The warm sun beat down on me, a sensation I had not experienced for several months. I was attempting to garner enough sunshine to see me through the last cold. cruel weeks awaiting me when I returned home without developing the shade of a boiled lobster. A tiny finch with a yellow head kept me company for a short while, hopping and fluttering among the cactus that inhabit my host's back yard. Baseball's spring training was in full swing evidenced by the number of small jets flying overhead, my own packed flight to Phoenix and conversations overheard, not only on the plane but also in bars and restaurants around town.
We have developed a Friday tradition of Happy Hour drinks at a particular bar in town followed by dinner to soak up the alcoholic beverages before reindulging latter. The place always seems busy at this hour. A large portion of the "action" seems to occur on the patio area, the only place where smoking is permitted. We people watch, one of my favorite activities, particularly in less familiar enviorments. A shirtless, so young as to be almost dewy, man is vending jello shots for a charity. A large, powerful, somewhat rough looking man, complete with shaved bald head and a nose ring sits nearby. From the number of men clustered around him he seems a very popular fellow. Though due to his extreme size he would be difficult to ignore. Saying "Oh, I didn't see you there" would sound implausible as an excuse for not saying hello to him. One of my hosts gets a text on Scruff from someone 124 feet away. We chatter, imbibe and generally while the evening away before retiring.
Saturday morning arrives where after hitting the local Einsteins for coffee and bagels we hit the gym. L..A. Fitness has signs in all their locations warning of the dangers of steroid use. To some, it appears, these warnings fall on deaf ears. In Chicago the back acne, a tell tell sign of the use of the muscle building substance is seen primarily, at least in my experience, on Latino men. Here young white men seem to be the major abusers. Perhaps it is the feeling of invincibility among the young that leads them down this ultimately unhealthy path. Aside from the damage to the liver and heart, there is the coarsening of the facial features resulting from the practice. Unlike the damage to the lungs caused by cigarette smoking, none of the problems disappear even if steroid use is stopped. There are several men I have known who look far older than their years, their almost ogre like appearance a result of steroid use in their youth. The final irony I find in this is that by and large, the development on many of these people is not so impressive that it could not be achieved by natural means. The drugs become a substitute for patience and dedication.
Once again I indulged in people watching. In particular the extremely short, rather cute man whose thick chest and wide back muscles narrowed down to an almost impossibly tiny waist, an indication of a small bone structure appropriate for a person of his diminutive stature. He wore a skin tight Under Armour tee shirt emblazoned with the Superman "S" symbol. His taller, older workout partner wore an identical tee shirt, albeit in a different color, somewhat less successfully. Superman tee shirts, tattoos, etc., to my mind, need to be used with discretion. They are best worn by those who, at least in part, resemble the superhero. I will give a pass to geeks who array themselves thus enroute to Comicon. On Sunday's visit to the gym the same rather lilliputian fellow was just finishing his workout as we arrived, again wearing a Under Armour Superman tee shirt, however in a different color, making me ponder how many of them he owns. Maybe he got lucky once and hit a BOGO sale.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Phoenix 2014 - A Midwest Moment
It was Friday, late morning and a trip to the gym was planned. We arrived and I walked about for a few minutes to get an idea where the machines I would be using were located, always a challenge at an unfamiliar workout facility. During gym visits at this hour I often find myself pondering what others who are there do for a living. What profession could you be in where you would have free time at 11:45 a.m. on a weekday? Perhaps these same people are pondering a like question about me. Fair enough. Some are old enough to perhaps be retired. Some may be prosperous enough to set their own hours. Certainly people in the airline industry, or like myself, in retail, work erratic, non traditional schedules. Restaurant and bar workers are two other possibilities.
I was wearing an old tee shirt, the sleeves cut off long ago, picked up during a visit to Cedar Point, an amusement park in Sandusky, Ohio, notable for it's sizable collection of roller coasters. One youngish man asked me where Cedar Point was. "Ohio" I replied, thinking nothing of my answer. He then told me his mother had a summer home at a place called Cedar Beach in Maine. I smiled, nodded politely and continued my workout.
It was only sometime later that I realized how foreign Ohio may have sounded to the inquisitive lad. From Chicago Cedar Point is a 5 to 6 hour drive away. From an Arizona perspective it could well be viewed as being on another planet.
