Letter From Elba

What’s In It For Me?

Posted on July 23, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: The following is not meant for any of the terrific men who subscribe to Letter From Elba. You’re the best, guys, and I’m grateful for your support and your comments. This post is aimed at a much larger audience on the Internet. So please don’t take it personally. Thanks.

As some of you may know, I was involved in an ugly “cyberstalking” incident recently on Facebook. Some random guy went from nice and appropriate in his comments, to overly-complimentary, and then kind of inappropriate, and then suddenly… rude, crude, threatening and violent to other members of the group.

And he was married, no less.

Sigh.

If it’s never happened to you, consider yourself lucky.

It’s a violation. There is no other word. You’re blithely cruising along, posting something innocent and non-controversial in the safety and privacy of your home or work place, and you’re reading garden variety comments, and then suddenly…

BAM!

Some jackass now posts something that is so perverted, or obscene, or threatening that it brings you up short.

It’s right in your face. and it makes you feel sick

True, it’s a shock. But it’s the occupational hazard of the cyber world in which we blog today.

Any woman who puts anything out on the Internet opens herself up to stalkers, bullies, weirdos, nut jobs, and lonely married men looking for a little virtual action.

This is my letter to the ones who get in touch with me.

Hey, guys, I want to make something perfectly clear.

I am on to you. And boy, am I NOT interested in anything you think you have to sell.

You are all alike. You start out pretty harmless- a few nice comments or a “friend” request on Facebook. (You always assure me that you know a friend of mine and you’re not a stalker, LOL.)

LOL.***

***You always “LOL” yourselves. Hey, buy a clue. You’re not that funny. LOL.

You have really nice things to say about my writing and/or the blog. It usually goes, “You’re so clever. I really enjoy your work.”

And you sign up.

That’s fine, but then…

Inevitably, the messages start to get personal. You segue quickly from my writing ability to the way I look.

“You’re beautiful…blah blah…You’re so slender…blah blah…Boy, you’re sexy.”

Crap like that.

You’ve gone from compliments to smarmy flattery in a heartbeat.

ICYMI: The Difference Between Compliments and Flattery. Compliments are kind, heartfelt comments that 1. Should be true 2. Should be geared to make the person you’re complimenting feel good about themselves.

Flattery always has a subtext. It’s over the top, and guaranteed to further your agenda- whatever that it. (It’s also really creepy when the person commenting on your looks has never met you.)

Celebrity Empathy Sidebar: I have always had my photograph in the paper and I know a little about what it’s like to have strangers project stuff onto you based solely on your picture.

My heart goes out to the truly famous who have to deal with this objectification on a daily basis.

It’s nice when someone you like and respect admires you.

It’s goose-pimply and a little repugnant when some stranger tells you that you turn him on.

I’m not that hot, guys. Get over yourselves.

And before you think I’m stuck up, let me be clear.

The men who get in touch with me with a “Let’s run this up the sexual flagpole and see who salutes” attitude are not driven to distraction by my looks.

This is ALL about them- not me. I am just an easy mark- a divorced woman whom they happen to “meet” on the Internet. And you can bet that I am not the first woman they have tried it on with.

Nor will I be the last.

Guys like this trawl the Internet looking for targets of opportunity. And when I won’t play ball, they always stop reading the blog.

Gee, what happened to the clever writing you liked so much?

Now this might be the time to say that I have many married men readers. They are smart and genuinely interested and nobody is trying to get me to come away with them to the Casbah.

But every once in awhile, some joker shows up online with something other than my writing skills on his dirty little mind.

He has usually completely forgotten about the wife at home, btw. There is never a mention of her- as he contacts me from his workplace. Safer from prying spousal eyes, I guess.

As a gal who was married to a cheater, my sympathies are strictly with the unsuspecting wife here. I have NO interest in aiding and abetting this wannabe crime.

My ex cheated all the time. And I bet he started it. An “innocent” conversation, or an admiring glance.

BUT… at some point, the “other” women had to be complicit. They knew that he was married and yet they still became willing co-conspirators.

They went along for the adultery ride. No thought to me, or how it would affect our kids. Maybe they bought his crapola about “my wife doesn’t understand me.”

Bullshit. He was married to me- and I understood him perfectly. And I was pretty darn awesome to boot.

He was just a compulsive, entitled, narcissistic louse. He did it to his first wife and he did it to me. And I fully expect him to do it to whomever he’s with- until he can’t do “it” anymore.

So let me be clear.

I NEVER want to be one of those accomplices. Not even in virtual cyber space.

