Lily Tomlin And The Bitter End

Yesterday, March 16th, 2012, marked 33 years since the death of my father, Irv Lefkowitz.  Coincidentally, it was also the day that Lily Tomlin and her partner Jane Wagner, received their star on the Palm Springs Walk of Stars.  Theirs was the 345th star, so reported our local paper The Desert Sun.  For obvious reasons, I spent quite a bit of time, these last few days, thinking about my Dad. 

My memories of life with father are fairly clear, although I was barely an adult when he died, so I find it difficult to look back through teenage and earlier eyes.  And yes, he died.  He did not pass, nor pass away nor collect $200.  I have a distinct aversion to euphemisms for death. Perhaps it's borne of my Jewish upbringing, where death and dying are rarely soft-soaped.  Whatever.  I was always taught, from a young age, that death is a part of life.  My parents took me to my first funeral when I was eight years old and the "guest of honor" was my mother's only brother, who passed .. died at the age of 41, so there was plenty of whaling going on.  I didn't really know what to feel at the time, but for what it's worth, the experience definitely shaped me in positive ways for the funerals to follow, and there would be many.  I was what's referred to as a change-of-life baby.  Not an Oops by any means, but I did come in right under the wire, so to speak.  As a result, most of my relatives were older.  My Uncle Morty, may he rest in peace, being an exception.  My father, as well, but more on that later.  I was born relatively late in their lives, at least by late 1950's standards.  Today, a woman giving birth at 38 doesn't raise so much as an eyebrow hair, but growing up, I felt a bit out of place with both parents roughly 10 years older than my peers'.  The upshot, I suppose, is that dying relatives weren't as uncommon for me as for others, which gave me an odd leg-up on death and dying rituals.  Accordingly, I don't have an aversion to attending funerals.  I don't seek them out, but unlike some people I've known, I don't avoid them like the plague.  Among other reasons, I believe in the Golden Girls line, spoken by the late Estelle Getty as Sophia Petrillo "You go [to a funeral] to let the man upstairs know you have respect for life."  Naturally, I didn't always have the proper respect for life and death.  At 5 years old, my paternal grandmother died on Christmas Eve, ruining a family weekend trip to Long Island.  Boy, did that piss me off!  But, hello, I was 5.  I wasn't much better at 6 years old when they sent us home from grade school because President Kennedy had been assassinated.  This being decades before VCRs or cable there was nothing on TV for a week aside from funeral coverage.  On the flip side, I did learn later in life that being angry at someone's death is perfectly healthy and natural, so my bratty behavior was perfectly justified! I can hear my mother's guffaw from the great beyond even as I write this.