It was a moment where those famous words echoed through my head, I'm paraphrasing here, "Toto, I don't think we're in Chicago anymore!"
I was wearing an old tee shirt, the sleeves cut off long ago, picked up during a visit to Cedar Point, an amusement park in Sandusky, Ohio, notable for it's sizable collection of roller coasters. One youngish man asked me where Cedar Point was. "Ohio" I replied, thinking nothing of my answer. He then told me his mother had a summer home at a place called Cedar Beach in Maine. I smiled, nodded politely and continued my workout.
It was only sometime later that I realized how foreign Ohio may have sounded to the inquisitive lad. From Chicago Cedar Point is a 5 to 6 hour drive away. From an Arizona perspective it could well be viewed as being on another planet.
It was a moment where those famous words echoed through my head, I'm paraphrasing here, "Toto, I don't think we're in Chicago anymore!"
Phoenix 2014 - Time Zone Shuffle
The local time in Phoenix is one hour earlier that Chicago. We landed 40 minutes early. Last year I loaded 30 minutes early. I'm beginning to think it's me. If this scenario continues I may, one day, land before I take off. I've noticed on previous visits the difference between my personal tolerance to heat and cold and that exhibited by the year round residents of a desert clime. Hence I found myself barechested in the backyard attempting to make my skin somewhat less opaque while the locals are donning sweatshirts, it being a mere 72 degrees outside.
The remainder of the day passes in a pleasant, relaxed, uneventful fashion. We take the dog to the dog park. Fenced areas divide the dogs by size and level of mischief. The dog meets and plays with her dog friends while we eye a deeply tanned, powerful looking, "hot in a serial killer sort of way" to quote my host, young man attempting to excert control over the three large white animals which accompany him, with mixed levels of success. We stroll through the desert garden adjacent to the canine playground discussing the unique architectural detail of river rocks encased in steel mesh which form terrace retaining walls, as well as buttresses and a portion of the facade of the public building in the space. This was followed by a vet visit where the dog stoically endured a shot and probing that less well behaved animals, as well as some humans, might have viewed as somewhat personal and invasive.
Dinner involved "Bloody Mary Margaritas". Grand Manier was added to the usual tequila based beverage; and excellent mexican food was served by a waiter so impossibly young that I can scarcely recall ever being that age. The restaurant, called "The Mission", is next door to a church, with mission inspired architecture, built in 1935. It is located in "Old Scottsdale", a touristy, imagined recreation of the old west. Shops vending western wear and turquoise jewelry line the street which is crisscrossed overhead by strands of tiny white lights. The area teeters on the edge of kitsch, the oversized concrete cowboy boot adorning one corner threatening to throw it headlong into that abyss at any moment.
On the return drive home we pass through an area still held in the hands of a native tribe with the requisite tribal casino resorts. One, the "Talking Stick Resort", led me to remark, "Well, as long as their ancient traditions are remembered and treated with respect!"
The remainder of the day passes in a pleasant, relaxed, uneventful fashion. We take the dog to the dog park. Fenced areas divide the dogs by size and level of mischief. The dog meets and plays with her dog friends while we eye a deeply tanned, powerful looking, "hot in a serial killer sort of way" to quote my host, young man attempting to excert control over the three large white animals which accompany him, with mixed levels of success. We stroll through the desert garden adjacent to the canine playground discussing the unique architectural detail of river rocks encased in steel mesh which form terrace retaining walls, as well as buttresses and a portion of the facade of the public building in the space. This was followed by a vet visit where the dog stoically endured a shot and probing that less well behaved animals, as well as some humans, might have viewed as somewhat personal and invasive.
Dinner involved "Bloody Mary Margaritas". Grand Manier was added to the usual tequila based beverage; and excellent mexican food was served by a waiter so impossibly young that I can scarcely recall ever being that age. The restaurant, called "The Mission", is next door to a church, with mission inspired architecture, built in 1935. It is located in "Old Scottsdale", a touristy, imagined recreation of the old west. Shops vending western wear and turquoise jewelry line the street which is crisscrossed overhead by strands of tiny white lights. The area teeters on the edge of kitsch, the oversized concrete cowboy boot adorning one corner threatening to throw it headlong into that abyss at any moment.
