"36-26-38" ~ A PRETTY ZIEGFELD GIRL IS A MELODY ~ By Absolutely*Kate of Harbinger*33

"36-26-38"

A Pretty Ziegfeld Girl IS A Melody

  

By ~ Absolutely*Kate  

Chorus girls, chorus girls, chorus girls. There were thousands, no ~ make that hundreds of thousands at all the auditions. Office floozies and drug store dames countering fame. The top types that came from the steno pool and those down on the farm fielding dreams. "Glorifying the American Girl" was the dream theme for his showmanship scheme. Florenz ~ "What kind of a mother names her son 'Flo'?", I remember hearing Fanny Brice's mother wisecrack to mine down at the 5 & Dime ... Florenz Ziegfeld saw them all, judged them all, delightedly, discernibly plucked out a precise 3,000 of us all for fame and feathers, for long creamy poils and for the way chiffon feels all a'swishhhhin' against your lotioned up nothing else. Yes Sir! We were those Broadway babies! We were the goils, the goils who wore poils, the fluff that dreams are made of. We were the Ziegfeld Girls, the fine feathered fillies of Florenz' Follies.

You were there, weren't you? The night little lanky Doris Eaton joined her sisters on the Ziegfeld Stage, lying like a brazen bandit about her not-shy 14 age. There's no end to what some goils will do to steal the spotlight. Ask Ginny, ask Sue. They unlucked out when Doris joined the chorus.

F. Scott was there washing it up with bathtub gin and Irving Berlin ~ remember him? It was always a packed crowd edging the edge of their seats when the Ziegfeld Follies centerstaged even the Jazz Age. Remember? Babe Ruth felt homered and Chaz Lindbergh's spirits flew high (even outside of St Louis, Louie). Woodrow in the front row ~ yeah, the Prez ~ he had a prize seat, and the band played on. Will Rogers met many men (and women) he really did like, W.C. poked fun and the laughter poured like prohibition 'tea' (hee hee). Fanny Brice always played nice and that Billie Burke was someone special alright, she was. She glimmered, she sparkled, she reminded you to believe in believers and no place like home. But that's another story to Glinda before Mr Z became the wizard of her "Ahhhhs". We'll follow the Follies down that yellow brick road when we come to it.  The glory of this story is about Doris, Doris Eaton, ya know. She's the last Ziegfeld Girl of how the show went on . . . from 1907 to 1931, when America was never the same again.
 
We did the Charleston and the Fox Trot and the Lindy too, but no one danced out of the chorus of course like Doris Eaton did. Mr Z never got into a rage about the stage age fib, so the way it turns out, Doris went from chewin' her Juicy Fruit one day to being the youngest Ziegfeld Girl to strut her stuff the next. Don't get me wrong though, she still stuck to her Juicy Fruit, some habits never let you down, by gum and by golly. Least not, not ever in the Ziegfeld Follies. This is show biz, ya know?
 

Oh it was *magic*! Oh it was glam and grace, luscious as lace all over the place. Divine ~ to dance and dine and rehearse and rehearse and rehearse and rehearse until we knew it cold, we gave it hot and we sang it sugar sweet and finessed the Follies fine. Those were the days. That was my time ~
 

Me? I'm Mabel Jean Krenicky, though as Mama predicted I would, I took a stage name as soon as I could. See? That's me up there from tryouts to bright lights. I'll tell you about those days another time too. This tale's about Doris, Doris Eaton who had 'em eatin' out of the fresh flair of her open palms and lingering fingertips. Man oh man, was she a charmer. Before Gene Kelly ever opened an umbrella, she was the one the lyricist fella first let sing "Singin' In The Rain". Did'ya know that? Not many do. But now I told you. So's ya know it's true. They had a fling of a thing too, but that's show biz. You know how that goes ~
 
Day in and nights out ~ Dancing with the sparks, waltzing in the wonder of our minds we all measured up mighty fine to the high falutin' caliber of facing the music together, and we measured up swell I tell'ya. We measured up 36-28-38 or fancy suit Mr Z booted our butts ~ well not really, but we had to stay in shape and style and never ever let loose any of our femine wile.
 
