Farewell, Johnny Castle (For Those in the Know)

When I was in elementary school, I hear about the "25'ers Club." The nightly news reported on a group of women who had gone to see this movie, Dirty Dancing, 25 or more times in the theater. These women were squandering their money on movie tickets when they could easily wait for it to come out on video. And what a stupid name for a movie!

And then I saw it on HBO.

The sight of Johnny Castle in the employees hangout, his unbuttoned tuxedo shirt and tight black pants got my attention. When he motioned our girl next door to join him on the dance floor, I was hypnotized. When he taught this bumbling watermelon girl the most basic of Dirty Dance moves (you know the pelvic thrust I'm talking about, ladies), it pretty much sent me right into puberty.

The first 10 times I watched that movie, I didn't even know what "knocked up" meant. I thought Jimmy beat the crap out of Penny. I mean, she looked like she'd been beaten when Johnny lifted her up off the floor of Kellerman's kitchen. This movie taught me about virginity, adultery, abortion, lust, the American caste system, and the fact that if you are special enough, you don't have to be super hot to have a super hot guy fall in love with you. It's got to be one of my top three sexiest movies, and there's not even any nudity!

It's incredibly cheesy to the outsider. I'm not here to convert anyone. But there was never a more dashing Patrick Swayze role. Ghost was a pretty good movie. Red Dawn? He's a badass. But I know I belong to a generation of girls who grew up hoping they could have a Mickey and Sylvia moment with a boy from summer camp. We all want a chance to try the lift. We wanted a man who would put his job and reputation on the line to stand up for our honor. This is a sad day for girls who love Johnny Castle. So keep the jokes mum while we mourn the loss of our dream guy.

Happystance

Happystance

A story in two acts  

The First Half of My Day

Day off, thank goodness.  Slept late.  Looked forward to a nice slow day with Marky.  We rode our bikes to the gym and talked about going to an early movie.  Anvil! The Story of Anvil finally made it to the Music Box, and we planned to hit the 5:30 show.  Worked out, came home, talked crazy talk about getting massages.  Then he got a call from a client.  This client wanted a session at 5:30.  Seriously?  Right when we were supposed to go to the movie?  Fine.  Fine.  Money is important, and whatever.  But Marky was still bent on getting these massages.  When I got out of the shower 20 minutes later, he told me he found a place in our neighborhood, and it was pretty inexpensive.  He booked an hour massage for both of us at 3pm.  

We drove to our massage locale.  I won't tell you where it is.  But it was skanky.  SKAN-keh.  There was an accordion-type gate covering the storefront, like the health department had shut her skanky ass down.  We found free parking, though, which is, I guess, worth the risk of SARS.  Upon our approach, we discovered that it was a cosmetology school.  Discount prices?  Check.  I had a sinking feeling when the botox-enhanced cosmetology madam greeted us and introduced us to our lady of the afternoon.  There was only one masseuse.  She planned on piggybacking us.  We didn't have 2 hours to spend.  The madam tried to convince us we just wanted to be in the same room for both massages.  No, we scheduled simultaneous slots.   We argued in three different languages, until the madam gave in with a grand "hmpf," and Marky and I ended up in two different rooms.  Against my better judgment, I disrobed.  

This hour, possibly the longest hour of my life, walked the thin line between a flaccid oily rubdown and borderline sexual assault.  To make matters worse, this learning area was less of a room, and more of a cubicle without a ceiling.  The lights were bright and hot, and you could hear everything going on in every other room through the hall.  Rather than unwind to the enchanting sounds of ocarinas and Native American drums, I listened to the school's administrator arguing with a young woman about her parents' inability to pay their taxes.  Kinda relaxing, I guess.  My mom paid her taxes.  Between the occasional bouts of relaxation, I imagined foreign tourists, quietly strolling through the instruction rooms, taking snapshots of the lavender eyemasked massagees.  I haven't had a lot of massages in my life, but I've never before wished for it to be over so badly.  My student masseuse instructed me to sit upright

And then it happened.  My most unrealistic fear of voyeurism came true.  No knock, no trepidatious entrance, in walked this random guy.  Not an instructor.  Just some guy.  He immediately realized his mistake and walked right out, but wow.  I breathed a sigh of relief, because it really couldn't get any worse than this moment.  A strange man walking into a well lit room to find  me, a small towel, and only a shred of dignity.  I mean, it could be days before I figure out I have ringworm.  

