THE TRIP TO GABRIEL

The trip to Gabriel is dangerous. The roads are slick with snow.

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During my craniosacral session, I use prayer and visualization. I speak to my body, spirit and mind.

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At six-thirty, I bike to the Music Box (on west 45th) to see the Broadway play "Superior Doughnuts" by Tracy Letts. When I see a play from Chicago,  I feel a pang of longing for college, for lost opportunities.

I stagger through the ticket line to the box office. People in line talk about me carelessly, loudly, as if using two canes goes (hand in hand) with being hard of hearing.

"Look out! He has a cane!
"He's going to fall!"
"Get out of the way! I think he needs the wall."

I keep my expression plain. I'm both righteous and vulnerable.

Once inside the Music Box, I ask the house-manger if there is handicapped seating.
The house-manager puts me off suggesting I use a private staircase to the balcony with less stairs.

An usher guides me through a red velvet curtain by the apron of the stage to a set of narrow steps.
I crawl (on hands and knees) up these private steps.

Watching me struggle, the kind usher suggests I take the nearest seat; a private box hanging over stage-right.

I sit separate and regal -a lone, visiting dignitary. I feel important. I notice someone in the audience looking up at me so I sit up straight and refrain from touching my face or hair. When the play begins, I feel superior to the rest of the audience (I am so close).

"Superior Doughnuts" is entertaining and totally sucks me in. It's expertly written (I think). I realize I love a (one set) play.  This play reminds me of "Two Trains Running" by August Wilson I saw at the Signature (or maybe Fugard's "Master Harold" and even Inge's "Bus Stop"). I decide I will deconstruct Lett's play and use it to write my own.

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When the curtain comes down, I wait for most of the audience to leave and then cane my way (with patience and prayer) over the icy sidewalk of west 45th street - back to my electric bike. It takes fifteen minutes to unlock and mount my bike.

I bike home through sludge and demanding traffic. I'm not able to choose my route. (It's hard to describe, but the traffic forces my navigation because if I bike into too tight a corner - I can't back up, or get off the bike, or make a sharp turn. I must go with the flow).

I'm afraid the wheels of the bike will slip under a moving a car.

I get pushed by the angy traffic to west 44th and Tenth to a gas station. My tires are low so
I use this forced opportunity to fill them.

I see a sign for the pump. The air is free. There are cars in line. I get in line with my bike.

When it's my turn, I ask the man in line behind me to asssist me. This man (with a black, tired sedan) is cordial but shady. He pumps my front tire but selfishly moves on to his own car.

I object.

"Hey, my back tire! What about my back tire."

What can I do?  I'm weak. My voice is weak. So I relent. I sit on a snow bank and sulk (like a kid whose toy was snatched by a bully).

When this man is done, he hands me the hose and I fill my back tire (on my own). But the valve stem won't connect to the hose. Instead of filling the tire, I release the remaining air. The tire is (now) completely flat.  There is nothing to be done. I have a flat tire.

(My bike is too big to put in the trunk of a cab).

So I walk my bike home in the cold, New York, night. It's a ten minute walk to my apartment building but it takes me well over an hour. I worry about frost bite. (My circulation is bad). I worry I am destroying remaining muscle.


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At 44th and eleventh, I ask a man (pushing a cart) for help. We are alone on a street dressed with snow, lit by two or three florescent lamp posts.  The man is fifty. The man is Hispanic. The man looks down and says "Hey, it's hard all over".

"No" I say, "I'm not asking for money. I just need help getting my bike over the ice onto the street."

"Sorry man, I didn't understand."

We slowly get my bike off the icy sidewalk onto the eleventh avenue.

When we're done, I thank him.  He asks where I'm going. I point to my building.  He says he'll unload the boxes from his cart and then catch up with me. I tell him it's okay - I'm fine now - I just needed help getting onto the street.

We wish each other Merry Christmas and I continue on my journey, alone.

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I stop and sit on a fire hydrant.

I look up and see my apartment building prominent in the night sky. I can see a window of my apartment (maybe). It seems miles away. My sense of distance has been distorted. I'm a small bug or rodent on a freezing, nameless street - helpless. I'm having a Kafka moment.

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When I reach the front of my building, Spiro (my doorman) runs to meet me.
He takes hold of the handle bars so that the two of us are now pushing the bike, inching our way toward the lobby entrance. This slow procession leaves room for intimate discourse.

Spiro fills the emptiness by reassuring me I'll be okay.

(over and over, he says "don't worry, you'll be okay" - I didn't ask).

He says, "You'll get better, sir. Keep up the good work. There is a Chinese man in apartment 626 who had a stroke" he says. "When he came back from the hospital, he couldn't walk, but now he is better. Every day he tries and every day he gets better and better."

