Letter From Elba

How The West Was Won

Posted on October 22, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Do I really have to tell you who he is? If you are anywhere near my age, you’ll recognize him immediately.

For an extra ten trivia points: What was the name of his rifle?

Before I type another word, I just have to listen to this.

Did you sing along? I did.

I was crazy about Davy and Georgie Russell. (A love affair with Buddy Ebsen that continued right through The Beverly Hillbillies and Breakfast at Tiffany’s. He lost me at Barnaby Jones, though.)

But my crush on all things Western didn’t start with Fess Parker. It started with these guys.

That’s Champion’s owner on the left and Trigger’s owner on the right.

Better known as Gene Autry and Roy Rogers.

God, these were guys were my heroes. I idolized them.

And these two ladies also showed a very young me that women could be at home on the range. They didn’t just have to cook on one.

Dale Evans who rode Buttermilk and Gail Davis as Annie Oakley. Her horse was Target.

But The West wasn’t only plains and prairie dogs.

Old California was represented on television, as well.

Buenas Dias, Cisco and Pancho. Andale, muchachos!

(That’s Diablo and Loco they’re riding.)

The Cisco Kid, Duncan Renaldo, may have been born in Romania but Leo Carrillo was the real deal. Born in Los Angles in 1880, he had pure Castilian blood in his veins.

His great-great-grandfather, José Raimundo Carrillo, was a soldier in the Spanish Portola expedition colonization of Las Californias, arriving in San Diego on July 1, 1769!

Father Junípero Serra performed the marriage ceremony for Don Jose and his bride in 1781. And their son, Carlos Antonio, was Governor of Alta California. Leo’s great-uncle was three-time mayor of Los Angeles.

Old California Spanish blood was also dashingly portrayed by this caballero.

That’s Zorro- “The Fox”- portrayed by handsome baritone italiano-americano, Armand Joseph Catalano. AKA Guy Williams.

SPOLER ALERT: Zorro was really Don Diego de la Vega, son of wealthy landowner Don Alejandro. He was kind of a Old Californian Scarlet Pimpernel. Lazy, spoiled fop by day. Daring swordsman and protector of the oppressed by night.

Bonus Trivia Question: What was Zorro’s fiery black stallion called?

(Guy Williams was so handsome and such a heart throb that Annette Funicello was beside herself when she got cast in the series. As a special bonus, Walt Disney sent him over once to take her out on a “date.”)

Enough with the conquistadors. Now it’s time to salute the original owners.

Here was the guy who greeted the Spanish when they got off the boat.

The fabulous Tonto- indelibly played by Jay Silverheels. And the great paint, Scout.

Born Harold Smith on the Six Nations of the Grand River First Nation in Ontario, Canada, he was the son of a Mohawk tribal chief.

A terrific athlete, he toured the United States playing lacrosse. (He also found time to become a successful Golden Gloves boxer.)

While touring Los Angeles with a lacrosse team, he was talked into taking a screen test. His new name came from a nickname he had as a lacrosse player. Starting out as a stuntman, he soon found his way into westerns and serials. Work in feature films followed.

Then in 1949, Jay hooked up with this fellow B movie actor.

And the rest is television western history.

Hi Ho, Clayton Moore and the fabulous Silver!

Okay, you got me, Kemo Sabe. I’ve got to play this.

And look what I have.

How I loved Bat Masterson, Maverick, Wagon Train, (Flint McCullough was my guy) Have Gun Will Travel, Sugarfoot, The Rifleman, Wyatt Earp– starring New Trier’s own Hugh O’Brien.

But it seems that all the wonderful westerns of yesteryear went thataway. I miss all my heroes in white hats on magnificent palominos.

But let’s end this roundup on a high note.

Happy trails to them- and to all of you, pardners.

And wait ’til next year.

Posted in Nostalgia, pop culture, Television, Westerns | 14 Comments

My Bad Part Two

Posted on October 18, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Hello, Dear Readers. Welcome to the thrilling conclusion of “My Bad.”

ICYMI: Here’s Part One of My Bad.

Now for the rest of the story…

Our saga had just left off with me speechless with terror at the thought of Mark saying that he wanted to kiss me good night after our catastrophically bad first- and only- date.

OMG.

Now how the hell was our heroine going to get out of this one?

Mark had rushed me through dinner. His haste was so imperative that he didn’t even bother to ask if I wanted dessert.

(I didn’t- but I like to look at the dessert menu. I am a dessert voyeur.)

The bum’s rush was at such odds with Mark’s smarmy comments about my looks and my would-be seductive powers that, finally, curiosity got the better of me.

“Are you in a hurry?” I inquired.

“I have to get back home,” Mark explained. “I live with my ninety-two year old mother and her caregiver is off this evening. She may need me.”

“You’re living with with your mother? Um. Doesn’t that throw a monkey wrench into your social life?” I couldn’t keep the wonder/horror out of my voice.

“No, not really. She’s got dementia. She doesn’t know if I have people over or not.”

“She might not know but isn’t that kind of a buzz kill for the ladies you might want to bring home?” I asked.

(What I was thinking: If there were any ladies who actually want to come home with you.)

“I haven’t had anyone sleep over yet. But it’s been fine when I invite a few people in for dinner. I’m pretty handy with the bar-be-cue. Mom loves my grilled chicken.”

OMG.

Put a fork in me, brother. I’m done.

So in a flash Mark paid the check and the waiter handed me my leftover chicken piccata. (It was only a half order but who could eat?)

We started to leave.

But as we strolled past the bar I noticed that the Cubs/Cards game was playing on the television set. So I stopped to watch a replay of a Cubs’ homer.

While I watched I happened to notice a very cute guy sitting at the bar having dinner.

Adorable, lots of hair, a little younger than me and sporting a pair of very chic ripped jeans. Holes in a few cool strategic places.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

And now it’s game on.

