Postscript: Hurricane Irene

All is calm, though not bright, this afternoon in Spanish Harlem. It's gloomily overcast, breezy, but dry. There's a lovely quiet, as the Metro North trains aren't up and running under my windows. The streets are still empty of cars and people. My hope is that everyone got so caught up in playing Monopoly or gin rummy with their families - or actually holding meaningful conversations (shock, horror!) - that they've forgotten to emerge from their apartment buildings.

I could tell you that I sat up all night, monitoring Hurricane Irene, watching the wind and rain do its best - or worst - to stir up trouble. I won't, though. Truth is, I slept through the whole thing. I went to bed around 1pm and didn't wake up until 9:30. Must've needed the sleep. So no Irene war-stories for you, dear readers. Sorry.

No broken windows. No lost power/water. I don't even see much debris on the streets.

Perhaps it was a Chicken Little response by New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, imposing mandatory evacuations and preparing for the worst. However, the devastation that could have taken place if Irene had hit at the right spot and the right strength would have been catastrophic. It's a gamble either way. That said, the local media was way over the top, even if the event had proved apocalyptic. Alas, it was ever thus.

I like to think it proved that New Yorkers can make rational decisions, prepare for potential chaos in an orderly fashion, and follow directions. These are traits not often attributed to New Yorkers, so a collective pat on the back for your solid reason and lack of panic, fellow citizens.

My favorite Mayor Bloomberg moment was when he was asked if preparations were in place to handle looters. He gave the questioner a sort of puzzled, but cock-sure, look and replied, "New Yorkers don't loot. That's not what we do nowadays." Yes, leave that to the likes of Londoners, Los Angelenos, and New Orleansters. It was then I realized that the main qualification of being mayor of New York is that core cock-sureness in New York City and its citizens. Thank you for having such faith in us, Mr. Mayor. (And I hope we would've lived up to your expectations re: looting.)

Now, back to normal. Goodnight Irene, thank you very much.

A Hurricane with a Theme Song

For all you young'uns who don't understand why everyone keeps painting "Goodnight, Irene" on the plywood going up over windows in the hurricane's path, here's the reason.

As we wait for Irene to show us who's boss, we can gather around the old flashlight, grab a guitar and banjo, and sing a few rounds of "Goodnight, Irene," first recorded by Huddie "Lead Belly" Ledbetter in 1932 but made enormously famous by The Weavers in 1950. My daddy used to sing this all the time.

The song has been recorded by everyone from Frank Sinatra to Tom Waits. But for your listening and learning enjoyment, here are the versions by The Weavers and Lead Belly.

You'll be humming this for days to come. Stay safe and start singin'. Goodnight, Irene.

The Gathering Storm

I live on the island of Manhattan, New York City. We get heat waves in the summer, snow storms in the winter. But earthquakes and hurricanes? Pretty darn rare. However, we're ticking off both of those weather boxes this week. Tuesday's earthquake? Meh. The approaching hurricane lovingly named Irene? Mamma mia!

It looks like Miss Irene is heading straight for the World's Biggest Apple. There are mandatory evacuations of hospitals and residents in low-lying areas. The entire public transport system shuts down at noon tomorrow. (So if you're leaving, you'd better get going.) Most Broadway shows have been cancelled Saturday and Sunday. (OK, now things are getting critical.) And if you have the urge to do a little gambling in Atlantic City? Fuggitabahtit. Everything's closed.

My fifth-floor apartment is located just inside Hurricane Zone B. I've never had to gear up for a hurricane, though I've had to get ready for a lot of tornadoes over the years. However, I'm not particularly worried. I'm a mother and a Girl Scout. I've been a PTA president and a television producer. "Prepared" is my middle name (except legally, it's Frances). Anyway.

My biggest fear is losing electrical power and/or water. No. Wait. My biggest fear is loss of life and property. Then my biggest fear is losing power and water. And maybe having the windows blow in on me. But I promise to stay away from those.

