Sunday, March 11, 2018

Dinner and drinks at a fine restaurant, Marx Brothers style

First of all, I'll admit the meal was not bad. Actually quite good. It was dinner with two friends, Julie and Steve, at a popular seafood restaurant in Clayton, Missouri. We were seated at a quiet table after only a 15 minute wait past our reservation time, not bad for a busy place on a Friday night. The bar scene was incredibly lively and joyful. TGIF still has significance even in this day and age.

It was the getting to the meal that ended up being a slapstick scene from a Marx Brothers or Steve Martin movie. Follow me closely on this. Our waiter was named James. Some friendly banter after he appeared at our table revealed he was a wanna-be actor and screenwriter. He had even spent some time in LA, trying both, writing a play (who writes plays in LA? You go to NY for that!) and not finding much acceptance as an actor. One thing for sure: He wouldn't ever get a part as a waiter. That's just not within his range. Tell you why.

James the Waiter (I use the term loosely, so you can follow the action) shows up with 3 glasses of water - one for Julie, one for Steve, one for me. My wife isn't with us this night. He sets down 2 of the glasses. So far, so good. Then he sets the 3rd glass down on the dividing line between 2 adjoining tables. They are not of equal height so guess what. Right. The glass of water falls over, soaking the adjoining table (unoccupied), the table cloth, the wine list. James recovers nicely and, with a giggle, swoops up the soaking mess, dispenses with it. Then he returns to take our drink order. Smooth sailing from now on, you're thinking. Oh, so wrong. Steve orders his Pinot Grigio. Julie orders a Bombay gin martini, on the rocks. I order a Tito's vodka gibson, straight up. James doesn't write it down. It's locked into his mind. He returns several minutes later with our drinks. Pinot...okay. Julie's martini is served straight up. My martini is served on the rocks. Sorry, James, I say, We need a do-over here. He apologizes again, laughs again, and takes our 2 martinis back to bartender hell. Minutes later he returns. Julie's martini is fine. Gin. On the rocks. My gibson is straight up, as ordered. But there are no onions. My drink is naked. "James," I say, "where are my onions?" He dashes off, returns - with a large plate bearing one onion on a toothpick. In a good natured way, I tell him I really need more than one onion. Maybe two. He brings them. I put them into my drink and take a sip. All is well, I'm thinking. But I'm wrong.

My drink is not a gibson (that's a martini with onions instead of olives). It's a gimlet, which is vodka with Rose's lime juice, a cloying sweet drink that went out with the Charleston. My mother drank gimlets, which is probably what did her in. I scream for James . He scrambles off and, several minutes later, he brings a beautiful Tito's vodka straight up. But no onions. "Sam, you forgot the onions." He's off in a flash and returns with 3 onions on a tooth pick. I dip them into my gibson, take a sip, and...ahhhhhhh. All is right with the world again.

It has taken only a half hour to get our drinks right. I hesitate to ask Steve if his Pinot has gotten warm. He doesn't complain. We toast to happy days, good health, and less comedy at our table.

I see a plate on our table with olive oil and other stuff swirled in with it. It sits alone. There is no basket of bread next to it. I point to the plate and ask James, "What is this?" He tells me it's oil and spices to dip our bread in. "Bread. Aha!" I say. James forces a smile and says, "I'll get you some bread." Which he does, several minutes later, fresh from the oven, which is why it took so long to get here, at least according to him.

I'd like to say it ended there. But listen to this. We ordered (mussels, sea bass, salmon), all served hot and delicious. But Steve finished his salmon before Julie and I had finished. James was right there, doing his alert waiter thing. He whisks away Steve's plate and asks him if he'd like a dessert menu. That's when I stop laughing at these antics and warn James. "Don't touch another plate until we've all finished eating, James. Not another plate. And don't mention dessert until our plates are gone." He backs off, a little surprised by my intensity. 

A lot of restaurants in St. Louis instruct their waiters to get those plates off the table "as soon as you can." I don't know why. It's just a really dumb move, in my opinion. It makes the people who are still eating their main course feel like they're late, they're slow eaters, they've gotta move on, eat fast, finish now and pay the bill. Fine restaurants I've been to in Big Cities have their waiters wait until all at the table have finished. That's class. If I want to eat and run, I'll go to Miss Sheri's Cafeteria.

