April 10, 2000 - #105
Well, dear readers, here we are in the middle of that foolish
month, April. So, I figured it was about time we had a brand
spanking new foolish column. Besides, there are so many things to
tell you, dear readers, that I am simply frothing at the bit, or
is it chomping at the bit, or is it foaming at the bit, or
maybe it isn't "the bit" at all, maybe it's "the mouth" as in
frothing, chomping or foaming at the mouth. What seems perfectly
clear is that I am doing something at the bit or the mouth and
it's because I have so many things to tell you. Unfortunately,
because I just spent all that time trying to figure out whether I
was chomping or frothing or foaming, that I have now forgotten
everything I had to tell you. I'm sure it will all come back to
me or even front to me for that or any other matter. Have you
ever tried to clear a domain name? Wasn't that a fine segue? I
have tried to clear a domain name and here is what I have
found: Apparently, every single word in the English language has
been taken, domain-wise. No matter what word I tried to clear it
was already reserved, and most times not only as a dot com but as
a dot net and a dot org as well. Of course, being a clever sort, I
then tried to clear the domain names comdotcom, dotnetdotnet and
dotorgdotorg and yet they were all taken. I began to
despair that I would never be able to have a domain name of my
very own. I then tried various and sundry initials (v & s)
to no avail. Every initial and combination of initials
was taken. I then tried combinations of words like
cheeseslice.com and hamchunk.com. All taken. Fish.com? Taken.
Couch.com? Taken. I finally looked in my handy-dandy Thesaurus
(not just any handy-dandy Thesaurus, mind you, no, this was
Roget's Thesaurus, whoever the hell Roget is/was). I'd like
to know how this guy got the whole franchise on Thesaurus's. I
mean, why isn't there Brian's Thesaurus or Sally's Thesaurus? How
did this one-hit wonder get his name above the title?
Furthermore, why is his stupid name pronounced "Rozhay" when it
clearly should be "Rojet"? Moreover, just how did Mr. Roget come
up with the word "Thesaurus"? Where did that come from.
I'll tell you where it came from; it came from the bowels of a
hideously deranged word person's mind, that's where it came from. If
someone came to you and said, "I've got a book which has a lot of
words which can be used in place of other words, whatever shall I
call it?" the first thing you'd think of is Thesaurus, right?
Thesaurus sounds like something roaming around in Jurassic Park.
What the hell am I talking about? Oh, yes, clearing a domain name
and the impossibility of doing so. Remembering that I was a
clever sort, I looked up the word "nameless" in Mr. Roget's
personal Thesaurus, for which, I may add, he doesn't receive
one penny in royalties, and I found a wonderful synonym for
"nameless": Innominate. I immediately tried to clear
"Innominate". Taken. Then I had a break-through, or a break
down or something broke and I thought, "By jove, I'll use
RealA.com as my domain name. Taken. Yes, someone in Japan, Mr.
Tagamouchi or something, has had the temerity to usurp my
very own name. He has usurped it and apparently without so much
as even a by-your-leave, whatever the hell that is. Well, dear readers, that really had me
chomping at the frothing foaming bit, let me tell you that. Or is it champing?
Anyway, I was, in a word, incensed (taken) and in another word
inconsolable (taken). I was sans domain name and there was
nothing I could do about it. And do you know why? Because there
are people out there who have reserved every word or name under
the sun or moon (taken) in the hopes of selling said word
or name and making big money. Well, I find this heinous
(heinous, do you hear me?). I find this reprehensible. Why
have people done this? Well, once upon a time some wiseacre
bought the domain name business.com and later sold it for six
million dollars. Yes, you heard it here, dear readers, six
million dollars. And now everyone thinks they're going to hit
the jackpot, domain name-wise. Of course, some names are still
available as dot nets or dot orgs or dot com dot coms, but frankly
I do not want a domain name with too many coms or orgs because it
is just too too confusing. Anyway, I shall continue to rack my
brains (no mean feat) until I find a domain name that I can clear.
In the meantime, aren't I supposed to be running for President?