“I really like those jeans. I’d love a pair myself but I don’t know if I could carry it off,” I said to him.

“Oh, you look pretty confident,” he replied, grinning a very handsome grin. ‘You definitely could carry it off,” he reassured me.

“Nah,” I countered modestly. “With this gray hair? I think I’m too old.”

“I’ve got gray hair and I wear them. Nope, you definitely could wear them,” Hottie-At-The-Bar said.

We start talking about the Cubs.

Oh yeah, and did I happen to mention that my real date, the guy who brung me, is just standing around holding his leftovers?

I had more or less forgotten all about him.

But after a few minutes watching me flirt with this total stranger, Mark started to get restless. The Cubs game was over and he wasn’t interested in watching the recap.

He was interested in kissing off my red lipstick.

And getting home to Ma.

And now I really started to sweat it.

“See you,” I reluctantly said to the guy at the bar. “Nice talking to you.”

Hottie looked at Mark. He looked again.

“Well…that guy looks like a… nice guy…?” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

And I thought “I’m not so sure. We’ll see about that.”

EXCEPT…

I didn’t just think it.

I said it out loud.

OMG!

My bad.

I don’t know how it happened. I must have been so nervous at the thought of the good night tussle at my door and I had had such a crummy time and he was just so lame and…

No excuses.

It just flew right out of my mouth.

I was horrified. I don’t usually try to be gratuitously cruel.

I quickly glanced over to see how Mark was taking it.

He seemed pretty non plussed.

Whew.

The car ride home was uneventful. He took a local route and avoided Lake Shore Drive altogether. It was notable, however, for the pounding of my heart and my incessant clutching of my doggie bag.

How the hell was I going to get out of that clinch at the front door?

As we drove down the home stretch Mark said, “When people come to your house for dinner, do they need stickers to park on the street? I see that it is all permit parking around here. How does that work for your guests exactly?”

“I don’t know,” I replied truthfully. ‘The only people who come to my house for dinner either walk or take a cab or Uber. No one brings a car.”

“Well, what if someone wanted to spend the night?”

Thank goodness I could see the welcoming sight of my building up ahead.

We pulled in. I unbuckled my seatbelt. My heart was racing so fast that my hands were shaking.

He got out and opened my door.

We walked to the entryway and then he opened his arms.

I could see daylight. I had a plan.

I gingerly embraced him back.

A very brief hug.

And then I shook his hand.

And then I RAN into my building.

I was sorry that I had blurted out that mean comment but relieved to be home safe and un-kissed.

No more blind dinner dates EVER.

(But I think I’d better study this movie, just in case.)

And Go Cubs!

Posted in Dating, pop culture | 26 Comments

My Bad Part One

Posted on October 15, 2015 by Ellen Ross

First a hearty congratulations to our Cubs! They now head to the National League Championship series starting this Saturday.

It was very exciting around here two nights ago.

And now back to the blog…

Yes, Dear Readers, this is a two-parter. You’re going to have tune back in on Sunday for the thrilling conclusion.

It’s hard to believe but that adorable baby pictured above has turned into a ruthless abuser of men.

Sad but true.

Yep, that’s me. Ellen Roffe Ross. And this is my story.

Okay, by now, you probably know that I have been on some really bad dates. (If you’re not up to speed, please catch up by reading Date Night and Really!?!)

On both occasions, the gentlemen (?) in question have acted questionably. But in the fullness of time, I have to admit, that I, too, was guilty of a bêtise or two on a date myself recently.

In other words, I acted like such a be-yaatch that my conscience is killing me.

True, he sort of asked for it. But he was a nice, harmless kind of schnook and I was plain awful to him.

I’ll lay out the facts.

You be the judge.

It all started with a friend of a friend. This guy he knew- let’s call him Mark- had just moved back to the North Shore after forty years. Mark was a lawyer. (NOT a divorce lawyer. I checked.)

My friend went on to tell me that, although he hadn’t seen Mark since high school, he was okay-looking. And smart. And he that he liked to play golf and he skied.

Would I just talk with his old friend? Object: A date.

Ok.

Mark and I chatted. He was pleasant and quick-witted. Had gone to good schools, said he had heard great things about me, had two nice kids, laughed in all the right places, and would I please have dinner with him? Anywhere I wanted to go.

Here was a problem. I have sworn off blind dates for dinner. Too fraught with pitfalls of every kind.

So I countered with lunch. Easy and not loaded with subtext. And I named a cute place within walking distance of my house- as extra insurance if I wanted to skedaddle out of there in a hurry.

He countered my counter-offer. He is a lawyer, after all.

Since he would be driving in and traffic would be so heavy, couldn’t I please make it for dinner?

Please?

Ok.

So I named a good, not-too-high end French bistro in my neighborhood.

He’d said he’d call and make reservations.

He called back right away.

“I tried calling them but no one answered. I left a message.”

“I don’t know what number you called but I know they’re open. Oh well, how about Bella Notte on Grand?”

He called and called me back.

“We’re on for seven-thirty. Are you comfortable with me picking you up or do you want to meet me there?”

I was ok with the pick up. He seemed pretty harmless.

“I’ll be downstairs at ten after seven. That should give us enough time to get there. What kind of car do you drive?”

“A Lexus. See you then.”

Ok.

Came the night, it was 6:40, I was almost ready when my phone rang.

“Hi, Ellen. It’s Mark. I’m downstairs.”

Huh? I like to be early but this guy was a half hour early.

Emily Post Etiquette Sidebar: I’ve checked with two different guys. My friend, Norman and my building engineer, Eric. They’re real different. Norman is strictly Bergdorf Goodman and Eric is 100% Home Depot. And they both concurred. If the guy is way early, that’s strictly his problem. He should politely cool his heels. I shouldn’t have been contacted with a STAT alert.

