Wanderings and Wonderings of J. Jennings Moss

Review: Gypsy

Josh — Wed, 25 Jul 2007 01:06:00 GMT

I've seen my share of Mama Roses. My first was Joanne Worley, the Laugh In comic with the huge smile and the even bigger laugh. Then there the film Roses: Rosalind Russell in the original, Bette Middler in the 1993 TV version. Just a few years ago, I caught the tiny Bernadette Peters fill those big, sensible heels.

But it wasn't until last night that I really saw Mama. As brought to life by Patti LuPone at the NYCity Center, Rose is a driven, hard, seductive, and funny matriarch. LuPone doesn't fall into the trap the role leaves for other actresses. She doesn't chew the scenery, she's alive in its world. She's almost subtle, a word you don't often think about when contemplating Rose.

By the time LuPone steps onto the bare stage and sings Rose's Turn, you feel for this woman who invested everything in her daughters simply to satisfy her own ego. You want her to rise up and claim what's hers. Sing out Patti.

What's in a Portfolio?

Josh — Sun, 22 Jul 2007 17:13:00 GMT

To get back into the working world after 18 months off, I joined the newest Conde Nast venture--Portfolio. I'm a freelance editor on the web site, Portfolio.com, where I'm editing the homepage and helping set up the site's coverage for the 2008 presidential election.

I'm also writing again. The first real story I've done in months ran this week. It's all about the producing pair behind the movie version of the musical Hairspray. This is a story long in gestation: I first met one of the producers, Craig Zadan, eight years ago. Though we haven't kept in touch, Craig's been on my mind in some way ever since I met him. I'm glad Portfolio gave me a way back to him and his business partner, Neil Meron. The two are responsible for making movie musicals a commercially viable form of entertainment again.

Here's one of the teases that ran on the Portfolio.com homepage.

Read the story by clicking here.

Corner Music

Josh — Thu, 21 Jun 2007 22:42:00 GMT

Walking home from work today, I made my usual trek--off the R line at Broadway and 8th, down 8th as it transforms into St. Marks, right on First Avenue and then a jaunty left and into my apartment. But today I had musical accompaniment as I strode.

At Astor Place, a single guy on a saxaphone warbled his way through Gershwin's "Summertime," a fitting song when it's hot and humid out, though not so sweet when placed in the hands of an amateur. The saxophonist, a young black guy of around 20, wasn't deterred. This was practice.

A little over a block later, at 2nd Avenue, was a five-piece band set up just outside the pizza place on the corner. I've lived in this neighborhood for five years, I've passed by that corner a couple thousand times, yet I don't think I've ever looked at the name. Today, though, they had a sign: Under New Management. I got that, but no name. The band, I'm sure, was brought in to trumpet (no pun intended, well, maybe it was) the change in merchant.

I listened a bit. The drums were a bit too loud. The unknown tune kind of, sort of, bordered on tuneless. The singer had a bit of a screech to his voice. No stopping here.

As I walked down 1st Avenue, the most peculiar thing happened. As the music started to fade behind me, I sensed it picking up again in front of me. It felt like someone was turning a balance knob in my head. Soon it became clear why.

Another band was set up on the corner of 1st and St. Marks, a foursome playing jazz beneath some scaffolding next to the Tribe bar. The band -- two kinda hippish black guys, two pretty nerdy white guys -- smoked. It wasn't music I knew. That didn't matter. It was lively, fun, and artistically sound.

I watched the other people who had stopped to listen. Toes tapping, some mild attempts at street dance, smiles. Other people never stopped, too wrapped up in their own journies. Some had headphones to drown out the natural soundtrack. Too bad for them.

Entertain Me

Josh — Wed, 16 May 2007 12:24:00 GMT

Examples of strange sightings on subways:

-- Last night as I was headed home from work on the MTA's R line, a blind and toothless man got onto the crowded train and started to sing acapella. He tapped his way through the car, trying to keep his balance while he held onto a tip jar. He sang minute-long snippets of a number of songs. I can't get his rendition of "Do You Think I'm Sexy" out of my head.

-- Another blind man, another subway car. One morning a few years ago, I got onto a train that was packed with surly, sleepy, caffeine deprived New Yorkers. A man with an accordian entered one end of the train and without hesitation or apparent concern, he started to play his instrument and politely push his way through the crowd. No clue what he played.

