Michael Jackson's Downtown Afterlife

Jeff Koons' statue of Jackson and Bubbles, 1988, at DTLA's Broad Museum

Everyone knows how, up until his death, Michael Jackson was preparing for his world tour at the Staples Center in Los Angeles. And many people have seen on TV and in magazines how, at Lakers games, Hollywood celebs come to the center to cheer on their home team.

But fewer know exactly where the Staples Center is: in downtown LA. Or how, in decades past, people would come to see concerts or sports events and then LEAVE IMMEDIATELY, because downtown was one scary place. Even today, as downtown approaches its 21st-century hipster zenith, it still comprises miles of parking lots and abandoned buildings, including a swathe of blocks known as Skid Row, which is said to house (figuratively speaking) 4,000 of LA's homeless. 

But since downtown is also the civic, financial, and historic heart of the city, and since real estate isn't something they're making much more of these days, downtown (re-branded as DTLA) is slowly being wrested from ignominy by hopeful developers. Vintage abandoned buildings have been turned into luxury condos, while drilling, scaffolding, and cranes mark the spots where new towers will spear the heavens next year and beyond. The names of famous tenants like Manny Pacquaio and Johnny Depp are bruited about in the pretty pocket parks and fashionable eateries that have opened at street level.

Onto this now-trendy landscape, the ghost of Michael Jackson casts a wistful, posthumous presence. The Grammy Museum, part of the LA Live complex adjacent to the Staples Center, features Jacksonalia of all kinds, including two of his single gloves. At the Broad Museum (where "Broad" is pronounced like "road"), Jeff Koons' porcelain sculpture of Jackson, relaxing with his pet chimpanzee Bubbles, forms part of Koons' Banalities Series. (Dinnerware with the image can also be found in the museum gift shop.)

Two of Jackson's single gloves featured at DTLA's Grammy Museum

The last images of the living Jackson were captured at the Staples Center, as he rehearsed the performance that was to be his comeback; these were compiled into the documentary, This Is It, which was released in 2009 in lieu of the comeback that died tragically with him. 

Michael Jackson's lifelong obsession with outward appearances makes one wonder if he would have appreciated this behind-the-scenes look at his art. But perhaps being introduced to new generations through DTLA's cultural institutions is a consolation to his lingering spirit.

Hands On

This blog is in memory of Mary Newhouse and Elizabeth Murray

My passion for sewing usually lies dormant; its fires only occasionally erupt. Because of this, I've never really mastered the process that turns fabric into couture.

On my very first sewing project, a wrap skirt, I was supposed to cut out facing panels of a very obvious one-sided fabric. Instead, I cut out identical panels, which meant that one panel showed the wrong side. I solved the problem by making the wrong-side skirt panel the inner one under the front wrap panel (where it was barely noticeable), but I've been making impulsive mistakes - and resourcefully compensating for them - ever since.

What started me on this peculiar path was meeting my friend, Alisa, in the seventh grade. I was attending a private school on scholarship, and very intimidated by the rich children who got weekly allowances for clothes. In my family, there were only four seasons of clothes-buying: school, birthday, Christmas, and summer camp.

While they still better off than my family, Alisa's was the first family I met that was handy. They had bought and restored the brownstone in which they lived on the Upper West Side. In Alisa's room, her mother had created a striking window shade out of a Marimekko sheet. In fact, Alisa's mother was an artist who made extraordinarily clever things in her downstairs studio. (Once, she showed us little patches of "turf" made out of ceramics, over which painted trepunto clouds were held by wires.)

Brought up in an atmosphere of craftiness, Alisa was the first person I knew who not only actually wore the clothes she made, but created her own patterns. Heartened by her example, I started to make my own clothes, with varying but general success.

When I went on to college, many of my new friends were agog to learn that I was actually wearing clothes I had made, but it inspired no imitation. (I did get a commission to make a pair of disco pants.)

Bard was a liberal arts college, and I was thinking about an arts degree. I had always been good at drawing, and my first art class with Tom Sullivan was very encouraging. So in the second semester, I made one of those inadvertently fateful decisions and took a class with post-minimalist artist Elizabeth Murray.

In person, Murray was the kind of person that exuded competence. She had that thick and wavy hair we all craved in those days; the fact that it was prematurely salt-and-pepper against her petals-and-cream complexion only made it more dramatic. She wore jeans, hiking boots; a goose down vest over a plaid shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to expose strong forearms. Art, as Murray taught it, was very hands on; it began with craft, and went onto vision, destruction, and reconstruction.

The class, for me, started inauspiciously, with my inability to stretch a canvas. Not having enough strength, not paying close enough attention, whatever: My square canvas flapped wings like a manta ray, rocking back and forth on the floor. She came by, glanced at it, said, "That's not right," and moved on.

Next, we had to paint an apple (which I did on a pre-stretched canvas). I fell in love with my realistically rendered macintosh apple, even though I was never able to make it "realistically" sit on the table. Murray commented that my apple hung there in space, searched my face for understanding, and moved on.

Our next assignment was to cut a hole out of the canvas, then paint over our apples and begin again. By this time I was in open rebellion. Art had always been easy, even intuitive for me; it was something for which I'd been praised since childhood. The fact that I was not doing well in an art class, and that it was costing me a fortune in pre-stretched canvases (because I could not stretch one myself) and art supplies (because I would forget to clean my paint and brushes and have to replace them) was both humiliating and enraging.

I can't remember how I managed to finish the class. It was a terrible time for both of us. Murray was a born teacher, and she was suffering for not being able to get through to me.

But in a way, she did. I told her, "This class has taught me that I'm not an artist. I have no vision." She looked at me with intense regret, saying, "There are other things you could do - you could be an illustrator."

Thousands of people each day stroll by Murray's mosaic (pictured above) at the 59th Street Station of the New York Subway system. Murray died in 2007; her New York Times obituary demonstrated what a dedicated and single-minded an artist she was. Yet another obituary, this one in New York Magazine, implied that for all her innovations and talent, she was not taken as seriously as a male painter.

So while to this day I feel the failure implicit in Murray's gentle, hopeful recommendation, it also saved me from a world of hurt.

Fine art is not for the faint-hearted.

Local Heroes

The other day, as I was driving through the town of Red Bank, NJ, I ran into the Cluck-U chicken on his way to work.