On the return drive home we pass through an area still held in the hands of a native tribe with the requisite tribal casino resorts. One, the "Talking Stick Resort", led me to remark, "Well, as long as their ancient traditions are remembered and treated with respect!"
Phoenix 2014 - Dark and Cold
4:30 a.m., cold, pitch dark. It was too soon in the year for the sun top be up at this hour. Standing under the heat lamp on the El platform I, gym and messenger bag over my shoulder, contemplate the icicles hanging along the edge or the platform's roof. The winter had been harsh. The worst winter in over 3 decades. Feet of snow lie in yards, mountains of it rise along the edges of parking lots, pushed there by plow owners, who are having a very good year. And then there has been the cold. Weeks where the temperatures never break out of the single digit range. Highs in the 20's become a luxury. This season has taken it's toll on even as resilient and proud a transplanted Midwesterner as myself. Usually I laugh at cold, sticking my chin out and bearing forward, daring it to beat me down. At this point I was lying face down in the center of the ring, punch drunk and bloody.
My annual trek to Phoenix is about a precious few days with friends as important to me as, who have become to me over the years, family. Pleasant temperatures near the end of a Chicago winter is a bonus. We don't "do" anything while I am there. We may go visit museums or take a day trip to a nearby attraction. We do go to the gym together, we all have memberships at the same chain, we go grocery shopping or run errands, but it is the time spent in their company that I treasure, so I return to their gracious sunbelt home year after year.
I am accustomed to rising early, my job and commute demand it, albeit not at 3:30 a.m., as I did that day. As I moved through my flight check in and security I found myself envisioning my seat in the plane where I could close my eyes and doze, if only for a short while. Whenever I fly over the U.S. I am amazed by it's abundance of space. There is enough room and wealth for all those who live here to enjoy a rich life. But greed gets in the way. Corporate, personal, it is a human trait I attempt, mostly failing, to understand. I have a comfortable roof over my head, enough food, a few unnecessary, even if by some standards modest, luxuries, many however do not. There are the others who have more than they know what to do with. Wealth that would make a king blush in embarrassment. Yet they seem devoid of concern for those less fortunate. They appear ungrateful for what they have. They exploit labor and damage the enviorment to add to their already almost unfathomable bounty.
A mountain appears in the distance. The peaks appear whitewashed above a certain level, bare below. As we near them I realized that what seemed barren is the portion of the mountains most heavily forested. Although the mountains are completely covered in snow their summits, too cold and inhospitable for vegetation, display their mantel as an unbroken blanket of white.
I wear a suit, a black one due to my employer's strict dress code, and tie to work each day. I had worked 7 days in a row to get 6 days in a row off. The vintage polo bowling shirt emblazoned with the words "Republic Steel" on the back, jeans and gym shoes I wore on the flight felt somewhat odd and foreign to me. I hoped that when I returned to work the suit and tie would seem equally unfamiliar. After that bitter winter, I also hoped that the first blast of 80 degree warmth I was soon to feel on my body would not make it go into shock.
My annual trek to Phoenix is about a precious few days with friends as important to me as, who have become to me over the years, family. Pleasant temperatures near the end of a Chicago winter is a bonus. We don't "do" anything while I am there. We may go visit museums or take a day trip to a nearby attraction. We do go to the gym together, we all have memberships at the same chain, we go grocery shopping or run errands, but it is the time spent in their company that I treasure, so I return to their gracious sunbelt home year after year.
I am accustomed to rising early, my job and commute demand it, albeit not at 3:30 a.m., as I did that day. As I moved through my flight check in and security I found myself envisioning my seat in the plane where I could close my eyes and doze, if only for a short while. Whenever I fly over the U.S. I am amazed by it's abundance of space. There is enough room and wealth for all those who live here to enjoy a rich life. But greed gets in the way. Corporate, personal, it is a human trait I attempt, mostly failing, to understand. I have a comfortable roof over my head, enough food, a few unnecessary, even if by some standards modest, luxuries, many however do not. There are the others who have more than they know what to do with. Wealth that would make a king blush in embarrassment. Yet they seem devoid of concern for those less fortunate. They appear ungrateful for what they have. They exploit labor and damage the enviorment to add to their already almost unfathomable bounty.