I rushed down.

There was the Lexus. It was gold.

But I got in smiling and then…

He was completely bald.

And I don’t mean Yul Brynner/Bruce Willis bullet head, sexy bald. I mean alopecia Mexican Hairless bald. Right down to his (non-existent) eye lashes.

I don’t mean to be unkind but he was kind of paunchy and pasty and he held his neck in kind of a weird stiff way. My instant visceral response was one big skin-crawl.

I couldn’t help it.

But I was in the car and there was no polite way out.

He asked me for the restaurant address.

Come on. He’s a big boy. Shouldn’t he have known where he was going?

I looked it up on Yelp and I swear to God, he then put it into a Garmin GPS box on top of the dash.

How old was this car anyway?

But I didn’t have time to wonder because soon we were off and headed to Bella Notte.

He was the worst driver.

Couldn’t figure out how to get on Lake Shore Drive heading south at Belmont. Weaved from lane to lane and slammed on the brakes and almost mowed down one poor hapless pedestrian crossing the street. Was I relieved when we got there in one piece.

But as disturbing as his driving was, his dinner table conversation was worse.

“What made you move back here after being gone for forty years?” I asked, desperate to make small talk. “Your family?”

“Maybe it was to meet you,” he replied.

Uh oh.

I had to change his thinking on this score ASAP.

“It was nice of you to come all the way downtown to take me to dinner. But I’m pretty geographically undesirable. Aren’t there any nice women in your neck of the woods?”

“As a matter of fact, I have a date with someone tomorrow night. But she’s not as smart as you are.”

“Oh, smart isn’t everything. She’s probably very nice. Which I’m not.”

(I thought it politic to talk up the competition and gently let him know that I was not the girl of his dreams.)

Dinner was odd. I don’t drink but I’m used to guys that order at least one glass of wine.

Mark was good with water. And he rushed me.

The first time the waiter came by the table he grabbed him and said,”We’re ready to order.”

I wasn’t, but what the hell.

It was as if he had to get back to something or someone right away.

(Later I found out why.)

And when I didn’t get a chance to finish my salad before the entrees arrived, before the waiter could take away my half-eaten dish, Mark asked,”Can I have that?”

OMG! He wanted to eat my salad leftovers?

“Yeah, that salad looks good. My soup was too salty.”

I slid the plate over.

I won’t go into the conversation. Dreary, whiny and really mad at his remarried ex. (Him.) Bored and trying to make the best of it. (Me.)

But then it happened.

Mark said, “I really love your nail polish. That dark red is so provocative.”

Cue the gooseflesh.

“Do you have matching lipstick? Are you wearing any?” he continued.

“Sure, it’s in my bag. I must have eaten it off.”

“Don’t bother putting any more on. It will be less for me to kiss off.”

OMG!

Did you ever?

To be continued on Sunday, guys.

In the meantime, watch this.

And Go Cubs!

Posted in Dating, pop culture | 25 Comments

Space Cadet

Posted on October 11, 2015 by Ellen Ross

First, I have to say that our team is coming back to Chicago from St. Louis having split the two games. Go Cubs!

Okay, now back to the show.

On Tuesday I saw Matt Damon as The Martian.

OMG! I LOVED it!

NO Spoiler Alert: Run, no, jetpack over to your neighborhood movie house ASAP and see this wonderful picture. It’s rated PG-13 so be sure and grab any kid you know over twelve and take him/her, too. The Martian is life-enhancing. And funny. And exciting. And it has a very clever screenplay acted to perfection by a marvelous cast.

And it’s got a terrific soundtrack.

But most important of all, The Martian makes it cool to be smart. And if you know a child who feels indifferent to homework or whines about studying for his geometry test, he (or she) has got to see this.

(And who amongst us doesn’t know a kid like that? Hell, I was a kid like that.)

In short, I went nuts for The Martian.

But this comes as no surprise to me. Ever since I was a tyke, I have always adored outer space flicks.

And it all started with Gort.

“Gort, Klaatu barada nikto!”

(Which roughly translates to “Don’t destroy the Earth, kind robot. And while you’re at it, could you please resurrect Klaatu from death.”)

If you didn’t need me to translate, then take me to your leader, pal. We are of the same tribe. We are fans of The Day the Earth Stood Still.

(I mean the original, of course. With Michael Rennie and Patricia Neal.)

Here’s the earthlings’ first glimpse of mighty Gort.

Did you tremble at his awesome powers to destroy the soldiers’ guns and tanks? Neato-o.

Gort and Klaatu weren’t the only UFOs I was crazy about.

There was Flash Gordon, of course. Followed in 1963 by My Favorite Martian.

I had been a big fan of Ray Walston since Damn Yankees. And now here he was playing my favorite alien, Uncle Martin, right on my Sentinel television screen.

You’ve got to smile. All that out-dated hokey sci-fi machinery and bad FX. And that awful canned laugh track.

Pure classic camp tv.

But all that silliness ended in 1967 with Star Trek.

On Friday nights in Madison, crowds would gather in the University of Wisconsin’s frat houses and dorms and there we would watch riveted by the doings of a really smart ET named Spock.

Fascinating.

(Seeing that clip brings a big smile to my face. Mr. Spock is still one amazing alien.)

On the opposite end of the gravitas scale, I am wild for the movie that parodies Star Trek.

Galaxy Quest.

And who knows? Maybe all this sci fi stuff paved the way for me to participate in the ground-breaking ceremony at the Henry Crown Space Center at the Museum of Science and Industry.

I well remember the scarves Lester Crown handed out as mementos of that very special occasion. (It was a very cold Chicago day. Brrr.)

But my frostbite disappeared in 1983 when I got invited to the premiere of The Right Stuff. What a movie for a space buff.

Look who signed my program.