I didn't actually run into him, although he frequently rushes into oncoming traffic, begging the classic riddle.*

We waved to each to other like the old friends we are. Once, at my prompting, he had rushed into oncoming traffic to answer my question on where to rent a chicken costume. (At the time, I was working for Successful Meetings, and we always needed stuff like that.)

At the moment, Cluck-U is the only business around here that believes in sending people in costumes out onto the street as brand magnets, but the man in the chicken outfit is part of a long line of mascots that used to patrol their own patch of sidewalk. Baby boomers who visited New York and Atlantic City in the 60s may still remember Mr. Peanut, the legume manque who worked Times Square and the Boardwalk. For those who don't, the humorist S.J. Perelman has immortalized his encounters with the Planters Peanut mascot.

Nowadays, when we think of costumed mascots, we think "Disney." However, Mickey Mouse & Co. tend to stay close to home (and why not, when your home is as a big as a state). Still, I do recall a chance encounter in 2002 between Mickey and the Cremaster Cycle of avant-garde artist, Matthew Barney. It was ugly: Confronted with crashed and mangled cars, baby shoes covered in Vaseline, and a looped film involving grapes being pushed through a slot cut into a Latex sheet (I think), Mickey preferred to stay in a corner - perhaps the only corner in New York's famously cyllindrical Guggenheim Museum. And I think he made the right choice.

The local heroes, like the Cluck-U chicken, also tend to stay close to home - our homes - exhorting us to wave, honk, and accept coupons for discounts from their sponsors.

Next to sports mascots (of which I know next to nothing), they tend to be comestibles. In fact, the last remarkable mascot encounter I remember was a showdown between then-Yankee Tino Martinez and the Hormel Hot Dog, back in the summer of 2001. It was "Tino Martinez Day" at what was then the new Yankee Stadium, and Tino Martinez was accepting an award from the president of Hormel Meat Products. Standing by, as the color guard, was the Hormel Hot Dog mascot. Martinez accepted the award and shook the president's hand, but when the Hot Dog offered his hand, Martinez turned his back and walked away.

"Oh, s**t!" the man in front of me opined. "He dissed the salami!"

A decade later, Martinez is retired, while the Hormel Hot Dog is still at it, putting on his Hot Dog hose one leg at the time.

*In the Cluck-U version, a chicken crosses the road because he is paid by the hour.

AKA Punch and Judy

When people start talking about the good old days, I often hark back to my own good old days, growing up on the upper East Side in the midst of luxury. Note how I say in the midst of luxury; while up the street was Imperial House, the most luxurious high-rise then in New York, my home was a fifth-floor walkup. And while my home was still typical of most New York neighborhoods, in the ’60s, the high-rises were closing in, fast.

And since the neighborhood was in transition, so too was my grade school, P.S. 183. Children of diplomats, television stars, and the generally well-off mingled with the children of eh, not-so-much. The atmosphere was generally peaceful and non-menacing—except at lunchtime.

Then, as we yelled and threw food and wiggled in our seats, the lunch room monitor would roam though the aisles, looking for “trouble-makers.” The monitor was a grown woman; I believe she was a volunteer and perhaps was related to one of the kids at the school. But when she found trouble-makers, she would hit them upside the head with a Ping Pong paddle that she had brought for that very purpose.

I remember being a junior monitor, charged with keeping my table in line. When this woman came by my table and hit one of the kids so hard you could hear the wood, I jumped in front of her and said, “Stop hitting him!” (I was scared and shaking, but I would do things like that. In fact, my nickname was “the Hippie.”)

I’ll never forget how her eyes seemed to dance around, bobbing in every direction except mine, as she said, “Don’t ever tell me what to do.” And I never did again, even though she continued to whack children aged seven to 12 over the head with a Ping Pong paddle until I graduated and lost track of her.

What’s more, no one else ever told her what to do, except one man. I think he was a parent, often dropping off a little girl at recess. And he was an actor, not famous, but I would see him in small parts in movies and in certain revolutionary TV commercials that were causing a stir at that time.

My mother’s reading tastes were eclectic, and one of her paperbacks was From Those Wonderful Folks Who Gave You Pearl Harbor by an ad man named Jerry Della Femina. Although this book did not exactly change my life (except, perhaps, that I never considered advertising as a career), it has continued to influence me in ways I will not reveal.

Della Femina and people like him were responsible for a new, gritty “New York” style of TV commercial, like the Alka-Seltzer campaign. Using the tiny tenement apartments of struggling New Yorkers as a backdrop, these admen pedaled to have-nots instead of to haves, reasoning that, since there were more have-nots, they could sell more products that way. (OK, maybe I revealed a little bit.)

And this parent was just the type of New York stage actor who was flourishing in this environment. Apparently he and the monitor had “history.” It was like a Punch-and-Judy Show, come to life: She would charge at him, roaring and brandishing the paddle, as if she would hit him with it. He was half her size (in fact, just a little taller than the grade school child he escorted), but he would charge back at her, getting in her face and throwing down some pithy insult that would make us kids laugh and engorge her with new rage.

But then he would leave the stage (in this case, the school cafeteria), and she would return to her duties, only madder than a hornet. Ah, good times.

I’m reminded of this because I just watched The Taking of Pelham One Two Three—the 1974 version, not the new one, and suddenly saw the actor-parent from the cafeteria, or at least someone who resembled him mightily. The name of the actor is Robert Weil, and he played Marino.

The original movie shows an unlovely New York filled with unlovable characters, some with guns. But it was the city of my youth, and I remember it with fondness.

Maybe there is something to this good old days’ crap.

A Parting Gift

Years ago, when I was a child and we were separated, my mother sent me a book: The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery.

It's a frightening book even now, about pain and loss and death (and never mind that I could not even begin to pronounce the author's name), but it was from my mom and I tried to read it. I won't ruin the book or (or the movie) for you, but the story takes place in a desert, and its undercurrent is about the magical nature of children - how they can impart wisdom and understanding without themselves having either.

Perhaps my recent stay in the desert put me in mind of the Little Prince, or maybe it was an incident that occurred when Lee and I went to the movies in Cathedral City's Town Center.

This particular town center looks very much like the kind of dusty desert outpost you'd see in movies like Morocco or Gunga Din, but with an IMAX theater at one end and the Mary Pickford Theatre at the other.

