Assembling the New York Branch

I have enough ego to believe that I have many talents.  But working with my hands, putting things together, isn't one of them. Unless it's a dirty martini. More on that in a mo'.

The past few weeks have been very active, as I have made several roundtrips to Manhattan and back, opening the New York Branch of my life.  As I wrote previously, I was recently awarded an apartment in Manhattan Plaza, a two-building complex of apartments devoted to subsidized housing for artists. My unit is on the 29th floor, and sports a pretty swell view, especially at night.

During the day, though, the place looks a lot like this:

Furnishing the place is not high on my list of priorities.  As I will be keeping my place in DC, and splitting my time between the cities, I feel a little bit like I'm camping in New York.  The first piece of furniture I bought for the place was delivered before I ever took possession of the apartment.  Thankfully, ManPlaza has what they call a "package room, " which is not a room at all, but a small storefront between the two towers resembling a UPS store.  There, everything which cannot fit into the teeny tiny mailboxes is delivered, to be picked up by the tenant at their convenience.  My tall director's chair was waiting for me when I pulled into the complex last week.  I am an incompetent goof when it comes to putting things together, and so I spent much more time assembling the chair than it should have taken.  Still, it was a smart impulse buy.  I have spent many hours perched on the chair at one of my huge picture windows, sipping a cocktail, and enjoying the view as the sun goes down and the New York skyline comes into its glorious own.

I have a new inflatable bed set up, which should suit me for the time being.  Luckily, I did not have to assemble the thing, just blow it up.  After several false starts, my Internet was finally connected, and I set about the seemingly impossible task of assembling the desk I had ordered online from Costco. Though a large corner unit, with three sides, it arrived in a single box. With instructions which turned out to be, at least in part, designed to assemble the mirror image of the desk.  Online, previous purchasers assured me that it only takes 10 minutes to assemble this thing.  It took me 2 hours, but in the end, the empty corner at the huge picture window now has a lovely, full desk.

I also assembled a floor lamp.  Aren't you excited?  Because of all the logistical stuff which comes with opening a new branch of one's life, I have yet to do anything particularly New Yorky.  Other than spend waaaaaay too much on groceries.  One of the largest (and most expensive) grocery stores in Manhattan is located right downstairs, and I have been visiting it frequently.  The first time I shopped there, last week, I ran into a Broadway star:

Well, when he's onstage, he actually looks like this:

I have no idea if Nick Adams, from Broadway's Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, is a tenant at Manhattan Plaza, or was just doing some shopping before his evening show, but running into him is just another illustration of the peculiarity of living in this huge city.  The population here must be around 9 million, but every time I venture out, I recognize somebody.

(That's Hunter Foster, an actor and playwright who often works in DC, but is now appearing Off-Broadway.  Passed him on the street.)

And as for that overpriced grocery store downstairs?  I had determined not to frequent any establishment which charges $2.65 for a single roll of paper towels.  But then I wandered down the salad dressing aisle.  There, amidst a limited selection of cocktail olives and onions, was a jar of these outrageous "cocktail stirrers":

It had never occurred to me to put actual pickles in my martini.  I'm now hooked. I don't think I care whether or not the New York apartment ever gets fully furnished. I have a bed, a desk, a lamp, and a cocktail garnish. What more do I need?

Friday Dance Party: Veteran's Day

My family boasts a couple of veterans, including my father, who lied about his age to join the army at the tail end of WWII, hoping to attend flight school.  The war ended too soon, but my father began a lifelong fascination with all things airborne.  He spent almost 40 years at Lockheed, indulging his passion. 

My father's brother spent a lot longer in the military, and served with distinction in Korea.  On my mother's side, my grandfather the doctor served on a hospital ship during WWI.  When my grandmother died, she bequeathed me his ceremonial swords, which Doc Sample wore whenever he was in dress uniform.

I have a good buddy serving in the forces overseas now.  Before he left, Matt answered my curiosity about the portable, prefabricated meals the troops are often forced to eat, by actually giving me one.  This was several years ago, but the packet remains in my kitchen, unopened.  I have vowed to keep it until Matt returns to us safely.  Then, I'll eat it.

So, as today is Veteran's Day, it provides the background for this week's Dance Party.  USO settings have already appeared in previous Parties, including this one from the hilariously motor-mouthed Betty Hutton, and this one, a much more poignant song sung by Bette Midler for the troops in Vietnam in For The Boys.  But if Veteran's Day is our theme, there can be only one star for today's edition:

I wrote a bit about Martha Raye ("Colonel Maggie," as she was known to generations of servicemen) the first time she showed up in these pages.  She never allowed her chaotic private life to interfere with what she considered her duty as an American citizen: to entertain the troops.  This tune comes from Keep 'Em Flying, in which Raye starred (as twins!) with Abbott and Costello.  I am not a fan of Abbott nor Costello, so have never seen the film, but our Martha gives a fun account here.  The song was nominated for the Oscar, and these soldiers are having so much fun, it almost makes you want to join the army.