Auditions, angst ... costumes of vivid visions ... crowded giggling flaunting dressing rooms ... Stage Door Johnnies who only had eyes for us (sigh) ... splendiferous spectaculars ... pageantry without pomp but piled plenty with pizazz to please the paying Palookas. We balanced not enough hours in the day like we balanced our towering headresses ... always with class, always with distinction. Curtain calls and Opening Night reviews in the Times. Oh! Those were the times. Oh! We were the dames. We were open-eyed and kickin' high. Doris always was. Doris Eaton I mean.
 
She died Tuesday. Danced her way to 106 and never lied about that age. She was stage struck and a silent film star ~ I think she even played AT THE BIJOU. (How could it be otherwise? That's where all the best talent headlines.) Had herself a string of the first Artie Murray dance halls and kept folks hoofin' and struttin' their stuff knowin' their left from their right and not tanglin' their tangos. Hank Ford and the husband she hankered for were dancin' partners through her star spangled time. Why, her Mr Travis was so OK in Doris' book, or should I say dance card, that she Okie-Dokey'd that Okie at the altar, and thoroughbred that she was, raised horses and happy OOOOOklahoma endings with her man. Oh she loved him so, and living and learning too. A bunch of us got cards at Christmas, learned she went back to spiff up her schooling, studied up and got her high school diploma and then a college degree through courses here and there. Well imagine that. Doris made history to a certain degree and degreed in it too!

THE YOUNGEST ZIEGFELD GIRL.

THE  very  LAST ZIEGFELD GIRL.

THE YOUNGEST ZIEGFELD GIRL.

THE  very  LAST ZIEGFELD GIRL.

 
Dears, that's how I wrote it up in my diary tonight. Had me a little Italian hootch that I hitched to Salut her star too. How could it be otherwise? Old habits are soft comforts. Old habits slide down easy.
 
There are glissandos of melody bits and peaces slidin', ridin', glidin' crazy-easy through me right now ... from shows and tunes we knew and -- oh, Oh! I just adore a Gershwin tune, don't you? They were there too. George and Ira. Boy oh boy I liked those boys, but that's another story, another time. For now ~
 

"Come along and listen to the lullaby of Broadway ... when the Broadway Baby says 'goodnight'.  Gooood~night~Doris. You done us proud. Sleep tight Baby. Sleep tight ~ Let's call it a day. Hip Hurray and Bally hoo. LISTEN TO THE LULLABY OF  ~ OLD BROADWAY!"

 
I was 'membering about that time ~ 'Member what that critic had to say when we were Chicago's razzamatazz?  ~ “Mine eyes are yet dim with the luminous beauty of a girl named Doris.” 

 

Irony presses on, huh?

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NEW YORK (Reuters) - New York's Broadway will dim its lights on Wednesday to mark the death of the last of the famed Ziegfeld showgirls, performers renowned for their lavish costumes and elaborate stage routines. Doris Eaton Travis died at age 106 on Tuesday . . .   just two weeks after she last appeared on stage in New York, according to a statement on the website of Broadway public relations firm Boneau/Bryan-Brown.

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It was in Wednesday's news. I saw it same time the light changed, when my friend Sugar Mae Shwend from the West Side propped the clipping up next to my cream swirled cup o'Joe at the Chock Full of Nuts where we still go -- the one at the corner of Joy and Jive. We go there to dish our dreams. What's that? We're still around? That's another story for another time. One with an elixir that defies time and sips pensive watching how the world spins 'round and 'round. Why, just the other day our pal Satchmo said to our selves,"It's a ~ wonderful world."
 

I tell ya ~ when you got moxie and you see stars and you believe in believers . . . well, you just know it IS. A wonderful world. And a pretty Ziegfeld Girl? Like Doris Eaton, like Billie Burke, like Fannie and me, Mabel Jean Krenicky . . . we're an everlovin' melody, in your mind, aren't we?

Hum us well, will ya?

God bless'ya Doris Eaton. 

God bless'ya Florenz Ziegfeld. 

Dance through the time heavens are made of. 

Open the curtain and bring down the house! 

CUE MUSIC.
Sense Melody.

"Heaven ~ They're in Heaven

And they seem to find
the Happiness they seek ~

When they're out together 

Dancing cheek to cheek"

(C) 2010 ~ Author Absolutely*Kate
 

 Fiction premiere AT THE BIJOU

though Tribute to Doris Eaton and Ziegfeld Girls everywhere

is melody of reality ~  timelessly genuine

COME WHAT MAY ~ AT THE BIJOU'S BROADWAY BOUND TO CHEER ON ONE OF OUR OWN!

