doubts that our meeting would start on time.

Ginger lived in a gated community and after I checked in with the guard and was given directions, I nervously pulled up to her home. I revved myself up as I walked to the front door and pushed the doorbell. The elderly woman who opened the door said in a hushed voice, "You must be Mr. Pahker." I couldn’t tell wether she spoke with a southern accent or if it was just an affectation.

"That’s me!" I said as cheerfully as I could.

"I’m Ginger’s Auntie Jean, won’t you come in?"

"Beautiful day, isn’t it?

"It almost always is heah in the desert. That is, except during the summah when it’s hot as Hades. Ginger and I spent one summah heah and that was enough fa’ us. I’m sorry Mr. Pahker but Ginger’s not quite ready yet." Gesturing to what looked to me like an "L" shaped sofa, she said, "Please have a seat on the divan. May I get you some coffee? Some tea? Some watah?"

I felt as if I had stepped on stage in a Tennessee Williams’ drama with Auntie Jean as my co-star. "I would like some water," I said, over pronouncing the "r." I had to fight to keep from reverting back to my own southern drawl, which I had as a kid growing up in Tampa. It reminded me of when I went home a few years after I learned how to hear myself speak at the Pasadena Playhouse and was finally successful in losing my accent. Dad introduced me to a new friend of his and after I had spoken a few sentences, his friend said incredulously, "You’re right Pahker, he does talk like a Yankee!" It was particularly surprising because Dad had never mentioned to me that he noticed a difference in the way I spoke.

As I walked towards the divan or sofa or whatever it was, I saw that the back of it had been pushed up against a fireplace and in the center of the mantel was an Oscar, the only one I have ever actually seen "in-person." I remembered that Ginger had won if for her role in Kitty Foyle. As for the rest of the decor, the first word that comes to mind is gauche. Her home, at least in my opinion, was clearly not a candidate for a spread in Architectural Digest. I couldn’t decide whether Ginger had an addiction to consignment stores, of which there are many in Rancho Mirage and Palm Springs, its next door neighbor, or if she had hired a straight male decorator.

Auntie Jean returned a few minutes later with a bouquet of flowers, obviously having forgotten my water, which she sat in the middle of the large, square, black coffee table, and, again, she disappeared. I looked down at the tacky vase and saw that it still had the drugstore label on it. Then I noticed that the vase was leaking. The coffee table was covered with books and magazines and as I did my best to clear them away so they wouldn’t get wet, I called out, "Auntie Jean, Auntie Jean?" I felt foolish calling her that but I didn’t know what else to call her. She ambled back into the room and I said, "Uh, there seems to be problem with the vase. It’s leaking!"

"My goodness gracious, it certainly is," she said as she picked up the vase with one hand cupping her other hand underneath the drip, and disappeared. She returned with some paper towels and I helped her wipe away the spilled water. She then deposited the paper towels in something on the other side of the room that looked more like an umbrella stand than it did a waste basket.

"Mr. Pahker, if you’ll come with me, I’ll be happy to give you a tour of Ginger’s garden." I followed her through the French doors into the interior garden, around which Ginger’s house was built. The garden was quite large, with several paths, and filled with roses in full bloom. It was actually quite lovely.

In Ginger, My Story, she writes about buying that house, "What really sold me were the thirty-six rose bushes and two gardenia hedges. I bought the house immediately, only to discover that in all four bathrooms, there were only showers – no tubs! I had been blinded by the roses. Many years later, I sold that house to Gerald ford, who used it for his Secret Service operations."

As we walked down one of the paths, Auntie Jean said, ever so slowly, and ever so hushed, "Have you ever been to South America Mr. Pahker?" Without giving me a chance to answer that I had not, she continued, "Ohhh, they just love Ginger in Brazil. And Ginger loves Brazil. Ginger’s been all over the world but I can’t think of any place Ginger loves as much as Brazil. The last time we went to Brazil, Ginger took along a new dress to wear in her show. It was covered in sapphire colored rhinestones and was the most scrumptious dress I had evah seen. The only problem was, Mr. Pahker, it was so heavy I could not even pick it up."
"‘Ginger,’ I said, ‘I know how much the Brazilian people love you and they are going to love that dress but how on earth can you wear something that heavy?.’ Ginger said, ‘Don’t you worry about that Auntie Jean, I’ll manage because I am going to wear it.’ One thing is for certain, Mr. Pahker, once Ginger makes up her mind, nobody can change it. But that’s Ginger." It always amused me when people referred to themselves or others in the third person without ever using a pronoun. To Auntie Jean, Ginger was always Ginger, never "she," and more often than not, I found out later, Ginger usually referred to herself as Ginger.

Auntie Jean stopped at one of the rose bushes, looked at me and smiled, "This is the rose they named after Ginger in Brazil. Isn’t it the most beautiful rose you have ever seen? Smell it, Mr. Pahker," she said, and I did.

"It certainly is beautiful," I responded.

Auntie Jean led me back into the living room and as I sat back down underneath Ginger’s Oscar, I heard, "Oh, no, Mr. Pahker!" as if I had sat or a tarantula. I quickly pushed myself back up to my feet and she added, "I forgot your watah," as she scurried out of the room. I thought, Please dear God let this day be over.
Auntie Jean returned with a glass the water as Ginger entered from another part of the house, wearing a very nondescript beige pants suit that looked like something she might have bought at a clearance sale at Wal-Mart. A very butch, unsmiling woman accompanied her and although I found out the woman’s name was Roberta Olden when Ginger introduced me to her, Ginger made no mention as to who she was or why she was present at the meeting. Ginger says, in her book, that Roberta was her secretary and a friend of her hairdresser. Hmmm.

I reminded Ginger that we had worked together several times on the Skelton Show and she told me how much she loved Red and how much she adored working with Tony Charmoli, confusing him with our choreographer Tom Hanson, and I didn’t bother to correct her. Then we all sat down, me on the end with Ginger next to me, Roberta next to her, and Auntie Jean holding her own on the short end of the "L."
"Mr. Jani," I started somewhat hesitantly, "wanted me to offer you his apologies and tell you how sorry he is that he couldn’t be here for this meeting but something very important came up." Oh crap, why did I say that? Her eyes popped open like dollar pancakes and she said, "Like he didn’t think Ginger was important?" she said. "I’m so sorry Ginger, that came out all wrong. What I meant to say was, something came up that was unavoidable, something having to do with the sets for your show." Without skipping a beat, I plowed ahead telling her about the show we were planning for her.

"We’re going to have 12 male singer/dancers working with you in some of the numbers. The opening number is a special material song that isn’t quite finished yet. The lyric that the guys sing is all about how much they can’t wait to dance with you. But here’s the switch, when you finally make your entrance, after the applause dies down, you sing, "I Won’t Dance, don’t ask me... " She thought about that for a minute and said, "I don’t get it. Why am I going to come out and sing, ‘I Won’t Dance,’ when people expect Ginger to dance?"

"That’s the idea. Everybody expects you to dance the minute they see you and the first thing out of your mouth is ‘I won’t dance.’ And, of course, the boys will eventually coax you into dancing." I quickly added, "Once we put the number together, I think you’ll see what we had in mind. If you don’t like it, we can always change it. And you will dance, you’ll dance a lot later in the show," I continued, telling her about the other numbers we had planned which seemed to appease her.

"You’re probably anxious to know what you’ll be wearing," I said. "All of the costumes are, of course, being designed and created especially for you by Frank Spencer, and I’ve brought along some of his sketches to show you." I handed the first sketch to her and after looking at it for a very long time, without making any comment at all, she tossed it on the coffee table as if it was last week’s newspaper. After the second sketch met with the same reaction, I handed her the third sketch. She looked at this one even longer finally leaning into it to examine something on the upper torso of the figure in the sketch. Pointing to it, with a disgruntled look on her face, she said, "What’s that supposed to be?" still zeroing in on the sketch.
　
I leaned in to examine it more closely and said, "Hmmm, I’m not really sure, Ginger, it looks like it might be fur."

With that, she snapped her head around to face me putting her finger about three inches from my nose. "You tell ‘em Ginger does not wear fake fur!" she growled, while repeatedly punching the air just in front of my nose with her finger for emphasis, "Ginger only wears real fur! If it’s not real fur, you tell ‘em they might as well not make it because Ginger wouldn’t be caught dead in fake fur!" Obviously Ginger was not a PETA supporter. I promised her I would give "them" the message.

Up to this point Auntie Jean and Roberta hadn’t said a word. Then, all at once, I heard a gigantic snore. I looked over at Auntie Jean and saw her chin resting on her chest. Neither Ginger, nor Roberta acknowledged Auntie Jean’s snore but it was all I could do to keep from howling like a banshee. The meeting finally ended and the next day I was on my way back to LAX.

A couple of weeks later, Ginger walked into the enormous rehearsal room at Radio City Music Hall in a pale green pants-suit similar in style to the one she had worn at the meeting in California. In fact, those identical pants-suits, all in different colors, were the only outfits she ever wore to rehearsal. That must have been quite a sale.

I introduced Ginger to Marsha, my tiny assistant, and the 12 guys who would be dancing with her. Not taking any chances, I had choreographed 3 versions of the big dance number. Version number 1 was a bit complicated but knowing Ginger’s limitations as I did, I thought she could handle it, number 2 was a quite a bit simpler, and number 3 was very, very simple. I showed Ginger all 3 versions, with Marsha dancing her part, and told Ginger she could choose the version she liked best. I was happy when she chose version 1 because it showed her off to her best advantage.

It was about 4:00 and rehearsals ended at 6:00. Ginger surprised me by saying she wanted to start learning the number right then. Although Ginger didn’t say anything more, I could tell by her body language that she was not going to learn anything as long as the guys were in the room so I dismissed them. Then Ginger looked at me as if to say, I’m not moving till the only two people in this room are her and me. I told Marsha that I’ll be in my office if she needed me.

At 5:50 I walked back into the rehearsal room. Ginger and Marsha, whose face was devoid of expression, were facing the mirror and Ginger was holding Marsha’s hand very tightly.
"It’s almost 6:00, time to quit," I said cheerfully.

