Letter From Elba

The Lion in Winter

Posted on February 24, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: As it is Academy Award night in Tinsel Town, before I honor this post’s guest star, I would like to take a moment to make a speech of my own. This is the six month anniversary of Letter From Elba and I am thrilled and humbled to report that it’s doing swell. My readership has grown to the point where I can’t recognize my new subscribers by their email addresses any more and I’d like to thank each and every one of you for making this happen.

Writing is a lonely business. It’s just you and a blank piece of paper- or computer screen- most of the time. But from day one, I’ve never been alone. I’ve had you with me. Oh, one more thing. Today a special shout-out goes to Laurie and Grant Bagan on the birth of their granddaughter, Logan. Congrats, guys. Do I see a future Camp Laurel girl in the family? And now the producers are frantically signaling me to get off the stage so…

Here’s an hommage to the greatest living actor who never won a regulation Oscar. Peter Seamus Lorcan O’Toole holds the record for most nominations – eight- without a win. Shame on all of you Academy members.

In July 2012 Peter O’Toole announced his retirement from acting. He knows best, of course, but I am devastated to see him go. When asked about his own retirement plans, the very savvy and still dishy Michael Caine wisely said, “You don’t decide when to retire from show business. The Business decides when to retire you.” I can promise you that “the Business” did not ask Peter O’Toole to pack it in. I’m sure- like every other aspect of his wayward, roguish, boisterous life- it was very much his own idea.

Like the green socks he always wore for luck.

On December 16, 1962 Peter O’Toole burst into the public consciousness as T.E. Lawrence in David Lean’s masterpiece Lawrence of Arabia. And if you have never seen it, do so at once. See it for the most dashing, flamboyant, clever, and thrillingly heroic leading man debut any screen actor has ever had. (And he only got the part because Albert Finney did not want to spend seven months filming in a desert. See what I mean about the green socks and luck of the Irish? )

While you are ogling Mr. O. you’ll still have time to take note of Alec Guinness, Omar Sharif, Anthony Quinn, Jose Ferrer, Claude Rains, and Anthony Quayle. All mega-star actors giving virtuoso performances. A lesson in great movie-acting and David Lean’s majestic movie-directing.

We can not neglect to mention the scenery. On display throughout are two major examples of Nature’s handiwork- the vast expanse of the Sahara Desert and the swoon-inducing Mr. O’Toole. You won’t know where to look as they vie for your attention in a beauty contest of epic proportions. It may be a draw but the sight of the heartbreakingly handsome O’Toole twirling in his white desert robes is never to be forgotten. And, of course, neither is that haunting theme song. But that was only the beginning of my love affair with the talented Mr. O’Toole.

My next movie date with him was something quite different.

There he was, brought up to very “mod” date and plunked down in the middle of Paris, playing a reluctant womanizer in What’s New Pussycat? In Woody Allen’s script, (hopelessly botched by the studio according to Mr. Allen) Romy Schneider, Paula Prentice and every other woman he met fell in love with Peter’s character. And he just had to succumb to their charms. Count me among the fallen. His eyes, his voice, his lean saturnine features. He looked so very handsome and debauched that I was a goner. (I was almost fifteen and had never seen what “debauched” looked like but I loved it when I saw it.)

This was followed by a bagatelle- How To Steal A Million with beautiful Audrey Hepburn. He didn’t have to do much in that one, but just the way he said “Givenchy” when Audrey lookied askance at her maid’s uniform, will forever remain in my heart.

But in 1968 he came roaring back as Henry II as The Lion in Winter. And he was given an opponent worthy of his acting steel- Katherine Hepburn. Their medieval battle of wills made my third divorce look (almost) tame.

And there’s James Goldman’s magnificent script, and just for fun, check out a future James Bond, Timothy Dalton, and a future Hannibal Lecter, Anthony Hopkins- as if you need to be told- in their film debuts. But it was Hepburn who got the Oscar. She tied with Barbra Streisand, remember?

O’Toole was nominated again for playing Henry again. He had been nominated before in Beckett in 1964 (He was only the second actor to be honored for playing the same character twice. Bing Crosby as Father O’Malley was the other.) But he was robbed by Cliff Robertson in Charlie. That is an outrage. Give me a minute while I ponder the mind-boggling politics of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

Then came The Ruling Class. Very much of its time and he chewed up the scenery as a lord who thought he was The Lord. Another spectacular turn.

Do not miss My Favorite Year. It’s a sweet comic valentine to the early days of television- a love letter to the Show of Shows and the genius of Sid Caesar. You will never forget O’Toole’s performance as the ultimate swashbuckling “Movie Star,” Alan Swann. It’s a sendup of Errol Flynn but O’Toole skillfully and hilariously plays him in all his sad, insecure glory.

And I loved him in Club Paradise. When his character finally sobers up and mounts his charger, decked out in the very uniform Prince William wore when he got married, he is the living embodiment of “Rule, Britannia”.

Throughout all of this movie-making Peter O’Toole still found time to drink to legendary excess, carouse, marry, have two children, get divorced, have another child, appear on television, and, of course, play Hamlet in the West End.

He was awarded an honorary Oscar in 2003. The Academy had partly realized their mistake, and with his days and roles growing shorter, they probably figured “now or never.” But Mr. O’Toole had another surprise left in his acting bag.

It’s called Venus, and if he started out with a bang as Lawrence, he has bookended his career perfectly as Maurice, a burnt-out, sly, old lothario, an aged actor who still has an eye for a pretty young thing.

See this movie. It may be a poignant elegy to the loneliness of old age but it gloriously and tenderly proves that one is never too old-or too young- for love, beauty, or poetry. And the scene when O’Toole and his broken-down old buddy- played wittily by great Leslie Phillips- are dancing together in the Actors’ Church to a melody by Dvorak? It’s the most moving tribute to actors and the special place they hold in our hearts that I have ever witnessed. He got another nomination for that. And didn’t win. But who cares?

Near the end of Venus, there’s an old still photograph- a head shot- of Peter O’Toole in all his youthful glory. It takes your breath away.

And so does he.

Posted in Movies | 9 Comments

Live From New York

Posted on February 21, 2013 by Ellen Ross

One November years ago I wanted to celebrate my birthday in style. So thanks to friends-of-friends (and a well-placed charity donation) my then husband and I flew to NYC to spend a week at SNL. This was the era of the famous “Superfans-Da Bearz” skits and before I headed east, my son Nick and I bought Chicago Bulls hats for all the male members of the cast. It was the Michael Jordan three-peat era and we thought they’d might like them. All except Mike Meyers. I bought him a Blackhawks hockey hat. He’s Canadian, eh?

Joe Pesci was supposed to be the guest host that week and I was stoked. Loved him in Raging Bull and Good Fellas. But when we arrived on set for the first day of rehearsal, we were told that he had cancelled and a sub was coming in. Tom Hanks.