Looking back, the three of us agreed it was a most unusual dinner. We had lots of laughs.  Fortunately we are good sports and were in no hurry to go anywhere. One thing for sure - we'll always remember this dinner. And I'll make sure I explain clearly to any server what a gibson is, and what it is not, even to the point of embarrassment. If the waiter doesn't know, at least the bartender should know. 

Yes, I'll go back to Oceano, some night when I'm feeling down and need a few laughs. I just hope James is still working there. And has gotten a role in some low-budget movie, maybe as a pickpocket or a musician, but certainly not as a waiter. Unless it's a comedy.

Monday, October 30, 2017

Disappearing Letters, Distinctive Mailboxes: A Conundrum

The mail. Now that’s a word which has changed in meaning and importance.
The mail used to be eagerly anticipated. The mailman (before there were mailwomen) might bring good news from a distant relative, expressions of  “I miss you” echoing a romantic evening, a note of congratulations or “send money, please” or “You’re invited to help us celebrate…” The thrill of the unopened envelope was a daily possibility.

Think about the last time you received an actual letter in the mail. Been awhile, right? I’m talking about words-written-or-typed-on-stationary-in-an-envelope-with-a-stamp kind of mail. I think the last real letter I got was from my cousin Myron, who passed away four years ago. He wanted to borrow some money, to tide him over until he got back on his feet. It went unanswered. Myron had never even been on his feet. Family and money - like oil and water. I don’t count letters from Hillary and Donald and Claire as real letters. Not even Whitey Herzog, who writes the most sincere letters about a hearing aid he's pitching, guaranteed to get me back into the conversation. Sorry, guys. Those letters also go unanswered.

This lack of a written diary of our daily lives worries me. What will future historians be able to cobble together about us? Only little parcels of information from emails, tweets, instagrams, and Facebook comments. Not a lot to go on. I have a book of the letters of Abraham Lincoln. Also of Tennessee Williams. The latter is actually more than I want to know about Tennessee. Here’s a historical fact: Two former presidents - John Adams and Thomas Jefferson - exchanged 150 letters between 1812 and 1823. This, incredibly, followed twelve years of silence between them caused by a bitter political feud. But once they made up, the letters flowed like Sam Adams beer. That’s an average of one letter per month, more than I used to write to my mom when I was in the army.  

But we still hold expectations of getting a letter in the mail. I’d even like to get another one from Myron. Actual fact: The sole representative of the people who deliver the mail is the National Association of Letter Carriers. That’s really their name. Founded in 1889, they claim to be “the only force that fights to protect the interests of city letter carriers.” This is not a complaint about our postal service. I think they do a terrific job. I just think the NALC might seem more up-to-date with a relevant name. Maybe National Association of Postage-Paid Carriers. Just a thought.

While I’m on the subject of mail: Consider the lowly state of the mail box. Maybe even yours. As you drive down your street, notice the mail boxes. It seems everyone buys theirs at the same store. A redundancy exists that chills the soul. I don’t understand it. People spend big money on their homes, yards, patios and pools and driveways and - yes, even their awnings and trees. But mailboxes? Bland and black, ignored and ill-conceived, even though we visit them every day. 

There are a few exceptions. Not far from my house live two families who I don’t know but greatly admire.
They exhibit pride in their mailboxes. They have impeccable taste, a sense of worth and, yes, a sense of humor. They have discovered that your mailbox can say a lot about you. Their mailboxes transcend the utilitarian into the realm of art.

I doubt if they get more personal letters than the rest of us. But that isn’t the point. Chances are their mailboxes are stuffed with the same materials we get - flyers, brochures, magazines, statements, overdraft notices, lost dog postcards. But it doesn’t matter. Unlike people, it’s what outside that counts. It’s the messenger, not the message.

These public servants were called letter carriers. Then the letters disappeared. Now they are postal workers. They do their job well. But I wonder how many of them miss the thrill of delivering a personalized envelope, hand written, of imagining the delight they bring as they listen for that shout, “The mail’s here!” And the letter awaits, in that distinctive mailbox that says, “I still care.” 