Isn’t that just out of this world?

Now- and carefully screened by Mission Control- is the official trailer for The Martian.

Peace, Earthlings.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5,…

Posted in Movies, pop culture, Television | 14 Comments

Shall We Dance?

Posted on October 8, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Late Breaking Headline: Congrats to the Cubs! Onward!

Do you remember when and how you learned to dance? Even though I have hazy recollections of teaching myself to jitterbug copying the kids on American Bandstand,***my formal training began at Avoca School in the seventh grade.

(***Remember Kenny and Arlene?)

If memory serves, we seventh graders had to endure a course of square dancing, believe it or not. All that “allemande left” and do-si-doing was decidedly age-appropriate. In seventh grade some of the boys and girls were still actively engaged in the battle of the sexes. As in “Girls? Yuck! Boys? Ick!” Nobody wanted close contact.

But watch how the talented Mouseketeers did it.

But most of our aversion to the opposite sex had radically changed by eighth grade. Then, en masse, like it or not, the class was enrolled in an exercise called “Social Dancing.”

I still clearly remember sitting in a chair in the gym and watching- with my heart in my mouth- as the boys made their way over from the wall to ask us poor sitting ducks to dance.

My thought process went something like this. (Names have been changed to protect everyone. Even fifty years later.)

Twelve year old Me: (All this stream of consciousness happens in about three seconds, btw.) Oh gosh, what if nobody asks me to dance? Oh, lord, here they come. Is that Donald coming this way? Please don’t let Donald ask me to dance. He’s creepy. Please don’t let Donald come over here. Please let Ricky ask me. Is that Timmy? Oh, no! Please don’t let Timmy ask me. He’s fat. Please let it be Ricky. Oh dear lord, here comes Donald. Hurry up, Ricky!

I think Donald won.

The rest of the story…

“Ricky” eventually did ask me to dance and later, to go steady. This meant we held hands at all the boy and girl parties. He broke up with me on the eve of another boy/girl party. I remember thinking,”I can get through this. I’ll go to the party and be brave and put a smile on my face even though my heart is breaking.” A sound philosophy- and one I practice to this day.

But my eighth grade social dancing life took a huge turn upward when I got an engraved invitation in the mail asking me to join Mrs. Theron Mandeville Woolson’s “On To New Trier” Assembly.

Held on five Friday nights in Winnetka’s stately Christ Church’s parish house, these classes were posh and exciting. And they included boys from all the feeder elementary schools that would make up my high school freshman class the very next year.

Barbara, Kim and Kathy were the other Avoca invitees. (I can’t remember the boys who got asked.) And this meant that we “slow”- read socially-backward- Avoca girls would now have negotiate the waltz and the box step and the cha cha with reputedly “fast” Sears boys and Skokie school boys. The prospect was thrilling.

Our illustrious instructress in all things terpsichorean was the magnificent Helen Calhoun Woolson. Mrs. Woolson was a no-nonsense dowager in the Margaret Dumont mode. The genuine article. Born in Glencoe, she died in 1985 at the age of ninety-two. Her husband’s family was DAR distinguished,too.

(That’s Mr. and Mrs. Woolson back in 1963 seated second and fourth from the left. She’s wearing the white hat. Very Winnetka.)

Armed with a cricket to signal gauche behavior, she held us all to a strict standard of conduct- hoping to put some polish on our uncouth youth.

Just to add to the confusion: There was another dancing class held in the Winnetka Community House led by Mrs Wilson. Whenever we met a new kid, the question “Did you Wil or Wool?” was proffered by us inquiring adolescents to figure out what demographic you belonged in.

Back at Mrs. Woolson’s, each set of parents were asked to chaperone one evening per session. I can remember how thrilled my dad was when he met his fellow chaperone-the legendary Jack Brickhouse. (Who is, no doubt, beaming in Heaven right now.)

It wasn’t all a merry dance, though. That’s an anguished time in the life of any young- and in my case, still flat-chested girl.

And I still can remember how humiliated I felt when I overheard a teenaged would be Lochinvar refuse to dance with me. “That board?” he snorted. “Never!”

(My best friend Barbara overheard this indictment and kindly said, “Maybe he thought you looked bored” to cheer me up. But neither of us was fooled.)

Things were probably not too nifty for the boys press-ganged into going to dancing class, either. I picture a lot of whining, threats and bribes to get the boys to show up on those Friday nights. I just can’t imagine what thirteen year old boy went willingly to the slaughter.

To this day, it’s never ben my good luck to meet a guy who actually likes to dance. One perfunctory, desultory whirl around the dance floor was pretty much all I have ever known.

Still, I can do a pretty mean foxtrot.

Hey, is that Eddie Duchin I hear?

And yes, I’d be delighted.

Posted in Avoca School, New Trier High School, pop culture, Television, The 60's, Winnetka | 24 Comments

Twice in a Blue Moon

Posted on October 4, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Hi, everybody! I’m back. Hope you all had a great two weeks. I was on a real whirlwind here. Out of town guests, parties, the Cubs/Pirates series and other fun extra-curricular activities made the time go by in a flash.

I’m happy to be back with you all once more. There’s so much I want to tell you about.

But first I have to take a moment to address the tragic events at the Umpqua Community College campus in Roseburg, Oregon. It will only take a moment, because sadly, I have already made my views known on these horrific school shootings in a post I wrote on June 8, 2014. It’s entitled “Enough” and unfortunately, I fear it’s worth a second look.

And now I’ve got to get back to less important matters.

All the coverage about last week’s Super Moon eclipse started me thinking…

ICYMI: On Sunday, September 13, the New York Times Arts & Leisure section ran a special edition on the upcoming Broadway theater scene. And the leading male thespian they chose to showcase in a large black and white photograph was…

Wait for it.

Bruce Willis.