AT THE BIJOU 

BROADWAY

BOUND!

Well . . . 

one of our spectacular writers is!

Come what MAY, 

we're cheering her on ~

Author/Playwright Debbie Lamedman

in short story and long success,

and we're smiling once again at Mongo

sneakin' into the Mothers' Day scene ~

 Oh that Mike Whitney! 

Rock on Stars, rock on!

COILS OF GOLD ~ By Debbie Lamedman ~ Broadway bound!

                                 SPECTACULAR PHOTO BY DAMIAN ARVETIS INSPIRED THIS TALE

COILS OF GOLD
By ~ Debbie Lamedman

I had a stink on me. The stink of desperation. It was palpable. No job, no money, no man. I hadn’t gotten laid in a year. Hadn’t worked in two. The stink rolled off me in waves. People were definitely keeping their distance.
 
I needed to escape my self-made prison. The walls were closing in, constantly reminding me how small my world had become. That apartment, once a bohemian portal that had been open to festivities, frivolities, and provocative inhabitants from all walks of life, had suddenly and inexplicably sealed up. I didn’t want to see anyone, but I couldn’t isolate anymore either. I had to get out.
 
I knew where I needed to go. I needed to take a walk someplace where I could breathe. Not be suffocated by the throngs of people that crawled over this city like ants on a discarded ice cream cone. I turned my car south and headed where I hoped would be sanctuary. There was a dusty old street that ran behind the railroad tracks in the historic part of a little beach town. It was off-season and mid week and there would be little to no tourists. It was the perfect escape.
 
The day was brisk and gray. Early morning brought the workers out; the smell of bacon and coffee hung in the air as the coffee shops prepared to start their day. I also detected the scent of shit. Trash men, wearing gloves and emptying dumpsters nodded to me as I walked by. They had stink on them too. I was one of them. The trees alongside the path created a canopy of greenery. The leaves rustled slightly when an insignificant breeze whistled through them. I shivered. I felt so tired. Even my escape could not bring escape. I walked on.
 
I heard the strumming of some type of string instrument dimly coming from down the road. I squinted my eyes against the gray glare and in the distance I saw a tall, shadowy figure sitting on the right side of the path. I couldn’t see much else, but the music was eerie and slightly intoxicating and it beckoned to me like the Sirens.
 
As I approached, I saw her sitting on a milk crate playing her oddly crafted guitar. I felt like I was looking at an optical illusion. I took in everything. The bright colored scarf wrapped around her head revealed remnants of hair the color of coal. The carefully crafted tapestries hung in a row behind her weaved with purple, lilac, green and black thread. They looked thick and sturdy and exquisitely made.
 
I stopped directly in front of her and listened to her play. She seemed to be looking through me. At first I thought she might be blind. But she knew I was there. Never wavering, continuing to play her haunting tune.
 
She was decorated with silver bracelets up and down both arms. Silver rings adorned her fingers. Two clusters of white stones dangled from her earlobes. But the most magnificent thing about this creature; and there was no doubt in my mind, she was a creature, were the coils of gold wrapped around her neck. And her Cleopatraesque neck was sitting at least 10 inches off her shoulders. A long, graceful, powerful neck which appeared to be floating above her body. She was out of place, looking like a character from a circus sideshow, not someone who would be sitting by the side of the road in a cozy little coastal town.
 
Her fingers never stopped plucking her instrument and I was mesmerized.
 
“You like-a music?” she asked.
 
Her shrill voice pierced the day. An unusual voice thick with suggestions of exotic faraway places. It took me off guard. I did not respond immediately, so she repeated her question.
 
“You like it? Music?”
 
“Yes,” I answered, surprised at my own breathlessness. “I like it very much.”
 
“You buy?”
 
“Excuse me?”
 
“You buy,” she stated matter-of-factly.
 
She stopped playing, and moved off the crate with grace and dexterity. She reached behind her and carefully pulled down one of the tapestries. Her hands moved smoothly over the fabric, presenting it to me as if she were giving me a gift. Then she said, “Five dolla.”
 
I thought she was going to smile, but she kept her manner dignified. She wasn’t interested in making a friend. She was engaging in a business transaction.
 