Ginger looked at me incredulously and said, "It’s 6:00 already?" Then she added, in a very childlike voice that was barely audible, "I haven’t even learned the first step yet."

I thought, Oh no, it’s going to be even worse than I thought. What I said was, "Don’t worry about it Ginger, there’s no rush, we have two weeks," and I actually felt very sorry for her.

After Ginger walked out of the room, Marsha, almost weeping, said "I can’t believe it, Ginger Rogers can’t dance! I always loved Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. I’ve seen all their movies over and over and over again. And she can’t dance! Ginger Rogers can’t dance! That is sooo saaad."
"I warned you. Now you know I wasn’t exaggerating."

Ginger walked in the next morning and said, "You know, I love the first version of the number but I don’t think we have enough time for me to learn it. Perhaps we should do the third version." It was music to my ears.

In another number, all the boys were in a long diagonal line and Ginger was going to do a very simple combination working with one boy at a time. She was to step right, left, reach the first boy as he put his arm around her, sway front and sway back. Then she was to repeat stepping right and left, reach the next boy and this time when the boy put his arm around her he would circle her around himself in double-time, right, left, right, left. Then she would repeat that same combination until all twelve guys had partnered her. It was so simple I could have taught Lassie to do it in fifteen minutes. Make that ten.

We rehearsed it over and over. Everytime she did it she smiled out front selling it as if she was already on the stage in front of a fucking audience. On a break, I took the boys aside and said, "When Ginger gets to you, do whatever she wants to do. If she wants to sway, sway and if she wants to circle, circle."

Bob Jani, as I said earlier, stifled a person’s creativity but I somehow managed to choreograph one number for the show that I was actually extremely proud of. The guys wore black shoes and black v-necked jump suits topped by white shirts with black bow ties. Each boy danced with two derbies, one white and one black. I had velcro put on the front of the hats under the brim, on the front of the jump suit just under the "v," and on both hips. That way each boy could attach one of the derbies to his chest or one or both of them to his hips.

Choreographing with one hat was always fun but with each guy having two hats, there were endless possibilities. I could have 12 black derbies up in the air, 12 white derbies up in the air, or 24 black and white derbies up in the air or any combination thereof. They could also slap one of the derbies on their chest and dance with one of the hats or put both derbies on their hips and dance with none in their hands.
While it is possible someone had choreographed such a number before, it wasn’t something I had ever seen or copied. Like most ideas, it just came to me out of the blue. Even if I do say so myself, I think I just might have out Fosse-ed Bob Fosse, who adored choreographing with hats. My only regret is that he never saw it. And more than 30 years later, I have never seen any choreographer have the dancers work with double derbies.  I’ve wondered if Randy Skinner, one of the twelve guys who danced in Ginger’s show and later became a Broadway choreographer, ever "borrowed" my idea. I hope so.

At the dress rehearsal, when Ginger was finally out of those drab pants suits and into her make-up and costumes, I had to admit she looked fabulous. There was one spectacular sky-blue dress with a long, full, chiffon skirt, the bottom of which was edged with matching sky-blue marabou. During dress rehearsal, I went up on stage and told her how sensational she looked. She said, "I’m going to have them take the marabou off the bottom of the dress and move it up near the top of the dress." I said, "Well, you can, of course, do whatever you want to do but I think it looks terrific the way it is. Ginger replied, "Ginger knows what Ginger looks good in," this time without sticking her finger in my face. Actually, the dress looked good either way but I’m sure she felt more comfortable with the softness of the marabou closer to her face.
Ginger was a tough lady but anyone who lasts in show business as long as she did has to be tough. In my opinion, that goes for yesterday as well as today and tomorrow. Staying at the top in the entertainment business, particularly for a female, isn’t easy!!!

On opening night, Ginger sent me a bouquet of lilacs, her favorite flower, with a note that read, "Thank you dear one for being so lovely to me... Ginger" I also have an autographed photo. Unfortunately, it must have been made fairly cheaply because as time goes on, one can see where other pictures were lying helter-skelter on top of it in the developing solution when it was produced en masse. The same thing has happened to my autographed photo of Lana Turner.

When I read Jennifer Dunning’s review in The New York Times the next day, I had to laugh: "There’s an irresistible number in which she (Ginger) whisks through a line of ‘Rockers,’ as she calls her 12 nicely worshipful male chorus dancers, thumping one on the back reassuringly when she wobbles for an instant in his arms."

Even so, the show was so successful, Bob Jani tried to extend her run. She may not have been able to dance much anymore but Ginger was unavailable due to a prior commitment. That "girl" was still in demand and she was for a some time to come!

TALENT, THE "IT" FACTOR, ETC...


(I updated this the best I could on 04-07-12 but there still might be some things here I missed. Please be forgiving.)
"Talent" is a noun, the origin of which is from the Greek word "talanton," the definition of which is "weight, sum of money." More commonly the word "talent" means: 1) natural aptitude or skill; 2) people possessing such aptitude or skill. The keyword here is "natural." To me, that indicates "talent" is something one is born with, whether it be carpenter, surgeon, physicist, architect, chef, ball player, etc.

But if someone has won a medal or been awarded a certificate or has even been the recipient of a degree conferred by a college or university after completion of a course, does that really mean that the person is talented? If you think that’s true I’d like to send you to a couple of rotten dermatologists I had the misfortune to come across. And did the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of OZ really become brave just because he was given a medal to wear around his neck that said he was? See what I’m talking about?
More often than not, one seems to use the word "talent" when one refers to someone in the arts, such as artist, sculptor, writer, performer, or any of the other creative forces. I guess the Greeks were right because people with enormous talent do carry a lot of "weight" and during their lifetimes they are certainly capable of earning an outrageous "sum of money."

And then there are those who have a "talent" for making money. From what I am hearing on television, one of those is currently trying to win the Republican presidential nomination. Does the name Romney come to mind? I wish it didn’t.

Some people call talent "the ‘it’ factor" and they believe–beyond a shadow of a doubt–they know who has "it" and who doesn’t. But the reality is, people don’t always agree on who has "it" because one person’s "it" may be another person’s "yuck."

A good example of this is the phenomenal TV show, American Idol. Randy and Paula (this was written a while ago) both think "Joe" has "it" but Simon hates Joe. He hates Joe every week. If Simon thinks Joe is such an untalented, pathetic creature, why did he allow him to be chosen in the first place from the reported thousands and thousands of young hopefuls who turn up for the auditions? Is it just because Simon is known for raking people over the coals and he can’t function without having someone on the show to hate? Maybe. Do we miss Paula? I actually liked her okay but I don’t miss her. And, for whatever, reason, the current crop are, in my opinion, the best group ever as I sit here today (04-07-2012).

In the twenties and thirties there was an actress named Clara Bow. The powers that be in Hollywood knew she had something special but they weren’t sure what it was so they called her "The ‘it’ girl". Maybe that’s where it started. I don’t know.

If someone starts young enough and studies long and hard enough, and is determined and dedicated enough, can a person develop "it?" Unfortunately, the answer is a resounding, "NO!" At least that’s my opinion. Why can’t a person develop "it?" Although I am not a deeply religious person I firmly believe "it" is a God-given (once again) natural talent. You’re either born with "it" or you’re not. You can certainly develop a specific skill or talent in any given area, in or outside of show business, but that’s not the same as being born with "it."

Judy Garland, for instance, made her first stage appearance at the age of two and stopped the show. She kept right on stopping the show throughout her life. That is, when she showed up and was well or sober enough to perform. As far as I’m concerned, Judy and "it" are synonymous.

Some people, who are born with "talent" or "it," never even know they have it. That almost happened to me. In saying this, I am not suggesting I had "it," but I did discover, quite accidentally, that I had a natural aptitude for dancing. How else could I have gotten my first professional job at the age of eighteen, less than one year after I attended my first dance class? Throughout my career, I often auditioned with people who were far more accomplished than I was--technically--but I usually got the job. Could it be that I was "born
to dance" and they were not? Possibly.

Shirley MacLaine, one of the few major musical performers I never had the opportunity of working with during my thirty year career, has had a very long and successful career in films. It’s common knowledge among theatre and movie buffs, that Shirley, a chorus dancer who understudied Carol Haney in the 1954 Broadway production of The Pajama Game, replaced Carol, who was ill, one lucky night in the role of Gladys. Hal B. Wallis, a very influential movie producer who just happened to be sitting in the audience that night, thought Shirley had "it," and signed her to a five-year contract.

In 1958, a couple of years later, Shirley was nominated for her first Academy Award for Best Actress in Some Came Running. Subsequently she received three additional Best Actress nominations for Irma la Douce (1963), The Turning Point (1977), and Terms of Endearment, for which she finally won the Oscar (1983). All these years later, Shirley still works in films and receives decent, if not star, billing. Obviously, movie audiences agree with Mr. Wallis that Shirley has "it." Prior to her discovery, had she ever studied acting. I don’t think so. Had Jennifer Hudson ever studying acting prior to winning an Oscar? I don’t think so? What about Queen Latifah? She may not have studied acting but she was nominated for an Oscar. What a smart woman she is. And what smart women Madonna and Lady Gaga are. You have to really love it to do what those last two women do. That is hard, hard work!

Back to Ms. MacLaine. When I was studying acting with Aaron Frankel at the HB Studio in New York, Shirley’s name came up in class and Aaron had never like her. In fact, he said he would not even watch a film if she was in it. And Mr. Frankel isn’t just anybody. He has directed people like Robert Redford, Walter Matthau and Louise Fletcher, all Oscar winners themselves, on stage. Plus he is the author of the successful Writing the Broadway Musical.

What about Barbra Streisand? Is there anybody alive on the face of this earth who doesn’t adore Barbra? You might be saying, "Please God, tell me, ‘No!’ Who, in their right mind, would not drop down on their knees in adulation at the shear mention of her name?" Well, I once worked with Helen O’Connell, a well-known singer from the forties and fifties, who had hit records and was voted best female vocalist in a 1950 Metronome poll. After that she toured with Rosemary Clooney in an act called Girls Four. During a rehearsal one day when she was a guest on the TV show I was dancing on, Helen said, in no uncertain terms, "If I hear her (Barbra)on the radio I change the station. I just cannot listen to that girl’s whiny voice!"