But Shorty "Prepared" PJs has plenty of water, non-perishable food stuff (bread, peanut butter, fruit, etc.), flashlight/batteries, candles/matches. I have a land-line phone. (I know! But don't you wish you had one now?) I will keep my BlackBerry, netbook, and iPod plugged in and charging until the power goes, and hope against hope that my little techno-toys maintain power throughout any outage.

My Kindle's clip-on light should allow me to read, whether the power's off or on. (No complaints, there.) Our landlord has asked residents to fill our bathtubs in case we need the extra water for flushing toilets. So I'll do that tomorrow evening. In short, whatever the officials advise me to do, I will do. Plus, anything else I think will keep me safe and comfortable.

This sort of event is where social media shines. Following friends via Facebook, Twitter, and blogs will keep everyone up-to-date minute-by-minute on the emergency and its effects. At the very least it will let friends and family know who's safe or who needs help. Should be an interesting weekend up here.

I can't do a thing about the weather, but I can prepare as best I can. And not be stupid as the wind and rain blow across this island.

Shorty PJs Guide to Audience Etiquette

Follies Performers = +10
Follies Audience = - 492

To Bernadette Peters, Ron Raines, Jan Maxwell, Danny Burstein, Elaine Paige, Jayne Houdyshell, Mary Beth Peil, Terri White, and everyone else in this marvelous cast: Let me apologize for the atrocious behavior of the audience at the Friday, August 19th, 8pm performance.

I estimate at least 40 late seatings in orchestra throughout the first act and a fairly steady stream of folks coming and going on bathroom breaks during the entire show. Was this as distracting to you, Dear Cast, as it was for those of us non-late-bathroom-goers who'd come to bask in the glow of your performances? I have never witnessed such disrespectful behavior by an audience ever in my years of theatre-going.

Who are you people who'd plopped down mucho dinero for prime orchestra seats, only to walk in, out, and around like you were in the middle of watching reality TV in the privacy of your fake-paneled dens with barcaloungers? Well, dearies, it seems you need to brush up on your theatre audience etiquette. So, here are the rules:

1. Never arrive late. Never. The performance time is right there on the ticket. You have plenty of time to get to the theatre, so implement some planning skills. If you arrive late, sit or stand quietly in the back (no chit-chat with the ushers) until intermission. Sorry. If you're late you forfeit your right to a comfy up-close seat for the first act.
2. If you have a cough, allergies, or a tendency to clear your throat every 15 seconds, come prepared. Bring a bottle of water. Unwrap all your cough lozenges before the show starts.
3. Do not guzzle gallons of water, iced tea, or martinis at your pre-theatre pre fixe dinner, unless you have the pee-holding characteristics of a camel. Your need to relieve yourself does not take precedence over the rest of us who get views blocked and concentration broken by your traipsing up and down the aisle during a fabulous number or quiet dialogue. Practice your pelvic muscle control and wait until intermission to hit the loo.
4. If you have incontinence problems, see #3. And get your seats near the back of the theatre, on far left or far right aisles. You'll still be distracting to the rest of us, but I'll cut you a little slack for health/age reasons. However, you get no sympathy from me if you insist on sitting in the middle of rows A-W.
5. The overture is part of the show. Shut up and listen. Any time the orchestra strikes up, pre-show or intermission, there should be no talking. Conversations must cease. These fine folks have more talent in their little string-plucking finger than you could ever hope to have. Honor those gifts and show due respect.
6. For goodness sake, people, dress appropriately. I've written about the appalling lack of respect for the orchestra and performers before. Do not turn up wearing cut-offs, tube tops, wife-beaters, and tee shirts. This is Broadway, folks! Broadway! Dress like you care! Dress like you have a date with Bernadette Peters or Daniel Radcliffe after the show. Do your homes, hotel rooms, or flop houses have no mirrors? Hmph.

It's all about respect for your fellow-audience members and the outrageous, unbelievable talents of the performers. Do not interfere with the delicate dance between audience and cast. Those of us who love, love, love theatre expect to be drawn into story, song, emotion - whatever is being offered to us from the stage. Talking, coughing, walking around, and rattling paper all break the magical thread that ties those of us in the seats to the folks treading the boards.

