Things Are Just Where They Should Be, Tonight...

Have I ever mentioned that I'm a total Cabaret Queen?  I'm going to guess that that's not a total surprise.  I just believe that honest songs, sung simply, can communicate more clearly, more tellingly, more directly than anything I know...

So anyway, this evening, I had one of those moments, one of those things that mark out, somehow, the glory and splendor and weirdness of our lives.  Nothing special, really - just driving home, after yet another office party (the season is winding down, and soon we'll be done with those, blessedly, at least until September or so).  So maybe, yes, I'd had a glass or two (something we're really not supposed to do, in these parts that take a very dim view of Demon Rum), and yes, maybe I'm just a little tired and ready for vacation (coming soon, and more of that anon).  Whatever; I think it was a gift.

Just one of those realizations, really, as I pulled around the corner, in my silly little car (have I ever talked about my Rolling Midlife Crisis?  Perhaps not.  It's red, and convertible, and very inexcusable, but kind of fun), and down our street.  One of those thoughts that strike one, now and then:  how inexpressibly odd and unpredictable and, more than anything, worth treasuring, this life is.  It all came to me, suddenly: how strange, to be living here in the middle of Arabia Felix, accompanied against all odds by someone who thinks, for reasons I simply cannot fathom, the world of me, not to mention two (two!) mad terriers, and living in a large white house with a garden full of bougainvillea and hibiscus (me from a cold small town in Pennsylvania, where we waited each year for a tulip or two and a few stunted roses in the garden), and...

In any case, suddenly, cabaret seemed the only thing that might explain this sudden rush of something, half sentimental, half bittersweet.  I first heard this song sung by the marvelous Miss Andrea Marcovicci, but since she's unavailable on YouTube, I do think this gentleman, Mr. Eric Michael Gillett, does a very creditable job.  If you've ever wondered, actually, what I myself might be like on stage, had I not abandoned such things early on in the face, ineluctable, of No Talent At All, he's not far off (except talented), although I think I'd eschew the sweater, and I'm not sure I'd in the best of circumstances have quite such a firm grasp on staying on key.

"there's a key on the table/such a beautiful sight/as I hoped that it would be..."

And the dogs come rushing down the stairs, and from upstairs I hear, "Where have you been?" And... things do really turn out differently than one ever imagined - but sometimes, so much better.  As the dear Pet Shop Boys once asked, in a very different vein, what have I done?  Myself, I can't imagine, but I do, now and then, count my blessings, every one.

File Under "Feelings, Unlikely"

Well, that's as maybe, Mrs. Steve Lawrence, but it's going to take more than a little Max Factor Light Egyptian to turn you into the Rose of Spanish Harlem.

She may be feeling Spanish, but the overall effect is less Sexy Señorita than a vague attempt at a Princess Margaret impression, don't you think?  I suppose in 1961, though, an album called "I Feel So Snowdon" wasn't likely to be much of a chart-topper...

Not that the onetime Edith Garmezano doesn't offer the occasional surprise, mind you - did you know that she's half Turkish?

Portrait of a Lady

Helen sometimes found herself unaccountably weighed down by her accessories. Perhaps her sense of existential gloom would have dissipated had she not been so deathly afraid of hat-hair.

The Lovely Lindas

A galaxy of Lindas, from the sublime to the ridiculous (your call as to which is which).

Each is in her own way the personification of Lindaness - which one best reflects your inner Linda?

Is it Miss Blair, a headturner from way back...

...or that minx Wonder Woman, who insists on her own spelling?

Could you find yourself identifying with stunning, tragic Linda Darnell...

...or the equally stunning if somewhat less ethereal Miss Evangelista?

Certainly a wide range of possibilities in considering the ideal feminine are presented in choosing between high-art thespian Miss Hunt...

...and the somewhat less elevated Miss Lovelace.

Lindas clearly make excellent musical muses; just ask Mrs. McCartney...

...or Mrs. Porter. Those two undoubtedly could have - and possibly are having - a riveting debate as to whether it's better to be bandmember or beard, artist or socialite, but whatever the result, I'm on the sometime Linda Lee's side.

This Linda made her own kind of music, which turns out to run from pop to swing to canciones Mexicanos...

While our final offering, I fear, is nobody's favorite Linda, a kind of Linda-in-reverse in comparison to the charm, talent, elegance, poise, and general Lindalicity that precedes her.

I don't know what it all means, but at the moment I'm feeling Porteresque, with a heaping helping of Ronstadt on the side.

To Be Or Not To Be - Bad!

From 1930, sit back and enjoy the ... emphatic song-and-dance stylings of Miss Zelma O'Neal, putting across her big number, "I Want to be Bad" from the Paramount Technicolor spectacular Follow Thru.

I just think she's adorable, and I'm mad for the flaming trumpets. But I would be, wouldn't I?

Identity Issues

Four of them, in fact...

Were you in some doubt, darling? I understand they can do wonders with that these days...

Whatever you say, dear...

Of course you are. Even so, if you don't mind, I'll pass on hearing you roar...

I suppose this is the healthiest attitude; it's certainly the most all-encompassing. But frankly, I'd like to hear more about Osaka Monaurail, if you please.

The Actress and the Existential Crisis

Miss Ruth Gordon on the streets of a vanished New York City. I believe her little friend looks so apprehensive because he's just discovered that she's wearing his predecessor.

Let's face it: after Rosemary's Baby, it's hard not to impute sinister motives to Miss Gordon, harmless soul though she may have been. Cool shoes; have to give her that.

Conundrum

Are we human?

Or are we dancer?

Storks? Cabbage Leaves? Gabon?

Without a doubt, this tops the list of "Questions I would not want answered by a semi-beloved, half-forgotten television presenter."