Different kind of eh. As in I was disappointed. I mean I liked Tom Hanks in Big- but Bosom Buddies? All his great work was still ahead of him. He wasn’t a legend then. Just a nice guy and hard-working actor who clearly considered himself lucky to have gotten the gig. But I got quickly over my disappointment when I saw how he killed himself in every take in every rehearsal.

(Did you know there is a theater tradition to “walk through” rehearsal? It’s a time-honored/superstition thing and it’s considered bad form if you really emote during this practice period. It’s kind of like showing off. Read Moss Hart’s Act One – the bible of Broadway – if you don’t believe me. But clearly Tom Hanks had never read Act One, because from the very first word of the very first skit, he acted as if the Emmy Award Nominating Committee was waiting in the wings with the envelope.)

And after countless script changes this required super-human effort. After five days of rehearsals I was worn out from just listening to the same slightly-tweaked bits over and over again. But Tom was the consummate pro and gave 1000 per cent (hey, Kevin, can that be right?) each and every time.

Showday Saturday arrived and we skipped the last dress rehearsal. Our friends-of-friends clout had brought us seats right on the stage floor (as opposed to the peanut gallery up above) and we wanted to look refreshed and camera-ready in case we actually appeared on tv. We arrived at 30 Rock at the appointed hour and were whisked upstairs to Studio 8H to wait in the V.I.P. Friends and Family Line. All I can tell you is that waiting in the line with all the cast members’ relatives was more fun than anything I had ever done in my life up to that point.

Then a stage manager ushered us to our seats right in front of “home base.”

“There’s a gift from the cast for you, Ellen. It’s under your chair,” he whispered.

I couldn’t have been more surprised- until I opened the bag. In it was a SNL t-shirt signed by all the cast members and special guest stars. Jay Leno had a bit on “Weekend Update” that night and he had even drawn a big-chinned self-caricature as part of his signature. Adam Sandler had written “I love you.” Everyone had signed – except Chris Rock. As angry as Nat X in real life for his perceived short shrift of airtime, he wasn’t signing no @##$!@#$# shirt for no @!!@$##@ white woman.

But Kevin Nealon, Molly Shannon, Maya Rudolph, Dana Carvey, Chris Farley, David Spade, Phil Hartman, Mike Meyers, Siobhan Fallon, Victoria Jackson, Melody Hutsell (remember her great “Moon Dance” skit?) all signed it.

And wait- there’s more. Tom Hanks and the night’s musical guest had also included fabulous, candid, autographed pictures in the bag for me. They were taken by SNL’s official on-set photographer, Edie Baskin, and they were awesome. Oh, did I happen to mention that the special musical guest was Bruce Springsteen in his first live televised appearance? I felt pretty lucky to be born in the USA that night, I can tell you.

Truth be told I was in shock. The gift bag had blown me away and the rest of the show went by in a blur. I’m sure it was great but I had to go back to Winnetka and watch the tape Nick had made for me because I don’t remember anything much of the live performance.

When it was over, our social sherpa, Edie, rounded us up and the four of us (her beau had joined up post-show) headed over to the cast after-party. This blowout was held at Sam’s Café- Mariel Hemingway’s husband’s restaurant on the Upper Eastside. When we walked in Edie strode over to the maitre d’ and announced, “We’re now going to be six. Have Bruce and Demi arrived yet?”

That did me in. I had a mini-seizure right in front of his podium. I didn’t think the evening could get any better than the gift bag and now we were going to be with Mr. Moonlighting/Die Hard himself. (In a small world coincidence, when I had called home earlier that night, Nick had told me he was watching The Last Boy Scout. Now I was having fashionably-late supper with him.)

Let me just state for the record that in person- him? Small, skinny and ripped. And quiet. But her? In real life, the MOST beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on. Black hair and gray eyes. And that voice. Smoke-filled and incredibly alluring. Even at her box office height, no film has ever done her looks justice. Trust me on this.

But I managed to get over my stupification when the cast poured in. I had the hats and heartfelt compliments ready to go and when I gave each guy his hat and my thanks for his t-shirt signature, I got a stunned thank you from them. Super-stardom was in most of these guys’ futures, and they were all, to a man, surprised and grateful. Chris Farley bent me over backwards and French-kissed me. Which delighted Adam Sandler so much that he insisted on dancing with me.
And we all “played” and re-enacted some of our collective favorite SNL bits.

Phil Hartman and I did “Dysfunctional Family Feud.” (What a tragic, awful end for that talented man.) Kevin Nealon, Dana Carvey and I did some very Hans und Franz “pumping up.” And once I got a very, very shy Mike Meyers to meet my eye, the moments we shared doing “Coffee Tawk” were like buttah- sheer Land O’ Lakes buttah.

When I climbed down off of cloud nine and came back home, I had the precious SNL momentos framed. They’re valuable keepsakes, of course. But the moments I shared with the cast guys in our youth- priceless.

Post Script: A few weeks later, as we were home watching the latest SNL “Superfans” skit, Nick suddenly piped up.

“Look, Dude. They’re wearing your hats! I recognize the Bulls logo. They’re the new ones we bought them.”

I peered at the screen and he was right. Chris Farley, Robert Smigel and Mike Meyers were all wearing my hats. And that was the absolute best part of the whole great shebang. The moment was simply glorious.

Or should I just say it was like “buttah?”

Posted in Memoir, pop culture, Television | 20 Comments

B-Ten

Posted on February 17, 2013 by Ellen Ross

In 1877 a rich, childless real estate developer left a bequest to found a hospital. This hospital was mandated to serve all people regardless of creed, nationality or race. Construction was completed in 1880 and it became one of the oldest and largest in Chicago. In its heyday it was a major research and teaching facility. And in 2012 they tore Michael Reese Hospital down.

But in between 1877 and 2012 invaluable scientific discoveries were made there. Like the discovery of the relation of cholesterol to coronary artery disease. And the electrocardiograph was perfected in its lab. Important discoveries were made about insulin and the polio virus. And it was the first hospital to to have an infant incubator- the brainchild of the world-famous pediatrician, Dr. Julius Hess. In 1915.

Oh, yeah. One more historic event occurred there. In the early 1980’s I was the Bingo Lady on MRPTV. (Michael Reese Patient Television.) Yes, through the wonders of closed circuitry, the entire patient population could play Bingo and twice a month it was my volunteer job to guide them through it.

As one of the Bingo Ladies, I had an hour program every other week. A forerunner, ironically, of my talk show in Aspen. I can’t remember why they asked me. I was on the Medical Research Institute Council board at the time and that must have been the connection. And I had long-standing ties with the hospital in any case.

Although I wasn’t born at Michael Reese, my very illustrious pediatrician, Dr. Ralph H. Kunstadter, was a superstar on staff. He even ended up with his name on a hospital wing. My mother dearly loved a brand name and his was impeccable. The “H.” in his middle stood for “Hess.” He was the nephew of the man who had invented that incubator in 1915 and Mother trusted Dr. K. His word was as God’s to her.