You do not have Shorty PJ's permission to attend another performance of anything (including your daughter's dance recital or your son's 3rd grade play) until you've memorized the rules. Yes, it's that serious.

Now, everyone who caused such an audience ruckus during Follies on August 19th, 8pm performance, please send a hand-written apology to everyone in the cast and orchestra. It's only right.

Lord, Lord, Lord, That Woman Is Me.

Friday night, I saw the 40th anniversary production of Stephen Sondheim's Follies at the Marquis Theatre on Broadway. I've loved, loved, loved this show's music since I first really got to know it in the late 70's. When I heard the show was hitting New York, it took me about 14 seconds to decide to plop down my hard earned bucks to see this whacking great container of brilliancy and to bask in the glory of the likes of Bernadette Peters torching up the stage.

One of my great theatrical regrets is to have missed seeing with my very own eyes/hearing with my very own ears the original cast of this 1971 gem. It ranks right up there with having missed Julie Andrews in My Fair Lady and Camelot, Gwen Verdon in Damn Yankees, and the original Broadway cast of Guys & Dolls. (Damn! Sigh.) I can only imagine what it must've been like to hear the wonderful Dorothy Collins belt out "Losing My Mind," Alexis Smith throw out the sarcastic "Could I Leave You?," or Yvonne de Carlo dredge up her past in "I'm Still Here."

But 40 years later I got to see the whole thing unfold with another superior cast of thousands (or so it seemed), a full blown 28-piece orchestra (rare these days), and an eerie, crumbling theatre set on stage. It's a crazy, sad, tragical show, with lots of humor thrown in. Every song is a jewel. There were very few disappointments. The first act drags a little, in spite of all the fun musical numbers. And Elaine Paige, like most singers, oversells "I'm Still Here," though the rest of her Carlotta was endearing.

Two strong questions threaded their way through this particular Follies for me.

One: which Mary from the past is shadowing me?  In the musical the retired showgirls are shadowed by their former glamour-girl selves. I found myself caught up in the way the young selves studied their future, older selves and began thinking about what young Mary is thinking of aging Mary. And is that younger me 8? 15? 26?

And two:  do you have to be over 60 to finally get this show? Well, having loved it since my late 20's, I can testify that this 60-year-old heard songs like "The Road You Didn't Take," "The Story of Lucy and Jessie," and "Who's That Woman?" with different ears. I think you can understand the regret, the pain, the ego held up to the light in this show at any age, but, boy, the older you are the more you absolutely know what's being put to you in Sondheim's lyrics. Yeah, that woman is me.

OK. I'll shut up now, because this is one show I could talk about for hours. Never fear, I'll spare you that folly.

Who's that woman.

That cheery, weary woman

Who's dressing for yet one more spree?

Each day I see her pass

In my looking-glass--

Lord, Lord, Lord, that woman is me!

A Lady Passes

My Aunt Frances was a true Southern lady. One who loved the color blue, sending cards, and living out the Golden Rule.

She died last week. At 88, she'd lived a good long life, so her passing came as no surprise. She was my daddy's little sister, and my middle name is compliments of her. She was not famous - or infamous, but she was a kind soul whose concern for others marked a life of neighborly-ness and service. Aunt Frances took her Christian faith seriously and put it to work everyday.

The first vivid memory I have of her was at a clean-up day at the cemetery next to our family farm in Henrietta, Tennessee. I was perhaps 4 or 5 years old. She gave me little jobs to do and seemed pleased that I stuck to her side. Then there was the time that her family visited us in Chattanooga and came to our elementary school fall carnival. Aunt Frances won a large turkey platter at one of the carnival raffles. She'd always point that platter out to me when we'd visit her home in Bordeaux. My growing up years are filled with summer and Christmas memories of her and being on the receiving end of her kindness.

Frances never missed sending birthday and Christmas cards. We used to talk on the phone frequently, but her hearing failed her over the last few years, making calls frustrating for both of us, I suspect. I resorted to sending her cards. She liked cards.

