Better

Posted on April 6, 2017 by Ellen Ross

That’s me, Dear Readers, this past Saturday.  One week out of the hospital and what a difference a week makes.

I’m not quite out of the woods yet.  I have an MRI scheduled for April 18 and a meeting with the big honcho doc on 4/19 to tell me if I’m healing on my own or if I need surgical repair.

But the worst is definitely behind me.

Let me take this moment to thank each and every one of you.  Your calls, emails, comments, FB posts and generous offers of help and support were the BEST medicine.

They lifted my spirits, flattered my ego, overly praised my writing abilities and made me feel that I was not just taking up space on this planet.  Now I know that I have made a (small) difference in your lives- at least on Sundays and Thursdays.

Bless you all for your prayers and good wishes.

They helped me through an awful, awful time.

But since my harrowing emergency ordeal, I am on a mission.

I want to go over some points that I myself learned the HARD way.

1.  Always bring your cell phone charger cord to the hospital.  I had no idea that when I went to the E.R. at 11:00 a.m. that I would still be languishing in there at 9 p.m.  My phone was on its last legs and I did not know ONE person’s phone number.  I could not have contacted one person from memory.  The drugs and the emergency procedures had made me nuts.

2.  In that same vein, have your emergency contact numbers on a card in your wallet.  Be on the safe side and have them in there old-school.  What if you were unconscious on the street?  Carry the numbers with you.

3.  Don’t ask “How are you?” of the sick person.  Counterintuitive, I know.  And I know that you cared.  But I had 40 doctors all in need of symptoms- plus the back story- and I was worn out with telling them over and over again ad nauseam.  Then when I got out and had to find a specialist, I had to tell my endocrinologist and my gynecologist and my internist… I was exhausted by the narrative.  You get the point.

4.  Instead say “What can I do for you?  How can I help?”  This was music to my very sick ears.  I came home to an empty apartment.  I needed medical supplies, some Diet Jello, and SLEEP.  Hence all the emails and FB comments were a boon.

5.  The one question I heard over and over again was, “Can I bring you something to eat?” I found myself in the ironic position of having any food I craved brought or delivered to me. However I COULD NOT EAT.  Shame.   I was having a difficult time keeping meds down and food was out of the question.  Freud says that food is connected with love.  I get why so many people wanted to bring/send me nourishment.   But it was no dice for at least five days.

6.  What would I have wanted?  Flowers, a book, your wonderful emails and comments. Flowers went a long, long way cheering up my dingy cell of a hospital room.  My yellow roses cheered up the staff, as well.  Not a tired, over-worked nurse or orderly failed to comment on them.  They brought joy to many.

7.  My final tip?  STAY OUT OF HOSPITALS.

Please.

Now I’m off for a few more weeks.  Still recovering from this ordeal and barely strong enough to type.  I just wanted to let you all know that I’m on the right road and it was mostly because of you.

See you soon.

Thank you one and all.

Now take a look at one beautiful hospital patient.

(And no, I’m NOT dying.  I just love Ali MacGraw.)

Share
Posted in Health, Memoir | 14 Comments

911

Posted on March 26, 2017 by Ellen Ross

Dear Readers, In case you can’t recognize me, that’s yours truly lying in a hospital bed.

(Hospital to be named later.  After I’ve recovered.)

I went to the emergency room and five days later, they released me.

Long medical horror stories are boring to everyone except the teller. Suffice it say that I have a good one.

I was really sick.

I am on my way to recovery.  I need some other procedures/surgeries before I’m declared healed.

I wouldn’t have mentioned it but I am not sure yet when I’ll be back with you all.

I will keep you posted. Soon, I hope.

In the meantime, just be patient with this patient and while you’re at it, a few prayers in any denomination would be most appreciated.

Thanks for your understanding.

Ellen, Your Elba Girl

Now take a look at my favorite doctor on the staff.

(It only hurts when I laugh.)