Unfortunately, when he decreed that my infant thymus was enlarged and needed to be shrunk, who was she to argue? And in those days they shrunk thymuses with the medical marvel of the age- nuclear radiation. I was irradiated and some fifty-two years later, when all sorts of nasty things had happened because of that zapping, I had to have my thyroid removed.

(And it turns out the whole thing was completely unnecessary. Medical wisdom now holds that many normal baby thymuses glands are enlarged. Radio-activity is definitely frowned upon for all newborns.)

Sidebar: Before my surgery I happened to mention to my veterinarian that I was going under the knife. He was immediately interested.

“I do thyroidectomies all the time. Could I look at yours?” He felt around my throat. (No, I didn’t have to jump up on the examining table.)

“Your thyroid is exactly the same size as a cat’s!” he told me excitedly. “I’ve never seen the operation done on a human.”

I liked my vet and wanted to make him happy.

“Would you like to come to mine?” I invited.

“Oh, I’d love to,” he beamed.

It made me feel good to know that someone in that operating room would have my best interest at heart. I didn’t know my surgeon any too well, and with three dogs, I was my vet’s cherished customer. I knew he’d look out for me.

I also covered my bet. Before my surgery I sent an S.O.S. to my pal back in Chicago- the equal parts brilliant and compassionate anesthesiology guru Dr. Feld. He told me exactly what I needed to say to the Colorado doctors to make sure that I had an optimum op experience- and a singing voice- when it was all over. (Thank you, Jimmy. Then, now and always. And congrats to you and Betsy on brand new grandson, Parker. Thrilling!)

But I didn’t hold a grudge because they had mistakenly nuked me and when Michael Reese tapped me to be the new Bingo Lady, I said sure and reported for basic training. The old Bingo Lady put me wise before she turned in her cards.

Soon I was driving from Winnetka to the hospital dressed in a coral-colored smock- the official uniform of Michael Reese volunteers- and not much else under it. (The television lights were hot.) And I wore enough cheek blush, eye liner, shadow and dark lipstick to scare a Goth. TV Makeup Rule: If you look like Theda Bara, Courtney Love and Kukla from Kukla, Fran and Ollie in real life, you will appear perfectly natural on television. Less is less in that medium, so slather it on ladies, whenever you are called upon to appear on camera.

Every other week I acted as numbers-caller, joke teller and pitchwoman to the entire patient population. The show was wildly successful- even before I came on board. True, there wasn’t much for hospital patients to do in those pre-Facebook and iPad unwired days, but I like to think that I brought a certain je ne sais quoi to the proceedings.

I do know that I was very popular with my television crew because I was nicer and funnier than the other Bingo Lady who alternated weeks with me. This is not a brag because TOBL was an imperious snob completely devoid of a sense of humor. I won’t name names, but trust me, she was not fun.

Small World Department: Seventy years ago, my father had worked for her father. My dad was this guy’s personnel manager and in this capacity, had all potential new hires fill out job applications. My father SWEARS that on the line of the app designated “sex,” some poor schnook actually wrote “three times a week.”

Back to Bingo. No matter who hosted, Michael Reese Patient TV Bingo was a roaring success. Our ratings were huge and the reviews stellar. The only thing I had to do was remind the viewers that the commercials I did were not, in fact, the actual prizes they would win if they’d Bingo.

I had to do several pitches for the Women’s Gift Shop each hour and I would hold up some peignoir or stationery set that a volunteer had run down to the studio. I would then extol the virtues of the item and try to exhort the players to get their wheelchairs in gear and actually buy the stuff I was hawking. (An early form of QVC for the temporarily-impaired.)

But invariably, the meds would addle my careful instructions and there was always some convalescent who thought I was previewing the prizes. (The actual Bingo prizes were pencils or some other lame thing.) And when these crummy tokens were delivered to the winner’s room, all hell would break loose. The winners would demand the nightgown or stuffed animal they had just seen me show off on television. They weren’t going to settle for no stinkin’ pencils!

This was the only pitfall of the program, but as long as I painstakingly explained that the commercials were not the prizes, I was golden. Until the scandal.

A cheating cartel had been uncovered. It was a scam that the patients in the Singer Pavillion had been running on the Bingo program. They would all get together and pool cards- until some lucky bastard among them got a winner. (I use the term “lucky bastard” advisedly. The Singer Pavillion was the in-residence mental ward and I don’t know if the patients stuck in there would categorize themselves as “lucky.” Or “bastards,” for that matter.) The game was immediately shut down and the inmates were no longer permitted to play. Much to the chagrin of all who had participated in the ruse.

I was the Bingo Lady for years. I think I stopped because I was drafted to take over the Michael Reese Run. (Have any of you ever been a race director? OMG. Future post for sure.) But the experience was a rewarding one. It taught me about televison makeup, the joys of hands-on volunteerism, how to think on my feet in front of a camera and to never trust a committed manic-depressive, psychotic or paranoid schizophrenic with a Bingo card.

Those guys will do anything to win that peignoir.

Now our next number is N-Forty-three. Does anyone have N-Forty-three?

Posted in Memoir, pop culture | 11 Comments

Kind Sir

Posted on February 14, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Hello Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea. Now coming aboard, Mr. William Zwecker- gossip columnist, television commentator, film critic, and gent. This old-fashioned term doesn’t get used very much any more. It signifies a certain type of guy. A class act. A white knight. Old school, thoughtful, elegant, witty, debonair. A boulevardier. A man about town.

In other words, our own darling BZ. If you look up “Bill Zwecker” in the etiquette book, there he’d be- black tied, all gussied up for some society event or film premiere, smile on his face and rarin’ to go.

I can’t quite remember how or when we first met but it’s a pretty safe bet that Martin Gapshis was behind the scenes. Dearest Martin, who passed away much too soon in 2010 and was always involved when best-friends-to-be met.

Sidebar: For those of you who never had the privilege of meeting him, Martin was simply the greatest. He was the Will Rogers of printers. Blessed (and cursed) with a zillion friends, he never met a good cause he didn’t like. He probably printed up three quarters of all Chicago society charity invitations. I bet you asked him to do yours. (And I bet he did it for free, right?)

No guy I ever knew was more generous with his time and talents, had more friends or loved playing matchmaker so that his old ones might get to know his new ones. Remember the old Girl Scout song “Make new friends but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold?” That was his credo. And if all friends can be divided into precious metal categories, Martin was solid platinum.

So I’m pretty sure that Martin introduced us. Bill and I both traveled the charity circuit here in Chicago. We were on the boards of several and we both went out a lot. (To keep up with our social whirl, my then husband had five tuxedos. He used to say that if his business failed he could always make a living as a magician- or a maitre’ d.) And Bill and I are both writers. So not only did our paths converge, but our spirits did as well. We always had fun whenever and wherever we met. With one notable exception.

