Thoroughly Modern SJG

SJG and Grandma Shorty 

Back by popular demand, or sheer SJG laziness, my Oscar memories.  Grab a tissue box, peeps.  You may or may not be moved.

I grew up in a house where watching the Academy Awards was a religious experience. My family took it very seriously. The five of us gathered in the den and on this holiest of nights, we reclined in front of the TV, feasting on cold cuts and potato salad and Pepperidge Farm cookies. The evening took on heightened importance because my dad voted for the awards. Whenever one of his picks won, we all shared an inflated sense of pride, as if we had something to do with it. In the months leading up to the big night, weird and wonderful promotional gifts started arriving: Fortune cookies endorsing “Thoroughly Modern Milly.” A “Butch Cassidy,” giant chocolate bar in the shape of a dollar bill, with Paul Newman and Robert Redford’s faces carved into it. Sheet music and soundtracks from “Oliver” and “The Thomas Crown Affair.”

It was like Hanukkah all over again. My brother John (an aspiring actor in those days) and I fought over this prehistoric swag, racing to get the mail first. Of all of us, John has always adored the Oscars on a deeply spiritual level. Once he hit driving age, deli on a fold-out table had lost its allure. And since my parents had no interest in going, throughout high school, college and beyond, he escorted a different date to the awards. My dad had a whole system worked out for scoring primo tickets: a three-pound box of See’s candy, addressed to the nice Academy lady in charge of seating. 

Brother and sister on their way to the Oscars

Year after year, I'd ask,“When do I get to go?”  By the time John took pity on me, I was 24 and already married. The year was 1983. The hot movies: “Gandhi,” “E.T.”, “Tootsie,” “Sophie’s Choice,” “An Officer and a Gentleman.” It was my turn and I was going to make the most of it. First I had to figure out what to borrow. Buying new clothes was out of the question; I worked at a bankrupt newspaper. So, I ventured into my tiny closet and pulled out a one-piece, snazzy black velvet number left over from New Year’s Eve. It some needed help.

I turned to friends and family, and they delivered accessories. From Carla came a rhinestone belt that dressed the outfit up significantly. From Mom came a long strand of pearls and black silk, strappy shoes, size seven narrow. I’m a six and a half. By the end of the night, I was crippled in pain, but it was worth it. The final wardrobe touch came from my 83-year-old, Russian grandmother. Don’t pelt me with blood: I wore her mink stole! Back then, it was acceptable. That mink hasn’t gone out in public since.

Off we went to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.  John sported a red cummerbund, and I looked like a little girl playing dress-up. We walked the red carpet and no one took notice, not that we could blame them. We were nobodies who felt like somebodies that night. Before the show, big time stars surrounded us. It was an adrenaline rush. I could barely catch my breath. Over there was Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. Across the room, Fred Astaire, looking frail yet elegant. I stood this close to Jessica Lange in the ladies room, side by side in our stalls. When Julie Andrews walked by, I nearly had a coronary.  We're talking Mary Poppins, people!

A pre-show favorite: The sight of Liza Minnelli, several rows ahead of us, smacking and chomping on her gum. It was a white trash moment, not befitting Judy Garland’s daughter. I wanted to run over, stick my hand in her face and say, “Liza with a Z! Spit it out, girlfriend!”

The show was filled with technical glitches, mismatched presenters, and uncomfortable hosts – gum-chomper Liza, Dudley Moore, Walter Matthau and Richard Pryor. A high point: Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes singing “Up Where We Belong.” A low-point: the Mickey Rooney tribute, when he kept talking. And talking. Who cared!  We loved every minute.  Of course, I could go on and on. I could tell you how we waited over an hour for our car, alongside a young, dashing Christopher Reeve. But I hate to name drop, it's beneath me.  So instead, I’d like to close by thanking the Academy. And all the people who’ve helped me get here. You know who you are. And most of all, my brother John for an unforgettable evening.