Friday Dance Party: Double Bocking

Composer and sometime lyricist Jerry Bock died a year ago this week (naturally, I wrote about it here).  With his partner Sheldon Harnick and librettist Joe Stein, he created one of the preeminent musical theatre classics in the history of the genre, Fiddler on the Roof. That monster hit put

 the rest of his career in a bit of a shadow, so where better to add a bit of sunshine than with the Dance Party? And this week is a twofer:  two short clips featuring songs from lesser-known musicals by Jerry Bock, each of which is performed by one of my favorite musical comedy ladies. 

The Apple Tree ran for about a year in the mid-60s, a respectable run at the time.  The show earned a Tony award for its female star, Barbara Harris, but it has not held up well over time.  It's actually three shows, as it's comprised of 3 musical one-acts.  The first  is the Adam and Eve tale (hence the show's title), and it's based on a Mark Twain story.  The second act is an adaptation of an allegory written in the 1800s.  The third, and most famous, act is adapted from a Jules Feiffer story, Passionella, which in itself is a riff on the Cinderella legend.  In The Apple Tree, homely chimney cleaner Ella is transformed into a glamorous TV star.

The show is mainly revived, nowadays, in high school settings, as the production demands are minimal, and there are nice opportunities for young actors.  In the original show, Ms. Harris and her costars, Alan Alda and Larry Blyden, appeared in all three playlets, but amateur groups usually spread the wealth, and cast their productions with different actors in each act.  The only Broadway revival of the show ran for only a few months in 2006-07, with the great Kristin Chenoweth playing the leading ladies.  Kristin appeared in a previous Dance Party (in fact, one of my favorites of all time), and here, she is singing one of her big numbers on The View. 

She Loves Me is a Jerry Bock show which has withstood the test of time.  The source material dates back many years, to a French play and film.  The story was Americanized in a Jimmy Stewart movie called The Shop Around the Corner, and it has undergone several incarnations since, including the Meg Ryan flick You've Got Mail.  Back in the 60s, Bock and Harnick adapted the tale into the musical She Loves Me, which provided Barbara Cook another starring role, and provided Jack Cassidy with a Tony. 

The show is very well-respected by musical theatre actors, but is not very well known.  I guess when you've written Fiddler on the Roof, everything else pales in comparison.

But the show has a terrific score, and the following clip features my favorite song from it.  And it's being sung by one of my all-time favorite musical theatre performers, Nancy Dussault. 

She is still kicking, bless her, and this clip is from her club act presented at the Gardenia in Hollywood just a few months ago.  Dussault had a thriving Broadway career in the 60s, earning a Tony nomination for the flop Bajour, and another one opposite Phil Silvers in Do Re Mi.  She was one of the Maria replacements in the original Sound of Music.  Decades later, she played the Witch, for a time, in the original production of Into the Woods.  If you can find another musical actress who can sub both Mary Martin and Bernadette Peters, I'd be surprised.  Nancy has (or had, she's a little long in the tooth these days) a pure soprano and also a strong belt, an unusual combination.

Dussault never became a major star, though she is fondly remembered for her role as Ted Knight's wife in Too Close For Comfort, his follow-up sitcom to Mary Tyler Moore.  She also spent two years in The New Dick Van Dyke Show, but should be credited for her work in early morning television as well.  Along with actor David Hartman, she was part of the original hosting team of Good Morning America way back in 1975.

But Ms. Dussault is also known for her cabaret act, which is glimpsed in the following clip.  In another entry, I will talk about Nancy and her good pal Karen Morrow, another Broadway vet who never achieved the stardom she deserved, but for now, enjoy this number from She Loves Me. It's usually sung by a man, but Nancy Dussault gives it her own personal twist.

Friday Dance Party: Young Men's Christian Association

Alan Carr was a film and stage impresario who excelled at party planning and anything flamboyant.  He began in PR, and helmed the ad campaign which turned a starless low-budget film in 1977 into a cultural phenomenon.  That film was Saturday Night Fever, and it brought disco into the mainstream.  Carr next produced (and wrote) the screen adaptation of Grease, providing one of the biggest smashes in the history of musical film.  Meanwhile, everyone was scrambling to capitalize on the disco craze, Carr included, and he came up with the gigantic flop from which this week's Dance Party is plucked.