Why, yes, I am running for President. Not walking
for President, mind you, or even sprinting for President,
no, I am running for President. I have run a total of
five miles so far and have at least four constituents, whatever
the hell they are. We have come up with some wonderful
campaign slogans. Of course, there's Vote for The Real A Like So
Much Fish. And: Vote For The Cheese Slice and Ham Chunk
Candidate. And: Vote For The Real A For The Real P. Ah, so many
slogans so little time. At least that's what my campaign manager
Mr. Mark Bakalor says. And isn't that the crux of the matter? Are
you looking at that word "crux" and thinking to yourself, what is
it, fish? Perhaps we ought to send that word to Roget, so we can
have Roget's Crux. In any case, my campaign manager, Mr. Mark
Bakalor, who knows a crux when he sees one, said I must have a
running mate. Would anyone like to volunteer? You can be male or
female as far as I'm concerned because I'm running for President
on a non-gender specific ticket. That is, you can vote for me as
either a male or female President and whatever the outcome I shall
do my best to fill those shoes (either loafers or pumps, depending
on the votes) with pride, or at least feet. Of course, as
President, the first bill I will enact is to throw all those
domain name squatters in the hoosegow (wogesooh spelled
backwards). Anyway, my campaign manager Mr. Mark Bakalor gave me a
list of questions from potential voters. Here are both the
questions and my answers, not necessarily in that order.
I hope those answers clarify my stances on issues which are so
vital to this country.
Well, I feel we've gotten this here column off to a fine April
foolish start, don't you? Anyway, perhaps it's time we end this
section of the column because frankly it's starting to feel like
the Michael John LaChiusa Wild Party: Too long and it could use an
intermission. But enough about me.
THE TRIP TO LOUISIANA
I recently had to take a trip to the city known as Lafayette,
which is located in the state known as Louisiana. My normal
airline, TWA, doesn't fly to that neck of the woods, or even that
elbow of the woods and so I found myself on Continental Airlines,
which, I must say, has the worst leg room I've ever had the
misfortune to experience. Normally, when I fly I upgrade to first
class. Unfortunately, there were no first class seats available
to upgrade to. As I sat down in my seat (aisle, of course) the
first thing I noticed was that the seat in front of me was
practically in my lap. One thing I do not care for is a seat
that's practically in my lap. And you know how other passengers
are. They immediately push that button so the chair moves
backward. Being a slight claustrophobic, I needed to preclude
that from happening, so when the passenger in front of me took his
seat I leaned forward and said to him, "Hello. I hope you have no
intention of pressing that button and moving your seat back,
because if you do I shall lean forward and repeat the phrase Das
Knaben Wunderhorn over and over and over until you want to rip the
very eyes out of your sockets. Thank you for your understanding."
My ploy (yolp spelled backwards) worked and the seat remained in
its upright position. And so it came to pass ("And so I came to
pass"? What am I, Moses all of a sudden?) that I arrived in the
city known as Lafayette, where I was greeted by the people I was
there to visit and do a bit of business with. Since it was
dinnertime when I arrived, our first stop was a restaurant called
Prejean's. It was a very nice down-home type restaurant with a
good ol' boys Cajun band fiddling away. While the Cajun fiddled,
The Real A ate. And ate. And ate. If you've never been to
Louisiana let me just say here and now and also now and here that
the food is amazing. My hosts insisted that I try the fried
alligator appetizer. Now, I don't know about you, dear readers,
but I am not the type of person who can suddenly just try
something called fried alligator. And yet, I was feeling oh so
bold and merry that I did try the fried alligator and dang
it all if it wasn't tasty as all get out. Like chicken, only not.
Then my dinner arrived; fried catfish, some kind of corn cake,
dirty rice and more fried catfish than you could shake a stick at.
Under that plethora of fried catfish was a plethora of spicy
french fries. Now, this is not the type of meal that people with
heart problems should eat, but since I don't have any heart
problems, I proceeded to demolish that dinner until there was
nothing but an empty plate. At this point I was beginning to
resemble a sumo wrestler and I felt like I was going to explode.
After that fine repast we went home, home being their palatial
50s- style abode. For those who live in major cities and know
what house prices are like, here is a little culture shock: This
house was on two acres of gorgeous land, had five or six bedrooms,
waterfalls, a guest house and every other kind of room you can
imagine. Cost of said house: $200,000. Here in Los Angeles,
California, that same house would cost over a million dollars.