In 2003 Johnny Depp was nominated for the Best Actor Oscar for Pirates of the Caribbean and lost to Jamie Fox, for his performance in Ray. He was nominated again the following year for Finding Neverland, and lost to Sean Penn. I’m a big fan of Depp’s and not long ago I asked my friends Grant and Valedia Sullivan if they had seen Finding Neverland, which in my opinion should have won the Oscar for best picture that year instead of Million Dollar Baby. Grant and Valedia see a lot of movies and Grant, who once starred in the television series, "Pony Express," surprised me by saying, "I can’t stand Johnny Depp. He annoys the hell out of me."

All this to prove my point that one person’s "it" is another person’s "yuck." How many times have you seen a film or a play and disagreed vehemently with the reviews? It happens to me all the time.
Also, have you ever noticed how people have a lot more to say when something’s bad than they do when something’s good? And it’s not only when their talking about stars or films or Broadway shows. It’s about everything.

You might ask a friend, "How was your trip to Italy?" and hear something like, "Italy is such an incredible country. The restaurants, the food, the museums, everything about the place was terrific. It was absolutely the most wonderful vacation we’ve ever had." He or she may speak of a few more specifics but if everything went really well without any hitches, a lot of people don’t seem to have much to say. I love to travel and want to hear all the details. "Did you go to Florence?" I prod. "Florence is a beautiful city. We loved the statue of David." Okay, so, "Did you go to Venice?" "We loved Venice. We were serenaded on a gondola." Eventually I give up.

However, if the trip was bad, you might receive a reply like this, "First of all, our plane was late departing and we had to sit on the runway for two hours. They didn’t even ask us if we wanted anything to drink. We just sat there. And as if things weren’t bad enough, my goddam seat wouldn’t recline. And a crying baby was sitting in front of us. The food? Don’t ask! It was inedible, like eating garbage! And where did they get those flight attendants? They were downright rude. And old? And fat? I’ll never travel on that airline again." And they haven’t even gotten to Italy yet.

So how was Italy? Did you love it? "Italy is overrated. And I wouldn’t go back to Florence if they paid me. We actually saw this man get pick-pocketed by a gypsy girl. She ran down the street, turned around, pulled down her underpants exposing her, uh, you know, pussy, and stuck her tongue out at us, before running down the street again and jumping into a big limo. That’s what they do, you now. They bring down all these gypsy kids in limos so they can spend the day robbing people. Can you imagine?" Actually I can because I was a witness to that incident. Some critics seem to enjoy writing reviews much more when they don’t like the show. They go out of their way to be brutally clever and downright bitchy. When I was in a one-performance flop called Happy Town, one of the critics wrote, "The orchestra played with great enthusiasm just as if they were playing music," and, "The entire cast is to be commended because they got through the performance without flinching." Actually that wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

Frank Rich of The New York Times had quite a good time for himself after he saw another four-performance disaster I was unfortunately in called "Bring Back Birdie, the dismal sequel to you-know-what, when he wrote, "The score that interrupts this book has a death wish." And Mr. Rich wrote this about the set, "Even David Mitchell, the inspired designer of Annie and Barnum, has gone haywire here. His scenery is built around a multitude of television sets - a mild satirical notion that’s so overdone the show looks like a discount appliance outlet." Isn’t show business fun?

However, like anything else, there are always exceptions. Walter Kerr, a New York critic, adored Ethel Merman and was a master when it came to expressing his overwhelming jubilation every time he saw her on the stage.

When Ethel opened in Happy Hunting on Broadway, Tom Donnelly in the World-Telegram and Sun wrote, "She is monumental, magnificent, and miraculous." Three "M"s, that’s pretty good alliteration. He went on, "Can anyone else touch her when it comes to demonstrating the absolute mastery of the musical stage? Certainly not." He continued and here’s the kicker, "Can anyone think of a new way to describe the glory of her voice, a way which would not involve the standard comparison to a brass band? I wish I could." Merman was so good Mr. Donnelly admitted he was somewhat at a loss for words when it came to describing Ethel and her performance. That was how good she was! If she had been rotten he might have conjured up quite a bit more to say.

Perhaps someone should have suggested to Mr. Donnelly that he take some lessons from Mr. Kerr who, after seeing that same show, wrote in the Union Tribune review, "How can you resist an un-ladylike Kewpie-doll with sunrise eyes, tadpole eyebrows, and rhinestones all over her toes–who rolls in from the wings, winds up her head like a pitcher getting ready to win the ball game, and fixes you with a blinking stare that’s like something seen at night in a very dark forest? Owls can’t do it, but Miss Merman can...
"The thing about Merman is that she doesn’t need comedy because she just naturally drips comedy the way some trees drip maple syrup. Lines? Who needs Lines? Her tone is funny, her attitude (whatever it may be at any slapdash moment) is funny, her simple presence in the
neighborhood is humor itself."

WOW!!! Now that’s positive writing!

After seeing Merman’s opening night performance in Gypsy, Mr. Kerr declared, "... the best damn musical I’ve seen in years" and went on to say about Merman, "a brassy, brazen witch on a mortgaged broomstick, a steamroller with cleats, the very mastodon of all stage mothers."


Merman was David Merrick’s first choice to play the role of Dolly Levi in Hello Dolly, but she turned him down. Subsequently, she followed Carol Channing, Ginger Rogers, Pearl Baily, Phyllis Diller, and Betty Grable to become the last Dolly of the original Broadway production.


Of her opening night performance, Mr. Kerr wrote, "My God, what a woman she is. Her comic sense is every bit as authoritative, as high-handed really, as her singing voice. At the very opening, as she’s offering one of her calling cards to a horse, she makes the gesture with such confidence that you expect the horse to take the card...

"Merman is odd. She has won love by never asking for it. She does what she does, on her time and in her tempo, and its up to you to decide when you want to come around. Everybody’s come around by this time and there she still is, cocky, chin tilted, half-dollar eyes sprouting sunburst black lashes, power flowing from her that will still light the town when Con Edison fails."


In his review of Merman’s concert with Mary Martin in 1976, Mr. Kerr, continuing his love affair with Merman, found even more new and original ways to express his adulation when he wrote, "... at the Broadway (Theatre) she was an itch that couldn’t be scratched, a brushfire claiming a whole mountainside, a pop and snap and a crackle that kept her rocking from side to side, like a metronome on wheels, slipping without warning into a fiercely infectious jig-step for ‘Doin’ What Comes Natur’lly,’ throwing her substantial but untamable body around as easily as she tossed breathless key-shifts to the winds, and–I guess I still don’t believe it–unleashing ‘Everything Coming Up Roses’ like a freshly tapped gusher with a sound soaring high in the air, straight up and off and into eternity. Incredible."

Mr. Kerr definitely believed Merman had "it." Sadly, however, while Broadway audiences adored Merman, movie producers knew that her popularity with the public at large had faded by the fifties when her film, No Business Like show Business, the first film I was in, wasn’t a box office success. Consequently, Jack Warner chose Rosalind Russell for the role of Rose in the film of Gypsy, which understandably devastated Merman, as well as a lot of her fans.

You might be thinking, "Okay, we know you were a dancer. But were you some kind’a staaar?"
"Nooo."

"Then exactly who are you and what’d..."
"Pardon me for interrupting but you don’t have to finish that sentence. I know where you’re headed."

"You do?"
"Yes I do, because when I tell people I was in show business, it often goes something like this."

"What’d you do?"

"I was a dancer, movies, TV, Broadway."

"You’re kidding! Did you work with anybody famous?"

"Uh-huh."

"Like who?"

"Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Ethel Merman, Mary Martin, Red Skelton, Bob Fosse, Agnes De Mille..." and when their eyes start to blur, I stop.
If the person I’m talking to is under fifty, there’s a good chance they’ve never heard of any of these people except Marilyn, and maybe Judy.

Recently, when I was shopping at a super market, the checker, who looked to be in her early twenties, said,

"How’s your day going?"

"Pretty well," I answered.

"So what’s goin’ on?" she asked. People in California are pretty casual but that took me by such surprise I told her the truth.

"I used to be in show business and I’ve been working on a book all day about my experiences."

"Cool," she responded as she continued scanning my groceries, "So who did you work with? Anybody famous?"

Hmmm, she certainly is curious. "Marilyn Monroe and..." "You worked with Marilyn?" she interrupted,
"Who else?"

I didn’t want to be there all day so I just said, "Fred Astaire."

"Fred Astaire? You worked with Fred Astaire? I just loved him in An American in Paris!"

"Uh, that was Gene Kelly."

"Who?" By that time the transaction was complete so I paid her, gathered up my groceries, tossed her a,

"Have a nice day," and walked away with a smile.

When people over fifty start questioning me I never know what to expect. Some zero in on a particular celebrity and ask that other inevitable question, "What was she (or he) really like?" and let it go at that.
Then there are the others, and these are the ones who truly fascinate me. The minute they hear the word "dancer" they interrupt me with something like, "Oh, I just love dancing. I started ballet classes when I was four. And tap, too. I remember dancing to Buttons and Bows in my first recital. I couldn’t have been more than seven. I wore the cutest costume, all pink ruffles from top to bottom. After that, it was over. I mean, totally over, because that’s all I wanted to do for the rest of my life. But then, my dad lost his job and we couldn’t afford dance lessons anymore so I had to stop. But..." These one-way conversations usually end without them ever asking me a single question about who I worked with or anything else. I’ve experienced this so often it’s become funny. Perhaps I should qualify that, it’s funny most of the time. Other times, when I’m not in the mood, I find it’s downright annoying.

One of my best female friends once tried to match me up with a friend of hers named Bob, who she thought would be perfect for me. He was about my age, had been married, had a couple of kids, and hadn’t been "out" very long. She said he was a decorator, very interesting, gave me his phone number, and suggested I call him. Which I did. We talked for about an hour and he was nice enough on the phone so we decided to get together.