I remember one incident where I had fun but poor Bill was clearly sweating it. He had just landed a brand new gig as a television talk show host for Group W. And he kindly asked me to be on the panel of his debut show. At the appointed day and time, I showed up at the studio, camera-ready and ready to go. I wasn’t quite sure what the day’s topic was going to have to be but I knew that Bill would fill me in when I got there. I wasn’t worried.

But instead of the usual cool, calm, smiling presence I expected to find, I was greeted by a BZ in a full-blown panic attack.

“My other guest for the hour is a plastic surgeon,” he moaned. “I thought that because you’re always so funny on the topic that the two of you would have some really good give- and-take. But he just got paged. There was an emergency post op with one of his patients and she’s bleeding or something and he’s left the studio. He’s GONE! What are we going to do? I have a whole hour to fill! This is my first show. It has to be good.” He was clearly terrified at the prospect of an one-man guest panel.

“Don’t worry. I can handle the hour easily,” I assured him. “We’ll have fun.”

Bill quickly recovered his usual sang froid and did a masterful job as we talked about my adventures at the Trivia Bowl, among other things. The hour flew by. And he wasn’t faced with the embarrassment of “dead air” and he’s still on television to this day- as film critic and entertainment reporter at Fox 32. So all’s well that ended well. (And that plastic surgeon’s bleeding patient? I bet she’s had her second or third procedure by now- so everything’s jake with her, too.)

Bill came by his calling the old-fashioned way. It’s in his DNA. Many of us remember when another Zwecker had a byline- his mother, the celebrated Peg. She was the fashion editor for the Chicago Daily News and the Sun Times and I enjoyed reading her for many years.

Bill grew up in Oak Park and River Forest before he headed for Princeton. He went on to the University of Chicago business school- which probably comes in handy now that baby billionaires and business superstars are as apt to make the gossips columns as film stars these days.

He shares his busy life with his partner Tom but he always manages to find a moment- as he jets from coast to coast- to drop me an encouraging email or an insider “scoop” from the latest and hottest red carpet or movie premiere. He even manages to make time in his hectic schedule to post a comment or two on this blog. Talk about your busman’s holiday.

How kind. How thoughtful. How generous. But that’s our Bill Zwecker all over.

News Flash : Attention, Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea. An officer and a gentleman is now coming aboard. Every society dame, charity do-gooder, movie star, publicity flak and gala giver in Chicago- and across the USA- salutes you. We owe you a debt of gratitude for the great way you’ve handled all of us over the years. It’s been the kid glove treatment all the way. Pure velvet.

So Happy Valentine’s day, dear BZ- from all of us. And no need for thanks. This one’s on me. But let’s do that lunch. At RL. Soon.

On you.

Posted in Tributes | 4 Comments

What’s Love Got To Do With It?

Posted on February 10, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Do you remember where you were at six p.m. on February 26, 1985? I do. I was seated in the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles because I was attending the twenty-seventh annual Grammy Awards. Back then I was fortunate enough to have friends in cool places (thank you, Karen and Danny) and I got a ringside seat on all the musical action. And now so do you. Here’s how it went down.

My then husband and I were already in California, vacationing en famille in Palm Springs. This was by design because when the Grammy weekend beckoned, we could leave Nicky, aged five, and Natasha, six, in the more-capable-than-my hands of my housekeeper, Mary, and just drive up to Los Angeles- our tuxedos at the ready.

Side Bar: My darling Mary. She came to me when I was six months pregnant with Natasha and was a cherished mainstay and guiding force in all our lives until the day she died. From the mountains of Poland, loving, funny, meticulous, and bossy, she ran us with an iron hand. (She once said to Bill “Take off your pants. I’m doing laundry and I want to wash them.” And he did.) She mowed our lawn in Barrington Hills with a rider mower, repainted a bathroom, (who asked her to?) rearranged my flower arrangements, and loved Natasha- her “little sweedenki” extravagantly and without restraint. Mary showed her off to strangers so shamelessly- buttonholing them and asking if they had ever seen a more beautiful baby- that I was embarrassed to walk down the street with her. I love her and miss her every day.

Back to Grammy Weekend. We drove up to the Beverly Hills Hotel and Bill went to try to check in. This was our favorite L.A. hostel at the time and it’s still my favorite coffee shop, room service, and the McCarthy Bowl in the Loggia is my all-time Hall of Fame salad. And although we had backup reservations at the Century Plaza, Bill was hoping against hope that something would open up so we could stay there for the weekend. He left me sitting in the car while he went to see if there were any last-minute cancellations. He was back within five minutes.

“Good news, bad news, Bee. (My pet name. When he called me “Ellen,” I was in the woodshed.) The good news is that the desk clerk said he could find a room for me. The bad news is that he’s gay and you have to stay somewhere else.”

We checked in at the Century Plaza ten minutes later.

On Grammy night, we arrived at the theater at our appointed time. Bill looked great in his tux- and so did I in mine. I wore an evening “le smoking” by Krizia- black velvet bustier with stones and little mirrors on the front, black velvet skinny pants, silver-sequined tux jacket. I was the most glammed-up woman there. This was before the days of Red Carpet Madness and the rock star wives- like supermodel Patti Hansen- were uniformly dressed in understated little black dresses. But the men? That was a different fashion story. They were decked out in full-on outrageous rock god regalia. Keith Richards’ tuxedo was made of python- with boots to match.

We were shown to our seats and told not to leave them. The television camera would periodically pan the auditorium and the producers never wanted to show an empty space. (The major recording stars had all been pre-assigned seat-fillers to cover for them if they had to answer an urgent call of nature. No, not a bathroom break. A cigarette fix.)

It was a spectacular show. 1984 had been a banner year for music and the artists honored and performing that night made an unbelievable and unforgettable lineup of talent. Just look at who was nominated for Album Of The Year: Lionel Richie’s “Can’t Slow Down,” Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer,” Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.,” Prince and the Revolution’s “Purple Rain,” and Cyndi Lauper’s “She’s So Unusual.”

(Quick- without Googling. Who won?)

John Denver was the evening’s host. Act One of the show opened with Huey Lewis and the News doing “The Heart of Rock and Roll.” I can’t remember now who followed but since Phil Collins, The Cars, The Pointer Sisters, James Ingram and Michael McDonald were all nominated, I can tell you is that it was awesome. Obviously.

And, to kick off Act Two in high style, the curtain slowly raised to reveal Prince in all his purple glory and his Revolution with Morris Day and Apollonia. The performances were all sensational. Chaka Khan did her own award-winning groove on “I Feel For You.” Stevie Wonder, Herbie Hancock, Howard Jones and Thomas Dolby were cool in a futuristic jazz set. Debbie Allen danced “I Like to be in America” from West Side Story. And Leonard Bernstein kissed Tina Turner with heterosexual abandon when she won her Grammies for Song of the Year and Best Pop and Rock Vocal Performances- Female that night.