The Pickford Theatre is a replica of the old-style movie palaces of the '20s and '30s. In fact, it is named after one of the most famous stars of the early 20th century (and former Desert resident, along with husband Buddy Rogers), the absolutely tiny Mary Pickford. (I know she was tiny, because one of her former costumes graces a display in a little alcove off the main lobby.)

Pickford, and her handsome then husband Douglas Fairbanks, were among the first generation of Hollywood "royalty." They looked down their noses at their outre daughter-in-law Joan Crawford (or so she thought) but hobnobbed with Russian aristocracy who were then fleeing the horror of the Russian Revolution (and thus were willing to enjoy the company of people they might previously have run down in the street).

In fact, one Russian aristocrat made Pickford the gift of a Faberge egg - not a fancy one - but one with the distinction of having been given to him by Prince Alexei of the Romanov family. It was the tradition, he said, of the Romanovs to give these eggs at Christmastime.

And so, in a display case in a little alcove off the main lobby of the Pickford Theatre in Cathedral City Town Center, is a white porcelain egg, once held by another little prince long ago. Having looked at it and its letter of provenance, we then walked away and out of the building; outside, where the desert night sky was filled with stars that were large and small, but flinty and out of reach, and it was as lonely as any wilderness.

Son of the Desert

Near dawn, I was sitting in the lobby of an old Casablanca hotel with my bags, waiting for my boyfriend Lee to finish making sure we had left nothing behind. We were catching the morning train to Tangier.

Outside in the street, the cafes were opening and beginning to dispense the sweet mint tea and staggering strong coffee of the day. I could hear metal gates rolling open, clinking glass. But my eyes were glued to the lobby's miniscule TV set, which was playing Arab pop music videos. First, there was a music video of a man in desert robes singing into the distance. Then there was a woman in bangles and long curling hair and lots of eye contact.

Suddenly, an unseen hand had changed the channel, and in black-and-white, a mild-mannered man in glasses was talking back and forth with a bunch of people. At first, I thought it was Marcello Mastroianni, but then I realized it was Omar Sharif.

Obviously, Sharif was a star of the Arab cinema prior to becoming world-famous for Lawrence of Arabia. But unlike that film, where he was launched as an exotic sex symbol from another culture, here Sharif was playing an everyday - albeit very debonair - character from his own culture. (It was the difference between Antonio Banderas from Desperado and his roles in Almodovar movies.) I wanted to see more, but I had to catch a train.

That was more than 15 years ago. Fast forward to 2004: we were now in Madrid, on the trail of Ava Gardner for Lee's biography, Ava Gardner: Love Is Nothing. We roamed the neighborhood where she had an apartment, and the exurbs, where she had a home with a pool. We stayed at the Hotel Wellington, famous hangout for the bullfighters she loved. (There was even a bullfighting reporters convention while we were there.)

One evening, as we happened to stroll through the avenidas and calles next to Retiro Park, we came upon a store: "The Sharif Shirt Company." It was indeed a clothing store, with all shirts made of 100 percent Egyptian cotton. And it was endorsed by Omar Sharif, who had attended its debut in 2002.

Strangely enough, we had been talking about going to Paris to visit Sharif. Sharif had appeared in Mayerling with Gardner, and an assistant to Sharif said the actor would be happy to talk but the interview must take place in person, in Paris, as he did not do interviews over the phone.

The timing for that meeting never worked out, which may have been just as well. (This was during the then septuagenarian actor's "scrappy" phase from 2003 to 2005, when he was head-butting police and punching parking valets.)

Meanwhile, I think the movie I was watching was Hubbi el wahid (1962). Hard to tell, after these years. If you know, please tell me what it's about.

Left on Monty Hall . . .

. . . right on Buddy Rogers. As I cruised in search of a post office (or even a mailbox) in the 100-plus degree summer heat, I reflected that Palm Springs and its surrounding desert cities may comprise the most name-dropping area in the U.S. In addition to the Walk of Fame in downtown Palm Springs, many of the streets are named after the celebrities that made this town their home.

For example, I live close to Gene Autry Trail, which goes over the Gene Autry Bridge, glances past Gene Autry Plaza, and heads out toward I-10. Autry, the Singing Cowboy (1907-1998), was among the first celebrity residents of Palm Springs. Up the street on East Palm Canyon Drive, the Parker Palm Springs, features a private residence that once belonged to Autry, a two-bedroom, two-bathroom detached building with a private entrance way.

From the Parker, you can look up over the other side of Palm Canyon, up to Bob Hope's home on Southridge. The house reflects the desert's iconic avant garde architecture; it's been compared to anything from a mushroom cap to Darth Vader's helmet. (A similar roof shape belongs to the Oceans 111 restaurant in Rancho Mirage.) I've been told that the Hope house is frequently used as a venue for charity events, but I haven't been there myself.

I have, however, been to Frank Sinatra's Twin Palms. When Lee was writing Ava Gardner: Love Is Nothing, we were given a private tour of this surprisingly modest home, with its phenomenal pool and its infamously cracked bathroom sink (reportedly the result of a Frank-Ava contretemps).

Frank Sinatra Drive begins at Palm Canyon in Rancho Mirage, and goes way out there, baby, into the desert. But whenever I go to Palm Desert, I take Gene Autry and turn right on Dinah Shore. Similarly, whenever I go to the airport (to pick up my mother Carol, say), I drive up Gene Autry, go left on Ramon, then make a right onto Kirk Douglas Way, which snakes through the airport, bypassing lots of road traffic. Once, when we were in Palm Springs visiting Lee's friend, the inimitable character actor and notorious potty mouth, Marc Lawrence, he took us on a tour of famous actors' homes - one of which was Kirk Douglas'. It was on a very dark street, and had all its lights out. "He's not home," said Lawrence, adding the usual obscenities. (Thinking back on this, I'm wondering if Marc had forgotten to turn his headlights on.)

Bob Hope Drive, Gerald Ford Drive, Fred Waring Way, the list goes on. In fact, there's an old joke about giving directions around here that my husband told me: "You can stop on Gerald Ford, you can go down on Dinah Shore, but don't ever cross Frank Sinatra."

Tell it to the bathroom sink.

Now Playing

Las Vegas. What else can I say? The town is so synonymous with entertainment, it has its own marquee.

