Anybody who lived in Massachusetts, as I did, during the 1970s will remember a public service announcement that ran frequently on the local channels (and that’s all there were in those days – local channels)  The ads featured, as I recall, Boston-area celebrities, or maybe they were just local teens and adults who would be dancing or painting or doing something artsy, and at the end of the spot they’d turn to the camera and say, “You gotta have ahts!”   They always had the Boston accent, and “arts” were always pronounced “ahts.” And it’s true, you gotta have ‘em.

I have blogged before about ASAP, the After School Arts Program that provides arts education for, not just the children in our little corner of Connecticut, but also for children in surrounding, inner-city areas.  As we all know, when education budgets are being slashed, as they are in our current economy, the arts are the first to go.  ASAP, run by the fabulous Joanne Torti, and its enthusiastic board of directors, tries to ensure that children are not denied access to classes in visual arts, music, drama and dance.  There have been studies that prove that an understanding and appreciation of the arts is as vital to an individual’s growth and development as an understanding of mathematics and language (please don’t ask me to cite them – they’re studies. Done by people who study stuff. Experts).

On February 19th and 20th, the world-famous dance troupe PILOBOLUS (not to be confused with the other world-famous dance troupe, MOMIX, which is so often featured here) will do a benefit performance at the Pomperaug High School in Southbury, CT, to benefit ASAP. Pilobolus is the dance group that did all the great pieces at the Academy Awards a few years ago. Remember? The dancers became the car in the movie “Crash”?  They morphed into all the themes of the movies for best picture that year in a very cool way.  And now, they’re providing their talents for a very worthy cause, ASAP.

So if you’re in the area and want to support a great cause, order your tickets now. Here.

I found this great video of a Momix show on YouTube.  I remember Moses told me once that he doesn’t like seeing Momix on YouTube because the quality is usually so poor, but I thought this was quite nice, so I hope he doesn’t mind if I post it.

Denis and I went to see Momix Remix last night which was a debut ensemble performance at the Warner Theater in Connecticut, celebrating Momix’s 30 years as a dance company. Moses Pendleton and Cynthia Quinn had their daughter Quinn fly all the way in from Europe where she dances with Les Ballets de Monte Carlo, in order to do a solo piece to start out the wonderful show. It was beautiful. Cynthia, Quinn’s mother did two solos herself and from where I sat she looked like a 19 year old. She is a woman of such beauty and grace. Why didn’t my parents make me take ballet?

Alan was there and so was Christine and her family, who posed for a picture with us after the show. What a lovely family, two of the most friendly and polite children I have met in a long time. Well, it was a great night.

Yes, we have arrived safely in Paris.  But, on our way here, we stopped in New York to attend the annual benefit for the Michael J. Fox Foundation for Parkinson’s Research. I’m too exhausted right now to go into detail about two of the most inspirational, intelligent, funny and truly beautiful people I know – Tracy Pollan and Michael Fox, but one day I will devote a blog to the work that these two have done toward finding a cure for Parkinson’s Disease.  If you’ve read either of Michael’s books, you know he’s a true optimist and he believes that a cure will be found but also believes you must work hard for what you want, so, to date, his foundation has raised 170 million dollars toward that goal.  Last night he raised a little bit more with the help of some friends.

Who can name each rock and roll legend in the above photo?

Thanks to those who complimented me on my skirt in the comments of previous entry.  I need to take posing lessons or something.  Just what am I doing with my hand on my bum?

Au revoir, le temps pour faire l’amour à mon mari

Last night I attended a benefit for the Susan B. Anthony Project. It was held at the home of Moses Pendleton and Cynthia Quinn.

When I arrived, I saw that Moses and Cynthia had decorated their porch with many of his sunflowers:

I decided to try out one of the rocking chairs. Remind me to put on some makeup the next time I go out.