That’s right. Die Hard Bruce Willis. The Sixth Sense Bruce Willis. 12 Monkeys Bruce Willis.

And, as of October 22, Broadway leading man starring in the theatrical version of Misery Bruce Willis.

On that date, at the Broadhurst Theater, Bruce will be playing bed-bound, best-selling author Paul Sheldon. He will be tormented nightly by his captor, Annie Wilkes, no doubt chillingly played by Steppenwolf’s own Laurie Metcalf.

I eagerly read the interview. I was instantly let down.

The NYT reporter, Alexis Soloski, wasn’t a real big BW fan.

Words like “aloof” and “evasive” popped up in her profile. The phrases “never exactly impolite” and “an actor who doesn’t always try as hard as he might” led me to believe that neither Mr. Willis or Ms. Soloski had a very enjoyable hour together.

It would seem that nowadays Bruce Willis is one big, bored, pain in the ass.

Too bad. I hate to have my fan bubble burst

Because I loved him.

Yep. LOVED him.

And it all started on March 3, 1985 with Moonlighting.

What a television debut for any actor to have.

(True, I had caught him earlier in 1984 on a great episode of Miami Vice. It was called “No Exit” and in it, Bruce played a really cool, mean drug lord named Tony Amato who tormented and abused his lovely wife, played by Katherine Borowitz.)

He was terrific.

And I remember reading that he had an altar ego named “Bruno” who bartended and sang in a New York City blues club.

But nothing in my tv past had prepared me for David Addison.

Did I think he was sensational from jump street?

Do bears bear? Do bees be?

He burst onto my screen and carried off my heart.

Let me recap. David Addison was a fast-talking, wise-cracking, blues-singing, harmonica-playing smart ass who worked at the City of Angels Detective Agency.

Which was owned as a tax write-off by cool, blonde, gorgeous Maddie Hayes- played by cool, blonde, gorgeous Cybill Shepherd.

When all of Maddie’s money vanished courtesy of her crooked accountant, she’s forced to sell off her assets.

But David fast talks her into keeping the agency and convinces her to partner up with him as a detective. (Oh, yeah, it’s now called “Blue Moon” in honor of Maddie. She was once famous as the “Blue Moon Shampoo Girl.”)

Got that?

It doesn’t matter. It was a silly premise.

And I only tuned in to watch Cybill Shepherd on television.

I had been a fan since The Last Picture Show and The Heartbreak Kid.

I was excited to see her. The other guy? Eh. Not so much.
All that changed in an instant.

Here’s the historic first meeting between Maddie and David.

WOW! Who was that guy?

And I wasn’t the only one who felt that earthquake.

Here’s what the Hollywood Reporter television critic thought of him.

“…David Addison, played to perfection by comedian Bruce Willis. He runs a company that’s more a tax-writeoff for a top fashion model than a serious detective agency, or at least it used to be before she lost her money to a crooked manager and decided to liquidate her assets. Now he’s been forced to actually take some cases (gasp!); and, worse still, teach his sophisticated boss how to be less of a clothes horse and more of a snoop. As Addison, Willis is as much conman as detective, and alternates between wearing “X-Ray Glasses” and singing old Manfred Mann songs like “Do Wah Diddy” in assorted alleys around town. He’s a cross between Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd with a touch of Roseanne Roseannadanna thrown in. And is the reason Moonlighting works and works well.”

Moonlighting ran for five seasons. And we all know what happened to Bruce Willis after that.

He went on to become a Major Motion Picture Star.

He married a Major Motion Picture Star.

(Who was, btw, the most beautiful woman in person I ever saw in my life.)

They had three daughters.

They divorced. He went on to marry much younger model Emma Heming.

And they had a daughter.

And somewhere along the way, David Addison left and the entitled, suspicious, unhappy Superstar who begrudgingly mumbled his way through the New York Times interview took over his persona.

I miss David.

So to get the bad taste out of my mouth, I decided to go to my trusty Youtube and check out some old Moonlighting episodes. You know, to see if my fond memories of him were accurate or just rose-colored by time.

And guess what?

Bruce Willis/David Addison still floats my boat.

See what you think.

Take a second look at my all-time favorite episode of Moonlighting.

Have fun, Cats and Kittens.

See you at the blues club.

And tell ’em Bruno sent you.

Posted in Movies, pop culture, Television, Theater | 14 Comments

Tardy

Posted on September 20, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Letter From Elba Announcement: Dear Readers, I am taking a short hiatus. The blog will return on Sunday, October 4. Have a great couple of weeks. I’m going to.

Okay, back to our regularly-scheduled blog post.

See that guy on the left in the top photo? His name is Richard Zisook and he’s a builder and real estate developer here in Chicago. In fact, he’s the “Z” in SANDZ Development Company. (His partner Mike Supera is the “S.”)

I have known Ricky forever. Good guy, quick to laugh, intrepid skier/snowboarder. In fact, I’ll forever be indebted to him because he was responsible for getting us all out to Snowmass in the winter.

He’s kind, philanthropic and – at the promptings of his better half- the host with most. A pillar of the community and a credit to his people.

And he is always late.

This tiny character flaw in a character as genial as Ricky may not seem like that big of a deal.

But it’s a quirk that would have driven me to drink if I was married to him.

(Forgive my presumption, Ricky and Lil. Trust me. I have a million reasons why Ricky would never want to be married to me.)

But as you can see in the photo above, RZ and LAZ have found true wedded bliss with three great kids and three adorable granddaughters. They have probably agreed to disagree about this one… let’s call it a short-coming.

I mean, nobody’s perfect, right?

But when it comes to promptness, I am.

I can not bear to be late. In fact, if I’m not early, call the morgue.

I’m dead.

Promptness is the courtesy of kings. If time is money, I’m a zillionaire.

