SUNDAY
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Edward & Rod: The Brother's McKuen.
Photographed by Diane Kopperman, May 2002 at BB King's New York City
A Thought for Today
Sunday is the best day in the world to
mend a broken heart.
FLIGHTS FROM6THE
PAST
10 November, 2001
With all the running around I’ve been doing lately, learning new songs,
recording, mastering and the rehearsals for tonight’s performance, my food
intake has been a little ‘ragged.’
For instance yesterday I had a piece of pumpkin pie for breakfast, drove
to sound check with Edward where lunch consisted of an apple and a handful
of cookies at the performer’s hospitality table. Driving home we stopped
at The Abby where for dinner I ate a grilled cheese sandwich and a double
order of fries (after an unbelievably bad martini). This was topped off
with a too sweet chunk of lemon meringue pie.
Later after watching Night Gallery on the tube I downed a big mug of
buttermilk heavily seasoned with salt and pepper before I hit the road to
dreamland.
Imagine my delight to read in this morning’s LA Times that all of that
wonderful cholesterol intake may just keep me from contracting
Alzheimer’s. This means that while dying from hardening of the arteries,
at least I’ll remember every piece of pie and jug of buttermilk that got
me there.
On another health note (this one directed to the ladies) I’m sorry to
advise you that the latest Journal of American Medicine contains a report
that many of you who are taking estrogen pills will go blind. Let’s hope
this will turn out to be as false as my old Boy Scout Manual’s edict that
masturbation would accomplish the same trick. Had that been true I’d be on
my sixth or seventh Seeing Eye dog by now.
A MAN & HIS TOYS
Most of you know by now how much I love toys. Dress rehearsal for “Tap
Your Trouble’s Away” is supposed to end tonight at 11:30 (I’m writing this
Friday afternoon 11/9/01). So, I’ll go direct from the theatre to stand in
line at Computer Associates in order to be one of the first to buy Apple’s
new iPod which goes on sale at 12:01 AM.
For those of you still unfamiliar with the iPod it’s Apple’s new MP3
player that’s about the size of a credit card, weighs only ounces and
holds 1000 songs. It’s a bit pricey but I owe myself a treat this week.
Now, if The Powers That Be at Apple would send me a couple more of these
gadgets (in my dreams) I could travel around with the lifetime of songs
I’ve written in my hip pocket. Talk about an ego trip.
“Hey mister, would you like to hear my latest 42 caret creation?”
The iPod’s got fire-wire, an eight hour rechargeable battery and
automatically downloads tunes from your Mac in seconds; and like all of
Apple’s products of the past couple of years, the little feller’s cute too
– all titanium and white enamel. Every time I open a magazine and see the
foldout advertisement for it I start to drool. Gad, I’m sounding like an
iPod shill.
I owe my love for the MP3 format to Professor Eric for dragging me kicking
and screaming into this newest technology.
I’ll give you a full report on the new toy soon.
ON WITH THE SHOW
For some reason the song I’ve chosen to sing at tomorrow night’s gala is
turning out to be one of the most difficult I’ve ever had to learn. I
think it’s also the most beautiful one in the show. I was originally
intended to perform “Before the Parade Passes By” but Jerry Herman wanted
it sung by a female, he was right and Carol Cook will bring down the house
with it. My song (I want to keep the title a surprise) is a much lesser
known ballad and I’ve really grown to love it.
At yesterday’s sound check I was a basket case and screwed up what words I
could remember, wish me luck on finally hog-tying this sucker’s words and
whipping it into shape.
Why is it I had no trouble remembering Jerome Kern’s “Look for the Silver
Lining” and Kurt Weil’s “September Song” in last years shows but I stand
every chance of wreaking havoc on the work of a composer very much alive
and well who will be present for this performance?
Jerry and I are old friends but that could end abruptly if I screw this
one up. When you’re singing tunes by talented dead guys you can always
cover on the fly but living writers are not amused when one ad libs their
lyrics. Rightly so. Sinatra once showed me a wonderful slightly faded
telegram from Cole Porter that said. “Dear Frank: I’ll write ‘em, you sing
‘em. Love, Cole.” Porter was referring to a few substitute words Sinatra
offered while performing one of his standards. Frank actually loved the
admonition, not that it ever prevented him from singing any song his way.