Bob was going to pick me up at my place so we could have a get acquainted drink before going out to dinner. When I opened the door, I saw this fairly nice looking guy with a rather large nose–certainly not George Clooney–but perfectly acceptable. As he walked into my apartment, he noticed some of the pictures hanging in the entrance hall, including some autographed photos of Carol Burnett, Doris Day and Lana Turner, a large 11 by 14 shot of me doing my trademark high kick, as well as a "still" from Silk Stockings, the movie I danced in with Fred Astaire.

He recognized me in the kick picture and asked, "You used to be a dancer?"

"I did," I said, as I walked over to the Astaire picture, "that’s me right there."

Without asking a single question about my career, or Fred, or Carol or Doris or Lana, he got all excited and started ranting, "My daughter, Melanie, is an incredible dancer! We, her mother, my ex, and I started giving her dancing lessons when she was three and you could tell, she was one of those kids with a natural talent. Everybody who saw her was sure she was going to grow up to be a ballerina. I’ll never forget seeing her the first time she performed in front of an audience. She couldn’t have been more than, I don’t remember exactly how old she was, five, maybe six. She was the most adorable thing in her little parrot costume with all these feathers, red, green, blue, yellow..." Yeah, I thought, I know what a goddam parrot looks like. If Melanie has a beak like her father’s I understand why they decided to put her in a parrot costume. Throughout all this we’re still standing in the hall.

Although I did my best to look interested in what he was saying, what I really wanted to do was open the door and shove him out into the hall and slam the door in his nose, I mean, face. Instead, I walked into the living room and sat down hoping he’d follow me and he did. Without skipping a beat, he continued his soliloquy about this daughter of his I never met, "She wanted to be a professional dancer but when she was fifteen, or was it sixteen, no I’m sure it was fifteen because that’s the year she started wearing braces, she had a skiing accident–someplace place in Utah where–you might know–her mother had taken her, and that put an end to her dancing career. If I had been there it never would have happened because I wouldn’t even let her get close to skis, for God’s sake... "

He finally stopped to take a breath and still trying to be nice to this guy, I jumped in with, "Well, I did a Broadway show with Chita Rivera, who had an auto accident some years ago and she can still dance even though she has a steel rod in one leg. Maybe your daughter... "

"You worked with Chita Rivera? I love Chita Rivera. One time when I was in New York, I went to see some Broadway show, I don’t remember which one, maybe Hello Dolly, no it couldn’t have been Hello Dolly, I saw that in L.A., well, it doesn’t matter which show it was, anyway, at intermission I saw Chita Rivera standing in the lobby talking to a couple of gay guys. She was wearing this black form fitting dress, really slinky. I think she is the most fabulous performer I’ve ever seen so I didn’t care if I was being nervy or whatever, I knew I was not leaving that theatre without getting Chita’s autograph, so I went over to Chita and..."

He didn’t want to know what show I was in with Chita, he didn’t want to know what Chita was really like, he didn’t want to anything about Chita, or me, or anything else. By this time, he’s starting to look like Pinocchio! And I have to go out to dinner with this idiot? I don’t think so!
I was so desperate I was willing to do anything to get this guy out of my apartment. I finally thought of doing something I had never done before. I excused myself and went out to the kitchen, sniffed some black pepper–far more than I should have–and promptly had a sneezing attack unlike anything he, or I, had ever experienced before. " I, I, I, ahhhh-chooooo, I, I, I ahhhh-chooooo, it’s ah, ah, my, my, al, al, aler-gieeees-chooooo. My eyes were watering, and I thought maybe I had third degree burns on the inside of my nose, but I didn’t care, I just wanted to get rid of this imbecile.

Long story short, we did not go out to dinner. As soon as I could speak, I told him these allergy attacks sometimes hit me unexpectedly and lasted for days, so I thought it would be best if he went home. He said he hoped I felt better and as he tried to give me a hug before he walked out the door, I sneezed all over his big you-know-what. It wasn’t pretty. Thank God he had a handkerchief. He called me a couple of times afterward but, needless to say, Bob was not the perfect match for me and that was the last time I ever let my ex good friend–just kidding–fix me up with a date. Even though I’ve never let her forget it.

Other people, those who are completely enchanted and enthralled with the world of show business, ask endless questions, hanging on my every word, until I’m so sick of hearing myself talk I could scream. However, if it weren’t for those people, you wouldn’t be reading this, because they’re the ones who always say, "You ought to write a book."

I actually worked on a book once before, when I was in my forties, called The "Kids" in the Chorus, interviewing other cream-of-the-crop Broadway and film dancers like myself, to find out what had happened to their lives after they were considered to be too old to dance in the chorus.

Some, had made the transition to acting, teaching or directing smoothly, managing to stay within the industry. Beth Howland, a dancer I had known for many years, who was in the original Broadway cast of Bye Bye Birdie and Company, was one of the people I interviewed. Beth was thrilled because, a couple of days earlier, she heard that she had won the plum role of Vera, on the television series Alice with Linda Lavin.
Many dancers, like Steve (Johnny) Harmon, who once played the title role in the short-lived television series "Ensign Pulver," became successful California real estate agents. Others, who weren’t as resourceful, or just plain lucky, ended up doing whatever they had to do to make a living.

A friend of a friend, knew an editor at Doubleday named Allen Smart, who was, in his words, "a show business nut," and suggested I contact him. When my book was finished, I phoned Mr. Smart and he was kind enough to meet with me. After reading it he called to say that he thought it had great possibilities and he was going to present it to a group of his associate editors to get their reactions, which I found out was the way it’s done in the publishing world.

He let me read the critiques and I couldn’t believe they had all read the same book. One person described the author as being likeable and interesting, with a good sense of humor, and agreed with Mr. Smart that my book should be published. Another said my writing was amateurish and described me as arrogant and bitchy. Go figure.

Mr. Smart had a friend at another publishing firm and suggested I send him a copy, which I did. A couple of months went by before I heard from him and by that time all of the interviews needed updating. Alice, for instance, had become a big hit and Beth, a relative unknown at the time of our interview, was now a well known television actress. As I had interviewed dancers on both coasts, updating the book seemed to be an impossible task so I just forgot about it.


Since that time I’ve written a couple of articles that have been published here and there, including one in Playbill. But I never tackled anything like writing a book about my personal show business experiences because, quite simply, I couldn’t think of a concept.

Then one morning I got a call from Bill, a good friend of mine, who said, "I was watching Silk Stockings on television last night and I had forgotten you were in that Ritz Rock and Roll number with Fred Astaire. It reminded me of those stories you told me about all the stars you worked with."

"Yeah, but isn’t it a shame so many of those people are dead?"

"Wouldn’t it be great," Bill said, "if you could tell all of ‘em what it was really like working with them, you know, the good, the bad and the ugly? Too bad you can’t write ‘em letters."

I couldn’t stop thinking about what Bill said. I am one of those rare individuals who has always enjoyed writing letters so a book of letters just might work. Maybe that’s the concept I’ve been searching for. If I wrote letters to all those people who were no longer with us, this time I certainly wouldn’t have to worry about updating. And when it’s appropriate I can insert interesting tidbits about some of the people I worked with who are still around, as well as some things about my personal life, just like one does in a letter to a friend.

One aspect of my career many people, even good friends, don’t know about is that I’m a pretty good song writer. I’ve been writing songs since I was a kid and I’ve even been lucky enough to have a few of them recorded.

When I was directing and choreographing the shows at Radio City Music Hall, we were planning the tree lighting ceremonies at Rockefeller Center, to be televised on NBC. Bob Jani, the producer, wanted the show to open with a song about New York and Christmas. When someone presents a targeted idea like that to me, I’m often quite good at coming up something that’s right on the money. It’s like, you want a hamburger? Okay, I’ll make you a hamburger.
As soon as I got home that night I started writing down some ideas. Bob wants a song about New York and Christmas, huh? I think New York At Christmas sounds better. Let’s see, there’s the big tree at Rockefeller Center and ice skating. How about, "Come and see Rockefeller Center all dressed up for winter. Bring your skates, the ice is waiting, underneath a Christmas tree, the biggest one you’ll ever see." Yeah, that sounds pretty good. What else is there? Chestnuts roasting on all the street corners, Fifth Avenue all lit up and decorated. Let’s trythis, "Everywhere, the smell of chestnuts roasting fills the air, along with pretzels toasting. Window shop until your eyes are popping, once you’ve seen Fifth Avenue, you’ll want to take it home with you." Yes, I like that.  I like it a lot.  Now, how should it start???  .

People always seem to think the country is the best place to be at Christmas... not the city.  Hmmm.  Here goes, "If you're gonna be in the city at Christmas time, make sure you're in the city of New York.  For there's no city prettier that New York at Christmas, New York and Christmas go together... come and see Rockefelled Center."  Yeah, that's works great!   It's a very comfortable lead in to, "Come and see Rockefeller Center..."  And I love "no city prettier"  What a great inner rhyme that is if I do say so myself.  Before I knew it, my song was finished.

The next morning I got one of the singers in the show to make a rough recording for me and presented it to Bob. He said it was exactly what he was looking for and New York At Christmas did, indeed, open the show, much to the chagrin of Don Pippin, the musical director. Don had submitted a Christmas song he had written, which had nothing whatsoever to do with New York, and he was furious Bob chose my song to open the show.

The most interesting thing about writing a song is I often start with just an idea or a title in mind and I don’t have a clue where the lyric is going to take me. I just let the creative process do its thing and see what happens. Sometimes I get nowhere. Other times the process leads me down a path I never intended to take. The results are often quite surprising.

So I thought, Hmmm, I think I’ll give this book of letters a shot. It’s certainly worth a try.