On my first trip to Sin City, the old Bob Stupak's Vegas World was still around, and my boyfriend suggested we go see Tony Martin, an old-time crooner and movie star of the '30s and '40s.

The interior of Vegas World took its theme from the 1969 moon landing cum 2001: A Space Odyssey. Astronauts loomed over the table games, as did a giant space wheel over the roulette table. Everything seemed arrayed in a dull tinsel, which was a little disorienting. Losing our way to the showroom, we asked an old-timer in a tuxedo, who pointed the way out. Once we got to our seats and the show began, we realized the old-timer was Tony Martin.

At that time, Martin was in his 70s, and seemed rather frail compared to his wife, a 60s-something Cyd Charisse, who emanated love and support from the audience. (Sadly, Charisse passed away last year at 86.) Even so, he was a consummate performer, and the evening is a gentle memory of poignant ballads, reminiscence, and surprisingly seductive moves.

Some years later, we were in town when Sammy Davis Jr. and Jerry Lewis were playing a two man show at Bally's (which was later made into an HBO special). The show was a standard two-drink minimum, both of which were dispatched before the lights went out, in order to not interrupt the performance.

Interrupting the show was something you did at your peril, especially with Jerry Lewis. Once, a man in the 10th row got up and started edging his way out. Lewis, in the middle of some story, noticed him immediately. "Put a spotlight on that guy!" he commanded, pointing to the man, who was suddenly bathed in merciless light. "Where ya goin'?" asked Lewis, in his most dulcet Bellboy tones. "Ya gotta go to the TOILET? Ya goin' go POTTY?! Which one? Number one or number two?" Once the whole audience was laughing, Lewis, said, "Just kidding, sir. Take the spotlight off him." The spotlight was off for 30 seconds before Lewis changed his mind. "Put it back on!" he ordered, turning the man's walk down the aisle into a cringefest.

In comparison, Sammy Davis only tugged at your heartstrings. But he tugged hard. His "Mr. Bojangles" had me sobbing, as it always did. He also told stories, reminiscences of the old Vegas, sang "Candy Man" and danced up a storm. But when it came to chewing the scenery, Lewis had him beat. He simply would not relinquish the stage. At one point, Davis just walked on and asked Lewis point-blank, "Will you please lock up when you're through?"

The Lewis-Davis experience should have taught us that the first rows are always part of the act. But when we saw the Checkmates at the Sands, we recklessly sat at a front table.

The Checkmates had had the hit, "Black Pearl," back in 1969. It was a hit for them, and a comeback for producer Phil Spector, whose "wall of sound" signature been languishing in the wake of the British Invasion. Ironically, the infamous Spector (who was recently found guilty of murder) went on to produce Let It Be, the Beatles' last album.

The Checkmates' lounge act was everything associated with Vegas - memories, songs, contemporary references (in this case, Tone Loc's "The Wild Thing"), and audience participation. During a particularly soulful ballad, Sweet Louie Smith advanced on me in electric blue bicycle pants (him, not me), dropped to one knee, took my hand, and sang to me alone. Now it was my turn to be bathed in the merciless spotlight, and I felt ver-ry conspicuous.

(In writing this, I've learned that Sweet Louie passed away in 2007, while performing on a cruise ship with his partner, Sonny Charles. I remember his showmanship with fondness.)

Thus, when we went to see Sam Butera and Keely Smith at the Desert Inn, we made sure to sit near the back. Butera, who died on June 3 of this year, played tenor saxophone in the Louis Prima band, in which Keely Smith sang. The Prima-Smith act is one of the most legendary of the Vegas lounge acts, right after the Rat Pack. The act was based on Prima's wildness and Smith's diffidence. After Prima's death in 1978, Butera went on to perform with Smith, (who was also Prima's former wife). 

Today, Keely Smith remains a unique chanteuse, a mistress of supreme uninflection; one might say that Debbie Harry is her spiritual daughter. That night, Smith introduced an album of Frank Sinatra covers, among which she sang, "When I was Seventeen." It was a remarkable interpretation, urgent without being histrionic. Afterward, I gushed to her about her performance, as she stood on the casino floor, having changed out of her ballgown into some motorcycle mama duds. "Aren't you dahlin'," she crooned.

The Desert Inn's Lounge was open on three sides, but the "first front rows rule" still applied. We were 10 minutes into the show when a man entered and sat at one of the front tables. Butera growled, "OK, he's here. Start the show again." And true to his word, the band started from the very beginning.

Kremlin Star

The red star, the great beacon of Communism that shines above the Kremlin, is made of crushed rubies molten into glass, our guide tells us. She may have been referring to an earlier star, which was made up of semiprecious stones, because other sources say that the red color of this one comes from gold. The Communists would have had no trouble finding either on hand - the Kremlin being an ancient and much decorated seat of the Czars.

Back in 1997, the "treasure house" of the Kremlin museum seemed to me a carelessly displayed trove of Romanov booty: Rooms full of carriages, ceremonial gifts from European royals, buckets of gems. The Faberge eggs were given space to shine, however. Each one seemed a tiny world, somewhat like an M.C. Escher illustration - turned inward and completely self-referential.

Outside the treasure house stood the world's largest bell (which had never rung) and the world's largest cannon (which had never shot). I now expect they were literally and figuratively ironic, but at the time, any form of subtlety at all was lost on me. It may have been the opportunity of a lifetime, but - bleary after a nine-hour flight from New York and a quick Russian feast (Champagne, caviar, blinis) at the Radisson Slavyanskaya - a whirlwind tour of the Kremlin was something I was just not ready for.  

I was there as part of a group of journalists invited to witness the 850th anniversary of Moscow. However, just as our plane landed, the world was waking up to the news that Princess Diana had been involved in a serious car crash, and, in a few hours, her death would be formally announced. The result was round-the-clock coverage of Princess Diana's life and death, and a virtual blackout of all other news - including the 850th anniversary of Moscow.

So as the world keened for Princess Di, our group was transported through Moscow, a week's worth of visiting churches, museums, the Bolshoi, the Circus; the homes of Boris Pasternak, Nikolay Gogol, and a "typical pre-Revolution bourgeois"; deluxe restaurants, and sleazy nightclubs. We were often out till all hours, hitching rides from strangers (a local custom; any driver would stop and take you where you wanted to go for gas money). I met a fair amount of people and formed a pretty good idea of life in Moscow. 