Her favorite color was blue. I think everyone in our family makes some subconscious connection between Aunt Frances and the color blue, even today. She had three wonderful sons - my cousins Jack, Tommy, and Terry - whom she loved to no end. They lovingly looked after her and my Uncle Horace, who died in 1998, throughout years of declining health.

However, another part of Aunt Frances' mythology is the fact that she always wanted a daughter. I'm not speaking out of school on this, because everyone I talked to at her funeral - family members, neighbors, church friends - mentioned it. Cousin Tommy even talked about it in his eulogy (he was supposed to be Beverly, not Tommy, by the way). My sister and I were the recipients of her mother/daughter attention whenever we visited, ranging from home permanents to hand-made clothes. Fortunately, Aunt Frances had marvelous daughters-in-law and three lovely granddaughters, in addition to two fabulous grandsons, so she ended up with lots of girls.

It was important for me to attend her funeral last week in Nashville. As her namesake-niece and daughter of her big brother, I couldn't imagine not being there. The funeral was a celebratory affair. Tommy did an outstandingly hilarious job of a eulogy that captured my aunt's humanity, humility, and love and made us laugh as well as cry. He also played her favorite hymns (good old Gospel-style).  I loved seeing my Nashville cousins again and getting reacquainted with their families. At the cemetery, I got to see my grandmother and granddaddy's graves, which I hadn't seen in years. All in all, it was a nice homecoming/home-going.

So I honor, with much love, my blue-loving, daughter-envying, card-sending, Christian-living Southern Aunt Frances. Make way as a lady passes.

Shuckin', shellin', stringin'

We didn't grow up on the family farm, but believe it or not, we all did our share of shucking corn, shelling peas, and stringing beans during the summer. Daddy would come in from the farmers market or grocery store with sacks or baskets of vegetables that required a little preparation before they were ready to cook or store in our huge chest freezer.

I was remembering those times as I was shucking a few lovely ears of sweet corn that I got at the market on Friday. Back when the corn came right off the farmer's truck, it wasn't unusual to find a little worm in the corn silks, and as I kid I saw this as a little pay-off excitement to an otherwise boning task. No worms on my New York corn, but it is delicious, worm or no worm.

Shelling field peas seemed to be Mother's domain, with the occasional help from our little hands. It was always gratifying ripping open the pods and hearing the peas - ping-ping-ping - hit the large metal bowl. And once in a while, you'd pop a raw pea or two into you mouth. Sneaky. Daddy seemed to rule the green bean stringing - usually while in front of the TV, though Mother and the rest of us snapped off the ends and pulled the long strings many a time.

Does anybody sit around with the family shuckin', shellin', or stringin' these days? No? Pity.

Summer Spice

Just because they are so pretty in the sunlight. Homegrown peppers (thanks, Greg!) drying on the window sill. The colors make me smile. Can't wait to enjoy them in my food.

Early Morning at the Met with McQueen

I have the day off, so I thought I'd take advantage of the members-only early admission to the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Alexander McQueen exhibit. I've tried to get in twice this summer, but it's always been jam-packed. The thought of a calmer, less crowded view of the designer's work appealed to me. Alas, this member-only entrance had us packed in like sardines. Next time, I'll sleep in and see the premier exhibitions with the riff-raff.

Crowds notwithstanding, the displays were incredible. Here are a few pictures taken (without flash) before the guard said "no photos" (as flashes were going off all around me).

It Could Be Worse

Yeah, things look pretty bleak right now.

Every single person entrusted to represent us in City Halls, state legislatures, and in Washington DC is hopped up on clueless idiot pills. News organizations (and who know who else) are hacking the phones of murder victims and soldiers. Outrageous indignities must be suffered just to pay a whole lot of money to fly from Point A to Point B. Unemployment is high, pensions are disappearing, and mind-numbing reality TV has us in its grip.

I'll grant you, the second decade of the 2000's is off to a rousing start. But it could be worse.