For one thing, I could clear up something that happened all the way back in 1955 when I worked with Judy Garland on that concert tours. I’d like to say, "Hey Judy, why were you so mean to me? It wasn’t my fault your favorite dancer got fired and I was hired to replace him! Why’d you get mad at me?" Bob Fosse liked me a lot until he sent me a telegram asking me to come out to L.A. to be in the movie of Damn Yankees and I had to turn him down. When I called him, I explained that I was doing a featured role in a summer stock production and I couldn’t get out of my contract. Even so, I could tell he was pissed off. A couple of years later he was doing a new Broadway show and when I showed up at the audition he acted like he didn’t even recognize me and eliminated me after the first combination. I’d like to get that off my chest.

Michael Bennet, on the other hand, thought I was terrific when I worked for him in Ballroom, his first Broadway show after A Chorus Line. Working for Michael is one of my fondest memories. The irony is Michael and I both landed in Tucson, Arizona, of all places, a few weeks apart. I ended up there quite by accident, after my partner Curt died, when I was in search of a new home and a fresh start. The tragedy is, Michael went there to die. I had no idea Michael was there until I read in the local morning paper about his death. Had I known Michael was there, would I have had the opportunity to tell him how grateful I was? Probably not. But I can do that now in a letter.


Some of these stars and I have things in common, other than the fact that I worked with them. Judy Garland, Ethel Merman and Mary Martin and I all performed at the famous Metropolitan Opera House in New York before it was torn down. It’s actually stretching the truth to say I performed there, but I was on that stage in front of an audience. Twice. They might get a kick out of that story.

Okay, here’s the story. I was nineteen and I went with a friend to a ballet class at the Met. He asked me afterward if I wanted to "super" and get two bucks. I didn't know what "super" meant but I said, "Sure."  He led me to the wardrobe department where we were outfitted in long flowing robes and headgear. Then the prop master handed us candles which were really flashlights. My friend told me to turn it on and we followed all the other people out onto the stage. When I looked out into the audience I was over whelmed. All those balconies. Wow, what a theatre. I had no idea where I was. We all walked slowly to the other side of stage, handed in our robes and our candles and collected two bucks. The whole thing took less that five minutes. What a deal!

The next night my friend asked if I wanted to do it again and I, of course, said that I would. This time I was put in some kind of awful heavy costume and helmet. Instead of a candle I was handed a spear. I was told where to stand and the curtain went up. As I remember it, I had to stand there during the entire first act of that opera.  At intermission, my friend told me I had to do the same thing in the second act. I told him I was not going to do that. That is wan't worth two bucks.  He took over to the person in charge, told him I was sick, and I ended up getting the two dollars anyway. I never did that again.

Fans, including me, are inclined to put people like Ethel and Mary and Shirley on these gigantic pedestals because they acquired such incredible fame during their lifetimes. Over the years I’ve read many of their biographies and autobiographies, and they were, after all, mere mortals. They experienced great highs and lows, chaotic ups and downs, tremendous successes, horrific failures, and devastating disappointments, just like the rest of us. Many of them suffered from insecurities, self-doubt, and major depression. God knows, I’ve had more than my share of the latter. They experienced the same joy when they fell in love and the same heartache when their relationships failed. The only difference between those of us "normal" people and them is that they lived their lives in a fish bowl hounded by the "paparazzi," and couldn’t go to the toilet, without making headlines.  Cant you imagine Ethel Merman being such a huge Broadway star and winning such fabulous reviews for all those years losing the part in "Gypsy" to Lucille Ball?  How hearbreaking that must have been.

And when they lost loved ones, did they hurt any more than we hurt when we lose someone we love? When they got fired from a job, and many of them did, did it hurt them any more than it hurts us if we find ourselves in that same situation? I don’t think so. Even though they got paid enormous sums of money, some fought for their financial security, and some even faced bankruptcy. Once, having risen to the top of the heap, some readily admit they had to scratch and claw and fight tooth and nail, to stay there.

As I said earlier, it’s often said that everybody has at least one book in them and I believe that’s true. That’s because, excluding fame and fortune, we’re all just people and we all have a tale to tell. Some authors have extraordinary success writing about everyday things that occur in their lives. Some years ago, I read a book that became the number one book of nonfiction on The New York Times Best Seller List called Marley & Me, life and love with the world’s worst dog written by John Grogan. While Mr. Grogan lists some of his writing credentials on the flap of the back cover, he doesn’t list any other books he’s written. It seems he simply sat down and wrote–and that’s the hard part–a tender and heart warming story about his dog.

(Even though I scrapped the letters to dead people idea a long time ago because it just didn’t work out, I am going to include what I wrote here because I liked it. Okay, reading it now, I will accept the possibility that it may be a little hokey but hey, so what?  Yes, I am a recovering perfectionist but I have learned the hard way that nothing is perfect.  Including me.  Oh, you are too?  That is so good to hear.  We do belong to a very large group, don't we?  I'm still dealing with it, what about you?)
You might be thinking, Writing about your dog is one thing but you’re writing letters to dead people.
Yeah? So?

"Why write letters if nobody’s ever gonna get ‘em?
It’s not like I’m going to put these letters in envelopes, stick stamps on ‘em and drop ‘em in a mail box.
We all have our own views on this subject and although you may not agree with me, I happen to believe there is an afterlife. I also happen to believe in guardian angels. Furthermore, I believe there is a good chance many of these people may receive my letters, one way or another. Maybe not all of them will answer, but I am expecting to receive responses from some of them.

"Like a postcard? Or an E-mail?"

Hardly. What I’m talking about is some kind of unexplainable communication, either metaphysically. Or telepathically. Or maybe telekinetic. Or may even via some kind of situation that some people may call a "coincidence." Over the years I have come to believe that there are no coincidences in life. And perhaps there are none in death.

"That’s a lot of hooey!"
I’m okay if you think that because that’s your prerogative. And don’t worry, I’m not going to proselytize with a lot of blah-blah-blah in an effort to change anyone’s mind. That, I’ve learned, is an impossible task. I only know that I, and you may believe this or not, have, on occasion, received communication from the other side. In fact, I believe in my heart that my guardian angel saved my life. What do you think of that? Speechless, huh?

As far as responses to my letters go, if I receive none whatsoever while I’m here on earth, I’ll just have to wait until I pass over to the other side myself.

On television’s Inside the Actor’s Studio, James Lipton always ends every interview asking his famous guests to offer their answers to the famed Bernard Pivot questionnaire. Mr. Lipton’s final question is, "If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?"

Although I never expect to have Mr. Lipton ask me that question I have given a lot of thought to what my answer would be. What I’d like to hear God say when I arrive is, "They’re all over there waiting for you." I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than seeing all those people and pets I’ve loved and lost welcoming me into heaven... although with all those talented luminaries I worked with.

And scattered among my loved ones, I hope to see–make that expect to see–some, if not all, of the people I’m writing to in this book. Then and only then, will I find out the answer to the question, "Will they let me dance in heaven?"

(Good title I thought. Books and songs with the word "heaven" in the title seem to sell well. We’ll never know if this one would have."

Working with JUDY GARLAND...

In 1955, when the six-week San Francisco run of the Los Angeles Civic Light Opera production of Kiss Me Kate ended, I couldn’t wait to get home. Lowell Purvis and I, or Mitzi and Maude as we were affectionately known by other dancers, spoke to each other at least three evenings a week, so I knew Paul Godkin had hired him to dance in a concert tour with Judy Garland, which they had started rehearsing a week earlier. Kate closed on a Sunday and the cast took the train back to L.A. the following day. That evening, shortly after I walked in the door, the phone rang and when I picked it up, I wasn’t surprised to hear Lowell’s voice, "Maude, where the fuck have you been? Never mind. I’ve been calling you for over an hour. Guess what happened at rehearsal? Miss Thing, ya’ know, Judy, didn’t show up again so we had to work without her. Paul showed us a new dance combination and the acrobat queen, ya’ know, Bert May, made some smart-ass remark about the combination and it made Paul furious. Long story short, Paul and Bert had words and Bert picked up his things and stormed out."

Lowell and I had become best friends when we were both hired by Donn Arden to dance at the Moulin Rouge, an enormous nightclub on Sunset Boulevard just east of Vine Street in Hollywood that later became the Aquarius Theater. All of our shows were at night so the dancers were free to take television and movie jobs in the daytime. Lowell and I met Paul when he hired us to dance on Shower of Stars, a television special starring Betty Grable.

From the moment Paul saw Lowell and me at the audition he nicknamed us the Gold Dust Twins. Although we were both six feet tall and blond, that’s where the similarities ended. While I was, in all modesty, considered cute, Lowell was far prettier than a 22-year-old young man should be. He had huge, luminescent blue eyes, above which were long lavish eyelashes, and beautifully arched eyebrows. Lowell was also everything I was not: exceedingly aggressive, overly self-confident, and absolutely impossible to embarrass. And when it came to flirting with men, be they gay or straight, he had no shame.

The first day of rehearsal for the TV show, we were talking to some of the other guys who had worked for Paul previously. One of them bragged that he had an affairette with Paul on the last job and told us that Paul was extremely well hung. (I wonder if that should be hyphenated.) Lowell’s ears perked up at that bit of information, and I thought, That’s all Lowell needs to know, here we go again, the chase is on. Sure enough, before the week was over Lowell and Paul were doing it.

"Anyway," Lowell continued, "the good news is Paul told me to ask you if you want to replace Bert. If you do, and why in the world wouldn’t you want to because who in their right mind would turn down a chance to work with Judy Garland, even though she’s as big as a two-car garage and temperamental as hell, you can start tonight. You will, won’t you? You and I can be roommates on the road. Think of all the fun we’ll have, not to mention all the young men we can drag back to our hotel rooms."

"What do you mean tonight?" I asked.

"Judy doesn’t work in the daytime so all the rehearsals are scheduled from 10:00 at night to 3:00 in the morning. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you that. Honest to God, half the time, I don’t think you listen to me."
"Well, Miss Motor-mouth, that is something I would have definitely remembered because it’s so weird," I said. "You know I don’t like the idea of replacing Bert. Everyone knows he’s one of her favorites. What if Judy forces Paul to rehire Bert? Will I be thrown out?"

"Don’t worry. That’ll never happen."