Through the cold, through my exhaustion, I confess to Sprio, "It's not like that for me Spiro, my problem is worse than a having a stroke".

Spiro says nothing.

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I'm in the lobby. James Taylor sings "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" from a boom box nestled near the big artificial Christmas tree.

I stop. I stand frozen and listen.
I feel my losses keenly; to be able to walk, to be able to sing.

The Music Box

The Music Box
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

ARNOLD STANG

Arnold Stang died yesterday.

I did my first commercial  with him (a cartoon) in 1974.
It was for a cereal called "Norman".

Arnold Stang was the voice of Norman. Norman was a caveman? (I think).
I voiced the boy in the spot.

We had a little dialogue.
It went something like...

Norman-    "Hey, how bout trying a little cereal?"

Kid -          "What kind of cereal?"

Norman -    "Norman"

Kid -            "Norman Cereal? You gotta be crazy."

Then we sang a little jingle.

"You'll be wild about Norman,
You'll be nuts about Norman,
You'll be nuts about, you'll be wild about,
You'll be nuts about...
Norman!
Part of a complete breakfast by Nabisco."

We recorded it in a studio in midtown.
There was a big orchestra.

Back then, there was a pack of little kids doing all the commercials.
They were from the city or New Jersey and they all had New York accents.
(Remember the Mikey kids from the Life Cereal commercial? That was my era).

When we started the session I decided I should use a New York accent. All the others kids had one. I figured it would make me sound more professional.

So standing on a box, leaning into a microphone, wearing headphones for the first time, I stood across from Arnold Stang and sang...

"Yule be wild dabout Noah-min.
Yule be nuts about Noah-min.
Yule be nuts about yule be wild dabout
Yule be nuts about Noah-min.

Pawt of a complete breakfast by Nabisco."

After a few takes, the advertising executive took my mother aside and explained to her that they hired me because I didn't have a New York accent; please see if your son would use his natural voice.  My mother  then clarified this to me, "they didn't want whatever accent you're doing, use your own voice honey" - the ad exec hovering nearby.

I was embarrassed and a little hurt, but it was also kind of cool, because it was the first time I understood myself as a marketable entity.

Oh! I get it. I'm the kid WITHOUT the New York accent.

At the end of the session I apologized to everyone in the studio for holding things up.

Later on the street, my mother told me I didn't need to apologize and she (of course) was right.
I've never escaped the angst of letting people down (in show business). Whether it's a commercial, a little film, or a play, I should be faultless. My performance should be easy, happy, light as a feather, and smooth. I'm hirable because I'm perfect (a professional).

This is far from true- and not such a great idea... so acting (even for a simple voice-over) can be painful (for me).

I remember I didn't know who Arnie Stang was but I could tell he was important.  I'd never seen an adult like him before.  His funny voice was like magic, his cartoonish face, exotic.  He understood exactly who he was and why he was hired and all the other adults in the studio backed off.   At aged ten, by working with Arnold Stang, I got a little glimpse of a semi-famous professional at work.

Arnold Stang didn't pay much attention to me. I was "the kid" hired for the spot. He probably had five other bookings that day.


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Arnold Stang, a character actor whose bespectacled, owlish face and nasal urban twang gave him a singular and recognizable persona, whether on radio or television, in the movies or in advertisements, or even in cartoons, died on Sunday in Newton, Mass. He was 91 and lived in Needham, Mass.

United Artists, via Photofest NBC, via Photofest

Arnold Stang showing a plane to Milton Berle and Zsa Zsa Gabor in 1956.

UNited Artists, via Photofest

Mr. Stang with Frank Sinatra in the Otto Preminger film “The Man With the Golden Arm” (1955).