I’m not sure how or why the “on time delivery” gene gets activated. I do know that it must be passed on to future generations because both my kids have it.

(Natasha has it to such an extent that if we’re scheduled to meet at 10:00 a.m. you can bet the farm that she will arrive at 10:00:00. Nick, a little more loosey-goosey, will show up anywhere from 10:00 to 10:05.)

I’m glad they can be counted on. Being late drives me BONKERS.

I know just how these guys feel.

But back in the day, Ricky was famous for his total disregard of the clock. It was so often and so epic that it had a kind of grandeur about it. Marilyn Monroe had nothing on Ricky.

There was greatness to his lateness.

Lil used to try and compensate for this by giving him false information when it came to important start times. She didn’t actually set the clocks ahead like King Edward VII but I bet she was tempted.

Historic British Sidebar: Good old Bertie did this to create more daylight hunting hours. Contrary to myth, the poor distracted king did not start it to compensate for his ever- en retard queen, Alexandra. But no matter. The clocks at the royal estate of Sandringham were all set one half hour ahead of Greenwich Mean Time.)

I think Lil had to embroider the times by at least one hour to make sure that Ricky would show up while the event or dinner date was still going on.

And sometimes even that little prevarication wasn’t enough to outwit Ricky-Come-Lately.

But what goes around comes around and in 1994 Fate stepped in.

I had a chance for payback.

Bill, Lil and I were scheduled to meet Ricky downtown for an early dinner at the Italian Village.

Then it would be on to the theater for a night with Petulia Clark in the musical Blood Brothers.

As Ricky was already downtown, we would take the train in and he would drive us home.

(Hey, I couldn’t resist.)

Hard to believe now, but this was the dark ages before iPhones. So Lil, Bill and I chatted merrily away as we rode the Northwestern in to the city.

And then, all of a sudden, there was an unearthly screeching of train brakes and the sound of something metallic being dragged along the tracks.

The train came to a shuddering and very unscheduled stop and we just stared at each other in wonder.

We didn’t have to wonder long.

A conductor came through the car and informed us passengers that a man on a bicycle had just been killed by the train and we were now a crime scene. Nothing and no one was moving until the cops and the fire department investigated and gave the ok.

Attachment-1 (2)

Needless to say, the time crawled as we were trapped in that train car.

With no way to reach Ricky and tell him what had happened to us.

Finally, with the help of emergency crews, we were evacuated out of the stranded killer train and put into a cab, I think.

But by the time we got to the restaurant, we were almost two hours late.

But none of us felt all that guilty.

And Ricky?

He was feeling no pain.

Bored and tired of waiting for us, he had thrown down more than a few cocktails.

He was smashed.

We went into giggles as we (semi) apologized for our unscheduled derailment.

“Geez, if I had only known,” Ricky moaned. “I wanted to order the Chicken Vesuvio but the waiter told me it would take thirty minutes and I didn’t want to be late.”

Giggles gave way to full-on hysterics.

Revenge is a dish best eaten cold.

(Unlike Chicken Vesuvio.)

So Lili Ann and Ricky, a happy anniversary to you both, my dear friends.

And Ricky, if you have cleaned up your act and your arrivals are no longer overdue, I sincerely apologize.

Better late than never.

Posted in Chicago, pop culture, Theater, Uncategorized | 16 Comments

R.S.V.P.

Posted on September 17, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Yesterday, September sixteenth, was my daughter Natasha’s birthday.

Thirty-seven years ago, she made her entrance and my life changed forever.

All you parents know what I’m talking about.

I- the most reluctant of would-be participants in the reproduction game- had been talked into this joint venture by my husband.

And I had just spent nine months on a drunk-sick cruise. (I didn’t glow. I just felt ghastly throughout. It’s a trait I share with Kate Middleton.)

I had never even touched a baby.

Or wanted to.

All I liked were dogs.

(In fact, when I told my dog groomer about the baby’s impending arrival, he asked me, “What are you going to name it? Spot?”)

But nevertheless, when the nurse handed me this tightly-wrapped precious bundle, I took one look and I was her slave.

Just consider for a moment how much you like your kids.

Same thing.

Every September sixteenth from then on became a special date for me.

On her first birthday, I threw a pink, rose-laden bash to celebrate. Held in our back yard in Winnetka, it was filled with friends, champagne and done up to the nines. This was a grown-up party.

Here’s the birthday girl.

(You can’t see it but she’s wearing a tiny corsage. I still have it.)

Here’s her fête.

And for the next twelve years, I threw little girl birthday party after birthday party.

There were Crayola-themed ones and balloon-themed ones. There were clowns and traveling petting zoos.

When the guests got older, I had fortune tellers and magicians.

There were slumber parties and splash parties.

Here’s a party for birthday number twelve at Ron Of Japan. (I know. I know. Your clothes smell like smoke and teriyaki sauce for a week afterwards. What can I say? Kids love it.)

(Astute readers might recognize some of the other guests.)

And here’s the “grown up ladies luncheon” we threw in 1991 for her thirteenth birthday.

(The usual suspects but now even more grown up.)

It was at our club, and all her friends- and a few select grownups- were invited for chopped salads and finger sandwiches. Later, a very sweet lady did our hand-writing analyses.

A good time was had by all.

Especially me.

But little did I know…

That was the very last birthday party- or birthday for that matter- that I ever spent with Natasha.

The next September sixteenth found her just starting school at SG.

And for the next umpteen years- attending Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut, training as a teacher at Beauvoir at National Cathedral School in D.C., grad school at Boston College, and then finally teaching her own classes of kindergardeners and first graders- it was always the same old story.

School had just begun and Natasha was slammed. An official Parent Visit the first weekend in October was usually scheduled.

Could we just come out then?

In 2014 things finally changed.

Due to the arrival of my grandson Sam, it was the first time ever that Natasha did not start a new school year in September.

