Or The Joy of Having Ridiculously Talented Friends
Mais D’abord, Complètement Hors Sujet ... - But First, Completely Off Topic…
(Some ask, why in French? I choose to ask, why not?)
While ostensibly a political blog, I've taken great care to
avoid said sad subject in scribblings of late, as the unpleasant and ugly
un-United State of affairs that has overtaken our once great country is a sure
recipe for riling up resentment and deepening a depression that would make Sylvia
Path and Vincent Van Gogh seem blissful paragons of unrelenting, unremitting
and unapologetic joy and heavenly happiness. When an illegal, immoral and
illegitimate leader, a Mussolini wannabe, but with less personality, decency
and humanity, is empowered by a hostile foreign nation for the primary purpose
of destroying history's preeminent democracy; and is blindly followed and
worshipped as a modern demi-God by millions of either brain-dead or brainwashed
traitors, haters and misled malcontents, even the Family Brady would abandon
any notion of ever again experiencing a Sunshine Day; while the remainder of us merely hope that we
will still have a planet in which to awaken each morn. But, again, as hard as
it may be to grasp at this juncture, we have not gathered together today to
discuss politics, but rather rejoice and regale in far more pleasant pursuits.
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| They laugh alike, the talk alike, at times they even walk alike - you can lose your mind. |
Sur Le Spectacle, C'est ça - On with the Show, This is It
(Okay, I guess this going to be a thing now.)
You read the writings of a grateful and extremely lucky
man, who has had the beneficial fortune
of enjoying exciting and unique show business events and artistic adventures
delivered, not through any deserving deeds of his own, but rather by tagging
along (I'm often known simply as "her friend'' or "that guy") in
the close company and cozy companionship of comrades blessed by nature, genes,
or Zeus, Osiris, Buddha, Jehovah, Trump
or whomever their designated deity, with the talents to write, compose,
lyricize, act, sing, dance, produce and, if required to, probably spin plates,
quick change, ventriloquize, train elephants, breathe fire, sword swallow,
change the course of mighty rivers, bend steel in their bare hands; and who,
disguised as Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper, fight a never-ending battle for truth, justice and the American way
– although I may be mistaken about that last part.
Now, far be it from me to surrender or sabotage my own sense
of self or sizeable ego in a cascade of humbleness and humility for I, too,
have harvested the creative fields for, lo, some four decades, and have on
display the statuettes and plaques awarded for those earnest and oft-times,
effortless efforts. But while these television toilings have sometimes lead me
to activities of great interest and excitement, (perhaps, sometime, you'll read
of a day-long adventure with Liza with a Z, an emotional encounter with
Muhammad Ali, or a convivial conversational bon mot resulting in a Carol
Burnett chuckle) my own endeavors have not taken me to the arenas and opening
nights that I've relished so, simply by befriending the gifted and the generous.
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| See, awards! I know you doubted me. |
Aucun Homme N'est une Ile de Staten –
(Oh, that’s fairly clever.)
When but a lower middle class lad, born and raised in the
semi-civilized, proudly backward and dreadfully dull hamlet of Staten Island,
New York (we will never speak of these origins again) the idea of attending a
black-tie Broadway opening would have seemed as fantastical a fantasy as space
exploration, Dr. Doolittle-esque animal communication or a satisfying
occurrence of carnal cavorting with legendary rock goddess Grace Slick (but
perhaps it's best I leave last evening's dreams out of this), yet that very
event (the Broadway opening, not the rock and roll sex) is a biographical
highlight. And, in many ways, was just the beginning.
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| Artistic interpretation of a life lived on Staten Island. |
I pen this, thousands of feet aloft in the wild blue yonder
(in an aeroplane, not by benefit of my own powers, but I suppose that did not
actually require explanation, did it?) returning from London, and the closing
of yet another brilliant new musical, for which I had previously attended its
triumphant West End opening. And again, I owe all credit for this unique,
memorable and wonderful journey, and the friendships made and experiences
enjoyed, to the incredible, admirable and X-Men, mutant-like musical and
writing abilities (more later) of a treasured, irreplaceable and dear friend.
Je Suis allé Partout, Homme - I've Been Everywhere, Man
(The link to Google Translate - https://translate.google.com.)
From Elsah, Illinois, to Lancaster, Pennsylvania; from
Sarasota, Florida to Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario, it’s been one glitzy,
glamorous, international capital and hotspot after another (not to forget
London, Paris, Muenster, Amsterdam, Edmonton, Chicago, Shrewsbury...), all
thanks to being a “plus 1” to a genius just born with natural, extraordinary
abilities – to compose powerful, melodic, sometime intricate, sometime playful
music; to write intelligent, adroit, empathetic and witty lyrics, and to lift and
move heavy objects by the surprisingly terrifying power of mental telepathy
(which, of course, keeps me in constant fear of my life.)
Il n'y a Personne Comme Show People - There's No People Like
Show People
(Now, it’s just purposely annoying!)
Finally, (patient readers exhale a deep sigh of relief) the
richest reward of being a showbiz hanger-oner, has undoubtedly been the dozens
and dozens of fine, friendly, warmly welcoming, and ludicrously talented
individuals encountered and befriended from theatrical trek to theatrical trek;
people from different backgrounds, different parts of the country and the
world, different languages, all with one thing in common - being gracious enough to me so that they now must endure my endlessly verbose, judgmental and self-righteous
political ponderings on Facebook, and for that, I am both authentically
apologetic and beholden. In a
nutshell (although, as you may have surmised, brevity is not a strength) and in
less haughty verbiage, I get to do all kinds of fantastic things, without
actual having to put in the work or possess the talent. And I am never not
aware of that and forever and always appreciative and thankful.
We close with an unusual version of “There’s No Business
Like Show Business” by the late, great Elaine Stritch.
“The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk
Are secretly unhappy men because
The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk
Get paid for what they do but no applause.
They'd gladly bid their dreary jobs goodbye for anything
theatrical and why?”
Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions,
cash contributions? Contact me at
butchersaprons@mail.com