A mountain appears in the distance. The peaks appear whitewashed above a certain level, bare below. As we near them I realized that what seemed barren is the portion of the mountains most heavily forested. Although the mountains are completely covered in snow their summits, too cold and inhospitable for vegetation, display their mantel as an unbroken blanket of white.
I wear a suit, a black one due to my employer's strict dress code, and tie to work each day. I had worked 7 days in a row to get 6 days in a row off. The vintage polo bowling shirt emblazoned with the words "Republic Steel" on the back, jeans and gym shoes I wore on the flight felt somewhat odd and foreign to me. I hoped that when I returned to work the suit and tie would seem equally unfamiliar. After that bitter winter, I also hoped that the first blast of 80 degree warmth I was soon to feel on my body would not make it go into shock.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Degrees of Seperation - Part Three of Three - Roddy McDowell and Assorted Royals
The final story that evening involved our roommates boyfriend. He had, at one time, a roommate whose exquisite beauty was only matched, so the tale went, by his extreme vapidity and supreme stupidity. They described him as "pretty dumb", just dumb enough to use his pretty. They swore on the bible that whenever the conversation in the room rose to a level above his lovely head he would start singing "Jingle Bells" no matter what the season and attempt to get all others in the room to join in.
This beguiling creature had been for a period of time the boy toy of the famous actor Roddy McDowell. Around Hollywood this position was known to not contain a high level of job security. Mr. McDowell was apparently quite fickle and easily bored.
Working in an L.A. area wine shop the pretty one was sent one evening to deliver a bottle of wine to Mr. McDowell at a hotel. Upon arriving the man at the desk told him Mr. McDowell was out, he would take the wine and see that it got to him. The lovely one declared "I'll wait" and took a seat in the lobby. When Mr. McDowell returned he walked up to him, wine in hand saying "Here's your wine Mr. McDowell."
Sometime later the young man and the actor were in London preparing to go out to dinner. Apparently the position of Mr. McDowell's boy Du jour, while being a short lived career, did have it's advantages. The actor told him that there was a surprise in store for him at dinner. When they arrived at the restaurant they were joined by...Princess Margaret...dashing through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh.....
After dinner the princess remarked that there were to be fireworks that evening in celebration of the queen's silver jubilee and she knew of a room in the palace where they would be able to get a great view of them....over the fields we go, laughing all the way......
A motorcade appeared out of nowhere and whisked them to Buckingham Palace. They discovered, upon arriving at the legendary royal residence, sitting in the room preparing to view the fireworks with them, 2 ladies in waiting and her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second.....JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE ALL THE WAY!!!!!!!!!!
After the fireworks the Queen turned to the young lad and inquired "Is this your first time at the palace?". She then proceeded to take him on a personal tour pointing out the masterworks of art and priceless pieces of English history housed in the venerable building.
Alas, Roddy soon tired of him and turned him out as he had soon many others before him. The lad found himself sharing an apartment in a seedy area of L.A. with our roommates boyfriend, still attempting to get all in the room to sing a chorus of Jingle Bells, no matter what the season, when the conversation began to rise above his pretty head.
This beguiling creature had been for a period of time the boy toy of the famous actor Roddy McDowell. Around Hollywood this position was known to not contain a high level of job security. Mr. McDowell was apparently quite fickle and easily bored.
Working in an L.A. area wine shop the pretty one was sent one evening to deliver a bottle of wine to Mr. McDowell at a hotel. Upon arriving the man at the desk told him Mr. McDowell was out, he would take the wine and see that it got to him. The lovely one declared "I'll wait" and took a seat in the lobby. When Mr. McDowell returned he walked up to him, wine in hand saying "Here's your wine Mr. McDowell."
Sometime later the young man and the actor were in London preparing to go out to dinner. Apparently the position of Mr. McDowell's boy Du jour, while being a short lived career, did have it's advantages. The actor told him that there was a surprise in store for him at dinner. When they arrived at the restaurant they were joined by...Princess Margaret...dashing through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh.....
After dinner the princess remarked that there were to be fireworks that evening in celebration of the queen's silver jubilee and she knew of a room in the palace where they would be able to get a great view of them....over the fields we go, laughing all the way......