So how does Lily Tomlin tie into this tome?  It's one of the few very vivid movie-moment-memories of my youth and it stars my Dad.  Lily, alas, was a supporting character.  In 1979, Dad lost his battle with metastatic lung cancer about one week past his 59th birthday.  Unlike World War II or even the Korean Conflict, this battle lasted a mere 18 months, from diagnosis to grave.  As I mentioned, I was a few weeks shy of my 22nd birthday when he was taken from us (oh, that's just pithy!  Scratch that)  when he died so I was really just beginning to know him as an adult.  Memories of my past are funny and often fuzzy.  I used to blame it on too much combusted and/or ingested fun during college, but I've come to believe it's just the way I'm wired.  I try to live in the moment as much as possible and definitely look ahead much more than behind.  My former roommate Michael had a great saying that I've co-opted:  "It's OK to look back.  Just don't stare."  Sometimes, difficult words to live by.  But I digress.  Back to Lily.  Picture it.  New York City.  1971.  A beautiful peasant girl...  Oh, sorry.  Lapsing back into Golden Girls-speak!  It was 1971 and it was New York City.  My parents, maternal grandparents and I were waiting outside of the Imperial Theater on West 45th Street before a performance of the very UN-memorable musical Two By Two starring Danny Kaye.  The fact that this Danny Kaye vehicle was the musical adaptation of the Noah's Ark story has little bearing on this tale, except for the fact that said star had broken his foot in a performance a few weeks earlier, but trouper that he was, performed the part, traipsing his way across that stage, crutches and all.  At any rate, my dad, being the restless type, grew tired of waiting in front of the theater in the winter cold for the doors to open and decided he needed a cup of coffee from the shop down the block.  Why didn't I join him?  Well, I was a classic momma's boy who, as a not-aware-he-was-gay-early-teen, didn't relate well to my father.  We only started to find our true common ground shortly before he died.  At that age, though, it was fits and spurts.  This night turned out to become a good fit.  Meanwhile, not long after my Dad's escape, the theater doors opened and my family and I could take our seats in the warmth of the rear orchestra section.  Within minutes, my dad comes rushing in, practically screaming "I met Ernestine!!  I met Ernestine!!"  Again, this was 1971 and Rowen and Martin's Laugh-in was all the rage on prime time TV.  Many will remember that a relatively unknown comedienne was basically launching her career into orbit on that show with her magic bag of characters.  One of her most memorable, the sassy telephone operator, Ernestine.  It took me no time to put two and two together (and try to forget Two By Two, altogether) and realize that my Dad had just met Lily Tomlin!  Not only that, he sat at the coffee shop counter chatting her up.  What's more, he was chatting ME up!!  Me, the wanna-be-someday-actor whom my dad was clearly selling to her better than any cigar display he ever sold in his long career in that field.  What's more, since she was on her way to see the play Butterflies Are Free in the Booth Theater across the street from ours she ... walked ...back ...with ... him (!!) to meet me outside before her show let in.  If it seems odd  that a celebrity would accompany a strange man down a New York street to meet his talented son, remember, she wasn't quite a celebrity yet and this was 1971. The term stalker had yet been coined.  Plus, my Dad wasn't hard on the eyes and had a trusting face.  Didn't they say the same about Ted Bundy?  At any rate, I was about ready to climb over the back of my seat to get outside to see her, but my mother held me back.  I think that might have been the precise moment I ceased being a momma's boy.  Also, Lily's show, as ours, was just about to begin.  My hatred for Danny Kaye was about to begin, as well, since the new plan was to bolt out of the Imperial Theater the second the final curtain came down and make a beeline across West 45th Street to intercept Ms. Tomlin as she exited her theater.  Imagine my joy when Danny Kaye decided to extend the end of the night by ad-libbing his way through the final number, not missing a beat to break proscenium (come out of character) in order to call the audiences attention to his monumental dedication to the thea-tuh for performing in his hobbled condition!  Rumor has it, Mr. Kaye's constant ad-libbing during the run of that show cost him a Tony nomination.  Pity.  So much for the Great Race across limo and taxi roofs to catch Lily as she left the Booth Theater.  By the time we reached the sidewalk, the Booth's marquee was as dark as my mood and Ernestine had already left Ma Bell for the night,

Flash-forward 3 weeks.  Lily was performing her club act at a coffee house in Greenwich Village named The Bitter End.  I'm quite sure The Bitter met its End many moons ago, but at that time, it was going strong and known for not only its acts and coffee, but for these incredible ice cream desserts that were on their menu.  It figures that food is what I remember best about my youth!   At any rate, my folks got tickets for the three of us and off we trucked in from New Jersey to see her.   As if she'd remember my father from a hole in the wall!  They clearly had no issue with parents bringing their 14 year old to a venue where the performers were often a tad, shall we say, salty?!  I believe Joan Rivers performed there regularly and, possibly, the late Lenny Bruce.  I don't remember if they served alcohol, but that probably wouldn't have made a difference.  The drinking age back then in NYC was 18 and I probably could've passed.  I know I weighed more than a 21 year old!  Lily's show was amazing.  My best memory of it was that she not only performed her famous Ernestine in street clothes - this was a tiny little club - I will never forget (although I'm probably paraphrasing) one line in particular that she delivered to a disagreeable caller:   "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't get that last word?  Was that F as in Frank??"  You hear worse on TV today, but that never would've flown by NBC or any network censors at the time. And I was 14 and with my folks!  Lily was, and is, brilliant.  The most wonderful moment came after the show, sans curtain or follow-up act, when we actually managed to see her backstage.  More accurately, up a steep and very narrow staircase.  I still don't remember how we managed to up there, but when we reached the top, Lily took one look at my Dad, called him by name and gave him a big hug!!  I melted.  And yes, I got a big hug, too.  And a memory for life.


When it was announced that Lily and Jane were getting their star on my dad's yahrzeit (anniversary of death), the sheer coincidence had me briefly considering joining the masses in the hopes of seeing her in-person one more time and even reminding her of those events so many years ago.  The moment passed and I decided there was little point.  If the opportunity arose, would she remember out of courtesy?  On the off chance that she actually did remember my dad, would it sweeten my own memories of him or enhance my respect for her and her work?  Not possible.  If she just blew me off as one more stalkerazzi, would it sour my feelings?  Well, maybe hurt them for a bit, so why risk it?  She deserves her star,  she deserves her privacy and she deserves my respect and admiration.  And I deserve my happy memories intact.


So to my dad, I say, "I love you, I will always remember you and I will always miss you."

To Lily and Jane, I say, "Mazel Tov!"


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