Disco was one of those musical styles which wore out its welcome with the public in record time, so by the time Can't Stop the Music arrived in theaters, there was already a public backlash against it.

That's not to say the film is any good, it would be a real stinker, even without that backlash.  Carr placed up-and-coming nerd Steve Guttenberg at the center of his film, and enlisted Valerie Perrine as the female lead.  Perrine already had an Oscar nomination on her resume (for Lenny), but had failed to achieve anything remotely resembling that earlier success.  In supporting roles, Carr used established, but fading, stars such as Tammy Grimes, Barbara Rush, and June Havoc.  Even Mrs. Sammy Davis, Jr. showed up.  These all seem unusual choices for a disco film, wouldn't you think?  But Carr went further, and cast this guy in the romantic leading role:

Today is Bruce Jenner's birthday, and from the pictures I've seen of him lately, he bears only a passing resemblance to the human statue he was in the 70s. Extensive cosmetic surgery will do that, I guess.  I believe he is somehow related to the skanky Kardashian clan, but as reality television makes my skin crawl, I can't tell you exactly how. 

In the late 70s, though, Jenner was legitimately known as the greatest athlete on earth.  The whole planet had watched his gold medal performance in the decathlon during the '76 Olympics, and he was very photogenic.  Sadly, he possessed the charisma of limp lettuce, and the acting talent to match.  After testing for the leading role in Superman, and of course losing it, he landed in Can't Stop the Music.  He's hilariously bad, and it is his only appearance in a feature film to date. Even more, he landed in one of the campiest, most pseudo-homoerotic outfits ever seen onscreen:

Can't Stop the Music has no gay characters or plotlines, but has one of the gayest sensibilities of any "straight" film ever made.  Carr surrounded his stars with members of the Village People, the gay-centric club group which was responsible for several disco hits.  Their songs included lyrics which winked at their gay fans while leaving an impression with middle America that the group was lousy with machismo. The Village People tunes were peppy and eminently danceable, and they provided the musical inspiration

 (such as it was) for Can't Stop the Music.

And who did producer Allan Carr place at the helm of this hodgepodge?  This film auteur:

Though she had legitimate musical theatre performance credentials in her early career, Nancy Walker was an unlikely choice to direct an anthem to disco.  She had directed some episodic sitcoms, when she was playing Rhoda's mother, but had never been in charge of a feature film.  The result she delivered was a colossal mess of a movie.  Can't Stop the Music was so atrociously received, it encouraged publicist John J.B. Wilson to inaugurate a new set of awards, The Golden Raspberry, to commemorate the worst films of the year.  The presentation has been held annually the night before the Academy Awards, for the past 30 years.  These days, stars actually

show up to accept the dishonor.  In 1981, the very first Razzie as the Worst Film of the Year went to Can't Stop the Music.

Our Dance Party clip was placed in the film as security, as it was already the Village People's most well-established hit (it still is).  It is a fair representation of the entire movie, filled with the flamboyant excess which Allan Carr loved.  By placing sexpot Valerie Perrine at its center, he seemed to think that it would mask the overt homo-eroticism of the number.  Instead, it's an over-the-top, hilariously rendered, display of beefcake.

Friday Dance Party: "Reach Out. Take A Chance."

A maudlin, disturbed young man enacts elaborate suicide scenarios to attract his mother's attention, and attends funerals for amusement.  A  septuagenarian Holocaust survivor with a zest for hookahs, player pianos, and swiping cars, sweeps into his life.  She teaches him how to  begin to live, even as she says goodbye. 

It's Harold and Maude, and it's one of my favorite films.  It was a failure at the box office in its initial release in 1971, but has since been revered as one of the masterpieces of American film.  AFI includes it in its list of top comedies, and it is preserved at the Library of Congress.

The film made a cult favorite of milque-toast young actor Bud Cort, and the hilarious performance by Vivian Pickles, as the oblivious, self-centered Mrs. Chasen, is worth the price of admission. 

But the heart and soul of the movie rests

with two people.  The first is Ruth Gordon, who was in the later stages of a remarkable career as an actress and writer.  Her contributions to two Hepburn and Tracy films earned her Oscar nods for her screenwriting, and she holds the distinction of creating the role of Dolly Levi in the original production of The Matchmaker.  By 1971, Gordon was enjoying a renaissance in her acting career, having won the Oscar only a few years earlier, playing a satanic neighbor in Rosemary's Baby.  But her luminous performance as an unlikely object of romance in Harold and Maude is, in my opinion, her career cap.