Anyway, I got to stay in the guesthouse which was only fitting as
I was a guest.
The next day began bright and early with a trip to an authentic
Louisiana airboat tour of authentic Louisiana swamps. Oh, what
fun we had. Our tour guide was an affable fellow with an affable
Louisiana Cajun accent. We saw alligators (non-fried) which
looked just like logs. It is very exciting to see an alligator
which looks just like a log, as you can well imagine. We also saw
some herons and some egrets. Once, for a complete change of pace,
we saw some egrets and some herons. We also saw trees. Lots and
lots of trees. After our swamp adventure we went to a little dive
and ate big Po' Boys. Believe me when I tell you, dear readers,
my fried shrimp Po' Boy was the size of my couch. I ate the first
half and thought I was going to die. Oh, it was incredibly
delicious, make no mistake about it. As I began to eat the second
half my eyes started to take on that glazed quality that fine
corpses have, so I gave the rest of the sandwich to the son of my
hosts. Yes, the son of my hosts finished off half of my sandwich
after eating an entire one on his own. A growing boy can
do such things. Older Jews cannot. A few short hours later it
was time to go to dinner. I'd barely digested the Po' Boy, but
nevertheless off to dinner we went, this time to a restaurant
called Copeland's. At Copeland's I decided to eat "light" and had
the Crawfish Etoufee, one of my favorite dishes. Oh, it was
yummy. It came with a biscuit that turned out to be one of the
single best-tasting things I have ever had the good fortune of
having in my mouth. Buttery and light as air. The etoufee was
spectacular. Here is an interesting side note about Copeland's:
Mr. Al Copeland, for whom the restaurant is named, is also the man
responsible for Popeye's Fried Chicken and Biscuits.
The next day was a lazy one, spent lounging around the house and
discussing the business at hand. The business at hand got rather
boring, so we turned the discussion to the business at foot. When
we were through, I went jogging because I was starting to resemble
a large swimming pool. Oh, one thing I've forgotten to mention
because they forgot to mention it to me: My hosts had cats. As
loyal readers of this column know, I am allergic to cats. These
people not only had cats, they had eight cats including a
pregnant one. Now, anyone who knows anything about cats knows
that when a cat senses someone doesn't like it or is allergic to
it the cat will immediately go up to that person, rub itself all
over that person, jump on that person, in short will do everything
in its cat power to torment that person. I was that person.
Luckily, I had a large supply of Actifed with me and the cats
never really bothered me, try as they did. A good thing, too,
because that very day the pregnant cat gave birth to three
kittens, which brought the total to eleven cats. That night we
went back to Prejean's where I, once again, had the fried catfish
platter. It was every bit as delicious as the first time. On my
final day, we finished doing our business and then went to a
restaurant whose name I have forgotten where I ate a very good
meal that I can no longer remember, although I'm quite certain it
was fried. While at this restaurant I learned another interesting
Louisiana tidbit: One of my favorite restaurants in both Los
Angeles and New York is Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. Well, Ruth's
Chris Steakhouse began life in Louisiana. I have always wondered
where that weird name came from and now I know. And because
I know, that means you get to know, too. The
steakhouse began life as Chris' Steakhouse. An enterprising lady
named Ruth ate there one night and was so enamored of it that she
became a regular diner there, and eventually bought Chris out,
renaming the restaurant Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. Wasn't that a
The following morning, I left for home, several pounds heavier
than when I'd arrived. On the trip home I managed to upgrade to
first class where the legroom was a smidgen better. Still, the
person in front of me made the mistake of putting their seat back
and I spent a good deal of the flight leaning forward and
repeating the phrase Das Knaben Wunderhorn ad nauseum. I'm quite
certain that this fellow thought I was insane but that's the price
he had to pay for putting his seat back. All in all, it was a
splendid trip and sometimes I find myself dreaming of fried what
is it catfish.