There were sunflowers everywhere, and even though it was a gray and drizzly evening, the whole porch was bright with the flowers’ yellow brilliance:

Moses carefully selected each one from his giant sunflower crop. At first glance, this just appeared to be a sunflower in a vase. Then Moses showed me how he had found it just as it was starting to open its petals. It appeared to be winking, which delighted him (and me too):

There was a small bonfire down in the lower garden:

I noticed that the women at the party, young and old, seemed to be drawn to the flames like moths. I guess it was just the heat they were drawn to. Or, possibly, the gorgeous Momix dancers who were fanning the flames:

The rows of dead plants behind the dancers are part of the marigold garden that usually looks like the suns rays. This is how it looked last year:

But this year, it was hit by what Moses desribed as a “perfect storm” of doom – damp, cold and some sort of fungus, which killed the light of the rays, but not Moses’ determination. He has a plan to combat the fungus blight with … well, I better not say, lest the local fire marshall happens upon my blog.
Here’s Cynthia, the hostess, looking like a sunny flower herself:

And another flowery friend:

The guests all gathered on the porch and the stairs to watch the Momix dancers perform:

And the show began:



I was afraid the flash from my camera was bothering those around me so I stopped taking photos. Maybe Moses will send me some. I somehow didn’t get a photo of Moses, but here’s one I took on another visit:

Well, it was a great night and for a great cause. The Susan B. Anthony house provides shelter and support for battered women, and their director, last evening told me that Moses and Cynthia have been longtime supporters of their wonderful program. Send Susan B. Anthony a donation, if you feel so inclined, or send a donation to a program for victims of domestic violence near you.

Once upon a time there was a young woman named Patty Heffley who moved to New York City to be part of a scene. The punk rock scene. She found herself a cheap apartment on the fourth floor of the only residential building on a block near the meatpacking district and there she remained for thirty-one years, in relative obscurity.

One magical summer evening, a bright spotlight shown into Patty Heffley’s living room. The light had been erected on the abandoned elevated railroad tracks that had been silent for decades. It was now an elevated park, and the designers had thoughtlessly placed a spotlight on a walkway and pointed it right at Ms. Heffley’s apartment. Ms. Heffley blinked out her window into the bright glare and realized that her days of walking around the apartment in her undies were over. Did Ms. Heffley stomp over to City Hall to lodge a complaint, or file a suit against the developers of the High Line park, or organize her neighbors and form a committee to save the neighborhood?

No, Ms. Heffley did not. Because Ms. Heffley was now a New Yorker and while there are types of New Yorkers who love to take action for and against any changes to their neighborhoods, there are other types who came to New York seeking the spotlight. Patty was one of these, and after three decades, when the spotlight finally came to her, she knew just what to do. She turned her fire-escape into a stage and formed the Renegade Cabaret. She and her beautiful and talented friends were the stars. Their audience: the world – or that small, elevated part of it that is drawn to the northern end of the High Line park each week to be entertained.

And she lived famously ever after!

The End.

Well, that’s my version of Patty’s story which has already been told in the New York Times and the Washington Post, and, I imagine, scores of other blogs. My daughter and I set out last night to see the show, which was scheduled to begin at 9:00. I forgot my camera, so the photos here have been lifted from the web.

Since it was Bastille Day, last night’s show had a French theme. There were articles of bright red and black lingerie decorating the “set”. There were strings of lights and a lantern and flowers and there was Patty Heffley, the hostess, who smokes on stage like Denis Leary, Puff-puff-puff-puff-puff. Talk. Puff-puff-puff-puff-puff, who introduces the acts.

Then a man named (I think) John DePinto played a lovely, mournful song on his accordian – the kind you might hear in a French cafe. Then, Elizabeth Soychak - one of the beautiful stars of the cabaret, sang April in Paris a cappella, and a case of the goosebumps swept through the audience – which was, and always will be- standing room only.

There were other acts. Another gorgeous talent, Mary Foster Conklin (pictured at the top of this post), who from where I stood, looked quite like Marion Cotillard – but maybe it was the French get-up, sang a lovely song in English and one in French, and a woman named Amber read a poem.

There were two acts, and at the end of each, Ms Heffley, who is a CHARACTER and a wonderful Mistress of Ceremonies, lowered a big decorated basket down to the street, where people were able to help themselves to CDs of the performers (”just drop in ten bucks”) or to just drop in donations to help keep the cabaret alive.

If you live in the New York area, go, some night soon, to see the sunset over the Hudson, and to hear talent that matches (if not surpasses) any that you’d find on a Broadway stage. It’s silly to make the Broadway comparison really, because in a theater, you don’t have the background music of cars whooshing up and down the highway, distant sirens, and the regular barking of a uniformed security guard hollering, from a nearby overpass, “NO CONGREGATIN’ ON THE OVERPASS!” “MOVE IT ALONG!”