Back to the married slimeballs who contact me. If the poor wives ever saw some of the stuff their supposedly-devoted husbands sent me, they’d plotz.***

***Spanish word for “drop dead on the spot.”

The wife has my 100% empathy here.

(I also have a list of pre-approved divorce lawyers for her.)

I’m done. And I hope you rats out there have learned something here today.

But I doubt it.

Well, okay, then, watch this.

LOL.

Posted in Blogging, pop culture, The Internet | 20 Comments

Curses!

Posted on July 19, 2015 by Ellen Ross

My new stationery arrived just the other day. I had picked it out at an adorable store, All She Wrote.

Denise, the manager, was super-helpful and together we chose an ecru-colored, slightly-textured paper with my name, cell phone number and email address all in a pretty cobalt blue script. I think it’s terribly attractive.

And it just begged to be written on.

So I broke out a matching blue pen and dashed off a casual note to a friend.

OMG. It was a total disaster.

Don’t get me wrong. The missal itself was witty, charming and brief.

And completely illegible.

Not only could the recipient not read it, I couldn’t make out one word.

My handwriting has gone to Palmer Cursive Method Hell.

Back in the day at the Avoca School in Wilmette, Illinois, I had been pretty adept at the Palmer Cursive Script method. (I always thought it had been invented by classmate Ernie Palmer’s family, btw.) And I diligently practiced and practiced my capital and small letters.

I desperately longed to have neat handwriting- like Ellen Woloshin or Shellie Piller or Vicki Crossley. (Who was a lefty and her graceful script was almost straight up and down instead of slanted. It looked sharp.)

This was the big third grade goal to which I aspired. Fabulous handwriting.

Good Timing Sidebar: Alas, I didn’t have a single old handwriting sample to show you, but then, out of the blue, my old Avoca school classmate, Judy Klass Lynch, suddenly emailed me something she had unearthed in an old Monopoly game box.

It was a board game we had made up sometime back in the fifth grade or so. It was called “Stocks and Bonds.”

And, X years later, Judy had just found my handmade certificates.

Thanks, Judy. (And I still think there is a market for our game.)

As you can see, I never achieved Palmer greatness, but at least my script was legible.

But over the years my handwriting has suffered terrible erosion.

I’m not sure when I started printing everything. Maybe in high school- when it became cooler to print in funny half-rounded letters like this:

And after I lived in Italy, my cursive turn another turn for the worse. Not only did I print everything for clarity’s sake- it’s hard to read someone else’s foreign script- but I added the line across the 7 that I still do to this day.

Ecco!

But writing script is an exercise like any other and three years ago, when I launched this blog, I still made all my notes in longhand on a yellow legal pad.

And my handwriting actually started to come back. The more I wrote, the better it looked.

Enter the iPhone.

At first, whenever I had an idea, I would jot it down in the “Notes” section. But soon I started writing more and more of the post directly onto this, and shortly thereafter, whenever inspiration struck, I made straight for the phone- or my iPad.

And today my hand-eye-pen coordination is completely shot and the result is the garbled mess you saw above.

And now, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m going to practice my capital letters.

And then…

While I’m practicing, watch this third grader take a turn at the blackboard.

Posted in Avoca School, Nostalgia, pop culture | 2 Comments

Class Reunion

Posted on July 16, 2015 by Ellen Ross

These are class photos from Echoes 1965. My New Trier High School year book.

(That’s me with the corsage- second row, third from the left. No idea why I’m wearing it. Maybe this picture was taken on my birthday?)

I dug out the yearbook when I got home a couple of weeks ago. Because a couple of weeks ago, I went out to dinner with Steve G. and Bruce R.

Close readers of this blog might recognize their names. You might even know them.

But if you don’t, there is still one thing that is notable about our dinner.

I have known both of them since 1964.

Wait a minute. I have to do the math.

2015-1964= OMG.

We all met the summer after my freshman year.

Back then, Bruce and Steve were waaaay older than me.

One whole year,

Meshulam Riklis/Tali Sinai Sidebar: Because Bruce was born in January and was one of the oldest in his class, and I was born in November, making me one of the youngest, I thought of him as a very sophisticated, MUCH older man. He was after all, the very first person I knew – outside of some ancient, rickety older cousins- who had actually reached the advanced age of seventeen.

Now, that was old, man.

Back to the dinner…

Steve and Bruce had put it together. Could we all meet for dinner on Monday night, place and time TBD?

Great.

And on the night, I dressed with care.

(Not for Bruce and Steve exactly, More for Lori, Steve’s darling wife.)