FS was crazy about songwriters, so if he dropped an occasional “swingin’”
into a song’s lyric it was an act of love. And Frank always, but always,
prefaced each song he performed in his act with the writer’s name. It’s a
kindness, an act of professionalism and a tradition that his son Frank Jr.
continues to this day. Incidentally Frank, The Second is a walking
encyclopedia of everything concerning popular music.
The Gala is sold out to the point that Edward had to buy 2 tickets for
friends from a scalper at $500 bucks each. It is an incredible show with
Wilson Cruz doing a reverse strip as one of the many show stoppers. After
each doing their own individual turns Carol Channing, Angela Lansbury,
Rita Moreno and Bernadette Peters (led by Mr. Herman, himself) field a
quartet that leads the rest of us into the Grand Finale. The chances of
ever seeing the likes of that ensemble harmonizing on a single stage again
are minimal to none.
The hours draw on and there’s a final piece of pumpkin pie waiting
downstairs with my name on it so before installing OSX.1 on my Mac,
showering and dashing off to the theatre, I need to go down and grab a few
memory bites.
PS. Me and my iPod are living happily ever after. Tomorrow we open the
E-mail bag again. Sleep warm.
RM First published 11/10/2001.
THE FINAL WORD
There was once a young man who, in his youth,
professed his desire to become a great writer.
When asked to define "great" he said, "I want to write stuff that the
whole world will read, stuff that people will react to on a truly
emotional level, stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and
anger!"
He now works for Microsoft, writing error messages.
-David Chinn
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(posted 09/28/2002).
ROD McKUEN APPEARANCES
ROD McKUEN
CONCERTS
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Daylight
Savings Time Ends
Larry Baillie o
Jack Carson o
John Cleese o
Fred DeCordova o
Kathy Cornelius o
Floyd Cramer o
Ruby Dee o
Nanette Fabray o
Peter Firth o
Wayne Fontana o
Lee Greenwood o
H.R. Haldeman o
Jayne Kennedy o
Cleo Laine o
Simon LeBon o
Fran Lebowitz o
Roy Lichtenstein o
Marla Maples o
Margaret Naylor o
Kelly Osbourne o
Sylvia Plath o
Emily Post o
Theodore Roosevelt o
Lyle Rote o
Carrie Snodgress o
Dylan Thomas o
Ted Wass o
Scott Weiland o
Robert White o
Teresa Wright |
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Old
men were never young, older women always will be.
You win if you think you've won.
Silence like a scythe divides all reveries.
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TWO NIGHTS PAST THE FULL MOON |
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Finally no one
lives here.
Echoes, wind, climate climbing
or falling down -
rain rains while no one listens.
In the night, as in the day,
nothing moves, turns, climbs, runs,
jumps, or even is caught
standing still.
Passion seeps
below the bedsprings
to the slats and imperfection
in the
sagging floor.
Truth hides back
behind some bolted door
that no key fits.
At least not one I own
or loaned to me
and now in my possession.
Not even the legitimate lie,
if there is such a thing
is bothered with,
trotted out and dusted off
to slide past silence
into something.
Strangely I’m complacent,
not predisposed or looking.
Anxieties that I have lived with
day into night for years,
seem less important now.
This must be some new kind of peace -
demanding nothing.
What I have done
was done deliberately.
I placed my sensibilities
in some blind trust
like a presidential candidate
who takes his new influence sincerely.
I do not expect
that one day
things will change
go back to what we’re told
is normal.
( And what is normal
certainly one man’s definition
is too simple
as a hundred guardians
of what they call normalcy
confuse, conspire and even
trap the word
until it has no meaning).
There must be reasons
for this unnoticed disappearance
of nearly everything I prized.
Disappointment with myself
is surely one,
another might be
some new culture
that crept in
while all our backs were turned.
Indifference,
some new strain
that no vaccine has been
invented for
must bear responsibility
for so many changes
or so much I cannot figure out.
I only know that even ghosts
would now call this land uninhabited.
Do not expect people or a poltergeist
to enter through an archway
or from behind a hidden panel.
Let go.
Do not be disappointed.
No keys are jangling
and no door is left ajar.
Figures. People maybe -
move about behind barred windows,
stalk as shadows
past drawn blinds
and newly shuttered screens.
Two nights past the last full moon
and all the streets
are lunar landscapes.
-from Folio, 1974. |
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