Whenever I think life is going to hell in a handbasket, I pull out Barbara Tuchman's A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century. No, really, I do.

I first read this book back in 1979. Last century, doncha' know. For those of you who lived through it, cast your memory back to that dreary year. Ayatollah Khomeini and the Iran hostage crisis. Three Mile Island. Assassinations and bombings. Crowd stampede at The Who concert in Cincinnati. The dollar goes down, down, down on the world market. USSR invades Afghanistan. The President of the United States fights off a killer rabbit. Disco. And the usual weather calamities of storms,  tsunamis, tornadoes, and snow lasting 30 minutes in the Sahara Desert. All in all, a perfectly horrible, dispiriting year.

But after reading Tuchman's book about the 14th century? Shoot, 1979 seemed like the best of times.

The Black Plague. Hundred Years' War. Three popes (and, goodness knows, one is enough trouble). Pillaging mercenaries. The Little Ice Age. The Great Famine. The Peasants Revolt. No air conditioning, microwave ovens, or computers.  And, one more reminder, the Black Plague. Times were dire, and there was no escape. Most people couldn't read, so entertaining oneself with a good novel was out of the question. Couldn't lose yourself in a movie or PBS television series. And just think of the smell!

So if you're feeling low about the Casey Anthony trial or raising the debt ceiling, thank your lucky stars that you don't have to fight off the Black Plague, three popes, a Little Ice Age, and a famine without being able to check email and while smelling absolutely revolting. Or, that you don't live in 1979.

See? Chin up, there, friend. Things could be so much worse.

Flavor of the Season

Throughout all those long, lazy summer days of childhood - thousands of years ago, nothing brought such delight as an ice cold Popsicle. We'd wait and wait and wait for the sound of the tinkly little bell heralding a truckful of every flavor Popsicle ever dreamed up, plus Fudgesicles and Creamsicles and the occasional Push-up or NuttyBuddy.

Decisions, decisions. Cherry? Grape? Blueberry (just blue, nothing very berry about it)? Or the very exotic . . . banana?

If I were feeling silly, I'd choose the blue one, just because it turned my teeth, tongue, and lips blue, and that's funny to a 5-year-old. If I were feeling a little outrageous, I'd choose banana - it was just so odd-tasting, in a good way, but not like a real banana. Once in a while I'd go all conservative and choose grape. But mostly, I'd choose cherry, my personal favorite.

But never orange. Orange was so NOT special. It was just OK, and if we'd waited for the truck all that time, the choice needed to be spectacular, not just OK.

So what's your favorite Popsicle flavor? Is there an orange-lover out there? Hm? Or are we all banana and cherry fans?

And do speak up if you're a NuttyBuddy.

(In case you didn't catch it, the picture's not vintage Popsicle. It's the ad Peggy Olsen came up with for a campaign on Mad Men.)

My Premier Premiere

Attending a movie premiere was high on my New York Bucket List. But nothing had moved me enough to stand around for hours in a crush of people to catch a glimpse of a few movie stars until news of the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2 floated my way.

I knew it would be chaos. (It was.) I knew it would be hot and humid. (Yes, high 90s with enough humidity to water plants.) I knew I wouldn't be able to get very close to the red carpet crowd. (But I got close enough to count, I guess.)

Here's proof I was there. In the hot afternoon sun. Lincoln Center's Avery Fisher Hall. Sorry most of the shots are so fuzzy, but I was just too far away and my little camera couldn't handle it. Still, it's a big check for that Bucket List item.

Matthew Lewis (Neville Longbottom). Who knew he'd turn out so dishy?

Alan Rickman (Snape).

Emma Watson from afar (gold dress on podium).

Daniel Radcliffe, all in black. I had a MUCH better view of him when I went to see "How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying" a few weeks ago.

Summer Saturday in New York City

New York Public Library Lion "Patience" guards the 5th Avenue establishment.

The lovely Flatiron Building across from Madison Square Park. This is my second-favorite NYC building (Chrysler Building will always be No. 1 with me).

