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9:59 pm - Mon 6.30.2008
In My Dreams, I Dance Like Fred Astaire

In My Dreams, I Dance Like Fred Astaire

Mon 6/30/08

Has this happened to you?

Thereís a business in your neighborhood - a store, a restaurant, a movie theater, what-have-you - and itís kind of interesting and funky (maybe itís an independent, ďMom & PopĒ-type operation), and you like that itís there, even if, for whatever reason, you rarely if ever actually patronize it?

Then one day, as you drive past, you see a ďFor SaleĒ sign on the door?

Iíve had that happen a number of times, and I always feel a pang of guilt when it does, as if Iíd personally caused the business in question to fail.

Is that weird...?


Watched Silk Stockings on TCM recently; as a tribute to the late Cyd Charisse, the station changed its previously-planned programming this past Friday night, showing Singing In The Rain, The Band Wagon, and the aforementioned Silk Stockings instead (Quite a night for movie-musical fans, to say the least).

(I own copies of Singing In The Rain and The Band Wagon, so I didnít need to see those. But Iíd never seen Silk Stockings in itís entirety before, so I DVRíd it, to watch at my leisure.)

There was nothing in Silk Stockings as transcendent as the ďDancing In The DarkĒ number from The Band Wagon, but it was still pure pleasure watching Cyd Charisse dance (especially with Astaire); my knowledge of movie musicals is by no means encyclopedic, but I personally have never seen a more beautiful dancer on film, before or since.

Afterwards, I found myself thinking of something Iíd written on my MySpace blog, something to the effect that ďwhen certain people dieĒ - certain writers or performance artists - ďI feel like a piece of my past has died with themĒ.

I was referring specifically to the recent passing of George Carlin. But watching Cyd Charisse dance, as young and beautiful - and sexy - as ever, it suddenly seemed wrong to say, when an artist I admire dies, that ďa piece of my past has died with themĒ.

On the contrary - while the people in my life have come and gone by the score, and many places where I've worked and played and laughed and loved are gone, the movies Iíve seen, the novels Iíve read, and the music Iíve listened to, for the most part, are still there for me to revisit whenever I want to.

Itís actually the one part of my past that, in a way, will never die.


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