Bachelor Number One

My brother John:  Bachelor Number One

Not everyone has a brother who has appeared on "The Dating Game" not once, but twice, and won both times.  Was it a life-changing experience for Mr. John Starr?  Let's find out, shall we?

1979 Dating Game Win Number One: "The girl in the photo in the skin tight spandex red disco outfit was a stripper who lived in Long Beach. She was really ditzy and I made fun of her with my answers and made Jim Lange laugh a lot. They warned us before the game that the prize date was a cheapie and not to look disappointed when they announced, 'You've won a 'Night on the Town!' She couldn't get off work so I took a friend (our contract said it had to be a member of the opposite sex.) We were limo'd to the old Huntington Hartford Theatre on Vine and saw 'Getting My Act Together And Taking It On The Road.' Afterwards, we had dinner at Danny's Apple, a restaurant/nightclub in Encino (where everyone called us The Dating Game Couple.) The place was raided that night by the narcs and it was covered the next day in the LA Times."

John and Spandex Girl 

1982 Dating Game Win Number Two: "They called and asked if I'd do the show again. I won again and the girl was a 6 foot tall gorgeous model. When I came around the separation wall to see her for the first time I dropped to my knees and clasped my hands like praying and said directly into the camera, 'Thank you, God.' Jim Lange laughed and the girl and I blew kisses to the audience and we partner danced over the closing credits. Neither of us bothered to go on the date." 

R.I.P. Jim Lange

Why Is It Always The Left Shoe?

An L.A. Mystery

Here's a column I wrote about a zillion years ago.  It  first appeared in the Century City News, and then the Los Angeles Herald Examiner on April 16, 1982.  I found a copy in my dad's file cabinet.

   A strange Los Angeles phenomenon has come to my attention lately, leaving me at a loss for some reasonable explanation. Why do people discard their running shoes in the middle of the street? Why is it almost always the left shoe? I can't figure out what is going on. Is everything in this fast-food world that disposable?
   Every day I drive down Olympic on my way to work, and at least once every other week discover (or nearly run over) an abandoned shoe. It just lies there, lost and all alone. Once in a great while, I'll see the right shoe several blocks away, in a similar state of degradation. I suddenly feel a wild urge to leap out of my car and rescue the neglected shoe so I can reunite it with its mate. But something always stops me from committing this act of humanity, if that's the right word. Should I be so rash as to open my door in traffic, I, too, might lose my left shoe, or maybe my right, and several parts of my anatomy. Why tamper with fate?
   What mystifies me is that I never actually see the culprit in action, tossing his or her sneaker recklessly to the wind. I just don't understand how this odd disrobing occurs. Here's one possible scenario:
   It's early morning. In the distance appears a lone runner, preparing for his next 10K event. The theme from "Chariots of Fire" surges out of his Walkman radio. Transcending his pain, he imagines himself on the beach, running in cinematic slow motion through the surf. As the music swells, his left foot strikes a huge wad of bubble gum, which grips his sole and tears the shoes off his foot. Failing to notice, the runner -- and the music -- fade into the distance.
   But in my search for the truth, I realize this hypothesis makes no sense. No runner in his right mind could fail to notice the disappearance of a shoe during a recession. Have you priced Nikes lately?
   If this weird phenomenon gripping the city were occurring only on the streets, I might not be as alarmed. But here's the scary part: It's spreading to the sidewalks. A while back, my friend and I were walking in Century City, and we came across one cowboy boot, right in the middle of the pavement. Can you imagine that? One damn cowboy boot -- for the left foot, of course, sitting there helplessly, without a foot to call its own. My friend, a sucker for the downtrodden, gently tried on the boot, only to find it was a size too small. We were stumped. What could we do with one man's cowboy boot, probably made from the skin of an endangered species? I'm ashamed to say we left it there on the sidewalk, hoping its irresponsible owner would one day come back to reclaim it.

    All of this sole-searching has launched me on a new research project which, much to my dismay, no one seems willing to fund. I'm trying to establish a link between UFO sightings and abandoned shoes. If anyone out there has information, please contact me care of the Foundation for Homeless Shoes. Thank you.