About the only sights we weren't shown were those directly pertaining to the Cold War and Communism. So it was with a little consternation that, toward the end of our visit, we found ourselves outside Red Square, but not heading there. I asked the guide, who said that Red Square was closed for the 850th anniversary celebrations - which we were not invited to! I then pointed to a large crowd of people who appeared to be assembling in front of Red Square, and asked what they were doing. "They are waiting to see Lenin's Tomb," she answered as she herded us toward GUM. 

Dragging my feet, I muttered to my colleagues Jon, Mark, and Karen, that I would rather see Lenin than a department store. They agreed, and suddenly we were all in rebellion. Our guide scolded that she could not accompany us and that we would have to leave our cameras behind. Tossing our cameras onto another colleague, we ran to join the Lenin's Tomb crowd - which, it turned out, was moving at a pretty fast clip. Soon, we were a tiny island of English speakers, surrounded by a crowd that only spoke three languages - Russian, German, and the language of an AK-47 being waved in their faces by the soldiers guarding the Tomb.

Turns out we spoke that language, too. Every time a soldier waved his gun in our direction, we understood that we needed to do a bunny hop back; and every time he pointed it in the direction of the Tomb, the crowd in front knew to break off and scurry forward. At one point, a man with a brief case (who was standing in front of Mark) was "detained." It was a little terrifying.

Finally, we was close enough to scurry forward as the soldier indicated. Entering the Tomb single file, we were enveloped in gloom. The black stone walls absorbed most of the light, except that which they gave off as a dull sheen. It was just as well that talking was discouraged, because the walls seemed to absorb sound as well. 

In this atmosphere, my first impression of Lenin was as a light source; the glass box in which he appeared to float was filled with it. Lenin was a small, slight man, but perfectly proportioned. He wore a brown suit, which impressed me with the thickness of its cloth, compared to the fine-boned features of its wearer. And he was encased in wax, his features barely distinct. 

We passed, single file, out of the Tomb, and here was a surprise: Between the Tomb and the Kremlin Wall is a corridor where the final resting places of all of Russia's Communist leaders, save Khrushchev, who is buried in a nearby cemetery, are memorialized. The leaders are interred within the Wall, which is called the Kremlin Wall Necropolis. The rules of the Tomb extend to this area, as two of my colleagues (who came later) found out. One of them had only hidden his camera; when he took it out and tried to take a picture of Stalin's monument, he was "detained" - grabbed and shouted at in both Russian and "AK-47" (waved inches from his face) until he was summarily released.

Back at the hotel, someone informed us that Lenin got "dipped" in wax every six months or so, which accounted for the waxy buildup on his face. She added that he also got a change of clothing from time to time. "Do his clothes change with the fashion?" asked one of the journalists. "Like, was he wearing a Nehru suit in the '60s?" (I think this question was answered by shoving more caviar at us.)

Still, looking at the soul-departed body of the man who changed the 20th century was a strange experience. My husband, who has gazed into the face of Ramses at the Egyptian Museum, knows what I'm saying.

It's like Christopher Marlowe's Dr. Faustus, for whom the Devil conjured a zombielike Helen of Troy. Without that spark of life that made them great, one can only look at their wizened remains, and wonder, like Faustus: "Is this the face that launched a thousand ships?"

Hardscrabble

Of all the trips I made on behalf of my former company, none was more earnestly envied by my family than the calls I paid on Branson, Missouri. Not that exotic destinations like Hong Kong, London, and Rome weren't to be envied, but with Branson, the folks - who had jumped in the car every time Aunt Elsie (the Oak Ridge Boys' biggest fan) made the offer - knew exactly what they were missing.

The road from Springfield Airport to Branson is practically a straight, flat line south, pile driving through two-story-high sedimentary limestone that rises up frequently on either side of road. It's a hardscrabble country, favored by Scots and Scots-Irish, for whom the stone crust lying just below the soil's surface must have reminded them of the highlands. Water filters through these rocks, passing into caverns that honeycomb the area. 

In fact, Branson's first touristic success was its caves; one such is Marvel Cave, upon which Silver Dollar City was opened in 1960. Today, Silver Dollar City remains the 1880s Ozark-themed attraction that was so authentic, it was used for location filming of The Beverly Hillbillies back in the day (Jed Clampitt's "home" is still on view). It has roller coasters, water rides, and entertainment like other amusement parks, but it also has a "crafts village," where 100 artisans create glassware, quilts, ironmongery, and other handmade items of extraordinary beauty. I still have a bright orange and yellow vase that I think is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, although my mother derides it as looking like "Dilbert." (It's true: I've always liked Dilbert cartoons.) 

I had been invited to stay in the biggest meetings property in Branson, the Chateau on the Lake, and to sample Branson's entertainment. Modern Branson's first home-steading performer was Roy Clark (who was welcomed into the Country Music Hall of Fame last week); his eponymous theater opened in 1983. But when I first visited Branson in 1999, there were dozens of theaters, and the highway was peppered with their billboards, of which the most incongruous were Shoji, the violinist from Japan; and Yakov Smirnoff, the Russian comedian. Most of Branson's performers, however, dated from the era when America had only three TV channels - CBS, NBC, and ABC - and "cable" was something you sent people when you had no phone service. 

Still, I was thrilled to see Mel Tillis in concert, and meet Andy Williams, whose NBC show I had watched each week as a kid, at the new Atlanta Bread Company outlet. (He was in tennis whites, on his way to play a few games with Shoji.)

Later we went to an ice ballet at Williams' Moon River Theater. Williams is an art collector; I once saw him get out of a limo in front of New York City's Museum of Modern Art in a dazzling white suit. The lobby of Moon River is filled with his personal objets d'art, including his Japanese kimono collection and some choice oil paintings. I say "choice," because I only had eyes for one: a portrait of a female chimpanzee, sweating in Renaissance dress. This was my introduction to Donald Roller Wilson.

After the show, we were taken backstage to Williams' personal dressing room, which was really a small apartment, filled with luxurious white furnishings and a higher grade of art. (I seem to remember a Picasso print, and a table sculpture resembling Degas, but I may be mistaken.) But what elicited comment was a bowl of change, sitting on a coffee table. "A guy like this, and he keeps his change in a bowl, like everyone else," mused one of the group.