The very evening of my return from Louisiana I attended the new
musical Martin Guerre. Well, not exactly new. This is a show
which opened in London several years ago and which got rancid
notices, but it's a show which its producer, Mr. Cameron
Mackintosh, refuses to give up on. I believe this is its third
incarnation. In that regard, it's rather like Mr. Frank
Wildhorn's The Scarlet Pimpernel. In any case, there I was at the
Ahmanson Theater waiting to see the new show by the authors of the
phenomenon known as Les Miz.
The house lights dimmed, and the orchestra began playing. The
first thing I noticed about said orchestra was how cheesy it
sounded. Either the sound system was at fault or the
orchestrations were, because it sounded like a low-rent summer
stock orchestra. As the lights come up there is a war going on.
People are running about and then someone comes on waving a large
flag back and forth. I thought for a moment that they were going
to do Les Miz but start at the end of the first act. Then a
cannon was rolled out, pointed at the audience, and fired loudly.
Now, I don't know about you, dear readers, but I'm not a fan of
musicals wherein the first thing that happens is a cannon firing
at me. Anyway, we then meet two best friends, Mr. Martin Guerre
and Mr. Arnaud du Thil. They are French which is only natural
since the musical takes place in France. In fact, they pronounce
the name Martin without the "n", so that we know they are French.
Anyway, there is a flashback and everyone sings very loudly for
quite a long time. I know that some people like this sort of
thing, but I am not one of them. First, the music has none of the
sweep or melody of Mr. Claude-Michel Schonberg's other two shows,
Miss Saigon or Les Miz. Whatever one thinks of those shows, there
is some melody going on. Here, the music just lies there like so
much fish, as if Mr. Schonberg had just thrown a bunch of notes on
the page and hoped they would somehow make a tune. For the most
part, they don't. And the lyrics, dear readers. What can I say
about the lyrics? Well, I'll cut to the chase and say they are
amongst the worst and most puerile I've ever heard in all my years
of attending musical theater. Everything is declaimed in this
show. They sing at people, rather than the songs coming
from the character. I mean, the title character sings "I, I'm
Martin Guerre" (in a song cleverly titled I'm Martin Guerre) over
and over again. He doesn't know he's Martin Guerre? He's
trying to convince himself he's Martin Guerre? He wants us
to know he's Martin Guerre. Believe me, we know he's Martin
fershluganah Guerre. I wanted to shout, "Tell me something I
don't know" at the stage. And how come when he's singing this
song it's suddenly Martin with an "n"? The rest of the
time it's pronounced in the French way, but for this one song he's
suddenly from Philadelphia? Anyway, on and on the show went for
two and a half hours. Along the way various people die whilst
singing at the top of their lungs. Oh, and the set by Mr. John
Napier, is a very drab affair. I'm sure that's what they were
going for and Mr. Napier delivered in spades. There is one neat
effect towards the end of the show, when an upstage wooden wall
burns. I was mesmerized by this burning wall. Unfortunately,
while the wall is burning a major character is passing away
downstage. I missed it because I was watching a wall burn. And,
as little flamelets would fall to the floor you could see water
squirting on them from the left and right wings, which looked
rather like two men going to the bathroom. By the way, I noticed
that there was a Martin Guerre website - www.martin-guerre.com.
That annoying hyphen is in there because some greedy wazoo had
already taken martinguerre.com. Excuse me for a moment, I'm just
getting some e-mail. Let's see who it's from, shall we?
Date: Mon, 10 Apr 2000 00:18:07 -0700 (PDT)
From: Frank Wildhorn
To: The Real A
Subject: My Brilliance
How dare you compare Martin Guerre to my show The Scarlet
Pimpernel? Martin Guerre has had three incarnations because it is
bad. The Scarlet Pimpernel has had three incarnations because it
is brilliant, so brilliant in fact that one incarnation was not
enough. People demanded more incarnations and we gave them more
incarnations. In fact, we have a fourth incarnation ready to go
if the people demand it. I am now working on several incarnations
of my next nine shows, which will all be on Broadway at the same
time. Miss Linda Eder, who also happens to be my wife, will star
in at least three of them. Also, just for your information, my
third incarnation of The Scarlet Pimpernel is following the third
incarnation of Martin Guerre into the third incarnation of the
Ahmanson Theater, and I hope you will see it.