Share
Posted in Memoir, Uncategorized | 28 Comments

Three Little Words

Posted on March 23, 2017 by Ellen Ross

WARNING: This may be the most politically-incorrect and controversial blog to ever appear on Letter From Elba.  So fasten your seat belts.  It’s going to be a bumpy post.

The photo that leads off today’s blog was taken in 1983.  It’s Natasha’s first day of first grade and there we were- Natasha, me, partially-hidden Olga the bulldog and three-year-old Nick- waiting for the school bus.   I can tell by the pink volunteer smock so casually thrown over the back of my car that after the pick-up, I was on my way to Michael Reese Hospital to host MRPTV Bingo- a game show for very bored patients.

(Read all about it here.)

I waited with the kids each morning.  As you can see, my hair was cropped short in those days.  I liked my look but it invariably led to the bus driver asking Nick, “Who is that nice little boy who waits outside with you each day?”

This photograph brings back thousands of memories and smiles.  And a few lumps in my throat.  Where did the years go?  It all happened so fast…you know that kind of stuff.

And if I look closely, I can see the look of love and pride on my face.

Which is the big lead-in to what I want to say here today.

I hardly ever say “I love you.”

Not even to my kids.

(I figure if they don’t know I love them by now, they’ll never know it.)

Or my closest, dearest friends.

Not to anybody.

I just don’t say it.

I’m not sure exactly why I find this simple phrase such a stumbling block.

Maybe it wasn’t said much in my house when I was growing up.

I’ll have to ask my brother Kenny if he remembers.

BTW, I never say it to him, either.  We’re not mushy that way.

(And besides, he knows.)

I never use it as a phone sign-off either, obviously.

I overhear these conversations sometimes.  People are chatting away and then they have to hang up.

“Love you,” they chirp.  Instead of “Good-bye.”

When did that happen?

On social media “I love you” is used indiscriminately and often.

I can’t tell you how many FB posts I read that proclaim undying love from the sender to their best friends, their sorority sisters, their bowling teams, everybody.

“Love you” has become then new “Thinking of you,” I guess.

Now I fully expect blow back from you guys.

I can just hear you thinking, “She can’t say ‘I love you to her kids?’ What an emotional cripple!”

Or

“Life is so short, Ellen.  You have to tell the people you care about that you love them.  You might never get another chance.”

I just can’t.

The words always seem to stick in my throat.

And when I do finally say them, they don’t sound convincing.  Somehow they have a hollow ring.

And, as for my love life…

I can’t tell you how many times and from how many guys I have heard, “I love you.”

Sometimes it meant, “I need you.”

More often than not it meant, “I want you.”

Thus I am highly suspicious of lovers’ extravagant declarations of their undying love.

And, after a myriad of trips down the aisle, I have come to conclusion that (love) talk is cheap.

So, don’t expect much in the way of sentimental hogwash out of my mouth, Dear Readers.   Even though I am so thankful for your tremendous loyalty, friendship, great comments and general moral support over these four plus years.

I’m just never going to be able to say “I love you.”

(But I can type it.)

Share
Posted in pop culture | 12 Comments

Tag!

Posted on March 19, 2017 by Ellen Ross

As many of you know, I work at Leslie Hindman Auctioneers.  I started last September and I love it.

ICYMI, read all about it here.

I am still a newbie- learning the ropes all the time.

To date, I have worked the big jewelry previews and fine print sales, furs and furnishings.

It’s fascinating work in every respect but my favorite has to be the couture sales.

Did you know that LHA* is the only auction house in the United States that handles couture? I didn’t.  When it comes to auctioning high end fashion, our only competition is a house in London.

Author’s Note:  This red is Leslie Hindman’s signature color.  I love it.

We’ve got your pricey vintage clothes needs covered.

      

So a couple of weeks ago, I worked a sale that had come from the estates of three New York women.

One had been a big deal on Wall Street.  One of the first women to make her mark there.

The next woman had been born into one very prominent New York family and had married into another.

And the last woman had been born rich, never married, and had been a generous philanthropist her entire life.