"Well, if you’re sure, call Paul and tell him I’ll do it."

"I don’t have to call him, silly. He’s lying right here."
Why was I not surprised to hear that?
"See ya’ tonight at Nico Charisse’s studio on La Cienega, Paul says, ‘Don’t be late.’"
We were running the opening number when Judy walked in about 11:30. Lowell was right; she was anything but the petite Judy Garland I had seen in movies. Lowell had repeatedly told me how huge she was but I didn’t really believe him because when it came to size he was always prone to exaggeration. It wasn’t long before Judy noticed the new face in the crowd. Mine. She quickly scanned the room looking at the faces of all the other guys. Then like a bullet she snapped her head in Paul’s direction, planted her hands on her hips, and snarled, "Who’s that blond boy and where is Bert?"

Oh-oh! I am in deep shit! Very deep, gooey shit! I thought.

"Take five," Paul said to us, as he took Judy by the arm and walked her over to a corner of the room where the two of them had a powwow. The guys were all betting that Judy would demand that Bert be rehired. They were right. The next night Bert was back. Fortunately, there was another guy in the group Paul wasn’t happy with so instead of firing me, he kept his word and let the other guy go.

It was unusually hot for June and there was either no air-conditioning in the studio or Judy had had it turned off, I’m not sure which. As I remember it, night after night her rehearsal outfits never varied: black low-heel shoes, black pants, and a loose fitting long sleeved full-bodied shirt that buttoned down the front. She always had the sleeves rolled up almost to the elbow, similar to one of the outfits she wore in the film A Star Is Born. And she always wore something underneath the shirt that was also quite loose; kind of like a short-sleeved T-shirt. Judy would get up to dance, start to perspire, take off the over-shirt, and toss it over a chair. The T-shirt, however, was more revealing and made her look even heavier. When she saw herself in the mirror she immediately put the over shirt back on. On and off. On and off. The way she kept changing shirts night after night was really sad. After fighting weight most of her life, she must have been so uncomfortable being that heavy, not to mention the mental damage it must have done.

I read somewhere much later that Judy liked vodka and grapefruit juice but I recall the tumbler she constantly drank from being filled with something darkish, more like scotch or bourbon mixed with soda or water. She never took big swigs of it but she sipped from that tumbler throughout the evening. The odd thing about the tumbler was that it never really mattered how much she drank, it always stayed full! It was like some trick glass that either magically refilled itself or was refilled by some invisible hand. She never seemed to get drunk or even tipsy, so her tumbler was always a mystery to me.

One night, shortly after Judy arrived, Paul said he wasn’t feeling well and left. Rather than send us home, she surprised and delighted us by saying that she was going to take us all out to dinner. We walked down La Cienega Boulevard, as a group, finally ending up in an Italian restaurant. Nobody was able to get a word in edgewise that evening and we didn’t mind a bit. Judy was really on. She talked and talked and talked, telling us one hilarious story after another.

The one we loved best was about the night of the Academy Awards, a few months earlier, when she was nominated as Best Actress for A Star Is Born; she had us all in stitches.
(I’ve read different versions of this story in more than one of her many biographies and I wouldn’t be surprised if she altered and/or embellished it to fit her mood as well as her audience. This is the story as I recall it.)

The Oscar ceremony was held at the Pantages Theater on March 30, 1955. As she told the story to us that night, she was in Cedars Sinai Hospital, having just given birth to Joey, her third child, the day before. Obviously she couldn’t attend the ceremony but because she was the odds-on favorite to win – the Associated Press declared that she was "virtually a lead-pipe cinch" – NBC brought the award ceremony to her.

The crew arrived at dawn to prepare for the live television show. They built scaffolding outside of the hospital which included a platform right outside her third floor window where the cameras would be. The plan was to open on a shot of the closed blinds. Then the moment they announced her name as the winner, the blinds were to fly upward and the camera would zoom in for a close-up of Judy in her hospital bed where she was to make her acceptance speech.

She said the entire day was chaos. Inside her room, the lighting and sound technicians set up all their equipment, the wardrobe people brought in a trunk load of gorgeous nightgowns and negligees from which she could choose, the make-up and hair people fussed over her, set-decorators brought in all kinds of exotic plants and floral arrangements, everyone making sure everything was absolutely perfect. Her captive audience hung on every word.

A huge TV set was rolled into her room on a dolly so she could watch the show and the sound system was such that she could hear the director speaking to her and the crew throughout the day during rehearsals. The live show finally started and as it got closer to the moment when the announcement would be made for the Best Actress, the director instructed the crew to get out of sight so that it would appear that Judy was alone in the room.

The set decorator fluffed up all the pillows and adjusted the bedspread while the make-up lady gave her a final check and they both ducked under Judy’s bed at the last moment. Judy grabbed the mirror from under the sheet, took a last look at herself, and quickly replaced the mirror out of sight. The person who was to open the blinds the moment her name was announced stood ready, and there she sat with a smile on her face awaiting the big moment.

She watched as the nominees were announced, "...Audrey Hepburn for Sabrina, Judy Garland for A Star Is Born, Jane Wyman in Magnificent Obsession, Grace Kelly in A Country Girl, and Dorothy Dandridge in Carmen Jones."
She said to us, "Boys, I was just sitting there thinking, ‘Ready when you are C.B.’""... and the winner is... "Grace Kelly."

"DON’T TOUCH THOSE FUCKING BLINDS!" she said she screamed, and we all roared.
"When they didn’t call my name, everybody looked at me like it was my fault I didn’t win. It was like they had gone through all this crap for nothing. The set decorator and the make-up lady crawled out from under the bed. She held out her hand without saying a word so I reached under the sheet for the mirror and put it in her hand. The set decorator queen curled his lip at me and started removing all the fuckin’ flowers. He even removed some bouquets that had been sent to me by, ya’ know, personal friends. They unplugged the television set and rolled it out of the room. I couldn’t even watch the rest of the show. The worst part of it was they all made me feel guilty. I even looked guilty. I could feel it on my face. Nobody even said, ‘Ga’bye.’ They just left me sitting there. All by myself!"

I read that she was, in fact, "devastated" when she didn’t win which is, of course, understandable. "Another slap in the face," someone quoted her as saying. Supposedly even Grace Kelly’s father was so embarrassed his daughter won instead of Judy he said, "There should have been two awards and Judy Garland should have had one of them." It was one of the biggest upsets in Oscar history. Yet there she was, a few months later, turning her loss into an hysterical story.

In 2006 I saw Liza when she was a guest on Inside the Actor’s Studio television show. She said that when she, Lorna and Joey were growing up, Judy infused every tragedy – and there were many – with humor. She said Judy would rewrite the stories so that they were funny, not tragic, and consequently the kids didn’t remember the truth, they only remembered the stories the way she had rewritten them. After that night with Judy I knew precisely what Liza meant.
　
I had forgotten the exact dates I worked with Judy. Even though I never expected to find any information about the short 10-night tour, I went online, typed in "Judy Garland, Long Beach, California" and clicked "search." Imagine my surprise when the complete tour schedule popped up on the screen. I thought, How great! But wait, it says there were two tryout performances in San Diego on July 8^th and 9^th before the official opening in Long Beach on the 11^th. That can’t be true! How can I possibly have no recollection whatsoever of playing San Diego, which is particularly odd because that’s where I’ve lived for the last many years. This information has to be wrong. We opened in Long Beach. I remember that night vividly.
I sent an e-mail to Steve Jarrett, the proprietor of the site, advising him that there was a "possible Garland error," never thinking I’d get a reply. The next day I received a nice answer from Steve telling me that he had forwarded my letter to John Fricke, "the absolute World Authority on all things Judy and a really great guy."

A couple of days later John sent me an e-mail saying that he was absolutely positive we did two tryout performances in San Diego. I mean, who am I to question someone who has a reputation of being the "World Authority on all things Judy?"

That afternoon I went downtown to the main library and sure enough, there it was. I found the newspaper ads that read, "IN PERSON, AMERICA’S No. 1 ENTERTAINER, JUDY GARLAND, with a Star-Studded cast of 40," which included the Wiere Bros., the Hi-Los, Frank Fontaine and Jerry Gray and a 20-piece orchestra. The ticket prices ranged from $2.00 to $5.50 including tax. With concert prices being what they are today, it is unbelievable that anyone could have seen Judy Garland live and in person for only two bucks? I also found two reviews of the show, one in the morning paper and one in the evening paper, neither of which were actually that good. I mean, they were okay but I expected "WOW!"
In the meantime I found out that John is really a big deal, having written an incredible book: Judy Garland, World’s Greatest Entertainer. I e-mailed John telling him what I had found at the library. He responded that he had an audiotape of opening night in Long Beach and said that he’d be happy to send me a copy. I mean, this can’t be real! That performance happened over fifty years ago!
A week later, the package from John arrived.  I excitedly read his note telling me that he had not only sent me the audiotape, he had included a videocassette of a one-minute black and white newsreel clip, without sound. I listened to the first fifteen minutes of the audiotape.  I was disappointed the opening number the guys performed isn’t on the tape but listening to Judy singing live on that unforgettable night was electrifying.

Then I put on the videocassette. It shows the throngs waiting outside the auditorium for the arrival of the busses that Frank Sinatra brought down filled with stars. There are shots of Van Johnson, Debbie Reynolds, and Eddie Fisher getting off the bus. Then it jumps inside the auditorium for a three or four second clip of Judy on stage with three of the dancers, the only one who is truly recognizable is the blond guy right in front next to Judy. Holy shit! That’s me!!! I couldn’t believe I was lucky enough to actually be on the tape, much less recognizable. I have racked my brain trying to come up with some recollection of those two performances in San Diego without success. The irony is, had I remembered them, I would never have received the tapes from John.
　
The eleven guys in Judy’s act, one for each letter in her name, opened the show making our entrance from the back of the auditorium. Dressed in white pants, white shoes and socks, red, white and blue blazers, and straw hats with hat bands that matched our jackets, we came down two side aisles, each of us carrying a long wooden pole, on top of which was a huge placard with one of the letters of Judy’s name on it. On one side of my placard was a huge red "Y" with a blue "Y" on the other side. During the number we twisted our poles as we alternated spelling out a red word, then a blue word. Both sides of the placards were covered with sparkles and spangles, which glittered under the lights.