I chose a nifty little black and white polka dot skirt, a chic black top and these shoes.

First mistake,

When Bruce picked me up that night, he told me that Lori would not be joining us. She was out in California, happily dancing attendance on her daughter and a brand new granddaughter born on Father’s Day. Steve would be heading out there in a few days.

But meanwhile, tonight it would just be the three of us.

Three phone calls later, a plan was formulated whereby we would park at Steve’s and then walk to the restaurant.

Second mistake.

See shoe photo.

Beatrix, the restaurant, was like forty-seven miles away from Steve’s place.

Now, under normal foot ware circumstances, I like to walk. I have been doing it since I was a kid and I’m pretty good at it. And the weather was glorious. But…

My kicks were not conducive to making good time. And the unrelenting, mean “Uber” references and snide offers to call me a cab, dovetailed nicely with the guys’ sighs and threats of losing our reservation.

I hobbled as fast as I could, and nine hours later, they showed us to a very nice reserved table right next to a floor-to-ceiling glass window.

Which the guys immediately wanted opened.

This maneuver needed management approval and the concerted efforts of three different people to accomplish.

Then Steve told them that I was too chilly and asked if they could shut it again.

He was just teasing. Then he teased the waitress, we both teased Bruce about his social life, then Bruce and I picked on Steve about everything.

No one teased me. They revere me.

Not.

Over dinner we talked about the Supreme Court gay marriage ruling, the tragic events of Charlestown, the idiocy of Donald Trump and his fans, skiing, some upcoming trips, grandkids. (As I said, Steve just had his second. He has a grandson. Bruce’s daughter has an almost two year old little boy and she is expecting twin boys any minute.)

We talked about theater, softball, life in general.

We all had no complaints.

Pooh pooh pooh.***

***Said to ward off the Evil Eye.

But I only wished that the teenaged me could have eavesdropped on the three of us.

I can tell you exactly what we all talked about back in 1964.

Nothing.

Like Seinfeld.

Back then we just listened to WLS radio and laughed.

And we discussed who was cute, and who was going out with who, and who had a crush on who, and who was such a creep, and who had a cool car.

(Okay, that was me. I still care about that.)

We would yak for hours- especially Steve and me- and never say anything.

(Although he could always make me howl with laughter.)

And although I clearly remember Bruce taking me out, and me reading his parent’s contraband copy of Lady Chatterly’s Lover one afternoon, I can not recollect one single meaningful thing we ever said to each other.

Conversation? Not our long suit.

Back in high school, I wasn’t all that interested in witty repartee or current events or politics or SCOTUS.

I was much more interested in gossip, movies, clothes and breaking hearts.

But here’s the thing.

Fifty-one years later, we three are all still friends. We’ve weathered divorces and problems and time and space and somehow…

Tonight Steve and I had the chicken. Bruce had the halibut. And we all shared the salad and the carmel pie.

And so much more.

Thanks, guys.

And fifty-one years from now, let’s do it all over again.

Meet you in the rotunda.

(I won’t wear heels.)

Posted in Dating, Memoir, New Trier High School, pop culture, Restaurants, The 60's | 8 Comments

Yankee Doodle Dandy

Posted on July 12, 2015 by Ellen Ross

(Photo courtesy of Janeane Reis)

Happy Summer, everyone. This is Sam Tofias, your Boston roving cub reporter. I’m writing today’s post because my Gran is still too exhausted from all of the holiday festivities to type. She delegated the job to me.

(And btw, that’s Dad, Mom, Gran and yours truly in the photo above.)

The pic was snapped on Fourth of July when I was in town celebrating my first birthday with the Chicago branch of my family.

It was quite the occasion- if I do say so myself.

(Photo courtesy of Natasha Tofias)

But the visit didn’t start out on a propitious note. When we got to Logan Airport for the short hop in, just as we were boarding…

Uh oh. An announcement. There was a mechanical delay because a new airplane part had to be flown in from La Guardia.

Five hours later, we were still on the ground. Mom and Dad were pretty impatient, but I got to know every inch of the gate area. It was neat.

But once we finally hit O’Hare, it was party, party, party.

(That’s right. I’m a swinger.)

Of course, I did my Chicago thing- lunch at Portillo’s with Mom’s friend Janeane, her nice husband Chris, and their cute daughters, Alexandra and Caroline.

And I caught up with Uncle Kenny, Aunt Mary Lu, cousins Eliza, Suzie and Delia, went swimming, went on long stroller rides, you know, the usual Chicago summer fun.

That’s Mom and me with Uncle Kenny and Cousin Delia.