The first gal had no children.  The second had two daughters, but they had lots of clothes of their own and only took a few pieces of their mother’s vast collection as a souvenir.  The third had a daughter but she was young and didn’t share the socialite lifestyle of her late mother and thus had no need for ball gowns and expensive suits.

There were Chanel suits and Alexander MacQueen coats.  Lagerfeld dresses and Stella McCartney jackets.  Ferre, Fendi, Pucci, Pucci, Pucci, (one of the gals had been friendly with the family) Gucci, Dior, Marc Jacobs, Hermes, Ralph Lauren, Versace, Burberry, Armani and Prada clothing abounded.

All these fashions were viewed, sized up, tried on (only the coats and the jackets) critiqued and hungered over by women from Monday through Wednesday.

The auction was held on Thursday.  There was a 97% sell rate.  Practically everything went.

But on FRIDAY, there was an even bigger event.

A tag sale.

My boss, Ann, told me that this was a rare event at LHA.  But these three New York ladies had owned so much stuff that two semi-trucks filled to bursting with clothes had been unloaded and tagged for a week.

The brand new fur coats had been tagged at $100.

That’s right.  New fur coats.  Gorgeous ones.

Nothing else- not Polo skirts or Armani dresses- had been tagged for over $50.

Most everything was going from $40 to $10.

Yep, you read that right.

$10.

An entire display case of unworn, never-been-touched Charles Jourdan heels in EVERY color were $20.  If you wore a size 8, you hit the jackpot.  I personally saw one woman buy twenty pristine pairs.

Mink and chinchilla and sable hats were tagged at $40.

Handbags, Polo and Hermès scarves, belts, you name it were never marked up over $50 and most, way below that.

This was the bargain sale of the century.

And our long-time clients knew it.

They had been lined up waiting since the early hours of the morning.

When I got to work at 9:20, I had to fight my way in.

At ten o’clock the LHA doors opened.

And we were mobbed!

I recognized many of the women who had previously come to the couture preview.  They were no longer quiet, genteel and well-behaved.

Now, armed with white shopping bags, they ran hither and yon, hysterically ripping clothes off the hangers and throwing shoes and purses into their bags with frenzied abandon.

They were stripping down to their underwear!

And there were men there.

In their quest for the fabulous fox coat or the $10 ball gown (and there were some) these well-off women were laser-focussed.

From ten until two, our showroom was flooded with ladies who had a black belt in shopping.

By three, most of them had more than they could cart home and wearily they reluctantly trooped out laden down with their bargains.

By four o’clock, it was the LHA employees’ turn.

(Everything that hadn’t sold that day was going to be turned over to charity immediately so these remaining items were incredible buys.)

No, I didn’t buy anything.

I wanted my paycheck to stay in my bank account.

But I was the ONLY one.

Now take a look at this clip and you’ll see what I mean.  It was exactly like this.

And next time there’s a tag sale, I’ll be sure and give you advance notice here.

Ladies, get out your track shoes.

Share
Posted in Fashion | Leave a comment

Starstruck

Posted on March 5, 2017 by Ellen Ross

Let’s get this straight.  I don’t drink coffee.

Never touch the stuff.  In fact, I’ve never had even a taste of coffee.

Weird, I know.

(Made all the weirder by the fact that I love coffee ice cream and coffee candy.)

I just don’t want to try coffee.

The Boyfriend was amazed by all of this.  He is a coffee-holic.  He simply can not start- or end (!)- his day without a couple of cups of joe.

At first, he naturally wanted me to join him in his coffee ritual.

He went on and on about the joys of the warm, dark heady brew that he loves soooo much.

But I wasn’t buying what he and Juan were selling.

I don’t like hot drinks and I just knew I wouldn’t enjoy it.

He valiantly tried a few more times until, finally, I had the last word.

“Umm, I don’t think giving me any caffeine would be a great idea, do you?  I’m pretty energized as it is, don’t you agree?”