-- A couple of weeks ago, I heard a commotion on the other end of my train. I looked down to see what looked like a flash twirl around a subway pole. It was a boy, maybe 10, being twireld around the pole by a man in his late teens or early 20s. They were a breakdancing pair and they put on a show in the middle of the train. I couldn't see much, passengers blocking my view. Just every now and then, I saw the boy get flung in the air. And then there was applause.

I gave my change to the singer and the accordian player but not the breakdancers. I'm not so fond of breakdancers.

Home

Josh — Thu, 19 Apr 2007 12:10:00 GMT

My time in Paris is done.

A great adventure, though I long for the company of friends. I simply need to go home.

Au revoir Paris.

Julia Campbell, 1967-2007

Josh — Wed, 18 Apr 2007 05:21:00 GMT

Searchers in the Philippines found Julia's body today in the northern mountain area where she had gone hiking.

Her friends and I'm sure her family had been bracing themselves for this conclusion. Yesterday, a police official suggested she might have fallen off a cliff.

But the news today suggested it may be far more horrific. Her body had been buried, suggesting a criminal act and not unsteady footing took her life, although authorities said its possible debris from a fall covered her.

Julia was an amazing woman. I met her soon after I moved to New York, when I freelanced for People Magazine. She quickly took me under her wing and we became fast friends. When she got sacked from People (as did I and some of my other favorite people at the magazine), I introduced her to a friend of mine at FOXNews.com, where she got hired. Then I brought her into the ABCNews.com family, though she was jettisoned with a round of layoffs. Later, she got me in to see the executive editor at Star Magazine, though it wasn't the right fit. When I moved into my no-pet apartment in New York, she adopted my cat Sammy.

She kept pursuing a career in news, no matter how many bosses told her to get lost. She was the best kind of journalist, the kind that always asked questions, that was never satisfied. It was this quality that didn't curry favor with her employers as she applied the same tenacity to her work environment as she did the job itself.

So I was surprised with her plan to join the Peace Corps more than two years ago. But I was so proud of her and admired her commitment to changing her life 180 degrees. Few people would have taken that chance. I don't think I would have.

Julia always wanted more. A few years ago, when she began to worry she wouldn't find the right guy and she wouldn't be able to have the family she wanted, she asked me if I'd be interested in fathering her child. She said she didn't want me to be just a donor, she wanted me to be a dad and we would raise this child together. She even had a name if it was a boy, Jack. I can't remember why she chose it but I liked it immediately, it was my dad's name.

I couldn't do it, it wasn't the right time, I was still too involved with me. I wonder now what were things would have stood if I had said yes, if I had started an "alternative" family arrangement with Julia. Would she still have joined the Peace Corps or would she be at home in Brooklyn getting Jack ready for pre-school? A foolish question on my part, I know, but still I ask it.

At least Julia got the chance to reinvent herself, to forge her own path, to create her own reality. That's more than many people get to do in a lifetime.

I will miss you Julia. We all will.

High-Class Hobo Goes on a Scavanger Hunt

Josh — Tue, 17 Apr 2007 20:44:00 GMT

Our good friend Jamie Davis has been known as the "high-class hobo." Well, it seems, Jamie thinks I deserve the same title.

So be it.

I bought a four-day museum pass for 45 euros. Gets you into any one of about 40 museums and monuments in and around Paris. Many of the good ones -- the Louvre, the Picasso, Notre Dame -- but not all of them. You can't go to the top of the Eiffel Tower on the pass.

So, for the next four days, I'll be posting very short items about each of the places I visit. One line of text to go with one photo. Plus, the price I would have paid if I paid each ticket seperately. I'll also give the time I visited and the length of time I stayed.

Day One

10 a.m. Towers of Notre Dame. 45 minutes. 7.50 euros -- The cathedral itself. 20 minutes. Free.

It's either smog or haze but from up here, you can barely see the Eiffel Tower and its probably only a couple of miles away.

11:30 a.m. Musee d'Orsay. 90 minutes. 7.50 euro.

The art was cool, a mix of a little of everything over the past 200 years; the building was amazing, an old train station that upstages the art at times; and the crowds were annoying, I really don't like student groups.

3 p.m. Pantheon. 45 minutes. 5.50 euros.

Big imposing building rising from the left bank that's used as a crypt for really, really important people -- lots of room left in the tombs below -- also where Leon Foucault constructed his pendulum to show the earth rotated.

Total time spent in cultural places: 3 hours, 20 minutes.
Amount I would have spent if I bought each ticket individually: 20.50 euros.