There is still one individual in my family who looks forward to the daily appearance of our mailman. She doesn't get many letters, maybe an occasional catalogue from PetSmart or Drs. Foster and Smith. Which is okay, because she's a slow reader. What she does get, however, is a treat. A Milkbone. Sometimes two or even three, if the mailman's in an expansive mood. 

Here's a suggestion. Next time you think of someone you care about, sit down and write them a letter. Even a note card. Something in your own handwriting. When you put it into the mailbox, I know you'll smile to yourself and realize you've done something worthwhile. And rare. And greatly appreciated. Guaranteed.

This article originally appeared in the autumn issue, 2017, 
of County Living Magazine.

Thursday, June 8, 2017

The Incredible Epic of Hughie and Willard

A song popped into my head recently, a song I hadn't thought of in a long time. The trigger might have been something my wife said about our plans for the evening, like “I hope it’s not another rainy evening.” We’d had a lot of rain recently. And just like that - wham! - the melody and lyrics surfaced, like a long lost-friend waiting to be summoned.

The song is “Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey.” The lyric line is “Remember that rainy evenin’ you threw me out.” The next line contains what I consider to be four of the most perfect words ever conceived in song, poetry or literature. “…with nothin’ but a fine tooth comb.” Just look at those last four words: “A fine tooth comb.” They hold a high position in my “favorite phrases” list. 

“A fine tooth comb.”

Think about it. You can see that comb, feel it, almost smell it. A black plastic - or if it’s an Ace, hard rubber - comb. Probably plastic, considering the dire situation of Bill. In fact, a couple of teeth in the comb have been broken off. One of the disciplines of effective writing is attention to detail. This is wonderful detail.

“A fine tooth comb.”

The poor guy, thrown out by his angry lady, with that one sad item. The good news is that Bill has hair. Or a beard. I’ll go with hair.

I’m not saying these are the four most inspired words ever put into a song. Lorenz Hart (of Rodgers and Hart) created some awesome lines and rhymes. Cole Porter was no slouch at phrases. Plus Sondheim, Dylan, McCartney, Wonder - it’s a lengthy list. But the guy who wrote this song nailed the essence of lyrics that will live forever. When he decided poor Bill Bailey would spend a rain-soaked night on the streets, looking for a hot meal, a warm bed, a smile, a friend, a ray of hope, he created a scenario for the ages. Bill is doomed to wander lonely streets, soaked to the skin…with nothing to his name but a fine tooth comb.

Believe it or not, there was actually a guy named Bill Bailey. His real name was Willard Bailey. He lived in Jackson, Michigan and frequented a bar where a young man named Hughie Cannon played piano. Willard and Hughie became friends, and discussed their lives and their wives. Willard was married to a woman named Sarah, who didn’t like Will spending so much time in that bar. This gave Hughie an idea for the song. He wrote the music and lyrics in 1902. Since “Willard” didn’t really fit with the phrasing of the song, he changed it to Bill. And thus, “Won’t you come home, Bill Bailey” was born. 

Why a comb? You know the answer. Hughie needed a word to rhyme with “home.” That’s a real challenge. The options are few. Dome (with nothing but your hairless dome?). Foam (a mug of foam?). Gnome (nothing but your garden gnome? egads) Loam. Poem. Roam. He picked the right word and the rest is lyrical history. “Comb” rhymed. The addition of “fine tooth” is sheer genius. Attention to detail.

How did this all end? Hughie sold the rights to the song to a New York publisher. Probably didn’t get paid much; a familiar story. Sadly, he died from cirrhosis at the tender age of 35. And Willard? He and Sarah divorced years later. Willard died in 1954 and Sarah in 1973.

I fervently hope Willard owned more than a fine tooth comb when he was called home. He and Hughie have my utmost respect. I can never hear “rainy evening” without thinking of them.

Here is a link to one of the most unusual duets to ever sing this song. Ella Fitzgerald and Jimmy Durante. 

Monday, May 15, 2017

武蔵屋呉服店 and Spring Fashion: A Colorful Time of Year

(Originally published in the Spring 2017 issue of County Living Magazine.)