He did.

And that was the last I heard about meeting Mrs. Olson.

But a couple of weeks ago I was in Seattle visiting my son, Nick.  He and his wife Missy live there- even though Nick’s business is headquartered in Chicago.

Post-Modern Business Commuting Sidebar:  Nick can do this because, today, like so many people his age, he works remote three weeks a month and then comes in for a week of meetings with clients.  He could live anywhere in the United States in which there was an airport.

Nick and Missy investigated and shopped around.  They both fell in love with Seattle and I don’t blame them.

Seattle is a fabulous place.  Incredible scenery in emerald green, sky blue and snowy white. Terrific people. Vibrant culture scene. Amazing food.

GREAT snowboarding.

Authors Note:  To be perfectly accurate, this photo of Nick was taken by Missy at Whistler this past Christmas.  But he goes snowboarding at home every winter week-end and the expression on his face says it all.

Seattle is also home to Amazon, Microsoft and the Seahawks.

And mucho craft beer.

It is also Coffee Central.

Birthplace of Starbucks.

And on this last visit, I went to the Mothership.

The Roastery.

OMG.

You’ve got to see this joint.

Even I- a card-carrying non-coffee drinker- was totally blown away by the sights and smells in this magnificent temple to the coffee gods.

I looked around totally dumbfounded by the spectacle of millions of beans on their way to the roaster to be immortalized.  There were coffee experts and coffee tastings everywhere I turned.

And to top it all off, inside the Roastery there is an outpost of a very good cafe called “Serious Pie.”

No, it doesn’t serve slices of pie to go with all that coffee.

It dishes out scrumptious pizza.

Yum.

But before I ate the pizza, I had some serious business to attend.

A Valentine’s Day present for my coffee lover back home.

My intentions were noble but where to begin?

I knew TB liked dark roast but there were so many dark roasts to chose from that I was still at sea.

I placed my problem in the lap of a very knowledgable and accommodating young man.

He steered me towards this one.

Read all about Pantheon Blend No. III below.

“These beans were roasted yesterday,” my helpful young man said. “When is your friend going to drink the coffee?”

“I’m going to give it to him on Valentine’s Day- next Tuesday,” I answered.

“Good,” he approved.  “It will be just ready to drink by then.  It ought to be perfect.”

It was.

And now I’m off on a business trip, Dear Readers.  See you next on Sunday, March 19. (And thank you for sticking with me.  I know my posts have been sporadic lately.  But your understanding and loyalty to the blog means the world to me.)

Now here’s the most glamorous coffee drinker ever to go with your favorite cup of java.

Enjoy.

Share
Posted in coffee, Post Camp, Seattle, Starbucks | 16 Comments

Key

Posted on March 2, 2017 by Ellen Ross

I am not handy.  I am not a do-it-yourselfer.  Nor am I a contractor, plumber, electrician, roofer or finish carpenter.

And yet, my new favorite store is….

Menards.

ICYMI: Menards is a chain of home improvement centers primarily in the Midwest.  It’s privately held and headquartered in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

It was founded in 1960 by John Menard Jr.   The company employs 45,000 people and has an annual revenue of 8.7 billion dollars.

And even though I don’t need a toilet, patio doors or Dutch Boy paint, I’m there almost once a week now.

Here’s the reason why.

Their candy.   This is only a partial display of the goods.  They have everything.  And Crows!

And check out their prices.  I’m not paying $1.39 at Walgreen’s anymore.

Hell NO.

Caveat Emptor Sidebar:  Steer clear of the Raisinets.  Even if you are tempted by the dark chocolate variety.  I picked up a box to take to the movies and it felt light to me. Not a “full pour.”  Consider yourselves warned.

They also carry everything from groceries to toy trucks.  (This Christmas I bought my son Nick a Mountain Dew truck and my grandson Sam a Marine personnel carrier there.  Both went over like gangbusters.)

And I drool over the paper towel prices, the Windex, the Tide Pods, the WD40.  I long to buy every item in their vast inventory.

