nothing like a dame

Lots of things in life are beautiful, but brother,
There is one particular thing that is nothin' whatsoever
In any way, shape or form like any other.

There is nothin' like a dame.

Good medicine – and very much needed -- a night at Ravinia with Elaine Stritch as she ran through her new Carlyle show. It was rough, ragged, all rehearsal-like, and worth every dime. (And worth every suffering minute in that unmerciful heat.)

Hats f*ckin’ off. (As Elaine would – and did -- say.)

Although there were plenty of grumpypants in the house who wanted it to be more “polished” (as heard and reported in the ladies room by litwit, and observed in the disapproving couple sitting in front of us), maybe it was having the advantage of having seen her last Carlyle show, in one of the most perfect NYC evenings ever, and being able to project myself back to that cozy corner booth when she was close enough that I could see every character line on her beautifully weathered face.

I wouldn’t trade last night for all the spit and polish in the world – although I will be sorely tempted to go another round at the Carlyle when she finally settles in – if only so I can hear Elaine f*cking Stritch sing Woke Up This Morning from the Sopranos -- again.

And so I can wonder, and maybe even have a chance to ask her: What’s the alchemy? How do you do it? How does a girl become a dame?

Because it’s the one thing I really want to be when I grow up.