And speaking of Portillo’s, like any good half-Chicagoan, I love the food here. Gran says I am a “major fork.” (I know she got that expression from one of her favorite book’s, Prizzi’s Honor.)

Here’s a clip from the movie that Richard Condon made from his great novel. Enjoy it while I grab a quick snack.

Now here’s my grownup cousin Eliza with us at the baby pool. I’m wearing my scuba suit.

(Uncle Kenny thought I should take up synchronized swimming. Hah hah.)

But the main event was on the Fourth itself and I was pumped.

There was a big – like 700 people big- celebration at the country club. It had pony rides, a bouncy house, arcade games, stilt walkers, clowns, a barbecue, a DJ and fireworks.

And it was all for me.

My Grandpa Bill was there- along with my aunts, Julie, Patti and Amy, my cousins, Hannah, Alex and Claudia, and other assorted guests.

Gran brought my courtesy Uncle Norman. Uncle Norman was the perfect escort for Gran because he has known my mom since she was a child and he has lots of friends at the club. He is suave, sophisticated and socially adept. He is also very funny. This last trait came in especially handy because…

Grandpa had invited all three of his wives. Yep, there was Wife #1, Wife #2- my Gran- and the current titleholder, Wife #3.

And they were all at the same table.

Hmmm. Were the fireworks going to be confined only to the night sky, I wondered?

Nope, my Gran was a real pro. When she found out, she just laughed and told Grandpa Bill that only he would have the nerve to bring three wives to the same party.

Grandpa laughed too. He still thinks Gran is a card.

All the wives were on their best behavior but I was a little disappointed that they didn’t get up and sing this.

But they did sing “Happy Birthday” when my mini cake was brought out.

(Photos courtesy of Janeane Reis)

Wow! The whole table jumped up to take my picture. I had more paparazzi than Prince George.

The cake was my swan song. I was pretty tired by then and gave Mom and Dad the signal to pack it in.

Earlier in the evening I had done a lot of this.

(Do you think Eddie Arcaro started this way?)

Hope you all had a star-spangled holiday, too.

Until next time, this is Sam Tofias wishing you the very red, white and blue best.

And here it is.

Posted in Grandparents, pop culture | 6 Comments

Gone Fishin’

Posted on June 28, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Dear Readers, I’m out of here. I’ve got places to go and people to see.

Letter From Elba will be back on Sunday, July 12. Have a happy, safe, wonderful Fourth of July.

(And my apologies to all my brand-new subscribers. I hate to bug out on you so early but I haven’t taken a vacay since March. If you want to sample some vintage Letters, just go to the archives on the right.)

Until then, listen to the best of the best.

With love, from Mr. Satch, Mr. Cros and Mrs. Ross.

Posted in Music, pop culture | 2 Comments

Respect

Posted on June 25, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Dear Readers, do you know where you were on December 10, 1967? I do. I was in Madison, Wisconsin.

My boyfriend Jon had just taken me to dinner here.

(A pretty fancy joint on a sophomore’s budget.)

But that was not the pièce de resistance of the evening. For the big finish, Jon had scored tickets to see soul legend Otis Redding in concert that night.

And we were psyched.

But as we rushed from our sizzling steak dinners to the auditorium, we had NO idea what lay in store for us.

But you do.

Otis and most of his band- the Bar-Kays- had been killed when their private plane crashed into nearby Lake Menona.

The box office guy broke the bad news to us when we showed up for our “will call” tickets.

“Otis is dead, man. He just crashed into the lake.”

We were stunned.

I was eighteen, Jon was nineteen, Otis was twenty-six.

I write about this now because there is a new book out called Dreams To Remember; Otis Redding, Stax Records, and the transformation of Southern Soul. It’s by Mark Robowsky, and it tells the twin stories of the famed Memphis label and its number one star.

The book goes on to evoke the fire and talent of the famed soul singer. “The Stax sound was raw, ferocious and sexual, and its stars- Redding, Sam and Dave, Wilson Pickett, Rufus Thomas- succeeded on their own terms.”

This wasn’t the safe, teeny-bopper music that we had innocently danced to in high school in Winnetka, Illinois. This was raw black power. It burned, baby, burned.

As Stax exec Al Bell put it, “When the white audience discovered us, we didn’t get whiter- they got blacker.”

And Jon had introduced me to it.

I think I met him at a fraternity mixer. I noticed him right away because he was a good dancer. (For a white kid from the suburbs, that is. He was from Beechwood- a suburb of Cleveland.)