Spring arrived early this year in St. Louis. You probably remember that first day of Spring when the temperature hit 86°, following a winter of virtually no snow. I have three unopened bags of ice melter in my garage to prove it.
My subject today, however, is not weather, climate change or the end of humanity. It’s Fashion. To be more specific, Hawaiian shirts, aka Aloha shirts. This is the time of year when we put the woolens and insulated garments away and bring out the lightweight cottons, rayons and silks, right? And nothing says Spring faster than a colorful Hawaiian shirt.
I’m happy to say that these distinctive garments are still in style, as long as you’re open-minded about style. I used to wear Hawaiian shirts frequently in college and my carefree single years. Then I got married and was gradually weaned away from them.
It’s difficult to explain the style’s longevity. Some sources trace its origins to the early 1900’s, but there’s general agreement that the shirt began hitting full stride in 1935 out of a shop in Honolulu run by a Japanese gentleman named Miyamoto (that’s his name up there in the title). While looking for information to add credence to these musings, I discovered a most impressive website. It’s The Museum of Hawaiian Shirts ( Really. Their mission statement: “To celebrate the history, art, and design of Aloha shirts.” These obviously are much more than shirts.
Not everyone looks good in one
They are works of art, collectors’ items, clothing of rare vintage and cultural significance. By the way, this isn’t only a “guy” thing. Women wear these shirts as well, the only difference being a lower cut, y-neck style.

My first exposure to Hawaiian shirts was negative. My dad had a friend named Sid. He smoked cigars, talked like a bookie (which he was), and wore Hawaiian shirts. My mom hated him. As a result, I hated him, even before I had ever met him. When I finally did, he was smoking a cigar, talking like Tony Soprano and wearing a bright blue shirt emblazoned with big-busted women and palm trees. I’ve never been able to shake that image of him. It took years for me to overcome that early influence and develop a fondness for this colorful garb - sans cigar and wise guy talk.
When I Googled “Hawaiian Shirts,” a world of color and design opened up to me, a virtual “Open Sesame” of style. Also a world of prices. You can order a shirt for as little as $5 (plus shipping) or as much as $179. Here  are a couple that will set you back a few bucks:
From Saint Laurent for $850
a Saint Laurent for $850 (but it’s free shipping!) and a Hale vintage from the 50’s for $2400 (plus $8.95 shipping).

a Reyn Spooner for $2500
And if you’ve got really big bucks, consider a rare “Map of Hawaii” Reyn Spooner shirt for only $2500. What is a Reyn Spooner, you ask? It’s a fashion design company that was founded in 1956. I have no idea what makes this one shirt so special. If I was in Trump’s cabinet, I could buy it.

If you need a shirt right away, several stores here carry them. The Mother Lode of Aloha Shirts, however, hangs in the re-sale shops. Used clothing, if you will. I visited Salvation Army, Goodwill, and the ScholarShop (which will be closing any day now) though there are others, such as Plato’s Closet and Avalon Exchange. Also garage and yard sales. You get not only low, low prices, but a built-in “spirit” of the previous owner, a sense of transferred  joie de vivre that will certainly enhance your outlook on the world. I get the feeling that these shirts were donated by grieving widows who cleaned out late hubby’s closet ASAP. But that’s just my imagination working overtime.
A note about this photo: I am wearing my extremely fashionable hat and shirt. The hat is from 2015, a birthday gift from Gregg, my son. The shirt is from 1998. I had a blues band (The Taylor Young Blues Band) and bought 6 of these shirts for the guys in the band. We looked better than we sounded. But hey, it was the blues. “Sweet Home, Chicago,” with the Aloha visual.

Here’s a closing fashion tip: Add some color to your life. Guy or Gal. Go Hawaiian this Spring and Summer. Shout “Aloha.” Order a pina colada. You’ll be amazed at how good it makes you feel.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Your Call Is Important To Us. Really.