Snapshots

Josh — Sun, 15 Apr 2007 21:01:00 GMT

I've posted a big selection of Paris photos on the Sights & Sounds page of RedHeadedArmy. I'm in the process of organizing them and giving them names but there they are.

And here's one new pic from yesterday, taken at le cafe-theatre de la magie, which is on the other side of Place du Marche Sainte Catherine from where I had lunch the other day.

Look closely at the image of the puzzles. A bit of magic!

Recovery

Josh — Sat, 14 Apr 2007 18:30:00 GMT

I'm back on my feet. I made it out of the apartment today without trouble, although the 5 euro cup of tea I ordered at a recommended bistro nearly put me back in my sick bed.

This will be short as I'm off to a magic show. I wanted to share one photo I took today. If Paris is the city of love, this is the photo of the city.

3 Days In Bed

Josh — Fri, 13 Apr 2007 22:56:00 GMT

Nothing like being sick in a foreign land. No English-language TV for solace, no stockpile of DVDs to pass the time, no tried-and-true deli with amazing chicken noodle soup close by.

I'm finally getting over one of the worst head colds I've ever had. My sinuses were so inflamed, I thought my head was going to explode. My appetite began to return to today and I made it outside to hunt for soup. I'm in the middle of the old Jewish sector of the city and thought it should be easy to find. Nope. No matzoh ball soup (already made) to be had. I settled for roasted chicken breasts and pound cake.

And to pass the time, I spent a lot of time on You Tube, watching assorted clips of favorite shows, musicals and comedy specials. One show I revisted was "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." Good times.

I came across one blogger's 10-best list ... it has clips to watch and enjoy. http://www.afterellen.com/blog/malinda/my-top-10-buffy-episodes

Ok ... with luck, I'll be able to get out and do something tomorrow.

Sound of Silence

Josh — Thu, 12 Apr 2007 09:25:00 GMT

Laying in bed with a head cold and I realize I haven't really spoken much this week, my only human interactions have been short ones in French with waiters and cashiers. Not much more to write now either.

People Are Watching

Josh — Tue, 10 Apr 2007 18:46:00 GMT

I stopped in the Bibliotheque Nationale de France Francois Mitterrand today. On one the top floor of the impressive 5-story sunken structure was a series of portraits of French politicians, many of them candidates in the upcoming presidential election.

I call this series of photos ... "One Person Watching People Who Are Watching Politicians Who Are Looking Back."

Spring

Josh — Tue, 10 Apr 2007 18:38:00 GMT

A taste of spring in Paris (my apologies to those in the U.S. Northeast and Mid-Atlantic who have dealt with less-than springtime weather). All of these photos were taken today, most in the Jardin des Plantes of the Museum National d'Histoire Naturelle.

Musique? Non!

Josh — Tue, 10 Apr 2007 18:09:00 GMT

Save for the amateurs who bang tonelessly on empty pickle barrels, I'm a fan of street musicians. Fond, lasting memories have been acquired listening to them.

My dad and I once saw two cello players dueling across the subway tracks in New York city. I heard a woman sing a slow, mournful, haunting version of a Sex Pistols song in London. Here in Paris, in the tourist heart of Montmartre, there was a woman singing traditional French folk songs while grinding a small player piano (only a stuffed monkey, I'm afraid).

A week ago, I was sitting in my one-room flat just before sunset. Music wafted through my open window -- a trumpet and an accordion carried much of the tune before a piano joined in. And just as fast as it started, it ended ... one song to usher in the night.

Today, I treated myself to a sit-down lunch in the Place du Marche Sainte Catherine, a quaint little square of maybe 50-feet square to the east of my flat in the Marais. The square is boxed in by seven-story beautiful apartment buildings, 100-to-150 years old I would guess. It has seven or so cafes around it, all with a smattering of tables outside.

As I dug into my entrée (to the French, the appetizer), a man with a saxophone started to play. He stood on the edge of the square itself, across from the next restaurant over, the Bistro de la Place. Before he can complete a single song (and mind you, he wasn't that great, but it wasn't dreadful), the restaurant owner quickly leaves his establishment. I didn't hear the conversation but the hand gestures said it all -- "Get out of here, you're not welcome at my restaurant ... or that one, or that one, or any of them." The musician makes a feeble attempt to stay, but the owner is adamant, so the man takes his saxophone and slowly slurks out of the square.

A few minutes pass, and a man with a violin appears in front of the restaurant at the south-east edge of the square, Le Marche. He nearly gets done with one song, but the pattern is repeated ... the manager of Le Marche steps out and gives the musician the same message -- "Get out."