The cause was pneumonia, said his son, David.
Mr. Stang considered himself a dramatic actor who could play serious roles. But even he was aware that with his signature heavy glasses and a manner that could be eagerly solicitous, despondently whiny or dare-you-to-hit-me pugnacious, his forte was comedy.
Like Wally Cox, who was a friend, and Don Knotts, Mr. Stang was a natural for roles requiring a milquetoast, a pest or a nerd. At 5 foot 3 and never much more than 100 pounds, he once said of himself, “I look like a frightened chipmunk who’s been out in the rain too long.” And in a story he frequently told, after an auto accident in 1959 that left him needing extensive plastic surgery, he said to the doctor, “For God’s sake, don’t make me look pretty.”
His memorable moments as an actor were oddly varied signposts of popular culture. He was the spokesman for Chunky, the candy bar, in the 1950s, delivering the slogan: “Chunky! What a chunk o’ chocolate!”
In Otto Preminger’s 1955 film about drug addiction, “The Man With the Golden Arm,” he played Frank Sinatra’s pal Sparrow in a performance that is often cited as a precursor of Dustin Hoffman’s turn as Ratso Rizzo in “Midnight Cowboy.”
On “Top Cat,” the animated television series of the early 1960s, he was the voice of T. C., a k a Top Cat himself, the leader of a mischievous cat gang. (The character was based on Phil Silvers’s Sergeant Bilko.)
He was one of two gas station attendants (Marvin Kaplan was the other) who witness the destruction of their station by Jonathan Winters in the 1963 lunatic film comedy “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.”
Most sources indicate that Mr. Stang was born in Chelsea, Mass., in 1925, but according to his family, though he had relatives in Chelsea, he was born in Manhattan on Sept. 28, 1918. His father was a lawyer until the 1929 stock market crash and earned a living afterward as a salesman.
The Chelsea story was one Mr. Stang perpetuated himself; he told interviewers that he got his first job in radio in 1934 at age 9 after he wrote to “Let’s Pretend,” a New York children’s radio show, and asked for an audition. Told he could audition when he was next in New York, he took the bus from Boston, alone, the following Saturday and was hired.
“We were married 60 years and I never managed to get him to correct that,” his wife, JoAnne Stang, said in an interview Monday.
The truth, Ms. Stang said, was that her husband grew up mostly in Brooklyn and graduated from New Utrecht High School. He wrote the note asking for an audition from Brooklyn, and he was older than 9.
He began his show business career as a teenager — his first radio appearances were on the shows “The Horn and Hardart Children’s Hour” and “Let’s Pretend” — and he went on to perform on dozens of radio programs in the 1930s and ’40s, including soap operas, mysteries and comedies, and was often called on to play more than one role.
He was probably best known at the time for “The Goldbergs,” the long-running family series set in Bronx on which he played the character Seymour Fingerhood, the teenage neighbor to the title family, and later as a sidekick to stars like Eddie Cantor, Jack Bennyand especially Milton Berle.
Mr. Stang was a regular on “The Henry Morgan Show,” a showcase for Morgan’s astringent satire, often playing a complaining, goofball New Yorker named Gerard who traded banter and one-liners with the host. After Berle moved his radio show to television, Mr. Stang appeared from 1953 to 1955, bringing along his character, Francis, a pain-in-the-neck stagehand who bugged the star relentlessly.
In addition to his wife, whom he married in 1949 (Wally Cox, a skilled goldsmith, made their wedding rings, she said), and his son, who lives in Cambridge, Mass., Mr. Stang is survived by a daughter, Deborah Stang, of Brighton, Mass., and two granddaughters.
Mr. Stang landed on Broadway three times, the last being a revival of “The Front Page” in 1969. He was a regular on the 1960s comedy “Broadside,” a short-lived, distaff version of “McHale’s Navy,” and was a guest star on numerous series, including “Bonanza,” “Batman” and “The Cosby show.”
He was also the voice of many cartoon characters, including Nurtle the Turtle in the 1965 film “Pinocchio in Outer Space.” Other film credits include Otto Preminger’s 1968 gangster comedy “Skidoo,” with Jackie Gleason; “Hercules in New York” (1970), a comedy withArnold Schwarzenegger; and “Dennis the Menace” (1993), with Walter Matthau.
“He loved the cartoons, and he liked doing commercials, too,” Ms. Stang said of her husband. “But most of all, he loved radio. It offered him such a span of roles.”

Blue Skies

Blue Skies! Charlie here.

I hope you're in the Christmas spirit!
The snow (here) is great but I'm moody.

I'm still riding my bike, but my legs and voice are weaker.


(Rats)


Friday (before the storm) I rode down to Whole Foods on 24th and 7th. When I finished shopping and caned my way back to my bike, I had to ask a stranger to help me lift my leg over the bar! (The bar is pretty low).


Last night, I went to the Symphony Space on 95th to hear the Brandenburg Concertos... fantastic!

(I had to use two canes for the first time).


I've been off Rilutek this month. I'll be back on it in January. Maybe that's why I'm weaker?

I feel like I can meditate and pray my way out of this ALS. Am I nuts?

I read every day and go to the Christian Science Church in SOHO on Wednesday and Sunday. (My father's family were Christian Scientists). I was brought up a lax Episcopalian. I started going to the Christian Science Church after my diagnosis. It's been helpful, mind opening.

This morning I read a book called "Miracles"; a small book about tapping into the universal energy of G-d. I also read "Strunk and White's Element's of Style".

Both books stress the importance of clarity.

Daily, I put off researching. I'd rather get on my bike.