Memory Lane Sidebar: I visited Jon and his family once. All that I can remember now is that we watched a brand new television show –The Mod Squad– and he took me to the famed Cleveland deli, Corky and Lenny’s.

Forever after that trip, whenever anyone said that they hailed from Cleveland, I would say, “Cleveland? Corky and Lenny’s!”

That name check always brought a big smile and a ton of reminiscences about their fave deli.

And one day, as I was sunning in Las Vegas, the woman on the chaise next to me happened to mention that she was from Cleveland. I went into my patented fool-proof “C&L” bit.

“Oh, yeah? she said. “I’m married to Lenny.” And she nudged the guy sunning next to her.

He and I struck up a “It’s a small world” conversation. I told him I was a humor columnist and he said to me, “You know, my sister’s boy does a comedy act. I don’t get it. He talks in a real high voice and pretends to be a child. It’s beyond me. I think he’s nuts.”

This was his sister’s boy.

Maybe you’d recognize him better from this photo.

Back to Jon.

I owe him a lot. He raised my music and dance consciousness to a new, much more soulful level.

Before him, it was ALL about the Beatles, the Beachboys and Motown.

After him, it was Sam and Dave, Hendrix and the Fantastic Johnny C.

And of course, Otis.

These came from my prized 45 collection.

Mr. Redding wrote and recorded “Respect,” as you know.

Cover Version Sidebar: But it was Miss Ree who tore it up.

I memorized every note of her version. And I can still do all the whoops and hand gestures and “Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me” of her backup singers.

On December 10, 1967, Jon dropped me off at Lowell Hall in a deep state of mourning. What a loss.

(To further commemorate the tragic event, someone took my Otis Redding Live in Europe album and substituted “Dead in Madison” across its cover.)

I guess the whole world felt the same way I did. When “(Sittin’ on) the Dock of the Bay” was released posthumously, it went straight to number one.

Sigh.

I’m going to let his legacy sing for itself.

Thanks, Jon.

And bless you, Otis.

Posted in Music, Nostalgia, pop culture, The 60's, University of Wisconsin | 14 Comments

Best-Dressed

Posted on June 21, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Happy Father’s Day, Dear Readers. Hope it’s a great one for all of you. And in honor of my father today, I thought I’d treat you all to the movies.

Our dad, Ben Roffe, loved the movies.

And he loved Fred Astaire.

He told me that when he was in college, Mr. A. had set the benchmark for him- and every other guy of his generation- for style and sophistication.

“The way he dressed!” Dad enthused. “The way he moved! Everything he wore looked so suave, so debonair, so elegant. He wore a necktie as a belt! I copied everything I could about him.”

Fashion Plate Sidebar: Fred Astaire himself was a copycat. He got his fashion sense- and Savile Row tailors- from the best-dressed man of his day- The Prince of Wales.

So before you head out to the golf course or the bar-be-cue, sit back, relax and check out these best-dressed men’s moments in movie history.

Here’s Mr. A. to lead off the fashion show.

Dad’s other sartorial cinematic hero was, of course, Cary Grant. Was there ever a more handsomer man? And who looked more soigné in a gray suit than he did- whether he was in the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel or being pursued by a murderous prairie crop duster.

George Clooney obviously felt the same way. Here he is in my beloved Intolerable Cruelty. (This movie KILLS me, btw. I can’t help it. I identify with Catherine Zeta- Jones’ Marilyn. If you’ve ever seen it, you’ll know why.)

Two other guys who looked great and dressed swell- Paul Newman and Robert Redford.

Let’s start with Redford and an iconic- or should I say “great?” moment in men’s dressing.

And he looked amazeballs in that white Navy uniform.

Out of Africa, Indecent Proposal, his jeans in The Electric Horseman, his casual CIA chic in Three Days of the Condor…I could go on and on.

But the the stakes were doubled when rags-to-riches dapper con man Paul Newman and he teamed up in Chicago. The ante was upped and I was all in for…

But Paul could more than hold his GQ own. He looked pretty damn fine as the down-on-his-luck alcoholic lawyer in The Verdict. Take a look.

I rest my case.

But blond American pretty boys aren’t the only ones who know how to dress. Let’s a hop a jet to London and catch up with the Fab Four.

The mod suits, the ties, the boots, the haircuts, the accents. These guys had it all and it looked gear.

Michael Caine looked pretty groovy in Get Carter, too. Legendary London tailor Doug Hayward was responsible for his cool gangster look. (He and Caine became lifelong friends, too.) Watch as he nattily throws a guy off a roof. (And check out the cuff links. Classy.)