Wow, that Frank Wildhorn has a very short fuse, doesn't he? Also,
is this the third incarnation of Frank Wildhorn? Just asking.
THE WEIRD DIET
As I've already mentioned, I came back from Louisiana several
pounds heavier because of eating a never-ending succession of
fried food. So, I decided to go on a diet that a friend of mine
has been on. He's lost twenty pounds in a very short period of
time. On this particular diet, you may eat as much fruit as you
like for your morning meal. For lunch you may have vegetables
with a meat or vegetables with a starch or you may have vegetables
with a vegetable, but under no circumstances are you to
have vegetables with a meat and a starch. If you do that
they come to your house and kill you. The proportions must be
seventy-percent vegetables to thirty- percent meat or starch. For
me there are two problems with this diet: I don't like fruit and I
don't like vegetables. However, being the game person I am, I
decided to give this new-fangled diet a chance. So, for example,
the first day I had a big salad with turkey in it for luncheon.
Fine and dandy. For dinner I had stir-fried vegetables over rice.
Fine and dandy. The next day I had a big salad with salami in it
and then for dinner I had stir-fried vegetables with chicken. The
next day I had a big salad with nothing in it and a tiny bowl of
pasta and then for dinner I had stir-fried vegetables with shrimp.
After the fourth day, I began to hate this diet. I began to have
nightmares in which malicious vegetables and salads would sing "I,
I'm Martin Guerre". I began to think, "If only I could reverse
the size of the portions so that I'm eating seventy percent meat
or starch and thirty percent vegetables". I became mean and surly
to anyone who resembled a head of lettuce (you'd be surprised how
many people resemble a head of lettuce, but that's another story).
But damned if I wasn't loosing weight. Three pounds disappeared
from my body the first week. In celebration, I immediately ate a
large salad with cheese slices and ham chunks. That, of course,
is a no-no, but I said yes-yes and did it anyway. And there you
have the story of The Weird Diet. By the way, I just tried to
clear the domain name of weirddiet.com. Taken.
LETTERS... WE GET LETTERS!
So many letters, so little time. This is what happens when you go
three weeks between columns and eat too much fried catfish. Just
think, if I'd only eaten twenty salads with every helping of fried
catfish, I would have lost weight. I was thinking of
retitling this section The Real A's Letters so I can be more like
Roget (he of the Thesaurus). On second thought, who wants to be
Do you know that if Roget were to invent the Thesaurus today and
tried to clear the name for the Internet, someone would already
have it. I don't mean to keep harping on domain squatters, or
even banjoing on domain squatters, but frankly I have had it up to
my eyeballs, dear readers. Anyway, let's get to those letters.
Alice asks what the running time of Company is. Well, I've had
Company that can run very fast, especially when they try my onion
dip, but I've had Company that runs slower than a constipated
snail. That said, the running time of the musical entitled
Company (by my close personal friend, Mr. Stephen Sondheim, who,
by the way, has just celebrated his brand spanking new 70th
birthday!) is probably between two hours and fifteen minutes to
two-and-a-half hours. And speaking of running, I'm running for
President in case you've forgotten.
Cody writes to tell me that he's doing a report on Jewish/Yiddish
playwrights and asks if I could tell him where he might find some
information on-line. I'm sorry to say that I have no answer to
this question. If any of our dear readers can help, please do so.
Also, try searching an AOL keyword, such as Schwartz, borscht or
Anna was wondering how she might be able to get in touch with Mr.
Stephen Sondheim to get his autograph. Mr. Sondheim is very good
about responding to correspondence, so write to him care of his
agent, Flora Roberts (actually Ms. Roberts is no longer his agent
on account of having passed away, but the agency still bears her
nam. Our handy-dandy host and campaign manager Mr. Mark Bakalor reminds us
that you can send Mr. Sondheim a message here at Sondheim.com. Anna also wants to
know when the next workshop of a Sondheim show will take place.
That's hard to know right now as Wise Guys is in a state of flux.
