St. Peter, Don't You Call Me, I'm in Line For Elaine Stritch

When I die and go to heaven, I want it to be Elaine Stritch at the Café Carlyle. No fooling. It’s the greatest. Maybe you’ve had the experience of sitting in a darkened theatre or nightclub or cabaret, and knowing, just knowing, that This Is Happiness. That this is one of life’s Great Good Times—a trip to the moon on gossamer wings, a moment of seamless bliss, and if the carousel would only keep spinning forever, you’d never, ever want to jump off. Or maybe you haven’t. But if you haven’t, then it’s probably because you’ve never seen Stritch’s cabaret act—and in that case, you should call the Carlyle pronto, and make a reservation for January’s show, which is sure to sell out any minute now.

I have friends who do understand what I love about Stritch, and I have friends who do not. Those who don’t tend to mention that she doesn’t have a “pretty” voice. That she sort of screams a lot, and often seems a tad, well, cranky. I suppose all that’s true enough, but then again, fuck pretty. I’m so goddamn sick of the tyranny of prettiness, which just tends to spoil the hell out of everything. So that the whole, twirling world ends up smelling like White Diamonds and sounding like Celine Dion and looking like People magazine, until the red beating heart of everything is dead dead dead. I think Truman Capote said, “Good taste is the death of art.” It’s the flat truth, and here’s my own epigram—“Prettiness is the death of beauty.” And Elaine Stritch, joshing and screeching and dead-panning away, has the same sort of divine off-kilter beauty as Garland and Coward and Cole Porter, and Diana Vreeland, and also, my grandmother.

That’s another reason I love Elaine Stritch—she reminds me of the women in my family—brilliant, witty, and furious. I suspect that many others feel the same way, and that this constitutes a large part of her appeal. In her pearls and cardigans and tightly rolled hair, Stritch is the upper-middle class suburban lady susperstar. She’s what all our mothers and grandmothers might have been had they’d hopped a train to New York City, and had an affair with Marlon Brando. It’s why “The Ladies Who Lunch” moves us so enormously—because Elaine is the lady who escaped that racket, singing about all those who didn’t. Tremendous.

All of which doesn’t do a lot to expain the good time aspect of her show, but trust me, she’s hilarious. The Carlyle is glorious, and looks just like something out of the Batista Regime. The food is so-so, but who cares? If you want art and truth and beauty, not to mention a fucking blast, go see Elaine. There’s no better show anywhere. If you have to, sell your children for a seat.

Molly Ivins, My Best Friend (Sort of)

Well, Molly Ivins has been dead a little over six months now, and it still sucks. Not that I knew her. But she was one of the reasons I always wanted to become a famous writer—so that Molly and I could be girlfriends. So that when she just couldn't get one of those fabulous, witty, homey columns of hers quite right, she'd call me up and say, "Robert, do you think you could take a glance at this?" And every time, I'd say, "Of course, Moll. Don't give it a second thought, Moll." Because that's just the sort of imaginary friend I am. The kind who'd do anything for you.

But I don't want you to think that ours was a one-sided fake friendship. Because whenever I came across some delicious little Texas-y tidbit, I imagined myself phoning Molly, and after we laughed and laughed, she'd tell me, "Now, you know I have to quote you, Robert." And I'd say, "No, Moll, take it. It's yours." And she'd say, "No, Robert, how could I possibly deny the nation a wit like yours. The People have to know there still are fellows out there with your kind of humor and eloquence." (The reader will note that even in my fantasy life, I never lose my concern for the public.) And then, she would quote me, and it was almost embarrassing the way complete strangers would come up to me on the street, and repeat my own jokes back to me.

Ah, well. All that's gone now, and all due to stupid, stupid breast cancer. And all I'm left with, from all our years of near-mutual devotion, are Molly's fantastic books. Particularly Molly Ivins Can't Say That, Can She? Which is so funny and smart it makes my teeth hurt. So funny and smart, that if Molly hadn't been my imaginary friend, I'd have hated her guts. When I was in college, my mother offered to pay me fifteen hundred dollars if I promised to never read another person's poetry to her ever again. She's never been a big fan of being read to—feels dominating to her. But one of our great joys has been reading Molly back and forth to one another, with big, fat breaks of laughter. A particular favorite is the one where Molly goes to the Greenhouse, a spa outside Dallas, and is told by an over-zealous makeup artiste that she (Molly) has "a fabulous space between her eyes." It's become something my mother and I say to one another. "But Mother," I'll say, when she's getting depressed about her looks, "you have a fabulous space between your eyes!"

Anyway, as usual, I started out talking about somebody else, and I ended up talking about myself. But only half of that's selfishness—the other half is how much a part of my life Molly Ivins, total stranger, seemed to me for years. She's one of a very small handful of people who've made me boastful of being a Texan. She made me say, when Yankees made the mistake of equating Texas with Bush, "Well, Molly Ivins is from Texas, so how bad could it be?" And to Molly's enormous credit, those know-it-all Yankees always agreed with me.

Molly Ivins is a writer who leapt off the page and into my life. I think about her all the time. As crazy as it sounds, I miss her terribly. I miss being her fake girlfriend. I miss hoping that someday, after I become world famous, we'll be, really, best friends. And now, everybody, go get that damned mammogram. Hell, I'm considering getting one, too.

Why I'm voting for Hillary

If you want to take the temperature of the nation’s current level of sexism, just perk your ears up every time you hear Hillary Clinton decried for being “smart.” Take note of the sinister tone of the speaker, who will often emphasize his point by pausing one beat, before repeating, “very smart.” It’s almost as though Hill’s braininess is perceived to give her some sort of unfair advantage over the other candidates. Like the A student who spoils the grade curve, Smarty-pants Hillary is somehow understood to be ruining it for the rest of the class. And it has been leveled at Democratic candidates of yesteryear, like Adlai Stevenson and John Kerry. Remember when Kerry was derided for his “professorial manner?” Quelle horreur! Of course, this is a point packed with implicit sexism, too, because God knows the nation is scared to death of a smart woman.

All of this reminds me of the story about Uta Hagen telling the drama student, “Hamlet is not A Guy Like You.” Do we really want a president of average intelligence? I, for one, fail to see the appeal of a dumbed-down democracy. Who was it that said, “Democracy is a leveling up, not a leveling down?” When it comes to making decisions about nuclear war, I want somebody a hell of a lot smarter than me in the Oval office.
And speaking of nuclear war, the idea that the whole Middle East is just one big powder keg has been occurring to me with greater frequency. I’m just not sure I want anybody elected president who doesn’t have enormous experience in foreign affairs. It’s that kind of election year, guys. This doesn’t seem the moment to vote according to domestic concerns. And out of all the candidates, Democrat or Republican, there only seem to be three people capable of adequately addressing the hideous international situation—Hillary, Gore, and John McCain.
Well, Gore’s not running, and McCain’s a cranky old fascist.
So my vote’s going to Hillary.
Okay, so maybe she doesn’t have Obama’s Kennedy-esque eloquence. Maybe she’s more bureaucrat than visionary; more Johnson than JFK. I’m willing to sacrifice charm for inside-the-beltway know-how. I’d gladly pay to hear Obama lecture, but let’s send Miss Smarty-pants back to the White House.