But there was one guy across the pond that put all these blokes away.

Peter O’Toole.

Whether he was romancing all the babes in What’s New Pussycat? or twirling around the desert in white Arab finery, he has to win the “Best-Dressed Leading Man” Hall of Fame award.

I mean, in How to Steal A Million, he took on Givenchy-clad Audrey Hepburn head to head- and won!

Now let’s take the Chunnel and head for Paris. Home to my all-time favorite movie idol- Alain Delon. He and my other French hearthrob, Jean-Paul Belmondo, both could really rock a suit.

Here they are in Borsalino. It’s in French but ne vous inquiétz pas. You’ll get it. (And don’t worry guys, ici there’s some major Gallic eye candy for you, too.)

Back on good old American cinema soil, let me tip my bowler to The Thomas Crown Affair.

Here’s a case when both actors- Steve McQueen in the original and Pierce Brosnan in the remake- looked fierce. Two ballers in suits.

High finance never looked so good.

Take two.

(Nice homage to the original with that soundtrack, btw.)

I’ll end with a swinging group of cats whose Sy Devore suits were the living breathing end. Whenever I watch this movie, I am reminded of the time that my dad and I caught a glimpse of Richard Conte in Las Vegas. (A very Rat Pack moment. Matched only by the time I saw “Paulie Walnuts” frolicking with young babes in the Hard Rock pool.)

Thanks, for all the trips to the movies, Dad.

And Dad, this year, Kenny and I are sending up a heavenly tie for Father’s Day.

Be sure and wear it as a belt.

Posted in Fashion, Movies | 19 Comments

Rage Against The Machine

Posted on June 18, 2015 by Ellen Ross

That kid with the guitar- and the attitude- is my son, Nick. Dressed in his boarding school clothes. He had just gotten home for Thanksgiving break. The year was 1995.

(Interior designers please note the wall covering in Nick’s room. It was brown paper bags. Right on, Bruce Gregga.)

In those days Nick basically only cared about three things:

A. Snowboarding

B. Music

C. Girls

(The order depended on what season it was.)

In the summer of 1996, two out of three of his vital interests neatly combined when he went to a Rage Against The Machine concert.

This is that story…

One hot Chicago night, I checked in with Nick as he got ready to go to the Lollapalooza music festival.

He was psyched and wearing his favorite shirt- a striped, blue uniform top. The kind grease monkeys and mechanics wear. I think it said “Joe” or “Nicodemus” or “Henry” on the pocket in red script embroidery.

Something like this.

Fact-checking Sidebar: For accuracy’s sake, I could text Nick right now and ask him what the shirt inscription was. He’d tell me, but then he would know that I was writing this post and he would have to kill me. So to keep my boy out of jail, let’s just say it said “Lorenzo.”

He looked great. But he was in a hurry. As I hastily told him to have a good time, he murmured something about a “mosh pit” and then he was gone.

The key part of this story is in the photograph. Nick’s bedroom at our co-op also doubled as my office. If you look closely, you can just make out a part of my (non Bruce Gregga- approved) maroon and gray desk chair peeking out of the right hand corner. So at midnight, I was hard at work in his/my room creating some brilliant literary masterpiece when Nick came back.

He looked awful. Sweaty, grimy, bedraggled…

And bare-chested.

“What happened?!” I cried. “Where’s your shirt?!”

“It got ripped off,” he snarled.

“Well, you should have known better than to take it off. It was such a cool shirt. It said ‘Lorenzo.’ Someone was bound to steal it,” I prissily reprimanded him.

“No, you don’t get it,” Nick slowly stated- for dummies.

“It… Got… Ripped… Off… Of… Me.”

Oh.

“But as long as you’re up, Dude, you’ve got to help me,” he continued. “I met this awesome girl at the concert tonight and she gave me her phone number. I wrote it down, but now I can’t read what I wrote. Can you help me figure out the phone number?”

“That shouldn’t be too challenging for an old code-breaker like me,” I said confidently. “Show me the number.”

And with that, Nick stuck out his sweaty forearm.

“She wrote it on here, Dude. But I sweated off the last three digits. How many combinations do you think that is?”

Calling All Mathematicians: HELP!

“Gosh, Nick. Do I look like Fibonacci or Charles Babbage to you? I’ll never be able to do this,” I wailed.

“Come on, Dude. You’ve got to try,” he pleaded. “That chick was amazing.”

“Even if we do start figuring out the missing numbers, you can’t call her now. It’s almost one in the morning!”

“No, she’s totally expecting my call. Let’s go.”