It was all I could do not to pee myself with laughter when the trainee summed the whole experience with, "You're tense!"  Damn right, I was tense.  That tourist that just walked out didn't say anything nice about my hooters.  She graciously showed me the way to the exit, but I had already worked out three separate escape routes in my mind while she was dousing me in Myrrh and Ylang Ylang.  I found Marky, looking disheveled as well, and we giggled nervously upon exiting.  

"Mmm.  Smells like you got some oil with your massage," he cleverly asserted.  

"Yeah," I replied, "didn't they use any oil on you?"

Marky choked with laughter, "No, they didn't even take my shirt off."  Hysterical laughter ensued.  But really, I feel badly for him, because he never even got the chance to be exploited on the internet.  I'm the lucky one.  

The Better Half of My Day

Marky finished his session, and we rode our bikes to the Music Box to see the 7:30 show.  Locked up the bikes, got some popcorn, took a seat in the intimate theater.  There's maybe room for 45 people, the screen is small, plastic grapes and vines hang from the ceiling, it's a terrific way to enjoy a weird documentary.  This guy a couple rows up from us turns around to face his friend.  Mid sentence, I stopped.  I turned to Marky and remarked, "That guy looks like Sting."

"Yeah," he agreed in a hush.  Pause.  "He really does.  I don't remember what I was just talking to you about."

My pulse started to race a little, and then I told myself it just wasn't him.  But then a line of about 10 people filed in.  And they walked right into this guy's row.  "Is it okay if we sit here?" The male leader of the line queried.

And with his telltale husky British tenor, Gordon Sumner quipped, "Well, there's room for you, but honestly, I'd rather sit next to your girlfriend."  

The next 120 minutes were spent trying to be incredibly cool.  Nobody asked for an autograph, no photos.  A pretty respectful crowd, it you ask me.  It was surreal, and I've never been that close to a god of pop music.  I can't say I'm the world's biggest Police fan, but I no one there could deny that we were in the presence of greatness.  And if it hadn't been for Marky's last minute change of plans, we would have missed watching Anvil with Sting.  Good end to a memorable day.  

A Few Good Frogs

During the past month, I've seen some good movies. We usually go to the theater every week, but in an effort to save a little cash, we've been hitting the Netflix pretty hard. Looking back, they're all French movies, but that's just a coincidence. If you have a problem with subtitles, get over it. These are all must see's.

La Vie En Rose. My mom has been suggesting this biopic for awhile. Edith Piaf is a voice you will almost certainly recognize, but might not love. Her style is dated and nasal, but once you watch her story, you will adore that snarly sound every time it pops up on your Billie Holliday Pandora station. Marion Cotillard is an amazingly beautiful actress who completely abandoned her looks for the role of La Môme. Like Mama Cass and Janis Joplin, Edith got by on her talent, not her looks. She had a ton of heart. This is one of the most tragic stories in show business--more than that. It's just a really sad start she got off to, and a sadder end, and I never knew any of it until now. And I share a birthday with her.

Man on Wire. This won for best documentary at the Academy Awards, right? Well, it was deserved. I love documentaries, and this is different than any one I've seen. A full-length feature about a French guy walking a tightrope between New York's Twin Towers. Although that's a monumental task, how could there be enough material for that? Of course, there are 21st century interviews of the international friends who helped him back in the 1970's. Then there's this amazing flashback material. The actors look SO much like the people in the interviews. And a quarter of the way through the film, you realize, they are those people. This story has waited 30 years to be told. This incredibly charismatic person surrounded himself with the most colorful, creative, positive crew he could find to help him achieve his ridiculous dream. And the most beautiful part is that he isn't the one who gets the most emotional about the memory. It was his walk, his art, but his friends seemed more invested in it than him. He was just a vessel for the inspiration to manifest itself.