In fact, Menards makes me sorry that I don’t have a workshop in my apartment.

But I have just discovered the coolest thing they have just a few weeks ago.

This.

OMG!  A key-making machine.

Remember the old guy at Bess Hardware on Willow Road in Northfield?

You’d bring him a key and he’d labor and labor over it.

And invariably make it wrong.

You’d get it home and it wouldn’t open the door.

Rats!  A return trip to Bess Hardware was always necessary.

But this innovation is the niftiest.  The Boyfriend needed another key and I went with him on this errand. Naturally, I was expecting some old geezer with a rickety machine to painstakingly copy the original.

Instead TB marched right up to the kiosk, selected the type of blank he wanted (Cubs, multi-colored etc.) swiped his credit card and in about a minute…

A brand new key fell into the slot.

I was blown away.

And the best part about it?

When we got it home, the key actually worked.

I love Menards.

Share
Posted in Candy, Menard's, pop culture, Shopping | 12 Comments

PowerBall

Posted on February 26, 2017 by Ellen Ross

So last Wednesday I bought a lottery ticket.

I really hadn’t planned on it.  I never buy those things.  But The Boyfriend happened to mention that the pot was up to $400,000,000 and that’s a number I can respect.

As you can clearly see, I bought my ticket at 11:38 a.m.  The drawing was not until 10 p.m.   So, for a few hours, I daydreamed about what I would do with my $200,000,000 windfall. (I’d be taking it in a lump sum payout, naturally.)

First I had to plan for the future.  Not even in my dreams could I think about splurging.  I would have to talk with my accountant and financial planner and attorney yadda yadda yadda…

I would be a do-gooder, too, of course.  Give lots of it away to charities and schools and animal rights causes.  I would make magnificent contributions to cure scourges like cancer and help those under-funded forgotten “orphan” diseases that don’t get as much publicity.

And then there would have to be sponsorship of the arts.  Generous gifts to the Lyric and Ravinia and the CSO and the Goodman, PBS and…well you get my drift.

But leaving all that public benefactress stuff out, what else would I do with all that lovely, lovely money?

(We’re talking here about extra money, you know, fun money- money strictly to blow.)

Wish List:

A really indulgent, AWESOME car.

A house somewhere warm.

A ski house in Snowmass. (Where else?)

And most importantly, a plane to get me to all of this real estate.  (And to visit the grandchildren.)

Wow! Really fun to fantasize about for a few hours.

But then…

The more I thought about it, the less I started to care. Hadn’t I always told the kids that the most important things in life didn’t come in a store?

That happiness and peace of mind can not be bought at any price.

Hadn’t I learned the hard way that money and things don’t ever buy love or protect you from heartbreak?

And then I took some inventory of my life as it stands today.

I’m happy and in good health. (Pooh pooh pooh.)

Ditto my children and grandchildren. (Pooh pooh pooh.)

I have enough of everything.  Knock on wood.

Ditto my loved ones.

Knock again.

Cupid has even seen fit to give me one more chance at the brass ring.

I’m lucky and I know it.

P.S.  I didn’t stay up for the drawing Wednesday night.

I already knew who won.

Share
Posted in pop culture, Powerball Lottery | 8 Comments

With Relish

Posted on February 9, 2017 by Ellen Ross

That humble little glass container might look ordinary to you, Dear Readers.

But to me, it’s heaven in a jar.

That’s because it contains ambrosia- nectar of the gods.

AKA the chow chow relish at the Surfside Diner in Palm Beach.

OMG.

I love this stuff.  When I’m lucky enough to find it, I eat it on hamburgers, hot dogs, eggs…anything I can lay my hands on.

In fact, I’ll eat it straight from the little glass jar if need be.

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines “relish” as: “Characteristic flavor; especially pleasing or zestful flavor.” Enjoyment of or delight in something that satisfies one’s tastes, inclinations, or desires.  A condiment (as of pickles or green tomatoes) eaten with other food to add flavor.”