“It’s beautiful. Really. But I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t…I can’t…” I stuttered. Losing whatever composure I may have had.
 
“Is okay. You broke. I know.”
 
“You know?”
 
“I smell you. I know.”
 
She was freaking me out, but I couldn’t move. What else did she know?
 
“You come back. Yes? More music I play. Next time you buy. Five dolla for bootiful thing. Yes? Good. Now you go.”
 
She returned the tapestry to its hanging position, and sat down on the crate in such a manner, it might as well have been a throne. I remained frozen. Staring at her. Wondering how she seemed so at peace. Wanting what she had.
 
“Bye bye,” she said. “Now you go.” I was dismissed.
 
A flicker around the corners of her mouth appeared as she looked at me. But no smile ever came. And her expression could not be defined. She started strumming the same haunting tune as she majestically turned away from me. The sounds of the strings released me from my momentary comatose state. I continued walking down the path away from this woman. This woman with her sixth sense and her third eye. I knew there would be no next time. If I did return, I knew like I knew my own name that she would not be there. Not next time. Not ever. I knew this. And as I walked away, the music becoming fainter and fainter I knew what I had to do. I had to go home and wash the stink off me. It was time. I was ready.

(c) 2010 ~ Author Debbie Lamedman

Photographer Damian Arvetis

Playwright Debbie Lamedman is back AT THE BIJOU with her showcased tale, come what May . . . along with a sparkling spotlight announcement for a perfect day in May ~ She's going Off Off Broadway with her talents! 

Yes folks, you heard it here first ~ In over 880 submitted overwhelming plays from around the world, the BIJOU's very own cheered on Playwright Debbie has made it to the top 40 finalists of  ~ WAIT! Her taxi just arrived ~ Heeeeere's Debbie ~~~

PLAYWRIGHT DEBBIE LAMEDMAN: YES Absolutely*Kate! I just found out that one of my 10-minute plays was accepted into the 35th Annual Off Off Broadway Samuel French 10-minute play festival.  Over 880 submissions and I made it to the final 40! Miraculous! I'm very excited and now have to plan my trip to NYC in mid July.  Wow!  Didn't see that one coming!

ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ Tell us more! Tell us more ~ Hey, you're not making this up just because you're such a talented writer, are you?

PLAYWRIGHT DEBBIE: NO Absolutely*Kate! Seeing as I'm so enthusiastically involved with this playwrighting festival, here's a link for ya: SAMUEL FRENCH OFF OFF BROADWAY FESTIVAL as well as how the story broke on BroadwayWorld.com. As I may have mentioned, I'm very excited.  I'm thinking of throwing a bake sale to pay for my plane ticket out there.  Just a thought.  Do you think those ever work?  Do you have any ideas??

ABSOLUTELY*KATE ~ IDEAS! ~ Dear ol' Debbie you've come to the right writers' place. Conference to convene on your breaking Broadway scene. The HARBINGER*33 colleague-ship of sensational authors, some of them screenwriters, have talents and tendencies which soar (and more). AT THE BIJOU showcases writers' raves to become readers' faves. I think I hear your destiny calling you. 

PLAYWRIGHT DEBBIE: Hope the folks who fill the red velvet seats AT THE BIJOU like my story.  Hope you're feeling swell!  Hope you're enjoying your spring in Connecticut!  I stood on the steps of Yale Repertory once and pretended like I was part of it . . . maybe some day . . . who knows?

DEBBIE, AT THE BIJOU IS WISHIN' YOU WELL, 

CHEERING YOU ON SWELL! 

     

We're psyched you'll keep us posted

on how you'll be giving them hell!

AT THE BIJOU

WRITERS' SHOW BIZ IS OUR BIZ!

PLAYWRIGHT DEBBIE LAMEDMAN:

Thanks! Thanks!  Many, many, many Thanks!!!   

I am fully recruited into believing in believers!

  You have made a believer outta me!

     

 MORE on Debbie's posting this success journey at CONFESSIONS OF A CLUTTERED MIND. Do enjoy ~ The noise you hear poppin' is simply, thus strongly, her personal brand of enthusia. (It'll grow on you ~ I assure you. I'm already stirring up masterminds behind the scenes to aid further this talented lady's dreams and schemes.)