This one has more persistence, however. He moves in front of my restaurant, the Rouge St. Catherine. He plays a collection of French songs, tunes I've heard countless times as they are the cliché of what French music is, yet I don't know the names of them. He strolls from my restaurant to the café to the right, only stopping once to snatch up a small luggage cart that some garbage men are about to take away.

Then I see a woman enter the square. A handsome woman in her mid-50s, her steely eyes lock onto the violinist. She marches into the Rouge St. Catherine, has a few words with the waiter, storms out and goes into the building next door. I didn't need a translator to understand the woman thought the café should be patrolling the square.

The violinist was not dumb. He stopped and quickly made his way among the tables of the restaurant with his change purse out. He wins tips from 1/4 of the tables. Me, I give him two .50 euro pieces -- one for the music, one for his persistence.

Minutes later, an old beggar woman makes the rounds. No one gives. Nor do I. No music.

What Would John Ashcroft Say?

Josh — Tue, 10 Apr 2007 17:46:00 GMT

Four examples of artistic nudity I've found in Paris. The titles are imaginary, the art very real.

Man With Two Cocks
From the lobby of the complex housing the M2K Bbiliotheque Cinema

The Hide and Jerk
From a park along the Seine near the Universitie de Paris

Lady Parts
From a contemporary art show at the Grand Palais

Lady Looking at Other Lady Parts
From a contemporary art show at the Grand Palais

For those who may be offended by the above -- and that includes the former attorney general -- I am not sorry.

Damn Internet

Josh — Tue, 10 Apr 2007 10:57:00 GMT

For those faithful readers, no posts yesterday and a short one today due to the Internet going out in the apartment. So now I'm in an Internet cafe where the prices are high and I'm typing, answering e-mails as fast as I can.

But let it be known, I had a great birthday here -- what a place to ring in 43!

I hope to post more later today or tomorrow with a new selection of photos.

Blame it on the Bossa Nova

Josh — Sun, 08 Apr 2007 11:28:00 GMT

My father gave me many things: the love of a good story, the life-long lesson of perseverance, lessons in how to grill or carve a turkey, hopefully his wisdom, and a love of Bossa Nova.

Created in the late 1950s by a trio of Brazilian friends, the new art form took the samba and softened it. The melodies were sweet, the lyrics in Portuguese (and translated into English) bequiling. The Brazilians mostly used classical guitars when they played it. Soon thereafter, Americans like saxophonist Stan Getz joined in. Around the time I was born in 1964, their collaboration on -- "Girl From Ipanema" -- became the Bossa Nova standard.

Jack Moss loved this music. He had all the records and played them constantly. Without realizing it, I became hooked as well and Jack even pulled one of my best friends from high school, Matt, into his club.

Last night, I went to a small jazz club on the Iles St. Louis to hear the Ricardo Vilas Trio, a group of Brazlian musicians. The club, au Franc Pinot, wasn't packed. There was a group of rowdy Brazilian expats, some French and a few scattered Americans.

Vilas mostly played his own music, a vibrant, up-tempo Bossa Nova all sung in Portuguese. During his second set, he played a melody of the classics -- Desafinado, One Note Samba, and a couple of others whose sound I recognized but which I couldn't place. He toyed with me by playing a line from "Girl From Ipanema" before launching into his own Ipanema-based song.

I couldn't stop thinking of Jack, who died a bit more than a year ago. I could see him sitting next to me, tapping his foot, a broad smile on his face, his eyes partly closed as he let the music into his soul. I don't think I ever saw my dad happier than when he was listening to Bossa Nova. Across from me, a man occasionally clapped his hands as a percussive accompaniment, something I'd seen my dad do often when we would see live jazz.

I left the club thankful for a night of Bossa Nova and grateful for the guidance of the man who showed me the way.

Watch and listen to the following You Tube clips:

Astrud Gilberto and Stan Getz performing "Girl From Ipanema" in 1964

Joao Gilberto reunites with Tom Jobim to perform "Girl From Ipanema"

Tom Jobim sings "Desafinado"

Sergio Mendes & Brasil 88 perform "Aguas de Marco -- Waters of March"

A more traditional take on "Aquas de Marco" by Ellis Regina and Tom Jobim. Beautiful!