That, it seems, is the crux of the matter. Yes, the crux is the
flux. Anna also wants to know if the rumor of Mr. Sondheim's love
of chocolate cake is true. Perhaps Mr. Mark Bakalor, my campaign
manager, might know the answer to that question. If not, perhaps
my campaign manager, Mr. Bakalor, can bake a chocolate cake, send
it to Mr. Sondheim (care of Flora Roberts, his deceased agent) and
see what the response is.
Tony is a grad student at the Boston Conservatory of Music (BCM,
taken) and is presenting a thesis on the theme of loss through the
music of Mr. Stephen Sondheim (the birthday boy). He asks if I
have any suggestions. Quite a few of the songs of Mr. Sondheim
deal with some kind of loss or another. Perhaps you could get
more of a response at Sondheim.com's discussion forum...
Jim asks if I ever remembered the name of the "hit" side of Dicky
Do and The Don'ts immortal Flip Top Box. This question refers to
a column from long ago, but interestingly, as soon as I read the
question I remembered what the flip side of Flip Top Box was. It
was one of those novelty song hits that come along every now and
then (think White Witch Doctor or Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow
Polka-dot Bikini) and it was called Nee Nee Na Na Na Na Nu Nu.
I'm certain it must be on some collection of weird songs should
you have the need to check it out.
Chuck is hoping that what he wrote me can get to Mr. Stephen
Sondheim. Chuck lives in Hawaii and has a group of singers called
The Company Singers who are doing musicals in concert. They just
did an evening devoted to Rodgers and Hammerstein and now wish to
do Assassins, which apparently isn't available in a concert
version. Chuck should send his request to Mr. Sondheim care of
Flora ("I'm dead already, leave me alone") Roberts at the address
Wu Shenling from Hangzhou China sent me one of the finest e-mails
this column has ever received. It really moved me and will touch
all of you as well. I print it here so that we may all share it
We are glad from our research on the Internet that you are
interested in the wooden hanger. Taking the liberties, we
introduce ourselves as the leading exporter of this item in China.
We will offer you our high quality hanger at competitive price
with our best service to meet your needs. Full range of hangers
are available from us. We will appreciate your reply.
First of all, doesn't the name Wu Shenling sound like a Chinese
rabbi? Now, I enjoy surrealism as much as the next person, but
doesn't that e-mail just take the chocolate cake? I racked my
brains (that's the second time I racked my brains in this column -
perhaps we should shoot a game of pool using my brains) as to why
Mr. or Rabbi Shenling would send me this e-mail. And what I
figured out was this: Mr. or Rabbi Shenling obviously did a search
on "wooden hanger" and found my reference in a past column to
those wonderful days when my mother would occasionally come after
me with a wooden hanger. So, given the circumstances surrounding
my mention of wooden hangers, why would Mr. or Rabbi Shenling
think I would want any of his fershluganah hangers. Still
and all, he did take the time to write, so perhaps I'll purchase
just one wooden hanger to make him feel like his e-mail was not
Rrwrwrwrwrwrwrwrwrwrwrwrwrwrwrwrwrw wrote the following:
What are you?
Thank you rrw for that pithy and cogent e-mail. I have referred
your e-mail to Mr. or Rabbi Wu Shenling so that he may furnish you
with some wooden hangers. Hopefully you will find good use for
them. For example, you can try beating yourself with one of them.
I say only this, rrw: Mr. Mark Bakalor is a computer expert and
can read the headers from whence your e-mail came. He has been
known to track down writers of such letters and he has been known
to come to their houses and steal their forks. So watch it,
mister or miss, we are on to you.
Roy would welcome any information regarding either the original
Off-Broadway production of Assassins or any subsequent
productions, particularly in Europe. I do believe one of the most
exciting productions of Assassins was directed by Mr. or Rabbi Wu
Shenling. The critics were especially entralled with his use of
the wooden hanger as a metaphor for why people feel the need to
The Real John from The Real UK tells me that he's thrilled I am
running for President and asks if I would also be interested in
running for Mayor of London. Ordinarily I would jump at the
chance to run for Mayor of London, but I can't be President and
Mayor at the same time. And on top of that, Wu Shenling has also
asked me to run for office in China. When it rains, it pours,
running for office-wise.