 

Hit the Road, Jack

In the summer of 2004*, on a beautiful night in June that was my last in London, I decided to take a "Jack the Ripper" walking tour. Following the instructions on the brochure I picked up at the British Tourist Office across the street from my host hotel, the 186-room Sofitel St. James, I took the Underground to Tower Hill Station. The Tower itself stood across the Thames, alone and serene. As our "London Walks" guide identified herself to the gathering group and began to take our money, I glanced over to that grim prison-cum-palace, seemingly unchanged since its Tudor heyday—although it's now quite possible to hold events there (as well as at three other notable residences through Historic Royal Palaces).

But on my side of the Thames, it was a different story. Around me was a modern neighborhood, maybe a little untidy, but basically indistinguishable from any large city's central business district. 

 

That would change. As we trotted at a lively pace through the concrete canyons, a building peeked out in the distance that looked like a giant cigar in its wrapper. "What is that?" I asked. "That's 30 St. Mary Axe," the guide yelled back, as she rushed us to the scene of a grisly murder. Having just opened the month before, the avant-garde exterior of 30 St. Mary Axe, headquarters for Swiss Re, the global reinsurance company, was still causing a furor. Some call it the Faberge egg, some call it the "Gherkin"—and those are the ones who are being polite. However, at 40 stories tall, the building commands, at its cigar-tip top, a restaurant with a ravishing view of London. Private parties "by permission of the landlord" can be done with dinner seating for 75 and reception space for 260.

 

Unfortunately, we had no time to gab about The Gherkin—daylight was burning and we had a date with a curb. Hey, I'm not kidding. "I want you all to use your imaginations," implored our guide for the first (but not the last) time. We all stared intently at the curb at Mitre Square as she began to describe atrocities committed there to Catherine Eddowes on September 30, 1888—the last of the Ripper's outdoor victims. The surroundings are now genteel, but hearing detail heaped on gory detail (slashing and ritual disemboweling), my imagination did indeed kick in. Addressing the singular anonymity of the site, the guide said that the crime scene was once commemorated by a plaque, but it was pried out and stolen within a matter of hours. 

 

On we went. The murky, dangerous Whitechapel slums, where Jack the Ripper escaped detection while killing and mutilating his victims, have pretty much disappeared, reformed and made wholesome by time and the fierce determination of city planning. Some buildings, like Christ Church—which date from the period—and Spitalfields Markets (revamped in the '20s) are still around, and several area pubs, like the Ten Bells, one of the original pubs where hapless prostitutes plied their trade, capitalize on the notoriety. Even so, the guides really do have their work cut out for them. At one point, having been exhorted once again to "use my imagination" to envision Victorian London around me, I saw, instead, the spanking-modern Travelodge London City in front of me. It was then that my imagination took a back seat to my common sense, which told me, "This is your last night in London. Stop looking at things that aren't there!" 

 

With that, the walking tour now became a brief but aerobic exploration of living London. Our group whisked through "Banglatown," filled with colorful shops, throbbing music, and intriguing Asian restaurants. We walked up back lanes, some of which still looked dicey, and some that were offering luxury condos with preserved historical facades. 

 

I guess having been brought up on a diet of Masterpiece Theatre costume dramas, I expected London to be frozen in time. Certainly, there were many efforts to preserve the past; the Sofitel St. James, which had invited me on this inspection, was the former Cox's and King's Bank. Behind its historic exterior, each office had been converted in a deluxe room (with meeting and conference space for up to 170 on the lower level). A previous walk had taken me across the Millennium Bridge to the fabulous London Eye, the phenomenal Ferris wheel that can transport up to 25 passengers in one of its private capsules. Those developments were in what was always the hoity-toity part of town; but, in fact, even London's East End has been undergoing an astounding renaissance, particularly the docklands of Canary Wharf and the Isle of Dogs, where luxury properties and venues are springing up.

 

The Ripper tour concluded in what looked like a village, but what was, of all things, low-income "council" housing. As a Q&A period took place under a streetlight, I looked around in the gloaming, envying the people, their homes, and their well-kept community. 

 

Lord knows what they thought of me. These Ripper tours, which have always been popular (after all, it's Jack the Ripper!), were the brief subject of unrest back in 2001, when anticipation of the film From Hell swelled the tour numbers into the hundreds around the clock. At the time, this had angered locals, who resented a gawking mob clogging the sidewalks. By last year, however, the tour I attended had subsided to a still-respectable 50, which was then divided in two. 

As applause and people scattering marked the end of the tour, I wondered in hindsight: If I were planning a group's night out, I would certainly put this on the itinerary—but not on the last night of the trip, should anyone want to revisit some of the remaining historic sites. Some of those shops and restaurants had looked really tantalizing, and the crew at the Ten Bells was certainly lively. I wished I had time to regroup and do all those things, and go up in the Eye, too. But no, it was late, I had already lost my sense of direction, and still had to go back to the hotel and pack. 

Looking back on this experience, I will just have to use my imagination.

*Originally published May 2005, in Successful Meetings magazine

The Summer of Bubba

This blog is dedicated to Ron Brown, who died too young. 

On a spring day in 1992 I was listening on the radio and heard that Bill Clinton's campaign was in the red by $4 million. Although I had yet to decide on a candidate, I called his campaign and pledged $25.

I didn't have a lot of money back then; I'd been laid off from my job and was still looking for work. But it remains to date the best investment I ever made. Almost immediately, I began to receive tschotckes in the mail: bumper stickers, hats that said Rapid Response Team, a copy of A Place Called Hope, and ultimately an invitation to the Clinton Inaugural. Oh, and I got Bill Clinton for president. But most thrilling at the time was an invitation to volunteer for the 1992 Democratic National Convention, which was taking place at New York's Madison Square Garden from July 13 to 16.

Prospective volunteers met in an airless office near Madison Square Garden. A Democratic Party employee gave us our guidelines and, after cautioning us that the decision for President candidate had yet to be made, grabbed a tiny Arkansas flag off his desk, started waving it and crying, "Yay!"

Volunteership itself turned out to be unexciting; stashed in the pressroom over in the Hotel Pennsylvania across the street from the Garden, we answered phones and distributed copies of speeches that were being made on the floor. Thanks to a wonky loudspeaker, we could hear roars from the arena but not what they were in response to. Plus, there were too many of us, and not enough work.