That sums it up for me.  Whether it’s a noun or a verb, I am just nuts about relish.

Palm Beach might serve up its own brand of Southern Creole magic, but my hometown, Chicago, is no slouch when it comes to the relish department.

In fact, the city’s trademark one comes in neon green.

It practically glows in the dark.

You can’t have an authentic Chicago dog without this. Yum.  (And it does wonders for tuna salad.)

The Midwest chain of Steak ‘n Shake has seen better days.  I used to be a BIG fan but I think they have gone downhill.  But I am still crazy about their mustard/relish spread.  And oh, their pickle!

And speaking of pickles, Bubbie’s does wild and wonderful things with them.

Although talented Bubbie preserves everything from horseradish to sauerkraut, I am never without a jar of her bread and butter pickles in my fridge.

Ever.

Mazel Tov, Bubbie!

But let’s not forget our gifted fratelli italiani.

They have their own version of relish.  It’s called giardiniera.  Chicago’s favorite go-to with Italian Beef sandwiches.

Mr. Beef on Orleans has fabulous, fresh giardiniera.  It’s to die for.

I couldn’t eat this sandwich without it.

And Hungarian Tony Packo also knows his way around a canning jar.

But my taste for relish does not end with the pickle and pepper kind.

I also love olives.

Most anything can be perked up with the addition of a fine layer of this.

It does wonders for a run-of-the-mill turkey sandwich.

 

So many relishes.  So little time.

And SOS to all my friends in Palm Beach this winter….

You know what would be a real thoughtful early birthday present?

Think about visiting the Surfside before you head north.

You’ll know what to do.

See you next on Sunday, February 26, Dear Readers.

Now here’s a clip from a wonderful movie to hold me until my chow chow arrives.

Share
Posted in food, pop culture, Restaurants | 10 Comments

Law School

Posted on February 5, 2017 by Ellen Ross

This post is dedicated to Mitch Klein.  Attorney and film buff.  One of the good guys.

Let me state for the record that I hate lawyers.  No, let me re-phrase.

I DETEST lawyers.

Anyone who has been through a long, drawn-out, ugly divorce trial knows exactly how I feel.

But the death of the beauteous Barbara Hale last week got me reminiscing.  And since I’ve sworn to tell the truth here, when I was a kid, I loved television shows and movies about lawyers.

Let’s take a look at the evidence, shall we?

Exhibit A.

The Defenders.  

Three fine actors and a darn good script.  I never missed this show when I was a pre-teen.

When I grew up, I still liked lawyer shows.

Exhibit B.

L.A. Law.

L.A. Law Sidebar: I spent a few days on the set back in the eighties.  Bill and I had lunch with Jill Eikenberry, Michael Tucker and Corbin Bernsen.  Before the lunch date, I coached Bill a little about proper “famous people” etiquette.

“I know you don’t know who these people are because you never watch the show.  But you might recognize Corbin Bernsen from Major League.  Just don’t say, ‘You look familiar. Where do I know you from?’  Okay?”

He agreed and we went to the studio commissary to have our lunch meeting.

The three stars walked in and sat down at our table.

Corbin took one look at Bill and said, “You look familiar.  Where do I know you from?”

WTF?!

Bill grinned in triumph.  (It turned out we had all been at the Regency Hotel in New York City the week before and Corbin and Bill had worked out at the same time in their fitness room.)

Exhibit C.

I watched some of David E. Kelley’s The Practice, too.  Never got obsessed with it but I thought it was pretty darn good.

I didn’t just confine my viewing to American lawyers.  I spent plenty of time with barristers in London, too. Here’s the greatest.

Exhibit D.

That’s the dazzling Leo McKern bringing to life the brilliant John Mortimer’s character- Rumpole of the Bailey. If you don’t know him, commit some petty crime and get thrown in the jug. Horace Rumpole- after has had a few too many glasses of his beloved cheap claret, “Chateau Fleet Street” at Pomeroy’s Wine Bar- will be happy to get you off.