(Originally published in County Living Magazine, Early Spring 2017)

It all began in 1896 when Mr. Bell spoke into a strange looking device. “Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you.” Watson heard and came running, quite excited. Over the past 120 years, we have evolved to the point where the leader of the free world tweets his thoughts to millions from his smart phone. I guess that’s some form of progress. 
Yes, the telephone is one of the most powerful and versatile tools ever invented. Better than the microwave, power steering, and even the cotton gin. I’m not sure what the cotton gin is but my history book said it was important. I was going to add Slinky in here, since I saw one at a History Museum exhibit recently. But Slinky has limited uses. Like one.
I imagine a segment of our population doesn’t know what a dial telephone is. In fact, they may not even be familiar with the word “telephone.” They use smart phones, iPhones, cell phones, Galaxy, and things I’ve never heard of. Whatever you call it, whatever is in your pocket or within reach is still, at heart, a telephone. A communications device. Also a recording device. Sound and picture.
Here’s what got me into this telephone frame of mind. Recently I learned something about phone calls that surprised me. Pay attention. This is important. Your phone call can be recorded without your knowledge or approval. That’s right. Forty-two out of fifty states, including Missouri,  legally permit the other party to record your phone conversation.
I started thinking about this when I called a credit card company about an item that showed up on my statement, an item I didn’t remember buying. I dialed (strange word, “dialed”) the 800 number, which took me efficiently through my options, which I made note of because “the menu had changed recently.” How often do they change these menus? Seems like every 48 hours. This was after I pressed “1” because I don’t speak Spanish, except for “la cerveza” and “donde esta el bano?”(“Beer” and “Where’s the bathroom?”).
When I got to my destination, I was greeted with this news: “This call may be recorded for quality and training purposes.” You’ve heard that before, right? We’ve known of it for several years. Only now, after I completed my inquiry - it was for two bags of Irish oatmeal, called porridge, that I bought on Amazon - I hung up. That’s also a quaint notion. “Hang up,” as in “Replace the receiver on the cradle.” Anyway, I began to wonder about my recording session. 
How would they use my call for “quality purposes”? I talk pretty well on the phone but I wouldn’t call it quality conversation. Maybe they look for unusual attitude or unexplained hesitations. Is it my quality they listen to, or their employee’s quality?  And what about that “training purposes” thing? “Training who?” I wondered. I picture a classroom full of eager “sales associates” hanging on my every phrase, the instructor replaying my words while pointing out how nervous I sound underneath my glib remarks, obviously worried if someone has hacked my credit card or I was overcharged and had no chance to get a refund. You never know. 
But mainly I wondered if they had the legal right to do this. If perhaps they needed my agreement to be recorded. A few minutes with Google and I had my answer. Yes, they can. And only one party need agree. I also found out the real reason for this intrusion. It is to insulate the company from lawsuits. “Quality and training purposes” sounds a lot friendlier than, “If you’re thinking about suing us, don’t. You’ll lose.”
Look, I’ve got enough things to worry about besides my recorded calls. In a way, it’s nice to know I’m creating some kind of legacy. Maybe they will issue a “Best Phone Calls of the Year” someday. I’m sure mine will be included. Especially the one about porridge.

Breakfast Tip: This might be the best oatmeal you've ever had. I got it through Amazon. It's really made in Ireland! Try the variety with fruit bits in it too. Great way to start your day. 

Saturday, February 4, 2017

The Past is Not Past - Part 1

I'm reading a book by one of my favorite historians, Lynne Olson. It is "Troublesome Young Men: The Rebels Who Brought Churchill to Power and Helped Save England." It was written in 2007 but could have been written last week. It is a highly impressive work of research and writing.

I'm only part way through the book, but had to stop to share with you some relevant items. The situation, simply, is Chamberlain is Prime Minster of England, a small number of Members of Parliament oppose him, Hitler is overrunning Europe, and Chamberlain has returned from Munich and told the British people there will be no war, that there is "peace with honor" - because he gave Czechoslovakia to Hitler without a shot being fired.

Here are some excerpts. 

"At a time when British newspapers were enjoying a golden age, when more papers were reaching more people than ever before, the British people were starved of real news about the growing international crisis. They were told little or nothing about the deplorable state of British rearmament or the divisions within the government over Chamberlain's appeasement policy. ... 'When it came to news coverage, the real power rests with the government,' said Chamberlain's ambassador to Washington in 1939. 'We decide what to do, and then send for the newspapers and tell them to sell it to the public.'"