We could barely contain ourselves knowing that Frank Sinatra, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Dean
Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., June Allyson, Dick Powell, Van, Debbie, Eddie, and all the others were sitting on the first two rows.

When we reached the stage, we spelled out anagrams with our signs as we sang:

She’s GAY, she’s GAUDY,
she’s a hell of a GAL that’s a hell of a GUY.
She’s GRAND, she’s DANDY,
she’s the first of JANUARY, she’s the fourth of JULY.
She’s ANGULAR, she’s the LAUNDRY,
she’s a LADY, a JAR, a GNU.
This is all bass-ackwards but wait’ll you spell it backwards.
You’ll get the fabulous, glorious, glamorous,
(red) JUDY GARLAND, (blue) JUDY GARLAND, (red) JUDY, (blue) JUDY,


(red) JUDY, (blue) JUDY GARLAAAAAAND.While we held that last note, we shook out poles slowly raising them as high as we could and shaking them.  

At some point during the song I was near the right side of the stage where Judy was waiting to make her entrance and I heard someone screaming at the top of her lungs, "LOUDER, LOUDER, LOUDER!!!" I glanced in the wings and saw that it was Judy, hands cupped up to her mouth, shrieking at us.

The moment the audience got their first glimpse of Judy, dressed in a costume quite similar to something she might have worn in the film Meet Me in St. Louis, they stood up en masse, screaming and applauding. Without waiting for the applause to die down, Judy signaled the orchestra to start and we joined her in a special material song called "This Is a Party." At the end of the number, the guys split leaving her all alone on the stage.

To her adoring fans, she said, "Thank you. Thank you very much. That was the, uh, noisiest and, uh, loudest opening number I, I ever heard and I’m getting too old for that. They told me that I was gonna play some big places but this is ridiculous, I can’t see the end of it. I hope you can see me. I wish I were a little taller, I know I’m wide enough. You think these kind of figures will ever come back?" When the laughter subsided, she continued, "Well, I really did mean it when I, uh, was singing about having a party because I think you’re gonna have fun tonight. When we decided to put this show on, we looked at a lot of acts, I think Sid looked at a lot more than I did, ‘cause I was busy having a baby and not getting an Academy Award."

She opened her first segment with "The Man that Got Away," followed by "Carolina in the Morning," and then she went on to sing all the songs her fans were dying to hear. One of her most incredible talents was her ability to always sing every song like it was the first time she had ever sung it even though, during her lifetime, she surely must have sung many of those songs thousands of times.
　
When I was in high school, I was nuts about Lauren Bacall, who I thought was the sexiest woman in films, and Arlene Dahl, who I thought was the most beautiful woman in the world. I bought all the movie star magazines, cut out every photo and article about them, and put them in two huge scrapbooks, one for each of them. I even sent away for autographed photos of them and was disappointed when I received them to find that they had been mass-produced after the autographs had been written on them. I mean, I thought they would be autographed to me personally. Even so, I pasted a five by seven photo of Lauren – yeah, I know her good friends call her Betty, her real name – in my three-ring binder.

That night I knew there was a good chance I’d get to see Lauren in the flesh and I was hoping I’d be lucky enough to meet her. In the event that happened I planned to give her my scrapbook.
At the end of the show all the stars joined Judy on stage, which was a real treat for the audience, and afterward they all waited in the green room for her to join them. I don’t remember if the guys were actually invited but we all went anyway because we weren’t going to miss an opportunity to see all those movie stars up close.

When I saw Lauren, I took a deep breath, and walked over to her with my big thick scrapbook in hand. My voice shook as I said, "I’ve been a big fan of yours since I was in high school and I thought you might like to have this scrapbook I’ve kept of you." She looked at me rather expressionless and said, "Maybe you oughta keep it," and turned away. That’s all she said. She didn’t look in the scrapbook. She didn’t even touch it. The fact that I had saved all those articles and pictures of her meant absolutely nothing.

I was embarrassed and felt like a fool. I thought, How could I have been so naive to think Lauren Bacall would actually want my scrapbook? A scrapbook? That’s a good name for it because that’s exactly what it is. It’s nothing but scrap. I walked over to a large trash can and tossed the scrapbook in it.
I watched the 1996 Oscar telecast when Lauren, at the age of 72, was supposedly a shoo-in to win the best supporting actress award for her performance as Barbra Streisand’s mother in The Mirror Has Two Faces. When she unexpectedly lost to Juliet Binoche, there was a close-up of her sitting on the front row with egg on her face. I wanted to be happy she didn’t win but the disappointment must have been so heart wrenching for her, I just couldn’t be. It was her first nomination and would probably be her last.
　
Our next stop on the tour was Eugene, Oregon where, after our performance, we were greeted by a huge crowd inside the hotel. Judy was on one side of the lobby signing autographs and as usual, Bert, the guy I had originally replaced, was by her side. All of the other guys did a disappearing act and I found myself standing on the opposite side of the lobby surrounded by a group of young girls asking for my autograph. As I signed their programs I glanced over at Judy and was surprised to see her looking at me with a strange expression of disapproval on her face. I thought, Hey, these young girls think I’m cute and what the hell, nobody told us we weren’t supposed to sign autographs.
I was one of several guys who had an insignificant little solo, maybe six or eight bars long, in one of the numbers. Before the show the next night, the stage manager called the dancers on stage, announced that my solo was cut, and dismissed us. The rest of the guys just looked at me while I stood there with my mouth open because it made no sense whatsoever. As the stage manager was walking away I said, "Wait a minute, what’s going on, why was my solo cut when nothing else in the show was changed?" He replied sheepishly, "I just do what I’m told."

Walking back to the dressing room with Lowell, I said, "I don’t get it! That’s really embarrassing! What just happened?

Lowell replied, "You said Judy saw you signing autographs last night in the lobby. Maybe she didn’t like it. Maybe cutting your solo is her revenge. Maybe she was jealous."

"Judy Garland jealous of me, for God’s sake, that’s ridiculous!"

"That’s the only thing I can figure out, sweetheart." Lowell said.

"She’s offstage during that number changing costumes. How could she have even known that I had a solo?

That bitch! I can’t believe a star of her magnitude would stoop to something so fucking petty!"

"She’s not a well woman," Lowell reasoned, "everybody knows it."

"You can say that again!"

Even though the situation with Judy made me uncomfortable, Lowell and I had a terrific time on the tour.

Every night after the show the two of us would get in a taxi and Lowell would say to the driver, "Take us to the biggest and best homosexual bar in the city." I felt like crawling under the seat. I mean, people just didn’t say things like that in 1955. But it was no big deal to the taxi-drivers; without hesitation, they always knew exactly where to take us.

Each of these bars in the various cities was, of course, packed with guys who had just seen the concert. And inasmuch as it has always been fairly safe to assume, where there are chorus boys there are fairies, all of the guys in these bars anxiously awaited our arrival. Each one of them wanted to see if their favorite fellow would show up. Of course, some were disappointed, because there actually were a couple of straight guys in the show.

Lowell always insisted that we get to the bars first because that way we’d get the most attention. We were always greeted with a round of applause as we walked through the door and mobbed with everyone wanting to buy us drinks. And they always wanted to know what Judy was really like, a subject I tried to avoid, because I never liked using the "c" word, except, of course, when Lowell deserved it. As he often did.

As each evening grew to a close, it was always the same. Every guy in the place wanted to be seen walking out of the bar with one of us. It was like being in a candy store and sometimes it was really tough deciding which piece of candy I wanted. Occasionally Lowell made an absolute pig of himself and selected more than one. In the mornings when we arrived at the train or plane or bus it was fun to see which ones of us were accompanied by a friend from the previous evening.

Our second performance in Seattle was cancelled. We were told that Judy was ill but the scuttlebutt was that she was disappointed by the ticket sales and refused to appear. The local critics raked her over the coals so badly, she supposedly flew them all up to Vancouver for the next performance. That may or may not have been true, but even I had to admit that her performance that night was electrifying and by far her best performance of the tour.

On closing night in Spokane, there was a party and Judy surprised us all by showing up. Some of the dancers Lowell and I had partied with on other shows, knew that we often performed a couple of campy dance routines: "Red Rose Rag" performed by Betty Grable on the Shower of Stars we did with her, and "Sisters" recorded by Rosemary and Betty Clooney. After we all had more than enough to drink, the crowd begged us to perform. After Judy had my solo cut, I did my best to steer clear of her but inasmuch as we had just done our final performance, I figured I had nothing to lose. After the center of the room was cleared, one of the guys introduced, "Mitzi and Maude." It was always fun performing for other entertainers, particularly when everyone was a bit high. After we finished our second number, we all realized Judy was no longer in the room.

From the very beginning of the job, Sid Luft had told us that the 10-day tour would be followed by a longer tour later in the year. That was one call I wasn’t going to sit around waiting for and as most of us expected, the tour never happened.
　
The next time I saw Judy was in 1963 when we were both working at CBS Television City. I was dancing on the Red Skelton Hour when she arrived to star in her first and only TV series. The first time I watched a dress rehearsal of her show, I saw that the woman I worked with no longer existed. In her place was a gaunt, anorexic woman, and although she could still sing and dance, her cheeks were so sharp and her body movements so angular, she looked like a steak-knife dressed in one designer frock after another. I couldn’t imagine how she managed such a dramatic transition.

We passed each other in the hall a couple of times. She actually smiled at me once and I smiled back. What I wanted to do, however, was stick my tongue out at her. If I could have summoned up the nerve to do it, her reaction would have surely been a Kodak moment.

Even though my experience working with her wasn’t a happy one, I was shocked and even saddened to hear of her death in London on June 22, 1969. It’s rather ironic that Fred Astaire joined her on that very same day in 1987.