Thank you Patty Heffley and friends, for a wonderful evening!

I just received these wonderful photos from the Momix show Botanica. I blogged the other day about the show but didn’t have nice photos to share. Now I do!



Photos by Max Pucciariello

Ahhhhh, thank you Moses, this blog needed some beauty.

Last night we went to see the play God Of Carnage, starring James Gandolfini, Hope Davis, Marcia Gay Harden and Jeff Daniels. It was so great. I laughed until I cried, seriously, but I’m one of those people who can’t really laugh without crying. If you’re in the NYC area and looking for a good show, go! We went backstage to visit with Mr. Gandolfini after the show. Such a sweet guy. I loved him in this show.

Then, we met our friends Alice Hoffman and her husband Tom Martin for dinner. Best selling author ( and one of my new favorite people) Alice has a new book coming out on June 2nd called The Story Sisters. It’s not in stores yet, but I’ve already got mine, thanks to Alice, and will be curling up with it tonight.

If you caught yesterday’s post you’ll know that I routinely embarrass myself in public and as promised, here’s another example.

First, I must explain that I often have a difficult time interacting with Denis’s fans. Denis spends a good deal of time in the city and meets and converses with his fans daily. I spend most of my time out here in our nice little town where people pretty much ignore us (well, they used to shoot holes in our mailbox with shotguns, but we got a PO Box and now they ignore us.) Anyway, when I’m out with Denis in the city, or when we’re traveling, I still get very excited when people recognize Denis. It’s just that we were together for years while he was trying to get work and become a successful actor/comic and now that he is, and people acknowledge that, it’s VERY exciting for me. And, like I said, I’m not around it as much as he is. I really just don’t know how to deal with the people we meet on the streets.

Typically, Denis and I will be walking along a sidewalk in Manhattan and another couple will pass. The man will say something like, “Hey! Denis Leary!”

Denis will nod and smile and keep walking along, talking to me about whatever, but I will turn and wave frantically and smile at the guy and his girlfriend, which will prompt one of them to say, “We love Rescue Me!”

I then interrupt Denis to say, “Oh my God, honey, those people love your show.” Denis turns and says,

“Thanks,” then he tries to continue on but I’m still shouting my own thanks to the people: “Wow, thanks guys!

That’s SO nice.”

We will now be half a block away from these strangers, but my obvious interest in maintaining a conversation with them will prompt one of them to shout, “MY SISTER-IN-LAW GREW UP IN WORCESTER!” which will make me tug on Denis’s sleeve and say, “Honey, honey, their sister-in-law grew up in Worcester.” Denis will then shoot me a look of extreme annoyance and holler back, “GREAT!” and then drag me off.

It’s weird. The people are speaking English, but I feel compelled to repeat everything they say, to Denis, like a translator, and then I often answer the people for Denis as if he is unable to speak.

So anyway, here’s one of many stories in which I disgraced myself while interacting with Denis’s fans. We were at the US OPEN women’s tennis finals a few years ago. Denis and I had just started playing tennis and we were obsessed. Somebody invited us to sit in their box and watch the match, and we brought the kids and had a great time. You have to take an elevator down from these boxes and when the match is over, everybody crowds around these elevators and shoves their way in.

We were riding down and Denis was staring up at the floor numbers that were ticking away and I was staring into the face of a woman whose toes were touching mine. She was with a guy who was grinning shyly at Denis.

The woman smiled and said, “We’re big fans,” and I did the whole, “Honey, these people are big fans of yours…” thing.

Then the woman said, “You guys must have people saying stuff like this to you all the time,” and I smiled warmly and said, looking her dead in the eye, “yes, we do,” and for some reason both the woman and her boyfriend suddenly frowned and looked away. This caused me to mentally rewind and play her words, and I realized that she had said “You guys must hate people saying stuff like this to you all the time,” AND I HAD SMILED (wickedly, it would seem) AND SAID “YES WE DO!”

The elevator doors opened and the people started to stomp off but I actually chased them through the crowd saying, “No, wait….excuse me …I thought you said…” but they were not interested in anything I had to say at that point.

When I returned to my family my kids were dying of embarrassment. Jack kept saying, “Why were you so mean to those nice people?” I was trying not to cry. Denis said, “Listen, I’ve said it before. I don’t want to have to say it again. Leave…the people…alone.”