Stephen (not Sondheim) asks what I think about the renaming of the
glorious Selwyn Theater. For those who don't know, the powers
that be are renaming the Selwyn Theater The American Airlines
Theater. Frankly, I find it confusing. I mean, do patrons of
other airlines get to go to the theater or only people who fly
American Airlines? Will they put windows in the theater so people
can have either an aisle or a window seat? Will people be able to
put their chairs back so that I can torment them by saying Das
Knaben Wunderhorn repeatedly? Will they stop a show in the middle
because of weather? These are the questions we must ponder, and
ponder them we will, by yiminee.
Seanm has finished the run of Fiddler On The Roof, in which he
played a Motel. Next he might get to play Rolf in The Sound of
Music or "what's his face" from South Pacific (Lt. Cable? Emile
de Beque? Nellie Forbush?). Seanm asks what I think of Maria
Friedman, the singer. I have never heard Maria Friedman, the
singer. I have, however, heard Maria Friedman, the slide trombone
player, and I'm quite fond of her valve work.
Seagull offers complete support for my Presidential candidacy.
Seagull will rally voters, make posters, bake cookies. In fact,
Seagull will do everything but vote for me because Seagull hasn't
reached voting age yet. So what, I say! That's the problem with
this country today. Too many stupid rules! As President, I will
change all the rules. I will pass a bill (or at the very least a
Robert) that says anyone can vote, be they man, woman, or child,
or even alligator, whether alive or dead, if someone wants to
vote, by golly their going to damn well have the right to vote.
Now you see if Mr. Mark Bakalor were up to date and hip and cool
he would put some streaming audio of a crowd cheering. But,
noooooo, we can't have streaming audio because we are not with it,
internet-wise. Nonetheless, please imagine a crowd cheering the
Lysa, a new dear reader, has been a Sondheim fan forever and just
happened to happen on this here site in a very happenstance way.
Lysa is sorry to hear about my head. I am happy to report that my
head is entirely healed. Lysa also would like me to explain the
constant references to fish. Perhaps Mr. Mark Bakalor, my
campaign manager, can point her in the right direction (I believe
the story is repeated in Column 50).
Andrew's mother would like to know what the heck Stephen Sondheim,
Richard Skipper and that millionaire guy's friend are doing in
that poster with them. First of all, perhaps Mr. Mark Bakalor, my
campaign manager, will be kind enough to reprint the picture in
According to Andrew's mother, Andrew has no memory of being there
when he caught that big fish. That is because it is a doctored
photo, and Andrew has, in fact, been inserted over the real photo
of Dr. or Rabbi Wu Shenling.
Amezy has an upcoming biography project in school and has chosen
Mr. Stephen Sondheim. She has decided that she and her friend
want autographed photos of said Sondheim and wants to know how
they could get them. See all the references to the late Flora
Erin will also vote for me when she comes of age. Erin is doing
The Will Rogers Follies and while she is a big fan of Mr. Cy
Coleman, she feels it is not his finest hour. I must concur on
Joey will also vote for me as President and wants to write our
campaign song. In fact, she has written one to the tune of Old
Friends but we can't have a campaign song with "Old" in the title.
We are the new even though we look like the old.
PatLaceyBulb (aka Gav) misses our trivia section. Unless we go
back to a regular weekly column, the trivia section doesn't make
much sense. Gav also wants someone to tell him what musical film
composer Angelo Badalamenti wrote. Perhaps Mr. Mark Bakalor, my
campaign manager, can find the answer.
Paul Broussard asks if there's any word on a cast album release of
the new Putting It Together. While the show was taped live by The
Broadway Network, they have not made a deal with anyone for the CD
Send all email to me at email@example.com or use the form below...
Send The Real A Some Email:
Well, dear readers, it is time for another column to come to an
end. I have to get out on the campaign trail. I have to do my
whistle stop tour where I stop in a town and whistle. For some
reason that seems to get votes. Now I must try to clear some more
domain names. I must see if Roget ever did a damn thing other
than create the Thesaurus. Oops, there's the doorbell. Perhaps
it's my wooden hanger from Mr. or Rabbi Wu Shenling.
Until next time, I am, as I ever was, and ever shall be...
Yours, yours, yours, yours, yours.
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