When I came downstairs this morning, Helaine mentioned she had read my last blog entry. “Rich Little is why we’re married,” she said.
I stopped for a second to ponder that line. Then it hit me. She’s right.
I’m going to try and tell this story, but there is a problem. A really good friend, someone heavily involved in this story, doesn’t want to be mentioned here. So be it.
This friend is a real show biz guy. For decades now, he’s been working with celebrities. If I were to mention the names, you’d recognize nearly all of them.
Back in the early 80s, my friend was producing for a Dick Clark series called “Inside America.” He followed Rich Little to Philadelphia on a promo tour. Rich was promoting an audio cassette – a comedy record. My friend was in charge of a crew taping Rich. They ended up at the radio station where Helaine worked.
Helaine was promotion director at WIOQ in Philadelphia, involved in coordinating Little’s on-air appearance.
Memories are a little hazy now, but somehow Helaine and my friend struck up a conversation and my name came up. I had worked in Philadelphia radio, meeting Helaine just a few weeks before I left.
By the way – Rich Little’s involvement in this story ended a few paragraphs back.
That evening, I spoke with my friend. He told me about this girl in Philadelphia, Helaine, who still remembered me – and he said I should call her.
So that’s how Rich Little put me back in tou… Yeah, OK. I’m leaving something out.
My friend told me to call, and I did. But I called four months later! Maybe four months is charitable. I didn’t call for a long time… a really long time.
Like a typical, foolish guy, I thought there was something suspect about any girl who might like me. I was an idiot. I nearly let her slip away.
In a few weeks we celebrate our 23rd anniversary. Maybe we need to send something to Rich Little and my unnamed friend.
We navigated our way through New Haven to the ER entrance. The receiving area has a small circular driveway with a cement island in the middle. I pulled up onto the island and shut the engine.
Emergency Room is a misnomer. At Yale, it’s a sprawling area of many rooms with dozens of staff members, visitors and patients. We turned right, just past the nurse’s station. Along both walls, patients laid in gurneys.
One of the nurses brought in an IV bag, and a drip was started. Whatever else they’d find, Stef needed to be hydrated. It’s sort of Gatorade in a bag, minus the sugar.
We thought it would be fun to do something together tonight, specifically go to the Improv at Harrah’s.
We came back to the Mirage. My sister and brother-in-law, still bushed from their flight, went to bed. The rest of us had a late dinner at the California Pizza Kitchen.
We walked into the rental office and saw a long line. Next to it was a space for Dollar Express members. I walked up and was taken next! Without the little, free, card, we’d still be in line.
I was still up, but now my winnings were marginal… and I was upset, because I knew I could play better.
The birthday isn’t until later in the week, but that’s what the trip is all about.
My folks spent last night, unhappily, at the MGM Grand. Nothing went right. All that was left were smoking rooms. There was an ironing board and iron in the middle of the room. My mom couldn’t sleep.
We went with Cousin Melissa and had breakfast in the Caribe Cafe. It’s a Vegas coffee shop and everything good that implies.
After breakfast, and moving my folks, I headed to the sports book to watch the Eagles. It was ugly. It was a win.
In the beginning I was incredibly nervous. My play was fine, but I was intimidated to be doing something live and in person I usually do at home, on the couch, in pajamas.