Madison Square Park always has interesting art installations. This one is an illusion. When you come upon it, it's just a pure white sculpture. But moving around to the front, the face appears to have a sort of photographic effect. It's very odd. 

Union Square Park from the 4th floor of Filene's Basement across the street. (And is "basement" and "4th floor" an oxymoron?)

My favorite, favorite NYC food truck: YOGO yogurt. It has been following me around the city for two weeks: first stationed across from The Met, then across from my office twice this week, and now Union Square. I recommend the tart flavor, not the vanilla. Add almonds and fruit. And yum!

Don't you just love New York in July?

How to Succeed at Lord & Taylor

Popped down 5th Avenue to see Lord and Taylor's retro window displays celebrating Broadway's How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Here are two of them. My fav was the Coffee Break window, complete with coffee vending machine and NYC's iconic Greek key take-out coffee cups.

By the way, I'm a little worried that when I see "Harry Potter and Deathly Hallows, Pt. 2", I'll be watching Harry through a J. Pierpont Finch lens. Hmmm. J. Pierpont Potter, perhaps?

In the Course of Human Events

What are you celebrating today, on this the 4th day of July, 2011?

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? (Worth a firework or two, indeed.) Dissolving political bands? (I'm interpreting "bands" to refer to "ties," not a drum and fife corps or some anarchic 60's folk-rock group.) Holding truths to be self-evident? (Plain as the nose on your face, dummy.)

It's been a Shorty PJs tradition to ask - nay, beg - folks to spend a couple of their valuable Independence Day minutes reading The Declaration of Independence. Honestly, it's easy as all git-out to read. 'Way easier than the contract from your mobile phone service provider. (That little Tommy Jefferson sure had a way with words.) In fact, read the thing aloud. Amidst the hamburger-grilling and sparkler-lighting, gather the family and friends around for a Declaration-reading. You won't be disappointed.

It starts off with a bang: "When in the course of human events . . ." I love that phrase, the course of human events. He could have written something blah, like "Once in a while," or "Sometimes," or something angry, like "When a group of folks get pissed off enough . . ." But no. An all-encompassing "course of human events."

Then it moves on to those famous lines about all men being created equal (yeah, I know, it was just talking about some men, but it was a real good start) and the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Not happiness. But the pursuit of it. Brilliant. Spend a minute thinking about what that means. Then. And now.

There's a section that says, in summary, we've tried to play by the rules, but the rules are unjust. We've been real nice about it (mostly) up to now. We've petitioned through the proper channels, but (and I am paraphrasing here, of course.) this crazy-ass king and his minions will have none of it. Then the document lists all the grievances. The grandfather of bullet-pointing. Again, brilliant.

And the thing ends with (again, paraphrasing) "We're outta here!" and "We know we are facing deep sh*t by signing this thing, but it is worth it to us, our families, and this new country." The 56 signers pledged to each other their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor. And expected Divine Providence to see 'em through.

On this 4th of July, 2011, I say thank you, Signers, and wives and families of Signers, for risking everything to declare and fight for independence.

And I do believe all of that is worth parades, fireworks, hot dogs, and beer. Happy 4th to all!

I'm old as hell, and I'm not gonna take it anymore!

I've always been a bit of firecracker,  never shy about telling folks what I think and causing justifiable ruckuses where warranted. However, when it comes to the likes of hairstylists, waiters, doctors, and housecleaners, I've taken what service they've dished out to me over the years - no matter how lousy - with nary a peep. Funny haircuts, snippy restaurant service, medical double-speak, and shoddy cleaning left me boiling on the inside, sweet and demure on the outside.

But the times they are a-changing.

I'm tired of takin' it, and especially paying good money for takin' it. Over the last couple of years, I've walked out mid-haircut (before too much damage was done), asked for and gotten better restaurant service (yes, I want my water glass filled and butter with the bread; no, I don't want to sit next to the restroom or kitchen), and grilled my doctors when my questions aren't being answered in a straight-forward way.