A motorcade appeared out of nowhere and whisked them to Buckingham Palace. They discovered, upon arriving at the legendary royal residence, sitting in the room preparing to view the fireworks with them, 2 ladies in waiting and her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second.....JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE ALL THE WAY!!!!!!!!!!
After the fireworks the Queen turned to the young lad and inquired "Is this your first time at the palace?". She then proceeded to take him on a personal tour pointing out the masterworks of art and priceless pieces of English history housed in the venerable building.
Alas, Roddy soon tired of him and turned him out as he had soon many others before him. The lad found himself sharing an apartment in a seedy area of L.A. with our roommates boyfriend, still attempting to get all in the room to sing a chorus of Jingle Bells, no matter what the season, when the conversation began to rise above his pretty head.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Degrees of Seperation - Part two of Three - Katherine Hepburn
Our storyteller continued.
"It was the final day of the conference and my magazine was hosting a cocktail party at the Waldorf" referring to the legendary, world famous New York hotel.
A doctor approached him. He explained that he had written a paper and did not have the opportunity to present it at the conference. He wondered if the magazine would consider it for publication. Our storyteller agreed to take a look at it. The doctor said that he was staying with a friend just a couple of blocks away. Would he mind coming with him so he could give him a copy of it. They left the hotel and made their way to the home where the doctor was staying.
They entered through the kitchen, which, like many houses in New York, was several steps below sidewalk level. The doctor's wife and a maid were in the kitchen setting up trays for a party which would be taking place there. They doctor led our storyteller into a hallway containing a staircase and gestured to a room off to one side. He asked him to wait there while he went upstairs to get a copy of the paper.
Our storyteller admitted that hind sight can be 20/20 but he distinctly remembers the room having a certain feeling about it which made him wonder whose home he was in. In the room were two tables, each of which held a book with a silver foil cover. One cover read "To Kate, From Her Crew, The Philadelphia Story". He told us that he thought perhaps the homeowner had written a story about Philadelphia. Turning his gaze to the other book the cover read "To Kate, From Her Crew, As You Like It." Looking back at the first book he saw, on the cover, the signature of actor Van Heflin. Returning to the second book he gingerly lifted the cover. On the first page was a well known studio portrait from Katherine Hepburn's famous Broadway production of the Shakespeare comedy.
He heard a noise in the hallway and moved to the door. The stage and screen legend was descending the stairs. Ms. Hepburn was notoriously frightened and suspicious of the public. He, being unknown to her, caused Ms. Hepburn to stop and retreat back a couple of steps. He quickly stammered that he was with the doctor who would be coming down with a paper he had written for him to review. She relaxed and asked him if he knew where the doctor's wife was. After informing her that she was in the kitchen she thanked him and swept past him into the kitchen.
The doctor returned with the paper and began to point out what he felt were the most important areas of his study. Our storyteller, stunned, didn't hear a word of what the poor hapless man was saying.
They returned to the kitchen to leave. As they passed through the room the doctor introduced our storyteller to Hepburn saying "He's the editor of "The Cancer Review".
Hepburn's father and brother were both doctors.
"The Cancer Review", she replied. "Yes, I know it."
He explained, still stammering, that he had to return to the party he was hosting at the Waldorf.
Hepburn said "Why don't you stay for our party."
He politely declined, explaining that he was the host of the fete at the hotel and was obligated to return as soon as possible bidding the group farewell.
The group In our kitchen sat in absolute, rapt silence. Finally my roommate found his voice. From his lips came two words.
"YOU FOOL!"
"It was the final day of the conference and my magazine was hosting a cocktail party at the Waldorf" referring to the legendary, world famous New York hotel.
A doctor approached him. He explained that he had written a paper and did not have the opportunity to present it at the conference. He wondered if the magazine would consider it for publication. Our storyteller agreed to take a look at it. The doctor said that he was staying with a friend just a couple of blocks away. Would he mind coming with him so he could give him a copy of it. They left the hotel and made their way to the home where the doctor was staying.
They entered through the kitchen, which, like many houses in New York, was several steps below sidewalk level. The doctor's wife and a maid were in the kitchen setting up trays for a party which would be taking place there. They doctor led our storyteller into a hallway containing a staircase and gestured to a room off to one side. He asked him to wait there while he went upstairs to get a copy of the paper.