Important Jewish Questions

1.  What happened this time?
2.  What's wrong now?
3.  Who said it was okay to act like a moron?
4.  Can you remind me why I gave birth to you?
5.  Do you ever listen to me?
6.  Are you leaving the house in that?
7.  Are you totally meshugenah?
8.  Did you forget our address?
9.  Have I taught you nothing?
10. Are you sure we're related?

Innkeeper!

Monty Hall in my backyard.

A lovely day.  Nice people coming and going.  A few nice impromptu speeches.  The wonderful Monty Hall told us how my dad used to get the attention of the waitresses at Factor's.  He'd call out, "Innkeeper!" That got a big laugh.  My whole life, I never heard my dad call out, "Innkeeper!" in a restaurant. Complain that it was too cold, or that the service was slow, yes. Ask for more hot water for his tea? Always. When he wanted to flag down a waitress, he was old school, and by old, I mean circa 1952.  He'd raise his hand and call, "Dear!" What I wouldn't give to hear him say, "Dear!" again.  Or better yet, "Innkeeper." (Here's my real backyard. Photo courtesy of Eric Schotz.)

Look Who Dropped By

Did someone say open bar?

Today we celebrate a wonderful life. The life of my father.  He didn't want a funeral.  No eulogies.  No tears. Just a nice party with nice people saying nice things about the guest of honor.  Unable to  attend. But here in spirit.

"Our Man Ben" memorabilia

To Binge, Or Not To Binge

Just the word makes me feel bad about myself.  Binge.  I'm not much of a binger.  More of a snacker.  A little cookie, okay, maybe one more, and uh oh, the pants are too tight.  I'm the same way when it comes to my TV consumption. A show here, a show there, and uh oh, I'm in it till the programming gods cancel the series. I don't identify with the current trend of binge-watching.  I did it once, I admit it.  Binge-watched the first season of "Homeland." But that was only because I was sick.  I have friends who've binge-watched "Breaking Bad" and never recovered. They're still wandering the streets of Albuquerque, looking for "the blue stuff." Gee, I miss them.  I really do. I sure hope I see them again some day. They were nice.

And so, on principle, I pretty much refuse to binge-watch anything. Even.... "House of Cards."  I'll be honest with you. I watched the first eppie.  I was all, "Yeah, okay, whatever." It felt a little too self-consciously dark and aren't-we-the-hippest-show-ever. A little too self-aware of its edginess. Of course, the rest of my mishpocha sorely disagreed. They tried to do a "House of Cards" reverse intervention on the SJG. They tried to get me hooked on it. I resisted. The SJG can't be forced to watch just anything.  But then, my people know that already. What were they thinking?  How many times have they said, "Mom, watch this game with us," only to have me wander out of the room, in search of something I can actually comprehend. Like "Project Runway" or "Seinfeld" repeats.

Fine, I'll watch, I'll watch. Quit staring at me, Kevin.

But back to "House of Cards." I refused to play that hand... see what I did there?... until last night.  I blame the Olympics. I'm so done with it. Done, I tell ya. I looked at hubby. "Okay, okay, I'll try it, but you'll have to give me frequent recaps." I knew in advance this wouldn't work. It would be like that time he offered to teach me how to ski, gave up in about a minute, and hired an instructor.  The first episode of "House of Cards" (Season 2) started, and so did the questions. "Who's that?" "I think that's so-and-so." "What do you mean, you think?"  "I haven't seen it a long time." "I need answers!" Well, it was like that for two episodes, hubby sort of filling in the blanks, me bombarding him with questions.  Didn't matter, though. Later, I binged on recaps I found online, including a four-minute video that summed up the entire first season. I'm up to speed on "House of Cards." I'm now the one explaining all the plot points hubby forgot. Who has the upper hand now? Why, the SJG, of course.  And let's keep it that way, shall we?