So that’s where I was on Grammy Night 1985. Tonight promises to be a little different. I’ll be watching it on tv- not a tuxedo or a husband in sight. But the music will be great. Adele is scheduled. So are Beyoncé and Justin Timberlake. Word is Bruno Mars, Rihanna and Sting will be performing on stage together. And thank heavens for SNL. Without them I never would have heard – or heard of- The Black Keys, Frank Ocean, The Lumineers, Mumford & Sons and Fun. I plan on rocking out and thoroughly enjoying the show.

No seat filler required.

Posted in Memoir, Music, pop culture | 11 Comments

Who’s the leader of the gang?

Posted on February 7, 2013 by Ellen Ross

This post is dedicated to Rickey Freeman. Hep cat, good guy, fellow devotee of fifties television, Groucho Marx, Louis Armstrong, Al Hirschfeld. Because he knows what matters- and why.

I saw it myself. The Sunday New York Times obituary that announced the recent passing of Harry Carey, Jr. at age ninety-one in Santa Barbara. “An actor who made his mark as a boyish sidekick to John Wayne in John Ford westerns like She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, Wagon Master and The Searchers” said the article. The obit writer took note that Mr. Carey had been one of the last surviving members of a Ford stock company that included stars like Ward Bond, Henry Fonda and Victor McLaglen. And he also mentioned that Mr. Carey had appeared in over one hundred movies and scores of appearances in television westerns like “Bonanza” and “Have Gun Will Travel.”

But all those impressive show biz credentials pale in comparison with this one: From 1955 to 1957 Harry Carey, Jr. was Bill Burnett on “The Adventures of Spin and Marty.”

For those of you born too soon or too late to know what I’m talking about, “Spin and Marty” was a serial that ran on Walt Disney’s “The Mickey Mouse Club.” I would race home from school to catch the latest installment. To me, it was the greatest thing on tv- ever.

First a little deep background on “The Mickey Mouse Club.” Every weekday afternoon from 1955 until 1959 I was in the basement glued in front of our Sentinel television set watching, no, worshipping the Mouseketeers as they sang, danced, and acted their way into my preteen heart. These uber-talented kids had been plucked out of obscurity and made stars. Bobby, Lonnie, Darlene, Sharon, Doreen, Cheryl, Dennis, Jay Jay, Cubby, Karen. And the most famous, glamorous Mouse of them all- Annette. (The last to be chosen and reputed to be the only Mouseketeer hand-picked by Uncle Walt himself.) Annette was a phenom.

Ask any guy of a certain fity-sixty age range and he will tell you that he was in love with her. And her chest.

And if you were a big fan too, you still remember that each day of the week had a special theme and music to start off each show. Monday was “Fun with Music.” Tuesday was “Guest Star Day.” Wednesday was “Anything Can Happen Day.” Thursday was “Circus Day.” And Friday was my favorite, “Talent Rodeo.” And the kids would sing, tap, and clown and play thousands of musical instruments. They were all little Wayne Newtons.

But child labor laws forbade these show biz whiz kids from performing all the time. Uncle Walt and the gang had to vamp when the kid stars couldn’t be on camera. Hence the cartoons starring Mickey, Donald, Pluto and Goofy. (I would patiently sit through the “Meeska Mooska Mouseketeer, Mouse Cartoon Time Now Is Here” chant that preceded the cartoons but I wanted to get back to Bobby Burgess.) There were live-action nature docs, and oh, yeah, that other thing.

That other thing was the fact that the entire show was conceived as a marketing strategy- an infomercial- for Disneyland. For four years, I- along with millions of kids throughout the USA- was bombarded with images of Uncle Walt’s new brainchild. Every afternoon, visions of the Monorail, the junge boat ride (remember the hippo who rose out of the water wiggling his ears?) the paddlewheel boat, and best of all, the little cars in Tomorrow Land that a kid got to drive himself- I think it was called Autopia- filled our tv screens. And our hearts and minds.

Naturally all this brainwashing worked. It instilled in me- along with every other impressionable tot in the viewing audience- an insatiable desire to make a pilgrimage to Anaheim. Later, it would take three visits to the Holy Land to satisfy my cravings for all things Disney. But I never realized that I was being Manchurian Candidated. Every afternoon I would innocently race home and hope that it was time for “Spin and Marty.”

“Spin and Marty” was the saga of life at a boys’ summer ranch camp, the Triple R. (Which stood for ridin’, ropin’ and ranchin’, I reckon.) It was owned by Mr. Logan and run by Bill Burnett. Sam the cook headed up the chow line while Ollie the wrangler tended the stable.

Spin, played by the teen idol heartthrob Tim Considine, (swoon) was the All–American hero. He was the ablest kid of the bunch- good at everything- and the natural leader of the gang. His friends, Ambitious, Joe, Speckle, Russel the Muscle, even little Moochie, thought he was the coolest. And so did we stuck in television land and not lucky enough to be home on the range.

Marty (David Stollery for the record. But nobody cared.) was a creep. A spoiled brat who had unwillingly come to the Triple R. equipped with a retinue- a butler names Perkins. Marty had been forced to go to camp- a concept that was beyond six year old me. I would have given anything to be there with all the guys. And Marty was so lame that he was afraid of horses. Another character flaw that astounded me. I adored all animals- dogs and horses in particular. Ollie had to take pity on the poor little rich kid and secretly teach him how to ride Skyrocket. (Trivia question: Name Spin’s two horses. And no, Rickey, you are disqualified. I know you’ve got this.)

The Triple R was the scene of many summer adventures. Rodeos and runaways. Rivalries with North Fork- the other boys’ camp. Boxing matches and sing-alongs around the campfire. And when we all got older, Uncle Walt thought the boys should meet the girls and Annette and Darlene from the camp across the lake triggered enough hormones to send a whole generation of boys into puberty.

I loved this serial- and everybody in it- with a passion. And even though I’m all grown up now, I’ve never gotten rid of my burning desire to spend the summer at the Triple R under the caring eye of Bill Burnett. With a song and a smile and some good old-fashioned horse sense, he made me feel that everything was going to be okay. Bill Burnett was a hero to the guys at the Triple R. And that’s how he’ll always remain in my memory.

Happy trails, Harry Carey, Jr. God speed. Why? Because…

Posted in Memoir, pop culture, Television | 16 Comments

Fifty Shades of Gray

Posted on February 3, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: As today is Superbowl Sunday I thought I’d run this post now- to balance out all the testosterone in the air. Seriously, guys. I know your minds are on passing and punting and touchdowns and penalties and bad calls and funny commercials and beer. With some nachos thrown in. So this one’s for you, ladies. Enjoy. Guys, see you all back on Thursday.

My hair has always been black. Not dark brown. No reddish highlights. Black. Okay, maybe not Polynesian princess, Indian rani, or Delores Del Rio black, but for a girl who went to New Trier High School in Winnetka, Illinois in the sixties, it was black enough. It was something that defined me. And I wasn’t any too crazy about it-then.