But I made progress today. I was on the phone with Medicare, Medco and Mitzumoto's office trying to set up a new prescription for January. I think I'm all set.


For the New Year?
I will research.

-Charlie

snow

snow storm West 42nd Dec. 19 2009
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

LUCILLE LORTELL

Before the snow arrives, I cab to Christopher Street to see a matinee of "So Help Me God".
Maurine Dallas Watkins wrote the play in 1929. This is its first production.

I love old plays but this one needs work: cutting, shaping, focus. And the Lortelle is the wrong theater for this play; the sound is dead; the sets are cramped. It needs a classic old Broadway house.

Kristen Johnson was hilarious (Tallulah Bankhead by way of Carol Burnette and Charles Busch) .

The play's message - (it's all about money and survival in the theatre - in life?) - is an ugly truth all theatre folk face.

Christopher Street

Christopher Street NYC DEC 19 2009
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

patients medical

patients medical
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

Lyceum

Lyceum
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

AT THE LYCEUM

Tuesday night I bike through noise and traffic to see the play "In the Next Room or the Vibrator Play" by Sarah Ruhl.

I love a new ambitious play on Broadway. "In the Next Room or the Vibrator Play" is the kind of play you expect to see in a black box. The Lyceum, where it's currently running, has a history of housing risky, less mainstream (less profitable) plays.  The theater is old-world and elegant, but because it's closer to Sixth avenue and a small world away from "Phantom" - the rent's probably cheaper allowing less commercial plays a chance at a run (is my guess).

"The Vibrator Play" was produced by Lincoln Center and technically, it's as good as it gets. The sets, props, costumes, acting, lighting and sound, are without fault. We are presented an historically correct parlor and operating room (in the next room) in a house in New York City at the turn of the last century. The sets and costumes alone made my mouth drop open - my eyes widen like a five year old watching an animated (turn of the century) puppet show. The design team ensures that every detail is supported and made effortless for the audience. Like a short stay at an elegant old-world hotel,  you're very body delights at the careful attention.

(If only the boorish audience (with their loud talking and musical cell phones) and the barking ushers corraling people to exit the theatre (seconds after the curtain fell) were also committed to art. The  house managers were so loud and blunt, I felt like I HAD watched something unseemly (something pornographic) about vibrators.

The play made me (and a lot of the audience) giddy with laughter (embarrassment). What's funnier than watching a person have an orgasm for the first time and not being able to comprehend what it is? But her play isn't naughty, it's spiritual. I wondered (as I left the theatre) how many people in the audience were going to home to help their partner have a great orgasm - (in the sprit of wholesomeness and love).

The play explores how the physical orgasm helps you find yourself, your identity- sex as a way of becoming whole (again). Masturbation is both self love in the physical and spiritual sense. Sharing an orgasm with your lover helps you discover love and who you are.

In Ruhl's play, the american middle class is in the dark (about sex). Men get their sex without emotional connection. Women simply put up with it to have children.  In one scene, an African American wet nurse explains to the white women that the physical sensations they describe - sound to her like "when I am intimate with my husband".  This is a revelation to the women.

The men in the play (for various reasons) are clueless too.

At the end of the play, the doctor and his wife step outside into a winter garden. It's snowing.
(This was a gorgeous effect but I knew it was coming because little snowflakes fell from the fly-space all night). The woman wants to experience sex outside (in a garden!)
She undresses her husband. She's says she's never fully seen his body before. The woman is in control. The man (the actor) is naked, vulnerable while she remains fully dressed. She asks him to lie down in the snow and makes snow angels. He follows direction and she lies down on top of him.

The ending left me breathless.

Ruhl fills her plays with imagery and intellectual ideas. It's jam packed. The invention of electricity, elephants, art, umbrellas, snow angels, genesis. But returning to eden is (kind of) a conceptual idea. Having the woman want sex in the garden seemed a little convenient.  If I'd read the script I would have thought this ending seems performance arty and cinematic. (Also) I guess I think a great play shouldn't change the set for the final five minutes.

But I really loved the play. The world Ruhl conjures is historically fascinating. Her characters are complex but seem historically accurate.  Her play forces us to look at progressive ideas about love, and (satisfying) sex through the lens of a terribly oppressed era and culture. That's really cool.

The construction (however) sometimes withers. Ruhl paints herself into a corner having to have her characters retrieve lost hats and gloves to get them back on stage. And I wasn't ready to take on the male artist who appears in the second act. Entertaining yes, but theme wise, my mind was too busy with the new invention of electricity, onanism, umbrellas, elephants, genesis and snow angels.

I biked home after the play. This is why living in Manhattan is so great.

Ernest Hemingway

James Madison

Samuel Morse

Oliver Ellsworth