(After he has eaten another unhealthy fry up dinner, smoked one too many cheroots and escaped the clutches of Hilda- “She who Must Be Obeyed”- his very disillusioned wife.)

And now, if it please the court, let us turn our attentions to the silver screen.

I loved movies about lawyers, too.

Let’s start with a rip-snorter.  And we shall stick with the wigs.

Exhibit E.

Charles Laughton chews up the scenery- and the witnesses- as Sir Wilfrid in Witness for the Prosecution. But surprise after surprise occurs in this proper English courtroom.  If you’ve never seen this Billy Wilder gem, you are hereby confined to house arrest until you watch it.

Exhibit F.

Here’s Charles Laughton again.  But this time, he’s a malevolent- and lecherous- judge.

The Paradine Case.  Not one of Hitchcock’s greatest but some damn fine courtroom scenes.

Coming back to the good old U.S.A. brings us to one of the best lawyer movies ever.

Exhibit G.

This movie has everything.  Jimmy Stewart, Lee Remick, Ben Gazzara, George C. Scott all acting their brains out. Eve Arden and Arthur O’Connell slyly pilfering their scenes. And perhaps, the greatest piece of stunt casting of all time.

Take another look at the judge.  If you don’t know who he is, he’s Joseph Welch.  The chief counsel for the United States Army while it was under investigation for communist activities in the Fifties.

“Have you no sense of decency, sir?” Attorney Welch famously asked Joe McCarthy.

Here’s the dramatic courtroom scene from REAL life.

And now let’s give the Portias their day in court.

Exhibit H.

That’s Glenn Close in her power suit advising her handsome client, Jeff Bridges.  Doesn’t she look like she’s got it together?
Hmmm… It’s dangerous to assume facts not in evidence.

Exhibit I.

Cher in her power suit. Maybe she should have deposed Glenn Close before she agreed to prosecute this case?

Which brings us to Exhibit J.

Wow! Debra Winger- in her power suit- wins her case.

And gets her man!

That’s progress.

I could cite evidence of great lawyer movies all day long.  The Verdict, Inherit the Wind, A Few Good Men, To Kill a Mockingbird all have moving courtroom scenes.

But as a battle-scarred veteran of Divorce Wars, I have to find in favor of this client.

Exhibit K.

Look at this sleazeball divorce lawyer (redundant, I know) in action.

I LOVE this movie. The Coen brothers get time off for good behavior for this one.

Clever writing, adorable acting, a fun-filled revenge plot, a commentary on California’s 50-50 divorce settlements, Intolerable Cruelty has it all.

(And you don’t have to be divorced to like it.)

In summing up, Your Honors, I’d like to end my closing argument with this piece of evidence.

See you in court.

Share
Posted in Movies, pop culture, Television | 6 Comments

Groundhog Day

Posted on February 2, 2017 by Ellen Ross

Yes, Dear Readers.  It’s Groundhog Day.  And today, that can only mean one thing.

We are going to re-visit an old post.

A tribute to my idol.

Comedy genius Harold Ramis.

I’ve never done this before.  A rerun I mean.  But when I saw this date on my blog calendar, I knew I had to pay my respects once again to a man who made all our lives a funnier place to be.

As terrific as his comedy chops were, he was also a compassionate and generous human being.  My nephew Andrew had once told him that I had named my dog “Egon” after his character in Ghostbusters.

Look what he sent me.

It’s one of my most treasured possessions.  Along with the millions of laughs he provided by writing or acting in everything from Caddyshack to Knocked Up.

In As Good as It Gets, Helen Hunt’s character referred to his character, Dr. Bettes, as “The Gift.”

He most assuredly was that for me- and probably you, too.

God bless you, Harold.  And sure could use your wit and humanity now more than ever.

Here’s the rerun, Dear Readers.

Monday February 24, 2014 was a sad day for me.  It was the day that an idol of mine died. Along with a dream.