A young Jobim and Andy Williams on Williams' U.S. TV show

Jobim+Vinicius de Moraes+Toquinho+Miúcha perform two songs

"Corcovado" as performed by Paul Sonnenberg with a shaky video montage of Brazlian scenes

$1 US

Josh — Sun, 08 Apr 2007 11:21:00 GMT

Last week, I met an American woman and her husband. They were escorting their 17-year-old granddaughter on her first trip out of the country, first to London and then to Paris.

Sallie, who lives near Chicago, talked of how marvelous New Yorkers were. While walking down the street, she saw some money on the ground -- a couple of dollars, maybe a $5 bill. At the same time, a New Yorker saw the same money. They looked at each other, looked around to see if anyone had dropped the money, both wondered who would get the cash first. Sallie motioned to the woman, indicating it was hers ... she bent down, took it, and she and Sallie struck up a conversation.

"You know its good luck to find money like this," Sallie said. The woman agreed. They shared a few words, before going their separate paths. As Sallie approached her hotel, she saw a coin on the ground and picked it up. Here was her good luck, she thought.

The other night, as I was walking back to the flat in le Marais, I saw something on the ground ahead of me. A crumpled, single American dollar bill.

Without missing a step, I scooped up the lonely dollar.

My good fortune in Paris continues.

Lesson Learned: Don't Piss Off the Hookers

Josh — Sat, 07 Apr 2007 18:20:00 GMT

On another self-guided walking tour, today through the Les Halles area near the center of Paris, I found myself walking down Rue St. Denis. once considered one of the finest looking streets in the city. No longer. The street is lined with what's called rag shops, selling lower-end fashions and as you get closer to Les Halles, you find the sex shops.

The first hint of tawdriness was a sign on a building. The vertical lettering was clear: "Pussy." For fun, there was a little cat head at the bottom.

And standing almost underneat the sign was a woman, who looked like she was at least 55. Her red hair was shoulder length, parted in the middle, and most certainly a wig. She wore a tight-fitting black top, a polka-dot miniskirt, and fishnets.

I passed her and looked to my right where across the street was another working girl, sorry, woman. Just as old as her colleague, this woman was at least 6' tall, wore a black vinyl pantsuit with a red wrap around her. She had several accessories attached, most notably a pair of handcuffs. She stood smoking a cigarette and reading a paper.

I knew I was courting trouble but I wanted a picture of the sign. When I pulled out the camera, the redhead shrieked out: "Non photo!" I said I was just trying to get the sign and she ducked into a door well to avoid getting captured. Her tall friend, now alarmed, seemed like she was going to come after me.

I quickly took the photo, bowed my head to the dominatrix and bid my goodbye.

Sorry mistress.

Other photos from the walk:

Hanging latterns in a very cool passage way with high-end shops.

It's election season ... this is for the leading candidate to replace Chirac.

I think this is a remnant of the old market that used to house Les Halles. Behind it is the Eglise St-Eustache, second largest church in Paris. I'd heard horror stories of the underground mall that replaced the old market and today I experienced it first-hand -- mobs of people crawling over four levels. Not fun.

Outside the church.

Inside the church.

Crushing the head.

Ugly American

Josh — Sat, 07 Apr 2007 08:11:00 GMT

I think of myself as a good ambassador ... I'm polite, I give up my seat on the Metro when appropriate, I bring wine and other treats to dinner parties, I don't wear jingoistic clothes on the streets of Paris (not that I do in the U.S. either, but I've left most of my T-shirts with American sayings on them back in the States).

So it caught me off guard last night when my ugly American side reared up ... brought on by an ugly Frenchman.

I was standing outside the Open Cafe with some new friends, drinking a couple of beers. The place was mobbed. It's a fancy place for the pretty gays. Inside the decor is all blond wood, red hanging lamps, an undulating ceiling. Outside -- the bar is on a corner -- a few tables line each of the perpendicular sides.

On Friday night, the crowd spilled onto the sidewalk. One of the barmen had to keep corralling people closer to the bar's doors. After say, three beers, we decided to move elsewhere. I followed the lead of my friends, one of whom had placed his empty glass on a small round table near the entrance to the bar. I followed suit.

"Non!!!!" bellowed a 50--something French guy sitting at that table. He looked as though I had just insulted his mother as the whore of the French revolution. And I'm pretty sure he waved his finger at me.

"Yes!" I said back, turning my back and leaving him fuming with my glass on his table. My friend Eugene, an American living here with his Scottish boyfriend Colin, stayed behind to soothe things with the irate Frenchman.

According to Eugene, the French guy said something like: "You should all go back and be with George Bush."

Better comebacks French guy, better comebacks.