JCVD. Just watched this last night. I haven't read any reviews, I just want to tell you what I think it was about. Jean Claude Van Damme. I know. The only movie I've ever seen him in is Time Cop. And I don't even know why I saw that in the first place. I'm not much for action movies. I suppose it's because there's no acting, per se, just action. Back to the subject, though, JCVD is a lovely surprise. Here's my take: Something surreal happens to a man who already lives a surreal life. The main character faces a divorce, loses custody of his child, goes home to Belgium, and appears to rob a post office. As far as I can understand (keep in mind, I know nothing about the man), this is not autobiographical. None of these events actually took place, but Jean Claude is portraying himself. And who's to say if he's really a sweet, honorable, horribly misunderstood person en realité? I think it crosses that line wonderfully. JCVD's soliloquy is worth the price of admission. And getting a good long look at that face that has been weathered by camera flashes and abusive cab drivers. Oh, and the cigarette trick--I think he must have done it in a thousand bad kickboxing flicks. Maybe it's because I live with a personal trainer, but his body is amazing. He's still so big and strong for his age. I'm getting simple on you. Sorry. Beautiful movie. Three beautiful movies. Rent them.

Thank you, Old Fart. Thank you Judy.

Last night I had the opportunity to grace the stage of one of the highest class establishments in Chicagoland.  In an effort to protect its anonymity, I'll call it "Feet Smeller's."  Also dubbed "The Cougar's Den" and "Blowjob Palace," Feet Smeller's boasts the allure of a frat party and the charm of a pig's slop trough.  Probably responsible for 85% of drunk driving accidents in the greater Wheeling area, Feet Smeller's has never let me down when I really need to see vomit splashed tenderly upon at least two of the 4 ladies' johns.  But enough about the fabulous venue.  Let's get to the patrons.  

We finished our first set without much issue.  Business has been slow since the economic downturn, and the cougars have moved on to greener plains.  Freakonomically speaking, it makes me wonder if people are so strapped for cash that in addition to drinking a few less lattes a week, middle aged women are cutting down on seeking extramarital relations.  Body glitter is a major expense.  Anyway, I chatted with the band, ate some dinner, kept to myself for the most part.  Then the second set.  I should really learn not to leave my seat.  But a girl's gotta get to the bathroom.  As I briskly walked to the back room, I heard someone grunting, "Hey.  Hey.  Miss.  Hey."

I usually ignore people.  I hate to admit it, but if the best you can come up with is, "Hey," I'll probably pretend I have a hearing problem.  But the voice persisted, and a female voice joined in.

"Miss?  Hello?"  So I turned my head.  A nice-enough looking elderly couple sat in the back corner, and they waved me over.  Upon my approach, they both started talking.  The gentleman started.

"We've seen you before," the lady said.

"Oh, really?"  Always be nice to returning patrons.  "Thanks for coming to see us.  Where did you see us before?

The gentleman replied, "Oh, it was Tommy Pescorelli."

Was that any kind of answer?  "Oh, where was that?"

"It was Athens, Georgia," he confidently answered.  

Ok, I really had to pee, and this conversation was going to have to end soon.  "Oh, that wasn't me.  I've never been to Georg---"

"It was twenty years ago," the lady interjected.  "Tommy's son."  I shook my head and began to turn to leave, trying not to make the poor drunk lady feel badly for calling me old.  "No!  It was La Cave!"  

"Oh," I gave in. "I have played there.  Tommy was the owner?"

"No," the man argued, "he's just a friend.  You played there.  You wore a white dress.  Or a yellow dress."  He seemed very sure of himself, but I had finally found my exit.

"Well, I always wear black," and just as this useless conversation was about to come to a neutral end, it took the turn I should have taken seconds earlier.

"Because of your weight?"  

At that moment, I turned on my heel and resumed my brisk walk to the vomitorium.  Seriously?  What did I do to deserve that question?  When we started the third set, I couldn't help but feel some resentment toward the entire crowd.  The Feet Smeller's diners are some of the lamest on earth, and this is far from an isolated incident.  For the first song, I really wanted to make a snarky dedication to the couple in the back, but they were already gone.  And that's what really eats me.  I didn't get the last word.  Through the rest of the evening, I dreamed up great comebacks for that comment.  Here are some ideas:

1. "Well, your fatass wife is wearing white, and she's cool.  I mean, you can hardly detect the Depends through her elastic track suit pants."  

2.  "I would tell you to go fuck yourself, but that would be impossible since the E.D. probably got the better of you around age 80."  

3.  Spill a drink in his lap.  It wouldn't matter if it was hot or cold, because the Depends would protect him from any real harm.  

4.  "You'll have to excuse me, the smell of Ben Gay is making my nauseous, and you better catch that bus back to the home so you don't miss Matlock."