Just last week I walked out ten minutes into a dental cleaning. I've never walked out mid-dental service, but I raised at least three objections to the dental hygienist as she continually sprayed water up my nose, gouged my gums, and ignored my concerns, and it didn't take me long to realize this cleaning could turn out badly. The whole experience was weird, as if the dental hygienist was making me pay for whatever bad things were going on in her life. As someone who's had lots and lots of cleanings over the years, it didn't take me long to realize this wasn't going to end well. I stopped the cleaning and walked out.

I don't know if good service and client care are sliding to a bottomless pit these days, or if I'm just turning into a crotchety old broad. But I find I have less and less patience with not getting what I pay for or not being treated in a respectful, professional manner by service providers.

Perhaps one of the benefits of getting older is a new-found spirit of demanding the services expected and paid for. And if that's the case, I'm ready to barrel into my golden years!

How To Succeed In Business And Have Fun Doing It

Aspiring entrepreneurs can learn a thing or two from J. Pierrpont Finch. By following the rules put forth in a little book called How To Succeed In Business, Finch quickly rises from the mailroom to Chairman of the Board of World Wide Wickets. He never lies (he lets others speculate about one thing or another, but he doesn't actually lie); he thinks on his feet; he gives others their due (which may or may not work out for the other person): he's focused on a goal. The only thing in the little book he doesn't follow is the falling in love part. And we're happy about that.

Yes, I just saw Broadway's revival of the Frank Loesser musical "How to Succeed In Business Without Really Trying." I'm here to say it was simply wonderful. I was looking for something light-hearted, sing-alongable, colorful, and that's exactly what I found at the Hirshfeld Theatre this afternoon. It's the 50th anniversary of the show, the third rendition (Robert Morse originated the role in 1961; and remember Matthew Broderick's Finch in the 1995 revival?), and stars Daniel Radcliffe and John Larroquette. And that's Anderson Cooper's voice reading excerpts from "the book."

Yes, Daniel Radcliffe can sing and dance and talk like an American. No mention of Voldemort in the entire production. And John Larroquette's comedic skills are perfect for J.B. Biggley. The whole production - songs, sets, cultural references, costumes - are a yummy throwback to the early 1960s. So the secretaries wear delicious little dresses, suits, hats, and gloves - very Mad Men, but much more colorful. The set is a corporate vari-colored honeycomb. And I think I was the only person in the audience that got the reference to Metrecal. The only current cultural reference I caught was Finch declaring his love for Rosemary by jumping up and down on the couch Tom Cruise-style.

And what an energetic show! Almost every number is full-out all-singing, all-dancing, all-working up a sweat. Man, am I tired! Here's a little sneak preview:



At the curtain call the cast did a little reprise of "Brotherhood of Man," with the audience singing along. Just another something I can add to my resume, with singing on Broadway with Liza Minelli (Spamalot) and my Broadway stage debut at Spring Awakening. So now I'm feeling all Broadway-comfy-cozy. Yum.

Oh, aren't you proud to be
In that fraternity?
The great big Brotherhood of Man!

Evening Stroll

Through Central Park. With 15,000 other folks.

Thursday evening, I participated in the JP Morgan Corporate Challenge with Team 815 from the Episcopal Church Center. While I'd walked in similar events in Atlanta, I'd never joined my colleagues in NYC for this annual race. The event is so popular in New York that it has to be held on two consecutive days to accommodate the 30,000 registrants.

We struck out from our offices at 815 Second Avenue at 5:30 and headed toward the subway and on to the staging area in Central Park, inside 72nd Street entrance. Our group was assigned the Orange area, where a table and sign awaited our team. Our "security" volunteers took possession of our worldly goods and spread the table with water, fruit, and cookies. (Thank you for watching our stuff, Eric, Sharon, and Esther!)

For the race, I was assigned to the White Group - not based on skin color, but based on ability. I'm not a runner, so all walkers were White. Each participant area was jammed, but folks were well-behaved as we awaited the 7pm start time. The fastest groups were led out first, so we slow-poke walkers were the last to go. Our numbered bibs had a couple of tracking strips taped to the back, and as we crossed the start and finish lines, our times were accurately recorded.