There was a wonderful feature on Momix’s new show Botanica in the New York Times last week. You can read it here.
These are some images I stole from the NYT’s website. We’re seeing the show this weekend. Can’t wait. I need beauty, now. Feeling a little overwhelmed.

I was just going through my photos and realized I left a lot of stuff out of my quick post about our White House tour, because I was in such a rush getting ready for the dinner last Saturday night.

First of all, Andrew, our Secret Service Agent/Tour Guide could have had a PhD in American history, he was so knowledgeable. Much of the most interesting information about the White House involves the First Ladies who lived there. For example, Andrew showed us a very large room that is now a parlor of some sort, but was originally the room where Abigail Adams, the first First Lady to reside in the White House, did all her own laundry. Also, Jacqueline Kennedy found that the White House archives and library were in appalling shape and she set up the archival system that is used today to catalog and protect the White House books, artwork and antiques.

There are beautiful portraits of the First Ladies all over the White House. This First Lady seems to be giving Denis a conciliatory pat for not supporting her in the Democratic primary.

The White House was set afire during the war of 1812. These charred lintel stones have been left exposed as a reminder of the fire and the war.

During the fire, fast-thinking Dolly Madison ordered her staff to cut this portrait of George Washington from its frame and roll it up so it could be carried through a window.

The White House windows all contain the original leaded glass panes, but after 9/11, some sort of bullet-proof/ explosion-proof panes were placed inside the windows.

The White House was also made airtight somehow, with a circulating pure air system that would protect the residents in the case of a biological or chemical attack. We also learned that there is a bunker under the East Wing that is very well-fortified. We saw a photo of the car that the president rides in. It looks like a regular Lincoln Navigator limousine, but, is, in fact, a sort of tricked-out tank. You can’t crush, explode, or bomb this thing. If the president is walking, anywhere, it’s right behind him.

Who can name this president?

And, for extra credit, who can name this handsome fellow?

I’m talking about the 4-legged one, of course.

Well, I had Denis take a photo for the blog before we left. Here it is:

I’m worried that it might have looked a little mumsy. It looked better when we were walking. That beautiful gold-covered python clutch is by Carlos Falchi. My friend John (Lake 53 here on the blog) works there and loaned me the clutch, which I loved.

Here’s a photo of us as we arrived at the White House Correspondent’s Dinner. I’m too cheap to pay for the photo so that’s why there are words on it.

We had such a great time. We did not meet the first couple, but were in the same room which felt almost as exciting. Hopefully you saw the President’s speech. SO great.
We went to the Vanity Fair party afterwards which was at the French Embassy. I don’t know if I’ve ever been to a more beautiful party. The embassy is a museum-sized mansion and there was a huge terrace overlooking a garden filled with trees that swayed in the warm southern breeze. All the trees were lit from beneath with lights that changed colors. First the trees were violet, then pale blue, then scarlet.

And the people were gorgeous. There was everybody famous you can think of. Actors, actresses, governors, mayors. Rahm was there. We were there. Captain Phillips and his wife Andrea were there. I asked Andrea how she coped during those days while he was held captive and she started to explain that she’s an emergency room nurse, and I said, “say no more!” I’ve blogged before about my awe at the super powers of nurses and also wrote about them in An Innocent, A Broad. She was able to deal with the crisis when it was going on, by doing the next thing that had to be done, and only broke down at the end, once the crisis was over. I asked Richard, the Captain, if he experienced any “Stockholm Syndrome” type of sympathy with his captors, and if he felt sad when they were killed.
“No,” he said adamantly. He explained that although he had spent several days conversing with his captors and learning about them, telling them about himself, he knew that they were going to get them all killed before they would surrender. He had no sympathy for them, only great awe and admiration and gratitude for the Navy Seals who rescued him.
Well, I could tell you about the coked-up actor who made a spectacle out of himself, or the beautiful actresses I met and the old friends we chatted with and the sulky, self-important journalist who kept leering at our group and the weird, weird European actor who seemed to be having some kind of mental breakdown before our very eyes …but I won’t. I want to get invited back next year!
We didn’t get back to the hotel until 1:30. Very late for me.
Now I’m tired and must rest my weary little head on my pillow. Thanks to all who commented on my little adventure to Washington, DC!