I was busting to hang out with Sam.

So the first weekend in September, out to Boston I flew.

Yes, I missed her birthday by ten days but I didn’t want to horn in on their celebration as a brand new nuclear family.

Living in a different city I miss lots of things. But this year I am determined to throw Natasha a (fantasy) birthday party.

You’re all invited. And please, no gifts. Your good wishes will be more than enough.

Happy birthday, my darling daughter.

And many, many more.

With all love from your devoted mother.

(I know you’ll like your party venue.)

Press play.

Posted in Memoir, pop culture | 10 Comments

Steamy

Posted on September 13, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: For many of my readers tonight marks the start of Rosh Hashanah. May the upcoming Jewish New Year bring you good health, peace and joy.

Whew. The last week here in Chicago has been so sticky. And icky. Really hot and unbearably humid.

Think a dry cleaner.

In New Orleans.

(I know. I know. No whining. In another month this town’s temperature is going to take a header for Siberia.)

But as summer belatedly- and reluctantly- gives up the ghost, I am reminded of my time in some other steam baths.

So get undressed, grab a towel and get on to the massage table.

Are you a spa enthusiast?

Does the mere thought of saunas and cold plunges, soothing oils and aromatherapy soothe your weary, angst-ridden body?

Not me, brother.

I am spa-aphobic. The very thought of locker rooms, rubdowns and big wicker towel baskets makes me break out into a cold sweat.

I have had some very un-relaxing times at some of these places. Didn’t enjoy the experience at all.

You might even say that they rubbed me the wrong way.

My first close encounter with a loofa took place in the early ’70’s. I was married to a guy from Baltimore who thought that massages and steam baths were the nth degree of Nirvana. To that end, he was always pestering me to join him in his quest for the perfect masseur/masseuse.

The thought of a stranger touching me anywhere gave me the creeps but, then as now, I subscribed to the “Duchess of Windsor” philosophy.

One can never be too rich or too thin.

So with weight loss fixed firmly in my little mind, I agreed to spend a weekend with him at the Harbor Island Spa in New Jersey.

I can vividly remember the jaunty television theme song of “The Odd Couple” playing as I nervously shed my clothes. (First making sure that I had the locker room all to myself.)

Clutching my towel in a death grip, I reluctantly climbed on what looked to me nothing less than a ob/gyn’s examining table.

A hefty woman with beefy forearms immediately threw herself on me. She pounded and kneaded and and worked my my protesting flesh into pasta dough. I clenched my teeth and prayed that it would soon be all over.

Ten endless minutes later, it was.

“You’re more tense now than when I started,” she shook her her head ruefully.

“Yeah, I don’t think massage is really for me,” I conceded. “What else do you have?”

“Our clientele find the steam room very relaxing. Perhaps you would care to give that a try?” she suggested.

Gratefully I climbed off the torture rack and she pointed the way to the steam room.

It was hard to see in there. It was filled with steam, after all. But I manfully groped my way in and laid down on one of the benches.

Not so bad in here, I smugly thought. I can do this

Safety Tip Sidebar: My Baltimore husband had warned me. “You’re not used to steam and you have to build up your tolerance. So only give it a try for five or ten minutes. No more,” he had cautioned me.

But if five or ten minutes in the steam room could work wonders, what could fifteen minutes do?

Visions of even more pounds dropping off effortlessly floated in my head and I thought, “I can take this terrible heat. It’s worth it!”

But my positive thinking was soon interrupted by the sound of women’s voices.

And they were making snide comments like “Oh, that looks so hard.” Or “I wonder what she thinks she’s doing?”

I didn’t get what or who they were talking about. And this constant stream of disapproving and vocal spectators seemed to be coming from a room just off the steam room.

Curiosity won out over sloth and I reluctantly got off the bench and followed the sound of the comments. They led me to a steam-surrounded door.

Which I cautiously opened…

And saw…

The actual stream room. I had been sweating it out in the changing room before you got to the steam room.

One second of the hellish blast was enough to send me scampering for my towel-clad life.

My god, it was HOT.

I did a reverse Dita Von Teese and I was outta there faster than you could say “Slimfast.”

The experience scarred me for years. It took lots of negotiating for my next husband to talk me into a healthy stay at La Costa outside of San Diego.

Very swanky, as you can see, and Pancho Segura was the tennis pro at that time.

(A very big drawing card for my physically-fit tennis-loving health nut of a husband.)

ICYMI: Here’s the score on Senor Segura courtesy of Wikipedia:

In 1962, on the recommendation of good friend, Mike Franks, Segura became the teaching professional at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club. replacing Carl Earn. Most of Pancho’s students were movie stars such as Dinah Shore, Doris Day, Julie Andrews, Richard Conte, Shelley Winters, Charlton Heston, Barbra Streisand, Dina Merrill, Kirk Douglas, Robert Evans, Lauren Bacall, Gene Hackman, Carl Reiner, Barbara Marx, George C. Scott, Janet Leigh, and Ava Gardner. Jeanne Martin (Dean’s wife) was a favorite student of his. Pancho also found time to coach and teach Jimmy Connors and Stan Smith, two great tennis champions, as well as his son, Spencer Segura, who played at UCLA. In 1971, he left Beverly Hills to become the teaching professional at the La Costa Resort in Carlsbad, California, where he is now retired. He is widely credited with coaching, mentoring, and structuring the playing game of Jimmy Connors, starting at age 16, in 1968, when his mother, Gloria, brought him to Pancho in California.

But meanwhile back at the health spa…

After they took our height and weight stats, the creepy, SMERSH-like dietitians immediately put us both on a strict diet of gruel and air for the week. (A thimbleful of chicken bouillon would be a special treat- if we made our daily goal weight.)

And once again, I had to navigate a very public locker room.