In those impressionable teenage years you quickly learned that “Blonde Rules.” Cheryl Tiegs, Christie Brinkley and Cybill Shepherd were considered the paradigms of beauty at my high school. And all the girls flocked to follow their towheaded examples. We had 4700 kids at New Trier in those days, and it seemed to me that at least 4000 had been born natural blondes. And if they weren’t so blessed by Mother Nature, “Sun In,” “Born Blonde,” and Clairol’s “Ultra Blue” were always on hand at White’s Drug store to help them achieve their platinum ends- or streaks.

Even the boys were not immune. Until the Beatles and the Rolling Stones came in and swept away all previous notions of manly beauty, the Beach Boys set the pace for our guys. Wheat jeans, madras shirts, penny loafers (it got kind of cold for huarches) were de rigeur, and what went better with letter sweaters than blonde hair? You had to be blonde to be in.

Take the cheerleaders, for example. I knew I could never make the squad. Okay, I couldn’t jump, cartwheel or do the splits, but those were minor technicalities. I didn’t have the requisite hair. I never bothered running for class office, either. I wouldn’t have been elected. In the spirit of full disclosure, I must admit that I wasn’t the slightest bit political and didn’t have enough girlfriends to ever head the GAA. But those were tiny flaws when compared to my basic follicle unsuitability as a political candidate.

I just didn’t have the right look for it. You know the one I mean- the long, blonde pageboy, or the perky, perfect golden flip. I was held back from a great high school destiny by the color of my hair. I accepted it. Life isn’t fair- especially at fifteen.

Luckily, I wasn’t a complete washout socially. I did manage to achieve some success with members of the opposite sex because there were- thankfully- some guys who went in for something a wee more exotic. I was more of the Ali Macgraw type- a niche market admittedly- but I had it covered. Still I longed for light. Catherine Deneuve, Grace Kelly, Michelle Phillips, Yvette Mimieux, Candace Bergen, Twiggy, Sandra Dee, Carol Lynley, now these were my goddesses, and I worshipped them from afar.

This hair isolation continued into my adulthood. It seemed that all my girlfriends – with maybe one or two rare exceptions- went blonde years before I had ever even met them. I was always going to be the outsider. But as the years progressed a funny thing happened. Just as I started to like myself as a brunette, “salt” started to creep into my “pepper.” And by my late forties, I was not a total brunette anymore. And by my late fifties, the jet blackness had completely vanished and my gray period had begun.

But my girlfriends’ heads had remained maddeningly untouched by the hands of Mother Nature’s hairdresser. They age-defiantly radiated hues of honey, amber, ash, and butterscotch still. In group photos, there we’d be. Five proud, regal, perennially-youthful Afghan Hounds and in the middle – one lone, getting-older-as-you-read-this German Shepherd.

Whenever I saw pictures like that, I wanted to die but, stubbornly, I’ve always refused to dye. I leave my head and haircut maintenance in the clever and capable hands of the adorable Nikki. Nikki is always too sweet or too tactful to say anything pointed about the fact that I am her only customer griséé. In fact, she tells me she kind of likes it. She just gives me a great haircut and leaves it at that.

And now, ironically, I have finally gotten my childhood wish. I am no longer the darkest head in the room. In fact, my coiffeur has hardly a black hair anywhere in sight.

Be careful what you wish for.

Lowlights, Nikki? What do you think?

Posted in Memoir, pop culture | 11 Comments

Matchmaker Matchmaker

Posted on January 31, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Do you believe in fixing people up? I don’t. I learned my lesson in high school when I fixed my funniest male friend up with my cutest girl cousin. I thought they’d hit it off swell. We doubled and the next morning, my baby blue Princess telephone trilled bright and early.

“Is that what you call cute?” demanded my outraged buddy.

“Is that what you call funny?” huffed my cousin. Both had been insulted by what they perceived as egregious slurs on their sex appeal. (Remember in “Sex and the City” when Charlotte fixed Anthony up with Stanford Blatch? Well it was like that- except both parties involved this time were even more angry about my feeble attempt at playing Cupid.)

I swore that I would never do it again. And I’ve kept my promise.

But my ex had made no such promise and years ago, he fixed up a very eligible bachelor friend with a very steamy sex kitten of a Playboy Bunny. (In defense of my then-spouse I must say that this hook-up was supposed to be a hook-up. It was for “recreational use” only. He did not have matrimony in mind.)

Neither did I. The first time I met the kitten- and for lawsuit’s sake, let’s call her Ivana- she was wearing a see-through blouse. And no bra. I was more of a schoolmarm type, and I’m sure I was wearing something turtle-necked or at least, opaque, as we four joined up at Gene and Georgetti’s for a double date. But even though it was winter in Chicago, Ivana was dressed- or not- for the Folies Bergere. My eyes popped out of my head when I saw her, um, them, um her. I mean, she was naked from the waist up. In public.

This was kind of a hint that she wasn’t supposed to be thought of as good wife and mother material but the guy- let’s call him Donald- didn’t get the hint.

And he married her soon after.

Soon after that, my husband and I were invited to a cozy little dinner party at their new apartment. The bride wanted to show off her cooking skills and the groom wanted to show off the bride. She had prepared an elaborate Greek-type feast and the bride had invited a girlfriend over to help with the prep work. All evening long they both kept darting back into the kitchen to stuff grape leaves or flame saganaki or something. They were always gone a long time and we heard a lot of giggling coming out of the kitchen, but my ex and I both wrote it off to an excess of high spirits and high spirit ouzo.

We never gave it a second thought until we heard shortly thereafter, that Ivana had dumped Donald- for the girlfriend in the kitchen. Who had immediately dumped her.

We were shocked by this sexual rondo but that didn’t begin to cover Donald’s reaction. He was devastated. He was blown away by her callousness, greed, non-traditional choice of bed partner, and the fact that she wasn’t into sharing.

He took to his bed for weeks. This was a blow to his masculinity, ego, the whole nine yards. And he blamed my ex for the whole ugly debacle. Big time.

“How can Donald be mad at me?” my then husband would fume. “He was never supposed to marry her. She was a good time. Nothing more. Any idiot could see that.”

But this idiot had missed the signals and he sulked. And wouldn’t speak to us. After tons of pleading, my ex and I finally convinced him to meet us for dinner. Donald hadn’t ventured out on the social scene for months and we thought he could dip his toe in the water in a safe environment surrounded by friends.

He agreed. Roger Greenfield, the restaurateur du jour, had just opened his latest venture- 50 East. Donald was a good friend of Roger’s and he dearly loved a new hot spot. So we enticed and begged and finally he said okay. We agreed to rendez-vous there.

That Saturday night at eight o’clock we all met in a VIP booth that Roger reserved for his best customers. (Donald, not us.) There we were treated like pashas and were wined and dined and plied with enough yummy amuses–bouches to entertain the most jaded of palates. And under all this celebuatant Kardashian treatment, Donald started to revive a little. But he kept bemoaning his loss.

“She was so beautiful. I miss her so much. How could she do this to me?” Yadda yadda yadda.