So for the next hour, we tried to decipher the faint, smudged numerals and guess at the missing ones. And I cringed every time Nick punched in a new combination.

It didn’t go on for long, thank goodness.

Nick reluctantly gave up the search- and I was off the hook and off to bed.

Now here’s a look at what my baby liked.

(Music-wise, that is.)

Rock on.

But keep your shirts on.

Posted in Memoir, Music, pop culture | 4 Comments

“It’s Here”

Posted on June 14, 2015 by Ellen Ross

When I was a teenager on Chicago’s North Shore, dating usually meant going to tried and true venues.

Like Friday and Saturday nights at the Teatro Del Lago movie theater in Wilmette.

Or the Edens theater in Northbrook.

Maybe once in awhile we’d go bowing at Strike ‘n Spare or the Orchard Twin Bowl.

Or we’d play miniature golf at Fun Fair in Skokie.

Food-wise, it was usually Booby’s or Washington Garden’s in Highwood or Peacock’s Dairy Bar or pizza from somewhere like Tonelli’s or The Spot.

And sometimes these dates would end with a drive-by tussle on Forest Way or a make out session in someone’s basement.***

***(I had a curfew and had to be home by midnight. The kissing part never lasted too long.)

The kissing was always accompanied by the soundtrack of Johnny’s Greatest Hits.

And to this day, I can’t hear “Chances Are, “Wonderful, Wonderful,” “When Sunny Gets Blue” or “It’s Not for Me To Say” without being instantly teleported to a certain basement in Glencoe.)

But if a date really wanted to impress me and pull out all the stops, that meant only one thing…

A trip to the big time.

Chicago.

If I was in luck and he was in the chips, this could mean a pizza at Uno’s or Due’s.

Or a rock concert at the Arie Crown Theater or the Auditorium.

Or we could catch a hip jazz or comedy act at Mr. Kelly’s on naughty Rush street.

Or be rich and sophisticated- on Daddy’s money- and go to the Empire Room at the Palmer House.

Or we might take in a movie at the State and Lake.

Or a make a quick trip to Old Town. (A happening place that I was strictly forbidden to go. They sold Zig Zag rolling paper and love beads there! But I threw caution to the winds and went anyway.)

But hippest of all Chicago dating ops was a trip to 6455 North Sheridan Road. A spot near the Loyola campus.

It was called “It’s Here,” and it was the coolest thing going at that time.

“It’s Here” was a coffee house. Because they didn’t serve alcohol, you didn’t have to be twenty-one to get in. I think they served apple cider as well as coffee. Their food menu was limited strictly to pizza.

But what they dished up along with the pizza was folk singers.

The pizza was lousy. The folk singers were great.

The first thing you had to do was check your shoes at the door. I’m not sure why that was their policy but it felt very sharp and beatnik-like.

A “shoe check” girl took your penny loafers and put them in a cubby. (New Trier- my high school- was very preppy. And no one wore designer gym shoes back in the day.)

This was a fairly routine task for the shoe check gal until one memorable Saturday night when yours truly and my boyfriend Bruce showed up after he had broken his foot.

Bruce was on crutches but that didn’t prevent him from having a social life. And as we handed her three shoes, I’ll never forget the look of anxiety/concern/curiosity/terror as she tentatively looked down.

She was afraid to see if Bruce only had one leg.

Once you got past the shoe check, you were ushered into a dimly-lit living room. There were little tables and pillows everywhere.

As I said, I think they only served pizza. So ordering was a snap.

And then came the entertainment.

Time has erased my memories of who I saw there. (If anyone else went to “It’s Here,” help me out, ok?)

UPDATE: One of my readers just informed me that Oscar Brand frequently played here. Bless you, Alan.

I do know, that at that time, the Kingston Trio, Peter Paul and Mary, Joan Baez and Bob Dylan- the poet laureate of folkies- were all HUGE. (Too big for the likes of “It’s Here.”)

But although I don’t remember who played there, I still vividly remember how it felt to be making that scene.

“It’s Here” was like wow, Daddy-O.

Now, sit back, have a cup of joe, focus your audio and enjoy these folk idols.

Later, gator.

Or look at this group.

The girl.

The Greatest.

Posted in Chicago, Dating, Music, New Trier High School, Nostalgia, pop culture, The 60's | 20 Comments

Gender Bender

Posted on June 11, 2015 by Ellen Ross

In case you don’t recognize us, that’s Ted McGinley on the left and yours truly on the right. The year was 1994 and we were on the set of Married with Children.