I was bored; the only celebrity I'd seen was P.J. O'Rourke.

Then, as a treat, the Party let the volunteers into the convention. We were restricted, however, to the fifth level, which granted us the same access privileges as the delegates from the U.S. Territory of American Samoa.

Compared to the Samoans, the figures onstage were ants. So, while the loudspeakers blared famous speeches given by people who have since passed into history, I studied my neighbors.

The Samoan men wore guayabera shirts with colorful sarongs. They appeared to have a low center of gravity and a rolling walk that seemed - to me - very attractive.

But after a half hour, I was ready to watch the convention from my living room TV.

Confirming that they had enough volunteers to keep them going, I took off for home, where my boyfriend was unimpressed with my attempts to walk like a Samoan.

But from then on, the meteoric rise of Bill Clinton was undisputed. The culmination was final nomination. They'd sent Clinton, Hillary, Chelsea, and the rest of the entourage across the street from the Garden - to Macy's, in the middle of the night, to look at shirts. Shirts!

When the nomination came in, and Clinton was brought back, the cheering was deafening and not confined to the Garden. It was truly one of the most memorable nights of my life.

But life didn't come to a stand still just 'cause the Democrats were in town. Nossir. That week, up in Albany, the New York Court of Appeals had struck down a six-year-old decency conviction against seven women who removed their shirts in 1986, to protest laws that allowed men to go sunbathe topless but not women. Toplessness was now the right of every woman (in New York)! In honor of the "Topfree Seven," the city went silly: a topless bar owner sent topless women around in a makeshift float, waving like it was a combination Rose Bowl and Mardi Gras. They made a circuit around the Garden while the convention was going on, probably picking up some customers.

Back then, on Saturday mornings, I usually walked a few blocks over to a Dunkin' Donuts, where I would enjoy a toasted, buttered bagel. That I would do this attests to my love of toasted, buttered bagels, since the journey was a freakin' war zone that crossed a line of anti-abortion protesters and the abortion clinic they targeted. A crowd of four, praying, with rosaries extended, was usually there to confront women in orange bibs helping women entering the clinic.

The Saturday after the Convention was no exception - except for one VERY BIG DIFFERENCE: in front of the prayer crowd kneeled four young, beautiful blondes. They were wearing grass skirts, they had flowers in their hair, and they were topless. And, they were giggling.

I stood there for so long, slackjawed, that a woman in orange finally approached me and asked if I'd like to be escorted into the clinic.

As I said, it was a time I'll never forget.

Gone Tiki

Just say "Hawai'i" like the locals do (Ha-VI-ee) and the word sets off a sensory overload: air laden with exotic flowers, gentle rains that bring out double rainbows, the twang of slack key guitar. Friendly people with a sonorous, rhythmic language. Shave ice. A dramatic landscape that is both nurturing and cruel.

That I first visited that beautiful, inspiring land on business - business! - is almost deflating. Almost, but not quite, since, among other things, I got to experience two Gods of Tiki.

The O'ahu Visitors Bureau, which regularly invites media, brought me to Hawai'i in April 1998 as part of a general five-day press tour. My husband and I were greeted by a limousine driver, who presented us each with a lei (the first of many), escorted us to a white stretch limousine (the first of many) and drove us to the Hyatt Regency Waikiki. Following a quick change, a cocktail reception overlooking the small but regular waves of Waikiki Beach and the setting sun, we were off to see the legendary Don Ho, who was performing at the Waikiki Beachcomber.

Our group was ushered into a darkened venue to some back tables, because the performance was already in progress. Ho, resplendent in a dazzling white suit, lounged onstage in the type of rattan chair favored by Morticia Addams. Next to the chair was a small table with a white phone. Occasionally he picked up the receiver and talked into it, and then there would be a flurry of waiter activity in the audience. (Once, he spoke, and a waiter suddenly appeared at our table. "Mr. Ho wants you to have these," he said, brandishing copies of Ho's stateside concert schedule.)

The show itself was made up of variety acts, which Ho introduced. One act was performed by one of Ho's children - a young daughter - who sang country western and Christian music very prettily. When she left the stage, Ho reminisced about a conversation he'd had with a friend: "He said, 'Don, you still having children?' I said, 'Yeah, yeah.'" (He was about 67 at the time, and passed away nine years later.)

In fact, his reminiscences and stories are what I remember best. "The original Hawaiians had no music," he claimed. "When the missionaries came, they built a church and on Sundays, they would sing hymns. Then the people would come, gather around, and listen at the door, because they had never heard sounds like that before." The show ended with his singing "Pearly Shells," after which we fanned out to buy our respective Don Ho T-shirts.

It was toward the end of the trip, when we had some free time, that Lee suggested we pay a visit to Martin Denny, who, like Les Baxter and Arthur Lyman, was one of the fathers of what some call "tiki" music and others characterize as "'60s bachelor pad". Denny lived on the Gold Coast, which is the on other side of Diamondhead, the same as the luxurious Kahala Hotel. His was a mountainside condo with a breathtaking 358-degree view (he informed us) of the coastline and featuring Diamondhead. 

Since it was May 1, which is "Lei Day" in Hawai'i, I purchased a beautiful and fragrant lei at a newsstand on Kalakaua Avenue. As Denny opened the door, I presented it to him and wished him a happy Lei Day. He thanked me and led us into the living room, which boasted the aforesaid view, a grand piano, some recording equipment, and much, much memorabilia of a life in the islands.

Denny was agitated; his wife was in the hospital, and he could only grant us a few minutes. But he grew comfortable with Lee, and they were soon talking about Don the Beachcomber, who lived in a beach hut near the Moana, Surfrider, and Royal Hawaiian hotels, and spent his time developing powerful cocktails. The hut eventually became the original eponymous tiki bar (and later the site of Duke's Waikiki), and the Moana Surfrider combined as a Sheraton, where Denny perfected his "exotic tones" in the lounge. "There were a bunch of bands," he said, referring to Lyman and Baxter, "and we were always trying to outdo the other." (The Moana Surfrider is now a Westin, and the Royal Hawaiian a Starwood Luxury Collection property; but subsequent renovations have restored their sense of Hawai'iana while also improving on amenities. Everyone should check them out.)