5.  "Thank you for keeping my ego in check"

 Rather than wallow, I grabbed a bottle of Riesling on the way home, and popped in Judy Garland Live at the Palladium.  This was one of the first (if not the very first) times Liza sang with her mom on stage.  Little Liza sang, fought off Judy's attempts to grab her mic, stroked her mother's hair, and ruled the entire show.  Those two were masterful at portraying modesty and graciousness.  I wish I could pretend like them.  

About halfway through this post-hepatitis croakfest, the boys in the audience start yelling, "I love you!"  Judy returned the affection happily.  

Then they made the request.  The request she hated.  

Who wouldn't be sick of Dorothy?  She had made so much music in her short life, but all they wanted was to hear "Rainbow."  This shell of Judy had also been utterly upstaged by her teenage daughter.  She sweetly protested.   When more requests flew at her, she sharply assured them it was on its way, knowing the hit was last on the set list.  If you ever have the chance to watch this concert, don't listen to the words she's saying, just listen to her tone and watch her body language.  Then try to imagine what she's really saying inside.  It's a good thing she didn't bring a gun to that performance.  

After the duets, it was time.  Judy looked for her favorite audience member.  "Liza?  Liza, will you come out here?  Just sit here in front."  Liza dutifully sits cross-legged in front of her mother and adores her.  I think Judy sang about 2 1/2 words before beckoning the crowd to sing along.  She tells Liza to sing, too, but Liza was smarter.  She silently stared at her mama, beaming, holding her hand.  And the audience did all the work.  It was beautiful.  

Ram Jam

See The Wrestler. Or get ready for SPOILERS!!

It'll be tough to find something novel to say about Mickey Rourke's performance. This character is totally conflicted until the end. In the blink of an eye Randy "The Ram" Robinson goes from annoyed to playful, connected to independent, sweet to aggressive, and hopeless to inspired. His glittering wrestler persona is in direct opposition to his real tattered life. This all sounds simple on paper, but Mickey Rourke is masterful at portraying a man who is totally present in both worlds. With age, he now has the opportunity to be a charming love interest as well as a charming father, and I just adore his charm factor. The charm is painfully short-lived, then, testosterone city, baby--but not necessarily the tearing-the-door-off-the-hinges type of manliness. It's a very focused masculinity that makes me love buff dudes with long hair. Putting up with tiny pricks of pain (staple gun to the chest, steroid shot in the butt, high-velocity airborne candlesticks), rocking out to AC/DC in a van, and lifting weights in the bathroom.

I'm all over the place.

Oh! The most wonderful contradiction of all--the fact that Randy is a sweet guy in this tough exterior. I know. Predictable. It's simple. Mickey Rourke makes this simple story fascinating by telling 12 other stories with his eyes, the only body part unscathed by Hollywood surgeons. In the end there is ultimate, independent redemption, without a snappy happy ending. I didn't cry until after I left the theater. I love this film, and I'm okay with the fact that I got my hopes WAY up for it.

I Want The Key To The Front Door

About a month ago, I pondered the idea of a graceful age to exit the music biz. The egomaniacal stagehog in me sees and hears myself as perfect in every way for the rest of eternity. The self-conscious objector in me is scared to death of singing one foul note. And the moment that foul note is coupled with crow's feet, I will need to find a hole in which to bury myself. It's probably something I got from watching too much TV. No one can escape the youth-obsessed expectations of society, but for a performer, it's especially scary. With shows like American Idol, audiences have been given license to not only disapprove of, but abusively ridicule people who are less than perfect in the looks and sound department. And oldies aren't even allowed to enter, let alone audition. Fuck you, Simon Cowell.

Marky and I rented a documentary last night that changed my mind about expiration dates. "Young At Heart" is about a chorus with an average age of 80. Not that unusual for a church choir or a community chorale. The difference here is the repertoire, including arrangements of Talking Heads, Coldplay, The Clash, and Sonic Youth. The music is basically the same, except that you can understand the lyrics better with the Young@Heart gang.

Bob, the strict yet loving choir director, brings in music he loves. He's 53, and stands on the stage during performances, conducting the choir in what I originally thought to be a controlling manner. After seeing several performances, though, I saw him simply as a more hands-on connected leader. Joe, the choir member known for his amazing memorization ability, refuses chemo treatment against his doctor's orders. Why? He had a gig. Elaine, 90, lives in a retirement village, and is the only resident with a key to the front door of the facility. Why? She has gigs. The staff is usually gone by the time she gets back. Fred retired from the choir after a heart attack. He came back for what he referred to as his "ugly duckling song," Coldplay's "Fix You," and delivers the most heart wrenching performance, punctuated by the whisps of his oxygen tank. Did he worry that he couldn't stand? That he had tubes in his nose? No. He had a gig.