Our storyteller admitted that hind sight can be 20/20 but he distinctly remembers the room having a certain feeling about it which made him wonder whose home he was in. In the room were two tables, each of which held a book with a silver foil cover. One cover read "To Kate, From Her Crew, The Philadelphia Story". He told us that he thought perhaps the homeowner had written a story about Philadelphia. Turning his gaze to the other book the cover read "To Kate, From Her Crew, As You Like It." Looking back at the first book he saw, on the cover, the signature of actor Van Heflin. Returning to the second book he gingerly lifted the cover. On the first page was a well known studio portrait from Katherine Hepburn's famous Broadway production of the Shakespeare comedy.
He heard a noise in the hallway and moved to the door. The stage and screen legend was descending the stairs. Ms. Hepburn was notoriously frightened and suspicious of the public. He, being unknown to her, caused Ms. Hepburn to stop and retreat back a couple of steps. He quickly stammered that he was with the doctor who would be coming down with a paper he had written for him to review. She relaxed and asked him if he knew where the doctor's wife was. After informing her that she was in the kitchen she thanked him and swept past him into the kitchen.
The doctor returned with the paper and began to point out what he felt were the most important areas of his study. Our storyteller, stunned, didn't hear a word of what the poor hapless man was saying.
They returned to the kitchen to leave. As they passed through the room the doctor introduced our storyteller to Hepburn saying "He's the editor of "The Cancer Review".
Hepburn's father and brother were both doctors.
"The Cancer Review", she replied. "Yes, I know it."
He explained, still stammering, that he had to return to the party he was hosting at the Waldorf.
Hepburn said "Why don't you stay for our party."
He politely declined, explaining that he was the host of the fete at the hotel and was obligated to return as soon as possible bidding the group farewell.
The group In our kitchen sat in absolute, rapt silence. Finally my roommate found his voice. From his lips came two words.
"YOU FOOL!"
Degrees of Seperation - Part One of Three - Edith Piaf
During my days in San Francisco, sharing a flat with 2 others, one was never sure who one would discover hanging out when returning home. One evening I discovered 2 gentlemen I was unfamiliar with seated in the kitchen with both my roommates and the younger roommates boyfriend. The boyfriend was studying film in L.A. while our roommate was studying nursing in S.F. while working part time at an organic grocery. They were both rather "natural". The 2 visitors were friends of the L.A. boyfriend who had dropped by while he was in town for the weekend. One of them, in his middle 40's, had the somewhat leering nature that can occasionally be encountered in middle aged gay men. Myself, being occasionally referred to as "reserved", has found over the years that this behavior generally creeps me out. However, as he had led a fascinating life, traveled the world and began to regale us with tales of his adventures, I , for the moment at least, choose to overlook his lascivious nature.
He mentioned, quite casually, "Did I ever tell you about the time I met Edith Piaf and Katherine Hepburn during a trip to New York?"
Having never met him I was quite certain that I had never heard it. Had I known him I am quite certain I would have remembered this story had I heard it before. All agreed that we were not familiar with the tale and so he began.
He was in New York, attending a conference. It was a medical conference, he was an editor of a medical journal at the time. Edith Piaf, the French chanteuse, was performing at one of the supper clubs common in posh hotels of the era. Sadly, most of these spaces are now used for storage. One evening, on a drunken dare, he was challenged to see how far he could get to seeing Ms. Piaf perform using only his wits. No money could exchange hands. Affecting a Texas accent he phoned the club saying that when he was in Paris he missed seeing Piaf by only a few days, he continued, saying he was in town on a per diem arrangement with a Dallas newspaper he currently worked for and could not afford the cost of seeing her at the hotel. Could something be worked out? Perhaps he could use his imaginary position at the paper to write a story about the performance.
He expected to hear a click as they hung up the phone, however, to his surprise he was instructed to come to the hotel and ask for Bruno.
Arriving at the hotel he saw a large bald man with the neck and shoulders of a bull. He approached him and said "Bruno I presume?"
"No" the bull like man replied, "Come with me, I shall take you to Bruno."