In his eighties, Denny was still involved in music. Sitting at the piano, he played us a little bit of a song he was working on. But as daylight waned, he grew restive again about his wife. It was time to leave.

As we stood at the door, saying our farewells, we started talking about Don Blanding, the creator of Lei Day. "He loved the islands," said Denny, "and he wanted there to be a holiday where everybody celebrated the custom." Closing the door, he gave me a final wave, adding, "Thanks for the lei."

My Year of Hotness

This blog is dedicated to my high school friend Jane Barrell, who, so far, is my only follower.

In 1975, while still in high school, I attracted the attention of a disproportionate number of famous men. By disproportionate I mean three: Michael Palin, Raul Julia, and Tony Randall. The circumstances were as varied as the characters involved.

That year, Monty Python and the Holy Grail debuted at a theater on the East Side of Manhattan, with a promotion that the first 200 ticket holders would be handed a coconut by the Python crew. My friend Daphne and I were among the lucky ticket holders, but this brush with greatness was way too brief for our taste. (I mean, Terry Gilliam just handed me a coconut in the theater lobby, and then I was out on the street before I could say, "umm . . ."!) As we were arguing with theater security that we should have more access, someone broke into a sidedoor. Security went on a high-speed chase, and we went in through the front door.

"Michael!" I cried, as Michael Palin emerged from somewhere in a white suit and fedora, followed by Jones and Gilliam. "Could I have your autograph?" Certainly, he said, scribbling it on a piece of paper - to which he added his hotel phone number! This I handed off to Daphne, who was more of a Palin fan than me (how much more, he would soon discover to his utter dismay), while I had my coconut signed by Jones and Gilliam. 

In my mind's eye, I often wonder what prompted that phone number invitation. I see myself wearing overalls, Olaf Daughters clogs; my long brown hair in braids, my eyes bespectacled.

The encounter with Raul Julia was normal, by comparison. Alfred Uhry, who would later go on to win awards for Driving Miss Daisy, was then teaching acting at our high school, Calhoun. Alfred allowed us to see his play, The Robber Bridegroom, which was then in rehearsals. In the lead (in a role that would later fall to Kevin Kline and then to Barry Bostwick) was Raul Julia.

You who only know Julia as Gomez in The Addams Family have to understand: In 1975, he was attached to all the cultural touchstones of '70s Manhattan. He had appeared on Sesame Street as Raphael; he was part of Joseph Papp's Public Theater and had helped bring Two Gentlemen of Verona from Central Park to Broadway. He would go on to star on Broadway in The Three Penny Opera and Nine (and take over from Frank Langella in Dracula); and where other actors put their CVs and shoutouts in Play Bill, Julia wrote poetry. So when Alfred introduced his students to Julia, I was one of the most dewy-eyed. But when he later told me that Julia had said of me, "Dot's a cute girl," I was transported. 

And what was I wearing? Overalls, Olaf Daughters clogs, braids, glasses. The only differences were a brown suede poncho, fringed and Hot Sox.

The most incomprehensible encounter was with Tony Randall. I was a babysitter for two children who lived in a Central Park West apartment house, and I was waiting for them in the building's lobby, when Tony Randall entered, wearing sunglasses. Seeing me, he immediately charged at me, yelling, "I TOLD YOU TO WAIT IN THE . . ." When he got six inches away, he whipped off his sunglasses, stared intently at my startled face, said, "Sorry, wrong person," and disappeared into the elevator. The doormen ran up to me, saying, "Do you know who that was?" Yes, I answered, "but who did he think I was?"

And what was I wearing? Overalls, Olaf Daughters clogs, braids, glasses.

Obviously, dressed like that, I wasn't expecting to woo any of these men with womanly wiles (had I wanted to, I would have donned French jeans, a peasant blouse, and some glitter eyeshadow). But a social historian might say that this was the uniform of most mid '70s New York City women, aged 15 to 35. We were Godspell ragamuffins, on the brink of transforming into either Annie Hall ragamuffins or Spandexed disco queens. 

But if it was a uniform, it didn't stand in the way of my getting attention from the most unlikely prospects. Score one for hotness.

Shadow Launch

Welcome to Shadow of Greatness, where I hope to share my thoughts on being part of something bigger, whether it's a relationship, a community, or the universe.

Mine will be the stories of a boon companion to all of the above, but for my first blog, I think I'll start closer to home.

As I sit, surrounded by papers, books, USB drives, floppy disks, computer software, external devices, audio tapes, and generations of recording devices, I can't help but think I am in the shadow of greatness.

(Seriously, were any of these to topple, they might pin me to the ground.)

They are the outward manifestations of my husband, Lee Server, whose biographies of Robert Mitchum and Ava Gardner have taken the two of us all over the U.S., Europe, Australia, and Mexico, in search of their particular brand of star dust.

One of the first trips was for the Mitchum book in May of 1998. We were in Los Angeles, on a layover to Hawaii, when Lee contacted Edward Dmytryk. Dmytryk, considered the Father of Film Noir, lived in Encino on a street of alpine proportions and in a house that jutted over a canyon. The view was breathtaking but a little scary.

The interview, which was contracted to take 15 minutes because of Dymtryk's health (he would die on July 1, 1999, at the age of 90), ultimately spanned the entire afternoon, as Lee, Edward, and Edward's wife, the former Jean Porter, reminisced about Mitchum, the movies, the art of film noir lighting, location shooting, and everything but the Black List - the infamous commie-hunting time when Dmytryk was jailed as one of the Hollywood Ten. (At least, that's how I remember it.)

Lastly, the three began discussing Lo sbarco di Anzio (1968), a WWII film shot on location in Italy, where the army extras were given rubber rifles that wobbled in the hot sun (and in the dailies). Porter remembered she had given a party to buck up the cast, beleaguered as they were by weather and other ills associated with location work.

At one point, Porter, who had also starred with Mitchum in the Dmytryk-directed Till the End of Time (1946), reached up and pulled a framed poem off the wall. It turned out to be one that Mitchum had written to her on the set of the film, typed out on the thin smudgy paper I remembered pre-computer era as "corrasible bond."

Finally, we bid adieu when our hosts were just this side of exhaustion. Driving back to LAX as the sunset was pinkening the marble of the newly built Getty Museum up on a hill, we were relaxed and happy. Lee counted the interview a major step taken toward the book. It was - the first of many.