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A few years ago, my mentor, Jack, took my wife and I to see a show in NYC, followed by dinner at Sardi’s. I didn’t get to sit at the Algonquin hotel round table (where Dorothy Parker and the gang got blitzed every night in the early 20th century) but this was pretty darned close. Besides, the Algonquin ghosts usually try to contact me and all they do, really, is complain. It’s a past-life thing; you wouldn’t understand. On this winter’s evening, John Lithgow was starring in “The Sweet Smell of Success” and it was going to be great. Well, it wasn’t great. Lithgow was terrific but the show was feh. The music was feh. I was ready for a scotch and steak at Sardi’s by 8:30 pm. (For those of you who are worried about a steak and scotch diet, be aware that some doctors consider scotch a vegetable.) As Big Lee would say, “Of course; relax.” Intermission finally, mercifully arrived and, here’s a special note to male readers: if you’re married or have ever had a date, you know that my wife was determined to find a bathroom. I asked the person next to me in the aisle, “Hey, where’s the ladies’ room?” and quickly realized I was hobnobbing with Grammy-winning composer Marvin Hamblish. (Blogger’s note: I wasn’t sure whether to use hobnobbing or kibitzing in that last paragraph.) I wanted to say, “Marv, why didn’t you write the music to this stinker of a musical? That way, the songs wouldn’t have been so derivative and dull.” I didn’t want to pester the award winner so I kept relatively quiet; just smiled and thanked him for giving my wife directions to the ladies’ room. I’ve been accused of stalking celebrities when I see them in public. It’s really just a case of, “Hey, that’s what’s-his-name or what’s-her-name. I bet they’d be interesting to talk to.” As a writer, I’m curious about the rich and famous. Often, I find them to be lonely; more than happy to talk to an average citizen in a relaxed atmosphere. (Other times, they look at the average citizen as if he or she is a worm or a bug but that’s another story for another blog, when I compare show-biz celebrities to Wal-Mart executives.) Similarly, beautiful women are often open to a spontaneous chat. One day, on a NJ beach, I approached two showgirls from the Showboat casino. They were smiling, acting so friendly; they told me with straight faces that I was the only guy who had approached them the entire summer! And they were gorgeous, 22 year-old showgirls! It’s lonely when you’re extremely beautiful or famous. People fear and/or hate you because you’re different than they are. So, after intermission, I told my mentor, Jack, “I saw Marvin Hamblish and, ha, I almost said to him, “Gee, Marv. I wish you had written the music to this snore-a-thon of a show.” “Don’t say that,” Jack said. “Why not? The show and the music are … boring.” “Because Marvin wrote the music for this show!” Jack said. Ulp! Huh? Almost a rare Rutberg faux pas. I soon learned more about Marvin Hamblish than I cared to know. He won the award for “The Sting” soundtrack but, from most accounts, did not give enough credit to composer Scott Joplin, and everybody’s still mad at him for it. I wanted to run over to Marv and ask him why he didn’t give credit to Joplin during his acceptance speech. But it didn’t take long for me to answer my own question. Most people in show biz want all the credit, all the money, all the fame. I am compelled to point out, in Marv’s defense, that only Marv knows what he did, right or wrong … but my gut feeling tells me, “He’s in show-biz so the odds are he wants all the credit, money, fame, etc.” I once wrote a poem about money and fame (not that I’m intimate with either but I do have eyes and ears): I’M JUST ANOTHER PLAYER IN THE EXHIBITION GAME. OUT THERE ON THE FIELD BETWEEN REJECTION AND ACCLAIM. AND THIS, LIKE ANY MOVIE, HAS A MESSAGE IN EACH FRAME. THE BOTTOM LINE IS MONEY AND UNDER IT IS FAME. If you run into Marvin Hamblish, recite that poem to him. Maybe he’ll want to write the music for it. -- Don Rutberg
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