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?"