Finally I got fed up with the yadda-ing. I decided to give him a good talking-to.

“Look, you’re the one who has everything to live for. You can love again. She’s the one who is not capable of decent human feeling. Only a truly heartless person would have married someone in cold blood for his money. You will be happy again, I promise. Tonight you’re here with good friends at this lovely restaurant. She is at home alone in her dingy apartment sitting in her grubby bathrobe eating ice cream from a tub.”

Donald revived a little more. He actually lifted his head up off the table and started to gaze around. Like a bird dog, Roger was over at our table like a shot. “Are you having a good evening, guys?” he asked solicitiously. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

We assured him that everything so far was peachy.

“How would you like to see the rest of this place? I’m really proud of it. Would you like a tour?”

It seemed that Donald would. So the three of us, shepehered by our convivial host, were shown the kitchen, the rest of the main floor, and then Roger escorted us up the staircase into a more intime environment. It was cozier up there- and sexier.

And there, upstairs, being wined and dined and laughing and preening for all the world to see, was Ivana. A jeroboam of champagne on the table and an obviously-smitten sucker at her high-heeled feet. Just when I had Donald convinced that she was at home in her bathrobe, too.

At the sight of this, he collapsed again. And stopped talking to us again.

The moral of the story? Never ever fix anyone up.

And if you do, never accompany them to a second location.

It’s always fatal.

Posted in Memoir | 4 Comments

The Olimpia Quartet- Quattro

Posted on January 27, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: I would be sadly remiss if I neglected to mention a terrible event that happened last week. Barry Lind was killed in a traffic accident in Rancho Mirage, California. Barry was my neighbor in Winnetka for eighteen years and a friend for forty. I- along with the rest of Chicago- am reeling. His tragic death leaves a hole in the world financial community and an even bigger one in the hearts of everyone who knew him. Generous benefactor to so many and patriarch of his devoted family, this loss is an incalculable one. To his devoted wife Terri, and the rest of his dear family, I send my deepest condolences. To his many friends, let me add that I am simply heartbroken- as I know are all of you. I just couldn’t post this today without saying something. Poor everybody.

Well, the show must go on. Let’s return to Italy and wrap up this trip.

In 1975 I was lucky to be in the most bellina city on earth- Firenze, Italia- but I no longer bunked on a couch in my girlfriend Barbara’s living room. An executive decision had been made and I had been upgraded. After a brief stopover in an adorable pensione, I moved into a sunny apartment in centro. That means downtown- Florence Central. And a new chapter in my life had begun. Paolo, my now-boyfriend, had taken me under his wing. And his very first mission? Amore? Heck, no. He had to teach me to cook.

Like any other good casalinga, my mornings were spent food-shopping. This was a true adventure. My college Italian vocabulary might have come in handy when I studied Pirandello’s Six Characters in Search of an Author, but it was of no use at all in search of the bakery, the butcher or the green grocers. I got lost a lot- and couldn’t undertand directions when I got them.

And when I finally did make it to the shops, I had to point out the things I wanted. I didn’t know the exact names of the the lettuce (I did know the words “radiccchio” and “arugula” so we ate them all the time) or the cut of meat I needed. And imagine my suprise to learn of a national coin shortage. If you didn’t have the exact price of that day’s loaf of bread, forget about it. They wouldn’t sell you one. They couldn’t make change. Other stores suffering from the same shortage as my baker, would give you back stamps or lemons instead of spiccioli– coins- if you forced them to make change. But they didn’t like it.

Paolo picked up some of the slack by providing all the olive oil, wine, and tomatoes from his fattoria. And he insisted on showing me the correct way to use them. From the chopping of the vegetables, to the order in which they went into the pot, to the right pot itself, he was a strict disciplinarian. There was only one way to make sugo (sauce) and he, so easy-going in all other matters, was a strict martinet when it came to the marinara.

He would stand over me as I added in the herbs or salt. He would measure out the pepper or the garlic cloves. His eagle eye was never off me- or the pot. His hand would hold my hand as we stirred. And when it was ready he would taste the sauce and invariably turn to me and disappointedly say with a sigh, “Fatta dal’amerihana.”

“Made by an American.”

This drove me pazza. How could he tell that the hand that held the spoon that had stirred the sauce was American? Especially when his hand was on top of mine the entire time! But I was determined to learn to cook lunch. So every morning I set out ready to conquer the language barrier, my hopeless sense of geography, my inability to understand directions and a time limit. Paolo would return from work by one sharp every day and I wanted to have the colazione on the table.

(To that end I never did get to tour Dante’s house Something I was longing to do. And it was right next store to my butcher shop, too. But the line at my butcher’s was always much longer and I never had time to sightsee and buy the all-important mortadella.)

Every afternoon Paolo would eat, give me a quick kiss, and return to work. And around four o’clock, he’d call me up with his verdict. It was short and sweet and soon these two words became my favorites of all the beautiful words in that beautiful language: “Cena fuori,” he’d tell me. “Dinner out.”

He took on another task when he became my mentor. Because he spoke no English, my Italian was going to have to improve if I wanted to:

1. Win an argument

2. Get out of doing something I didn’t want to do

3. Complain

4. Explain

Although I had a sophisticated vocabulary as an American, as an Italian I operated around the third grade level. Even the dogs understood the language better than I did. I would hear someone say something to their pet, and the dog would lie down or sit or come over or go away. I had missed it entirely.

I would also say “si si” a lot to cover up the fact that I lost the drift of a conversation. That would get me in trouble. While out one night with a group of Paolo’s friends, I was listening to a story, nodding my head and saying “si si” at appropriate times. Overhearing this, Paolo nudged me. “Why did you just say ‘yes’?” he asked me. “That man just asked you if you’ve ever been to Ravenna. You’ve never been there.” He did?

I would be at a disadvantage on the telephone too. Just a disembodied voice over the phone- minus the dramatic and helpful hand gestures and facial expressions- never failed to discombobulate me. Once I answered a “help wanted” ad in the paper- thinking that maybe I wanted to do something other than cook all day. The entire interview was conducted in Italian over the phone. The lady concluded it by saying that I didn’t qualify for the job because I didn’t speak Italian. I understood that well enough. I had to do better. I now became the Ricky Ricardo of Italy. I would operate most of the time in Italian, but when frustrated, angry or thwarted, I would lapse back into my native tongue.

It only made him laugh. And he continued to show me Florence. We ate at every great restaurant the town had to offer. We spent many nights in a sexy disco called “Full Up”- where I grooved to the strains of Pepino de Capri, Suzi Quatro, and Bari Why. (That’s Barry White in English. The Florentines were wild about him.) He had a great car, an Alfa Romeo Alfetta, and a Vespa- because cars weren’t allowed in centro. And in them, we made romantic trips to Lucca- the birthplace of Puccini- and Viareggio for the beach and the seafood. We had a blast all over Tuscany.