"(James Margach, a veteran political correspondent for The Sundays Times) 'From the moment Chamberlain entered No. 10 in 1937, he sought to manipulate the press into supporting his policy of appeasing the dictators...In order to cling to power, Chamberlain was prepared to abuse truth itself. He made the most misleading and inaccurate statements, which he was determined to see published so as to make his policies appear credible and successful. Quite simply, he told lies.'"

"The government did not directly censor the press... What Chamberlain and his government could, and did, do was prod the press to censor itself. During a meeting with Joseph Goebbels in 1937, Lord Halifax agreed with the Nazi head of propaganda about the need to keep 'the press in either country from making mischief.'"

"Hypersensitive to any criticism, Chamberlain deeply resented questions from journalists that he regarded as implying criticism of himself or his policies. Sometimes, after being asked such a question at a briefing, he would pause and, in an icy tone, ask the offending journalist which newspaper he represented. Everyone present recognized the query for the intimidation it was meant to be."

And finally:
"Chamberlain was particularly incensed by allegations that he was becoming authoritarian. Once, trembling and pale with fury, he summoned Margach and a few other top political reporters to Downing Street to complain about some such attack. 'I tell you that I'm not dictatorial, I'm not intolerant, I'm not overpowering!' the prime minster shouted as he repeatedly pounded the table. 'You're all wrong, wrong, wrong, I tell you! I'm the most relaxed and understanding of people! None of you, I insist, must ever say I'm dictatorial again!"

I invite you to make your own comparisons and draw your own conclusions.
More to come at a later date.
Thanks to Lynne Olson for granting me permission to quote from her book.

"Troublesome Young Men" by Lynne Olson

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Debbie, Donald and Gene: A True Story

This is the story of a book. Not just any book, but a special volume signed by three special people. Right now it sits on my shelf in the hallway, where it's been for the past several years. I hadn't looked at the book for quite some time, but recent events caused me to take the book off the shelf, blow the dust off, sit on my couch and revisit those three signatures.
The story begins over forty years ago, in 1974. Gene Kelly was in St. Louis to open the new season at the Muny Opera in "Take Me Along." Kelly had been - and still is - one of my favorite entertainers - actor, dancer, singer. Gene and movie musicals were the gold standard of entertainment, for me and for most of the nation. One night during that week he was here, I went to see the show. I brought with me a book I had bought the previous year, “The Films of Gene Kelly.” I belonged to a movie book club and bought most of what they offered. I had a steady income in those days.

When I was in high school, I worked at the Muny as an usher, so I knew the manager, Ed Steinhauer. He was a friend of my dad. Ed was not an outwardly friendly man. He seldom smiled, seemed distant, yet made sure I always got good seats. During intermission on this particular night, I found Ed standing at his usual post on the ramp where the customers enter the seating area. I asked him if he would have Gene sign my book. He said he would try, and I could get the book after the show. 

After the finale, and a standing ovation for Gene and the cast, I hurried to Ed’s station. He was there. No book in his hand. Before I could say anything, he said “Come on back.” He led me backstage, to the dressing room, and introduced me to Gene Kelly, who was in the process of changing clothes, wiping off makeup, and sweat from his performance and the St. Louis humidity. We shook hands, I mumbled something like “You’re terrific” or “This is a real honor” or something equally inane. To this day I have no idea of what I said. It didn’t matter. He took out a pen - with green ink - signed my book, and said something like “Thanks, kid” and handed it back to me.

I don’t remember anything else about that night except holding the book very tightly until I got to my car. That, I thought, was that.

Jump forward now about twenty years. Sometime during the mid-’90’s, while working at D’Arcy Advertising, I got involved with the Variety Club of St. Louis telethons and wrote the outlines and scripts for a few of them. Mike Roarty, head marketing guru at Anheuser-Busch, was a key member of Variety and responsible for bringing in many big-name stars. Mike loved show biz as much as he loved the beer biz. This one particular year he brought in Donald O’Connor.