I stayed well to the left to allow runners to pass. But anyone who knows me knows that I'm a fast walker, and I was often outpacing folks with non-white bibs. It was a lovely, breezy evening, and the 3.5-mile loop around the park was quite enjoyable. A couple of people commented on my shirt (it had the Episcopal Church logo) as they passed me, so I'm assuming they were good Episcopalians.

I crossed the finish line with a time of 59:44, not great, but respectable for an old broad.

All in all, a lovely evening stroll.

Six Decades of Adorable

Reporting back from a great week in Orlando with the girlfriends. It was hard to concentrate on just the five of us, what with Weiner-gate (really? Weiner-gate?) and wall-to-wall Casey Anthony coverage, but we did manage to talk about everyone we ever knew (yeah, we probably talked about you), run rampant through Universal/Orlando (and all the shops), imbibe in a suitable amount of adult beverages, and sun ourselves around the pool most of the day.

We staked out a prime pool spot - far enough away from frolicking children, but close enough to the pool for a quick dip - and circled the lounge chairs. Time goes quickly when you're catching up on families, trips, health issues, and remember-whens. Add time in the whirlpool, sauna, and steam room, and you've got yourself a winning vacation experience.

Believe it or not, we still have enough stamina to work our way through 9-10 hours' worth of Islands of Adventure and Universal theme parks. We can highly recommend the Harry Potter ride, the Monster Makeup Demo, and the Lucy (as in Lucille Ball) museum. Standing in long lines weren't a waste of time for us, because we just kept up our catching-up talk.

One night we hit the Sleuth Mystery Dinner Show and had a ball. The show was funny, our table-mates were fun, and the wine kept flowing. None of us got the solution right, but we laughed ourselves silly and enjoyed the meal and camaraderie.

It's a real luxury to have five full days to get all the news of each other's lives. We do fall into our old friendship rhythms, and for a brief time we are in our elementary or high school environment. Yeah, there are pros and cons to that, but mostly it's just natural.

We've all completed six decades, except for two who cross that line next month, and we loved celebrating that achievement together. Something tells me that we'll be celebrating eight and nine decades together, God willing.

And we'll still be adorable!

The Gathering of the Girls

Yep. It's that time of year again. What used to be called Girlfriends Weekend has now been expanded to Girlfriends Week, as we head down to a fun/sun-filled week in Orlando. I don't really remember how it got started, but sometime in the mid-90's, five friends decided we didn't see each other enough - all those child-rearing, career-slogging years seemed to get in the way - and vowed to get together once a year.

Four of us have been together since we were in first grade at Barger Elementary School in Chattanooga, Tennessee. We survived six years there and three at Brainerd Jr. High before heading across the river to Chattanooga "City" High, where we met girlfriend #5.

Years of slumber parties, Twist contests, transistor radios and 45's, pimples, bad hair days-weeks-years, Bobbie Brooks sweaters, Weejuns, pep rallies, and English compositions mean that not a one of us can bullshit the others. We all know too much. We knew each other when.

Do you know how freeing that is? And more comfortable than sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt.

One thing's for sure. We can't lie about our ages. We're all 1951 babies, so we have a lot of decades to celebrate this year. The members of this little quintet are stereotypically named (according to the Most Popular Girl Names of 1951): Linda (#1), Mary (#2), Susan (#6), and two - count 'em, two! - Sharons (#13). No mistaking which era we're from, no siree.

We will catch up with each other - grandchildren, childrens' milestones, one new marriage, vacations, mission trips, work, aches and ailments - and, of course, we'll talk about other folks (good Christian gossip, of course). We'll eat and drink well, sun ourselves, swim, laugh, and do a lot of remembering-when. And after five full days, we won't have scratched the surface of stuff to talk about. That's just what happens when friends get together.

I'll try to report live from Orlando, but I may be too busy talking. Or eating. Or drinking. But probably talking.