Paolo was a smart guy. And I learned much more than cooking from him. He had one other very important thing to teach me. I used to whine with self-pity about the recent and unfair upheaval in my life. After all, I was now broke, homeless, on my way to divorce court for the second time and adrift. I would have to go home some day and the future seemed bleak and scary.

“Sono povera, I’m poor,” I’d wail miserably to him. (I ddn’t know the words for “broke,” “homeless,” “bleak,” or “adrift.”)

“No, sei ricca,” he’d laugh and contradict me. “You’re rich.”

How was that possible? I wanted to know. (See above paragraph.)

“Because you’re twenty-five. Anyone who is twenty-five can never be poor. You have your whole wonderful life ahead of you.”

Of course he was right. I know that now. Thirty-eight years later, I benefit daily from what I learned from beautiful Florence and its fabulous citizenry. Grazie tanto, i miei amici fiorentini. And thank you, dear readers, for sticking with me. I hope you enjoyed yourselves.

P.S. And I still have the gloves.

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The Olimpia Quartet- Tre

Posted on January 24, 2013 by Ellen Ross

In the spring of 1975 I had been living in Florence, Italy for months- still camped out on a couch in my girlfriend Barbara’s living room. In a medieval tower. And medieval towers may be picturesque but they are not spacious. My original forty-five day ticket had long since expired but the friendship hadn’t. Amazingly, neither Barbara or her boyfriend, Alvaro, ever suggested that I find another place to sleep.

And so my days were still happily spent being Florentine- eating, learning about art and art history, (all one had to do was look in any direction) mangling and misunderstanding their beautiful language and conducting a passionate love affair with my newly-adopted home town. I never wanted to leave it.

And on rare occasions I would try out my language skills alla cinema. And most of the time these outings were dismal failures. If the movie was an American comedy with Italian subtitles, the Florentines didn’t get it. The cultural references didn’t travel. I saw Woody Allen’s Sleeper, “Il Dormiglione,” this way and I was the only one laughing in the entire theater. When the Volkswagen turned over- after 200 years in a cave- I roared but the rest of the audience sat in stony silence. (They were still mad at the Germans for railroading them into World War II and they refused to find anything about them funny- let alone the triumphs of German engineering.)

When the movie was in Italian, obviously there were no subtitles. And the gaps in my vernacular left my funny bone untickled. The house would be up for grabs with hilarity- except for poor, cluelesss me. It was my turn not to get the jokes.

Only once were we all on the same page. I had gone to see a revival of Fellini’s masterpiece, Satyricon, with a group of Italian intellectuals. Midway through the film, a faint wisp of smoke came wafting out from the wings. My companions murmured their appreciation of “FeFe’s” artistry and clever use of the smoke as imagery and commentary. “How Fellini-esque! Bravo, Maestro, Bravo!” they cried and applauded as the smoke became denser and denser. I, too, was impressed- until the management came out and informed all us intelligenti and cognoscenti that the Red Brigade had just bombed the theater and it was now on fire. We intellectuals left subito.

At night Barbara, Alvaro and I would go to some ristorante, enotecca, cantina, trattoria, or buca (a hole-in-the-wall joint) and have a twelve star dinner. Usually with their dear friend, Paolo. Who had never uttered one word to me. As far as I was concerned this bliss could have continued forever, but fate- and a glass of champagne- intervened.

I can not drink. Don’t do it. I appreciate the idea of a fine Chianti Classico or a sweet Asti, but red or white, they all leave me dizzy and I leave them strictly alone. To be safe, I always stuck with the “dark house red”- Coca Cola.

But one night at Harry’s Bar, at a gala dinner with lots of new friends, I threw caution to the winds and had a glass of champagne. Instantly I regretted my indiscretion. The room began to swim and my dinner companions seemed to be riding a cock-eyed merry-go-round. I staggered to my feet, whispered to Barbara that I wasn’t feeling quite the thing and started to leave the restaurant. I had to get back to the torre presto. Somehow Paolo was right at my side escorting me home. And as he gently guided me up the steep staircase, in my tipsy stupor I heard him say, “Ti amo.”

“I love you?” That sobered me up right on the spot.

“That’s not possible,” I replied (in Italian, of course.) “You don’t even know me.”

“But I do,” he gently disagreed as he gallantly opened the door, waved me in and left.

The next morning the phone rang. Barbara walked in and said “Paolo called. He asked if he could take out of the city to see his country house this afternoon. Would you like to go?”

I was in a panic. I wasn’t scared of him. Not at all. But the thought of spending an entire afternoon with a man I could only understand when he said “ti amo” seemed, well, a little constrained. On the other hand, poor Barbara and Alvaro. They had not had one afternoon off from their house guest in months. Didn’t they deserve a break?

“I don’t know? What should I do?” I asked my hostess.

“His villa is beautiful. It’s a fattoria, an estate. He makes his own olive oil and wine, grows his own tomatoes. It’s gorgeous. I think you would love it.”

I went. And I did. He walked me all around the beautiful old stone house and the surrounding fields. We never even went inside. But it was still chilly in the early Tuscan spring, and as we strolled, I rubbed my hands together to get some warmth.

Paolo noticed I was getting cold. “Guanti?” he asked. “Gloves?”

I didn’t have them I told him. I hadn’t packed any, I guess. When the afternoon light started to fade, he drove me back to the tower. No mention was ever made of his startling declaration of the night before. The next day a package arrived for me. In it were magnificent leather gloves of every color and description. Black ones, navy ones, chocolate ones, maroon ones, tan ones, red ones, dark green ones, long ones, short ones, ones with metal buckles. An unusual courtship had begun.

I knew from the outset that he was never going to be husband numero tre. I hadn’t even divorced number two yet. And along with her cooking tips, Barbara had pointed out to me- on many occasions- the folly and inevitable breakup of American/Italian marriages. The cultural differences were usually too great to overcome. (Even Paolo was amazed that after the breakup of my second marriage, I hadn’t just returned home to Mamma and Babbo.)

She had had many friends who had succumbed and it had never, ever ended well. And after the children arrived, and the marriage failed, the American mommies had to return to the States with the kids in tow. The hapless Florentine fathers would follow for the regulation six-week visitation. I didn’t even want kids yet but I knew my future offspring needed to have a full-time father on site.

He was also fifteen years older than me. At first I refused to believe this. He was young-looking and slim and I thought forty meant a wheelchair or, at the very least, a cane. He finally had to show me his passport before I accepted the generation gap, but this wasn’t in his favor. And in the end, I knew that for all my love of life Italian style, I could never live there permanently. I missed Thousand Island dressing too much.

But if Paolo wasn’t marito material, he was great boyfriend fodder. Attractive, well-off, kind, generous and amused by everything I said or did. And it was all in Italian. Now I was living The Light in the Piazza. (I wasn’t anywhere near as pretty as Yvette Mimieux but my second husband’s departure had provided me with the pony’s kick to the head. His crime spree of an exit still had me reeling.)

So perché no?

One last post to go. See you all Sunday for the finale. Ciao!

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