On the day before the Telethon, we had a run-through at the Chase Hotel Khorassan Room. Donald was very relaxed and approachable. I had brought the Gene Kelly book with me. During a break in the rehearsal, I sat at a round dinner table next to Don (I’ve gone from Donald to Don, you’ll notice), we talked about his house in Sedona, Arizona - which he had just moved into - and how he felt about being so far removed from Hollywood and the film community.

While listening to him, I had this strong feeling that I never wanted the conversation to end. I just wanted to sit next to him, for as long as possible, and listen to this remarkably talented man. During a lull in the conversation, I slipped the Kelly book out of the envelope, slid it over to him, and told him I got Gene to sign it. He said, “Where’s your Films of Donald O’Connor book?" and laughed. I was trying to come up with a humorous response when he added, “Don’t worry. There isn’t one.” Then he picked up a pen, opened the book, and said “Where do you want me to sign?” I told him page 134. The “Singin’ in the Rain” page. He signed it. He also signed a 5x7 black and white photo of himself, stuck it in the book, and slid it back to me.

Two out of three!

Now came the third and final step: Getting Debbie Reynolds signature. This part of the story begins in Las Vegas. In December of 2000, my wife and I were in Vegas for 3 or 4 days, staying at the MGM Grand. I saw an ad in a tour guide for the Debbie Reynolds show at the Orleans Hotel. Of course I hadn't brought the book with me, never thinking that she might be in Vegas. We didn't go see her show, I'm sorry to say. At the time there were other shows we were more interested in and time was short. But I had to get her to sign the book. So I wrote her a letter, on MGM Grand stationery, explaining the situation, where I was staying, when I was leaving, and included my home address and phone number. I went by the Orleans and left it at the desk for her. Two days later I returned to St. Louis, having heard nothing from Debbie. Weeks went by. Nothing.

A couple of months later, I was sitting at my desk at home, working on my iMac. D'Arcy was a thing of the past. I was gone and so was the agency, in that order. Free-lance writing now took up much of my days. The possibility of getting a response from Debbie was very distant. I was looking at the gray February day outside my window when the phone rang. 
I answered. 
      A woman said, "Gerry? Is this Gerry Mandel?" 
     "That's right," I said, figuring it was some fund raiser or cruise line. 
     She said, "This is Debbie Reynolds." Sure, I thought. Obviously a gag from a friend. 
     "Debbie Reynolds," I said. "Okay. Seriously, who is this?"
     She laughed, the delicate sound of music in her voice. "Is this the Gerry Mandel who wrote a letter about signing a book?"

I don’t remember the rest of our conversation, but it was something along the lines of her saying, "I've been very busy but want you to know I'll be happy to sign your book. You can send it to me.” She gave me her home address, in North Hollywood, and asked me to include a return envelope. I had the book in the mail the next day. Double-wrapped, insured, tracking number, signed receipt, etc etc.

Then I waited. And waited. A month went by. Another month. Oh, great, I thought. She wants to keep the book. Or somebody else took it. Or she spilled a cup of coffee on it and is embarrassed to return it. I mailed her a note, politely inquiring if she got the book. A week later the phone rang. No, not Debbie. Some man. Her assistant or helper or pool boy. He told me “Miss Reynolds has indeed received the book, has been very busy, but will get to it immediately.” He wasn’t lying. A few days later I received the envelope with my handwriting on it. Inside was the Gene Kelly book, signed by Debbie. Also included was her autobiography, which she signed, as well as an ad for her show at the Orleans, which she also signed. And a lovely note.

In January of 2017, two weeks after Debbie and Carrie left us, TCM released “Singin’ in the Rain” in theaters across America, to celebrate the 65th anniversary of the original release. I saw it twice, the first time with a group of friends who made the night even more special. The movie was better than I ever remembered.

There was a time, a few years back, when I had considered selling that book. On eBay or AbeBooks or a Hollywood auction site. I figured it might get a few hundred dollars, maybe more. But I didn’t do it. And I won’t. Unless the offering price is so outrageous it could put Mary Lee and me in a condo in the Bahamas and maybe a Bentley. Yes, everybody has their price. But until that offer comes in, the book stays on my shelf. Protected by a vicious golden retriever and a hi-tech security system that plays "Good Mornin'" very loudly.