OMG! I had never seen so many naked, wrinkled old ladies’ bodies in any one place in my life. The clientele looked like a tanned version of this.

Euwww. I had seen the future and it was shriveled.

And they kept taking away my towel.

As I would go from one treatment to another the Helgas and Olgas and Ingas would grab it off of me.

“Nein. Verboten! You must not take a towel into the virlpool bath,” one would hiss. “It vill stop up the virl.”

I would gaze longingly toward the locker where my dark green one piece bathing suit hung.

(Yes, I looked exactly like this.)

Finally starvation- and the fear of going blind from too much exposure to over-eighty year old pulchritude- made me desperate.

“I’m breaking out of this joint, see?” I told my spouse. “I’m sorry you’re having such a great time with the tennis and all but I can’t take it any more.”

He looked at me.

“No, screw it. I’m hungry. We’re out of here.”

We left so fast that my green bathing suit was still hanging in the La Costa locker room.

They can keep it.

Posted in pop culture, Spas | 14 Comments

Bragging Rights

Posted on September 10, 2015 by Ellen Ross

That’s my son Nick when he was fourteen and on the set of Married with Children. (The silicone-enhanced young lady on his arm was an actress who had appeared in the episode we had just watched taped.)

I love this photo. Look at the expression on Nick’s face. He looks so darn pleased with Life.

And why not? Nick and I had just flown to L.A. direct from a Spring break ski trip in Snowmass. He had just spent a month snowboarding his head off and then, for a rip-roaring early birthday present, we went to the set of his then-favorite show.

(New readers can read all about that adventure here.)

I found that photo as I was rummaging around looking for a picture of him at ten. I wanted a picture of him at that age to lead off this post because, today, I’m going back to the Pioneer Press archives to a column I wrote for them dated February 7, 1991.

Yep, I’ve a big dress box filled with ten years of old tear sheets. But don’t worry. I never recycle them for you guys.

But as I started reading this one, I couldn’t help but be struck by something.

So I’m going to share some of it with you now.

Again, don’t worry. You don’t have to read the photograph. I’ll transcribe- and slightly edit – it for you.

Here goes…

It is no secret that children on the North Shore are high achievers. For years I have been button-holed by parents who want to brag about these kids.

I’ve heard about football scholarships, academic grants, music fellowships, Presidential Achievement Awards, music fellowships and Annapolis appointments until I’m blue in the face.

But now it’s my turn.

And revenge is Nutrasweet. (I’m always on a diet.)

My son Nicky is a child prodigy. He lives only to perfect his craft.

I can proudly proclaim that I never have to nag or bribe him to practice his instrument. In fact, sometimes I have to remind him to eat or take a break from his arduous study program.

(I keep forgetting that a genius is not like other kids.)

Did Nicky exhibit prowess at the piano or a gift for the glockenspiel?

No.

Nicky Ross is- at age ten, can you believe it?- a master of Nintendo games.

My heart bursts with pride as he explores and masters each new game. His precocious understanding is only matched by his dedication. He can spend hours delving into the mysteries of Contra or T&C Surf Designs.

His dogged determination to master the subtle nuances of Wrecking Crew or understand the dark shadings of Gradius serves as an inspiration to us all.

As I watch his little face pressed up close to the television screen, I get all choked up. It’s so easy to imagine the brilliant career that will one day be his.

The first step on Nicky’s road to business glory will be a full scholarship to that prestigious academic institution- Nintendo University.

The campus, located in the heart of beautiful downtown Tokyo, will provide the inspirational zen setting for the arduous scholastic tasks that await every Nintendo U. undergraduate.

In pursuit of his degree, Nicky will be required to pass Wheel of Fortune, Donkey Kong Math, Sesame Street 1-2-3, Trojan and Wizards and Warriors.

He will also have to take AP courses in Back to the Future, Gauntlet, Double Dragon and Casino Kid.

And Nick’s physical education won’t be neglected, either.

Though he already has a black belt in King Fu, he will play Major League Baseball, Double Dribble and Blades of Steel. Mike Tyson’s Punchout will also be compulsory.

He’ll even get to serve his home country by participating in the R.O.T.C program.

One weekend out of every month, Nicky will have to land his F-15 fighter jet on the deck of a Navy aircraft carrier in Top Gun.

At the end of eight years- if Nicky successfully passes his oral exams in Jeopardy- he will graduate as a Master of Computer Arts.

Living with a child genius is not always easy. We’ve all had to make sacrifices.

Nicky’s right thumb and forefinger are twice as big as those on his left hand as a direct result of all those hours spent pushing the buttons on the control pad.

Sometimes I even have had to interrupt his homework because it’s time for him to brush up on Balloon Fight.

I’ve also had to turn a deaf ear to Nicky’s repeated requests for violin lessons. I’ve tried to explain to my heartbroken youngster that an accident with the violin bow could end his Nintendo-playing days forever,

But whenever I hear the heartwarming sound of those electronic beeps and get to see the thousands of points rolling effortlessly up on the screen, I am confident that my son is doing the right thing with his life.

He was born with a heaven-sent gift and it’s only natural that he wants to spend the rest of his life pursuing his dream.

Who am I to stand in the way of talent?

The End

Pretty tongue-in-cheek right? And kind of snarky and sarcastic, too. To say that back in the day, I despaired of his time-wasting, distracting-from-schoolwork, inane child’s play is an understatement.

Okay, fast forward to now.

Ahem.

In 2011 Nick got his Masters at Northwestern.

In Computer Information Systems.

He works for a company that makes apps for your mobile devices.

And this is the girl he married.

Nick hardly ever rubs it in.

Let’s just call it “Mother’s Intuition” and leave it at that, shall we?

Posted in Computer games, Memoir, Nintendo, Nostalgia, pop culture | 25 Comments