In one of her biographies, I read that the coroner said her death was due to an "incautious self-overdosage," and found the circumstances of her death were, "...quite clearly accidental." Even so, because of her many suicide attempts, there will always be speculation. Two years earlier, speaking to the death of Marilyn Monroe, she was quoted as saying, "You take a couple of sleeping pills, and you wake up in twenty minutes and forget you’ve taken them. So you take a couple more, and the next thing you know you’ve taken too many."

It was reported that more than 20,000 people, including 12,000 gay men, one of whom was Lowell, came to view Judy’s body on Friday, June 27 at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home. Lowell said that the outpouring of love moved even him to tears. I’m sure, had I been there, I would have felt the same way. There have been many imitators but she truly was an original.

Judy could not possibly have known, no one could have known, what would take place hours after her funeral. One account remembers it this way: "...gay men fought back against police during a routine raid at the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar in Greenwich Village, which set off the gay liberation movement."
Toby Johnson, on his website, writes, "I think – and I don’t claim to be right, only to have an opinion – what happened is that earlier that day, a great many men from the Village flocked to Judy Garland’s funeral at an upper eastside funeral parlor at Madison Avenue and 81^st. What impressed them – and in the early hours of the next day, mobilized them to resist the police raid on the Stonewall Inn – wasn’t Garland’s divahood (after all, it had been her downfall), but rather the number of other gay men they saw at the event. These were Garland’s fans. There were crowds of homosexuals recognizing each other on the street in front of the funeral parlor." Either way, gay New Yorkers continue to commemorate the Stonewall riots and hold their pride celebrations during the month of June. In other parts of the country, however, some of those celebrations have been moved to other times of the year.
Ironically, of all the songs she introduced and made famous, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" is the song people most associate with Judy Garland and it’s the one song that will never be forgotten. Is it just a coincidence that rainbows also became synonymous with the gay movement? In Hillcrest, San Diego’s answer to Greenwich Village in New York and the hub of San Diego’s gay scene, rainbow flags fly all through the year: in front of gay bars and other gay-owned businesses, in front of houses, and on terraces of condos. During San Diego’s Pride celebration, when the parade travels down University Boulevard, Hillcrest’s main thoroughfare, even the lampposts are decorated with posters of rainbows. The vendors who work the parade peddle all kinds of rainbow paraphernalia, and all the spectators who line the route, children and adults alike, do their utmost to grab strands of rainbow beads as they are tossed from floats and other vehicles.

To say that Judy Garland will never be forgotten, is, in my opinion, an understatement. In 2006 alone, almost 40 years after her death, there was an off-Broadway production called The Property Known as Garland starring Adrienne Barbeau, and two new Garland biographies were published: Under the Rainbow by John Carlyle, and Heartbreaker: a memoire of Judy Garland by John Meyer, who wrote "I’m Gonna Hate Myself in the Morning." Inside the book there is even a CD of her singing his song.

Also that year, a young gay singer named Rufus Wainwright, appeared at Carnegie Hall for two sold out performances, in a song-by-song recreation of Judy’s legendary concert there in 1961. He even used her original poster with his image on it instead of Judy’s. The New York Times said of his performance: "... he like Garland, is a natural clown and showman. One of his many amusing anecdotes described his childhood identification with the Wizard of Oz. On good days, he was Dorothy and on bad ones, the Wicked Witch of the West. For those who came to worship, Mr. Wainwright could do no wrong. His courage to stand as a surrogate for every audience member who ever gazed into the mirror and fantasized slipping into Dorothy’s ruby slippers spoke for itself."

Speaking of Dorothy, members of the gay community often ask discreetly, "Are you a friend of Dorothy?" when they choose not to be "out and proud" and want to find out if someone else is gay. Gay historians say that the term came into popular use as far back as the 1950s.

In fact, many cruise companies – those which do not necessarily cater to gay people – now offer "Friend of Dorothy" meetings, which they publish in their daily calender of events, along with all the other special interest groups that meet, as "FOD meetings." That way, gay people traveling on primarily straight cruises can connect with each other and have get-togethers, without identifying their sexuality to the straight passengers, if they so choose.


In 2002 my partner David and I went on an exclusively gay cruise – two thousand gay men and lesbians on one ship. The straight cruises I had taken always had a passenger talent night and I had never considered performing. This time, however, even though I hadn’t been on a stage in more than fifteen years, I thought it might be fun to get up and do something. In the event I mustered up the nerve, I took along a CD of a full orchestration of a song I wrote. Once on the ship, I racked my brain trying to come up with something that would go over well as a lead-in with that particular audience. The moment I thought of Judy, the whole thing came together.

Sure enough, after one of the big production shows, Larry, the Cruise Director, announced that there would be a passenger talent show and that anyone who was interested in performing should meet him there at two o’clock the next afternoon for rehearsal.

The group who showed up was quite eclectic. No one was surprised to see some drag queens there who were going to lip-sync to a hit female recording like Miss Gay Oregon who performed Shania Twain’s "I Feel Like a Woman." And of the other performers assembled, many were quite talented.
After rehearsal we were asked to meet backstage, where a rundown of the show would be posted. Larry instructed us to make our entrance from the wings on stage right when our name was announced. I didn’t want to do that for two reasons: (1) I had not been in front of a large audience like that for a long time and I knew I might get nervous waiting backstage for my turn to perform; (2) I always prefer to do something different, something to stand out. I had noticed a small staircase leading from the audience to center stage. I told Larry what I had in mind and he said it wouldn’t be a problem.

That night we talked and laughed with a lot of the people we had met on the ship until the lights dimmed indicating the show was about to start. None of them, of course, had any idea that I was going to perform which is just the way I wanted it. David and I sat about six rows from the stage.

I dressed very casually in black slacks, with a gray sport jacket over my white opened-collared dress shirt. I sat in the audience completely at ease watching the performers who preceded me which took my mind off the fact that I was going to perform. When I heard my introduction, I stood up, leaned over and kissed David, walked up the stairs, and took the microphone off the stand. I had even prepared a couple of jokes that I actually had nerve enough to tell. I had never done anything like that before and my feeble attempt at being a stand-up comic was greeted with polite laughter.

After the jokes, I said, "I used to be a dancer and I worked with some of the biggest names in show business including Marilyn Monroe, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, and Ethel Merman. I also had the distinction of working with someone you all know and love... the legendary Judy Garland." The crowd went ballistic!

I talked about opening night in Long Beach, the busses Sinatra brought down filled with stars, what the guys were wearing, and I explained the opening number with the placards and anagrams. I said, "I’m sure I am the only person alive who remembers the words and the music to that number and it goes like this."
I put the microphone back on the stand and sang the opening number a cappella, flipping my hands like we had flipped the placards. In front of an audience of gay men and lesbians how could I miss when the first two words of the song are "She’s gay... " Needless to say they yahooed their enthusiasm and it went over great.

The moment the applause subsided, from out of nowhere, we heard the sound of someone playing – of all things – a bagpipe. Being a fairly quick thinker, particularly when I’m on stage, I looked up in the air to the left and to the right quite puzzled and said, "Judy? Judy? Is that you? Are you here?" Everyone roared! It didn’t make much sense but it worked.

I closed my segment with "I’ll Lavish You With Love," a song I wrote in early December of 1998. I was living in Phoenix at the time and had just broken up with a guy I had dated for several months. The morning after the breakup, I decided to drive to my apartment in San Diego and stay there through the holidays. I had already bought him a Christmas present so I stopped by his place of business and gave it to him.
Once on the freeway, I began thinking about the breakup. I was actually quite proud of myself because I was the one who had ended the relationship, something I had rarely done before. I usually stuck around till Mr. Wrong left me. Within a few short months Mr. Niceguy on the first couple of dates had turned into someone who, after a few drinks, got irritable and angry and said hurtful things to me. I didn’t believe he meant them and he usually apologized for them the next morning, but that wasn’t the kind of relationship I wanted. I was no longer desperate. Even more important, I was finally healthy enough mentally to know that I would rather live alone than live with someone who said they loved me but didn’t show me that they did. About 30 minutes out of Phoenix, I asked myself the question, What do you expect from a relationship?

By the time I arrived in San Diego, I had written my answer:

You tell me that you love me and I believe you do.
Well, if you really love me, here’s all I ask of you:
Pleasure me with kindness, pamper me with "please,"
thoughtful we with "thank yous," and bless me when I sneeze.
Treat me like a lover and love me like a friend.
Show me understanding and our love won’t ever end.
Never say in anger, words we’ll both regret.
Words said out of anger aren’t easy to forget.
Know I’d never hurt you but should you feel I do,
please share with me your feelings, and I’ll warm and tender you.
Christmas me with kisses, birthday me with smiles,
Valentine me every day for just a little while.
Wrap me up in rainbows, that’s all I’m dreaming of.
If you do, I promise you... I‘ll lavish you with love.
If you soft and gentle me, and sentimental me...
I’ll lavish you with love.

I don’t consider myself to be a great singer but people are often forgiving when
a songwriter sings his own songs. That night was no exception. Many of the passengers
congratulated me on my performance, gave me their addresses, and requested copies of my song.

I gave up the idea of doing anything more professionally with my music a long time ago. Now I just enjoy the process of writing which eliminates all the frustration and disappointment. And when I do write something I am truly satisfied with, I take it to Justin Gray, a phenomenal musician who can electronically produce a full orchestration for me in one hour. He is truly amazing. Someone with better ears than mine would probably know that it was electronically produced but to me, it sounds like it was created in a recording studio.

After such a long absence of being in front of an audience, I was amazed how comfortable I felt on stage. I had no idea I would have such a terrific time. If I hadn’t had the "hook" of opening with a story about having worked with Judy, I seriously doubt that I would have had nerve enough to get up on that huge stage and perform. So if it hadn’t been for her, I would have missed that wonderful experience. I’ve even repeated it since then. In 2006 I took Judy with me to China and I retold my story while cruising down the Yangtze River. Who knows where I will take her next. If one is lucky enough to live long enough, I have found, a negative often becomes a positive. When I get to heaven, I must remember to thank her.