If you can tear your gaze away from Ted’s dazzling movie star looks, take a good gander at what I’m wearing.

It’s a gray, window-pane checked man’s suit. Made by Donna Karan.

Here’s a better look.

I wore it with a man’s shirt body stocking and black patent leather wing tips.

And note the hair in the Married photo. (Mine- not Ted’s. His is longer.)

The point is I was dressed as a guy. (And thought I looked pretty, pretty good, btw.)

With all the coverage of the media tidal wave known as Caitlin Jenner drowning out any other story these days, I just have to talk about gender identity today.

Mine.

Count Leo Tolstoy said that when he was born he didn’t know if he was a boy or a girl. But he knew he was a writer.

Me, too.

As far back as I can remember, I knew I was a writer but I never felt quite sure of my gender identity.

In fact, I always felt that I was a boy in girl’s clothing. I kind of figured that somehow I had wandered into the wrong locker room.

(I do not hate my body or feel like I was born into the wrong one. It was more like I had the same interests in the intellectual things that the boys liked. The disconnect seemed to be located in my brain.)

My earliest memories were of disdaining dolls and “girly” activities like jacks and jump rope at recess. I hated all that Brownies’ nonsense. Cooking, sewing… boring junk like that.

I wanted to join the Cub Scouts. That’s where my best friends were.

But before you start thinking Fun Home, I never had one single feeing of sexual longing for someone of my own sex.

Sure, I could admire beautiful women and swoon over them. Catherine Deneuve in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg or Julie Christie in Darling sent me reeling in admiration.

But not desire.

And to confuse matters more, I liked getting my nails and hair done. And I loved clothes with a passion that hasn’t let up for one single moment today. (However, I do treasure my blue jeans every bit as much as my Alaïas.)

Clearly gender identity can be complex.

And I was always confused about my Dr. Jekyll and Madame Hyde nature.

But in last Sunday’s New York Times there was an article that touched on this very subject. And naturally, it captured my attention.

It was an opinion piece by Elinor Burkett called “What Makes a Woman?”

ICYMI: It was Caitlin (Formerly Known As Bruce) Jenner’s statement “My brain is much more female than male” that provoked her thoughtful piece.

One woman after hearing this comment exasperatedly asked Ms. Burkett, “Is he saying that he’s bad at math, weeps during bad movies and is hard-wired for empathy?”

Burkett, a journalist, documentary film maker and former professor of women’s studies was offended and alarmed by Ms. Jenner’s claim, as well. She wrote that “I have fought for many of my 68 years against our efforts to put women- our brains, our hearts, our bodies, even our moods- into tidy boxes, to reduce us to hoary stereotypes.”

She continued, “Brains are a good place to begin because one thing science has learned about them is that they’re shaped by experience, cultural and other wise.’

She also went on to quote Gina Rippon, a neuroscientist at Britain’s Aston University.

“You can’t pick up a brain and say ‘that’s a girl’s brain’ or that’s a boy’s brain.'” The differences between male and female brains are caused by the “drip, drip, drip” of the gendered environment.

Ms. Burkett’s illuminating (for me at least) commentary summed it all up when she wrote “…almost all of us will be assigned genders at birth. But what we do with these genders- the roles we assign ourselves, and each other, based on them- is entirely mutable.”

Amen. (Or should I say “A- women?”)

On a final note on gender and sexual identity issues, my hairdresser John Lanzendorf- a self-proclaimed gay man- and I once had a discussion while he was giving me that butch haircut. It was all about who’d we sleep with if given the chance.

And more importantly, who we wouldn’t.

Various movie star and sports figure candidates were tossed out by John. I’d deem them bed-worthy- or not- according to my idiosyncratic tastes.

But after a few rounds of this hypothetical orgy, I took an emphatic stand.

“I don’t know about so-and-so (Put Famous Name Here) but one thing is certain. I could never, ever, EVER sleep with a woman. Ick. Yuck. Gross.”

“Ooooh!” John screamed and shuddered.

“Me, neither!”

Now Count Leo has just reminded me that I’ve got to get back to the reason I was born.

Writing Sunday’s blog post.

See you in the unisex locker room.

Now, while I’m hard at it, in honor of gender confusion everywhere, please enjoy some great moments in cross-dressing LGBT movie history.

Meet this great duo.

Or get to know this little lady.

Or watch as this “gal” gets a makeover.

Now this gets confusing. A guy who makes his living cross dressing has to learn to be straight for one night.

And to be just as confusing, here’s a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman.

Posted in Gender politics, Movies, pop culture | 12 Comments