The first gig we see in this movie is at the local prison. I would be scared. Scared of criminals doing criminal things. That's me. I thought the Young@Hearts should be scared of being made fun of. I mean, what was Bob thinking, putting them in front of cold hearted criminals? But those senior citizens confidently sang, danced, and won that crowd over. Many convicts hugged the choir members afterward, one of them saying it was the best performance he had ever seen. And I believe him.

I now think there is no expiration date, only graduations. I've already had several. Talent shows, coffeehouses, community theater, college theater, small town band, big town band. One day, I will graduate to the next thing. And it will have to be musical. I don't want to ever not be rehearsing for something. And I think I have to sing until my dying day. If that means I have to come home late until age 90, great. If at that time, I decide to prioritize my absolute love of music over a questionable medical procedure, so be it. And if it takes my whole life to feel completely confident on stage, then I need to be on stage when that happens.

Trying to Get My Mansions Green

Wednesday night, I saw a musical production of "Grey Gardens" at the Northlight Theater in Skokie. If you are not familiar with this story, (even if you are familiar, honestly) you might not understand how it could be adapted into a musical. It makes perfect sense to me.

Grey Gardens is a documentary from the 70's that opened the doors on the elderly Edith "Big Edie" Bouvier Beale and her middle-aged daughter, Edith "Little Edie" Bouvier Beale. They were cousins of Jackie Kennedy who lived the life of two deranged old maids in a once-magnificent, now dilapidated mansion, Grey Gardens. Of the 28 or so rooms, they only utilized a single bedroom with a dorm fridge and a hotplate, occasionally traveling to the deck to sun themselves. A gardener, 50 cats, and several raccoons also lived there. It's easy to forget you're watching a documentary, because the subjects are so colorful and lively for the camera. Big Edie sits in her bed and listens to records, mostly. She is constantly looking for missing cats, and warbles along with her music. After awhile, the audience is clued in that the singer on her records is actually her. She did some recording in the 40's, but it's tough to gauge if it's just a personal recording by some rich lady, or if she was truly regarded as a talent. Little Edie, the sole caretaker for her ailing mother, shines for the camera with political statements, personally designed outfits, and song and dance routines. Likewise, the audience soon understands that her every moment is as insane and meaningless as the next.

There is no beginning, and no conclusion. There is simply this moment in time that is Grey Gardens. It's fascinating and frightening to know that a family could shun their own so completely. However, the Beale gals were proud, and didn't seem to want anyone invading their routine. There is Jerry, the long-haired young man who inexplicably comes around and keeps things running. He tokes up now and again, eats some hotplate corn, and offers the women a washer and dryer, which they refuse. The women bicker, but seem to coexist happily. In a shocking climax of rebellion, Edie denounces her mother, packs her belongings in a trunk, wraps herself in a tattered mink coat, and gets about as far as the front porch before being sucked back into her prison.

With all the crooning, softshoe, and monologues, this story was begging to become a musical. The Northlight cast was perfect, the songs were funny, sad, and bizarre. The first act was set 20 years before the documentary, which was nice to get some backstory, however hypothesized. In that act, the two larger-than-life crazies are infinitely more relatable. So much so that the audience can't help but self-examine their own quirky tendencies that could potentially snowball later in life.

I'm a singer. I love to be onstage. I'm getting to the age where I have to decide, though. Is it a job? Or is it something I do to get attention? And when will I know to stop? When does a smoky torch song evolve into a howling session? And all those nights Marky and I enjoy holing up on the couch to fall asleep to the TV. Have we unwittingly become hermits? Is the purple couch our hotplate? We're not nuts (yet), but we certainly enjoy each other's company more than anyone else's. Sure our conversation is repetitive, and we talk to the cat. We talk to the cat a lot. Okay. Early New Year's Resolutions: 1. Have more people over. 2. Get out of the house. We had a friend over for Thanksgiving, and he washed the dishes. He also cleaned the stove. Resolution #3. Clean the kitchen better. Unless, of course, there's a documentary in it for us. No press is bad press.