Harold Ramis passed away at the age of sixty-nine.

Too soon.

And with him went my dream that I would write a post outlining in brilliant detail exactly how much he meant to me- and every member of my generation.

And then someone would pass it along to him.

(This last was not a fantasy.  It was highly likely, in fact.  My sister-in-law, Mary Lu, knew him well, and my nephew Andrew had worked for him.  Someone would have sent it to him.)

But that’s all over now.  I waited too long to post it.

True, I knew he had been ill for the last couple of years.  But I foolishly thought I had all the time in the world to run it.  I mean, who could imagine a world without Harold Ramis in it?

So now, with a broken heart, comes the post I had outlined in my very first month of writing Letter From Elba.

Dear Mr. Ramis,

How can I ever thank you for all the joy and laughter you have brought into my life? Where would I be if I had never met the legendary Bluto, Judge Smales, and Mafia don Paul Vitti?

Not to mention Egon Spengler.  (Let me take a moment to tell you that long ago, I named my black standard Poodle “Egon” because he was brilliant- and you both had the same hairstyle.)

I also want to thank you for the copy of the script of Ghostbusters II that you signed for me. You inscribed it “Ellen- Love and Luck.  Harold Ramis “Egon.”  I’ll cherish it until the day I die.

You had me at Animal House.  From that movie on, you changed my comedy world.  You showed me that hilarious movie anarchy did not end with the Marx Brothers and immortal comic characters did not die with W. C. Fields.

IMHO, as a writer/director you followed in the footsteps of the greatest of the great- Billy Wilder.  (If Billy Wilder had been born in Chicago and hung out with Doug Kenney.)

And you gave me so many fabulous lines and performances to remember, relish and quote, that if I were stranded on a desert island, your body of work would be the canon I would take to help me pass the years. (Assuming I got stranded with a VCR.)  I would swim to shore with:

1.   Caddyshack  I have to be honest.  This movie was owned by Rodney Dangerfield and Bill Murray.  (Who winged and ad libbed his entire madcap performance as the gopher-hating greenskeeper, Carl.)  But both of these guys were brought in- and turned loose- by you.  And a Kenny Loggins soundtrack.  Who could ask for anything more?

2.  Ghostbusters  Again, Bill Murray – the Babyboomers’ Groucho- had all the great laugh lines here.  But Egon was my favorite Buster.  “I collect spores, mold and fungus,” he told Janine, the trio’s lovelorn secretary. And my heart.

3.  Analyze This  EVERY  line in this movie made me laugh.  Just remember Robert DeNiro’s face when he said, “F****ing Greeks!”  OMG.  Thank you.

And last, but certainly not least

4.  Groundhog Day.

I saw you discussing GD on Youtube.  How you laughed when you said devout Christians, Buddhists, Jews and psychiatrists all saw something of their own philosophy in the subtext of this film.  (Only you said it much funnier.)

You said everything much funnier.  And set a benchmark of cinematic laughs per minute that will never be equalled by any other movie-making triple threat.

I loved your cameo as “The Gift” in As Good As It Gets, btw.  And you made a wonderful ex hippie father for Seth Rogen in Knocked Up.    And where would Judd Apatow be today without you to show him the way?

By all accounts you are a mensch- as we lantzmen say.  Generous with your time and talent.  Ready to give a hand up the Hollywood ladder.

And you never forgot your roots.  No one can ever claim that you “went Hollywood” on us. Chicago was your home sweet home.

I am your willing slave.  And if you ever need a willing slave, feel free to call me.

Best regards, Ellen Ross

Well, that’s done.  And now I’m feeling crummy.  There will never be another Harold Ramis.  And almost worse, there will never be another Harold Ramis movie.

There’s only one way to combat these blues.  I think I’ll pop in Stripes or Multiplicity or Club Paradise or hang out with the sorority sisters of the late Fawn Leibowitz.

Nope.

Too soon.

Share
Posted in Harold Ramis, Movies, pop culture, Tributes | 6 Comments