Bruno turned out to be a man of ordinary proportions seated in an office behind a desk. Bruno also, as it happened, had just married a woman from Texas and was in love with all things Texan, including, apparently,a certain Dallas newspaper where our storyteller had an imaginary job as a writer. Bruno mentioned several names at the paper. Familiar with their bylines our storyteller said of course he knew them and expounded on what a great group of guys they were. Bruno told the bull to escort him to the supper club saying, in French, "On the house." Our storyteller knew enough French to figure out what was said by Bruno and once seated in the club ordered an excellent champane and pheasant under glass.
The room had a lower level by the stage and raised levels on either side. He was seated in one of the upper levels. Piaf came onstage. She sang 7 songs. He said he could recite, to that day, which 7 and in what order. When she was finished she left the stage, ascended the steps to the area in which he was seated and disappeared behind a door just a few feet from him. A woman was seated outside the door. Dropping the affected Texas accent he approached the woman. He introduced himself saying that he had written the cover story in a fairly well known magazine of the time, showing her a copy of the issue, which he happened to have in his jacket pocket, and asked if Ms. Piaf would consent to an interview. The woman told him to wait and disappeared behind the door. Shortly the tiny figure of Edith Piaf emerged.
"Tonight" she told him, "I am very tired. This woman, she is my secretary. She will tell you where we are staying and how to reach us. Call me tomorrow and you shall have your interview. "
We sat about the table in stunned silence.
Finally one of us said, "And the interview?"
"I never followed up on it" he replied. "I felt so bad about the way I had scammed my way in I just couldn't!"
He mentioned, quite casually, "Did I ever tell you about the time I met Edith Piaf and Katherine Hepburn during a trip to New York?"
Having never met him I was quite certain that I had never heard it. Had I known him I am quite certain I would have remembered this story had I heard it before. All agreed that we were not familiar with the tale and so he began.
He was in New York, attending a conference. It was a medical conference, he was an editor of a medical journal at the time. Edith Piaf, the French chanteuse, was performing at one of the supper clubs common in posh hotels of the era. Sadly, most of these spaces are now used for storage. One evening, on a drunken dare, he was challenged to see how far he could get to seeing Ms. Piaf perform using only his wits. No money could exchange hands. Affecting a Texas accent he phoned the club saying that when he was in Paris he missed seeing Piaf by only a few days, he continued, saying he was in town on a per diem arrangement with a Dallas newspaper he currently worked for and could not afford the cost of seeing her at the hotel. Could something be worked out? Perhaps he could use his imaginary position at the paper to write a story about the performance.
He expected to hear a click as they hung up the phone, however, to his surprise he was instructed to come to the hotel and ask for Bruno.
Arriving at the hotel he saw a large bald man with the neck and shoulders of a bull. He approached him and said "Bruno I presume?"
"No" the bull like man replied, "Come with me, I shall take you to Bruno."
Bruno turned out to be a man of ordinary proportions seated in an office behind a desk. Bruno also, as it happened, had just married a woman from Texas and was in love with all things Texan, including, apparently,a certain Dallas newspaper where our storyteller had an imaginary job as a writer. Bruno mentioned several names at the paper. Familiar with their bylines our storyteller said of course he knew them and expounded on what a great group of guys they were. Bruno told the bull to escort him to the supper club saying, in French, "On the house." Our storyteller knew enough French to figure out what was said by Bruno and once seated in the club ordered an excellent champane and pheasant under glass.
The room had a lower level by the stage and raised levels on either side. He was seated in one of the upper levels. Piaf came onstage. She sang 7 songs. He said he could recite, to that day, which 7 and in what order. When she was finished she left the stage, ascended the steps to the area in which he was seated and disappeared behind a door just a few feet from him. A woman was seated outside the door. Dropping the affected Texas accent he approached the woman. He introduced himself saying that he had written the cover story in a fairly well known magazine of the time, showing her a copy of the issue, which he happened to have in his jacket pocket, and asked if Ms. Piaf would consent to an interview. The woman told him to wait and disappeared behind the door. Shortly the tiny figure of Edith Piaf emerged.
"Tonight" she told him, "I am very tired. This woman, she is my secretary. She will tell you where we are staying and how to reach us. Call me tomorrow and you shall have your interview. "
We sat about the table in stunned silence.
Finally one of us said, "And the interview?"
"I never followed up on it" he replied. "I felt so bad about the way I had scammed my way in I just couldn't!"
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