The above trailer is one of those remixes, and does not include the contributions of the second person whose superb work elevated H&M to masterpiece status.  That person is Cat Stevens, who provided one of the most evocative film scores of the 70s, including several songs which can stand alone, but also reflect the film's tone and theme.  This week's Dance Party is a great illustration; the number perfectly encapsulates the theme of Harold and Maude, and has spoken to me at several critical times in my  own life. 

So this is another Dance Party which is also about me.  To my detriment, I am often satisfied with the status quo;  Change (note the capitol C) is not something I usually seek, so it sometimes takes a reminder, such as this song, to push me in a new direction.  I've written about the changes coming in my life, and I will undoubtedly write much more; reminding myself of this great Cat Stevens tune helps me remember all the possibilities of my life.  I feel a bit like Harold Chasen, standing on the top of that cliff, playing the banjo and heading into new directions.

Opening A New York Branch

Back in the early 1970s, Midtown Manhattan was a scary place, and the middle class was deserting the city in droves.  In an effort to stem the tide, somebody built two apartment towers right in the middle of what was (and is) known as Hell's Kitchen. 

They took up a full city block, and were meant to offer the middle class a safe place to live, in the heart of a very dangerous city. Nobody was interested, and the two towers seemed destined for the scrap heap. But then, somebody came up with the idea that the two buildings, which held over 1600 apartments, should be dedicated to the artists who keep New York City alive.  Since then, Manhattan Plaza has been a haven for artists, with 70% of the occupants receiving discounted rents.  Those rents are calculated according to the individual tenant's gross income, so the complex became the most desirable place for actors, musicians, playwrights, designers, and the like to live.  The place became so desirable, in fact, that in 1995, the waiting list was officially closed.  Apparently, it had become just too long to be handled.

In July of 2003, the waiting list was reopened for one month.  There was an avalanche of requests to be put on the list, so a lottery was held to randomly choose the artists who would be allowed to be placed on the waiting list for an apartment.  I saw the announcement in the trades, and on a fluke, submitted my name.  A few months later, I was informed, by mail, that my name had been chosen from the lottery, and I was now #683 on the waiting list.

Since then, once a year, Manhattan Plaza has sent me a form letter which I was required to return, verifying that I wished to remain on the waiting list for a subsidized apartment.  It didn't cost me anything to remain on the list, so, year after year, I sent my annual confirmation, and forgot about it.

Three years ago, I received a personal letter from ManPlaza.  I was now #55 on the waiting list, and it was time to gather proof that I am, indeed, an artist.  The rules for receiving this discounted housing require that the artists earn 51% or more of their income, for the past 3 consecutive years, from the arts.  I was able to meet that requirement, and provided proof with my income tax returns.

For the next several years, I was required to furnish the most recent tax returns, to prove that I continue to be a performing artist.  In January of this year, after almost 8 years, I received an actual phone call from an actual person connected with Manhattan Plaza.  It was now time to gather current income and banking info, so my file could go before two committees.  The first would determine that I am, in fact, a qualified performing artist, and the second would crunch the numbers of my income from the last 3 years, and would determine what my monthly rent should be.

I cannot describe how odd all this activity seems to me, as I added myself to this waiting list on a fluke, and never expected to get this far along in the process.  I have never had a strong desire to live in New York, and I believe you really need such a desire, as the city is, to quote one of my friends who lives there, a Cruel Bitch.

About a month ago, I was summoned to the city to view an apartment. I was (and still am) in the midst of Witness for the Prosecution in Maryland, so I was forced to donate my single day off to make the roundtrip train schlep to New York.  The apartment I was shown was a shambles.  The floor had been taken up, there was no fridge or stove in the kitchen, and the entire bathroom was in a rubble in the tub.  I suppose this is good news, proof that the place is being completely overhauled for the next tenant.  But I was disoriented and rattled, and could not get a clear vision of what this studio apartment might eventually look like.


Everyone I have spoken to swears that Manhattan Plaza tenants are the luckiest actors in New York.  I suppose that's true, and, though I still have no urgent desire to hang my hat in Manhattan, I surely cannot pass up an opportunity which has dropped into my lap.  So, a week from Monday (Halloween! I'm trying not to read too much into that...), I will be taking a final walkthrough and will be handed the keys to apt #29G.



Perhaps Thespis wants me in New York, but I am not so sure.  Luckily, I will be able to keep my condo on Capitol Hill, and will become Bi-Urban.  Most of my work comes from DC, so I do not foresee giving up that life.  Instead, I will be splitting my time between the two cities, as the need arises. 


I am not moving to New York.  I am simply opening a branch of my life there.