Tuesday, January 31, 2006

We'll Miss You Wendy

Ms. Gomes recently shared the following words about her friend and colleague, playwright Wendy Wasserstein, who succumbed to cancer yesterday.

"You know, Geoffrey it's funny. It's real, real funny. There are some broads, some dizzy dames who just don't
get it. You know? Bo Derek comes to mind. She was always running around, trying to make everyone happy, trying to sleep with all the best in the business. I mean, come on! Burt Lancaster?? Old Burt hadn't had a crisp pickle since Ursula Andress ran off with that hang-gliding instructor. But man oh man. Wendy? Yeah she was the real deal. I saw "Rosensweig" in London. I was there doing my show "How to Suceed in Crystal Without Really Trying: A Tribute to Daniel Day Lewis," and I got to catch a Sunday matinee of that show. And what a funny, sad, little tart it was. Just like Wendy herself, who I met at the Tony's the following June. Just a strong little bundle of energy and smarts and "lady-tude." Well, she'll certainly be missed here on the Great White Way. I've always said: 'We need more Mermans, more Channings, more Striches.' And now I'll add Wassersteins. I mean, the Jew thing I can get over. When it comes to a gal like Wendy, there ain't anything I can't get over. Except of course, her being gone... So, let's raise our glasses to a hell of a writer, a hell of a New Yorker, and a hell of a lady."

Wendy Wasserstein 1951-2006. She will be missed.

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Sunday, January 29, 2006

Cher's Gams and More!

While Ms. Gomes is taking a brief break from her tour (Ethel's septum is healing up nicely), The Gomes Group would like to reward her fans for their patience with another thrilling excerpt from her verbal memoirs.

I know that it’s en vogue to talk about your plastic surgery these day so Geoffrey thought that I should include some tell-all stories about my zany cosmetic surgery mishaps. Well, I thought about it for quite some time (and by that I mean that I had Geoffrey write it on a post-it and stick it to the john) and I figured if that tight-faced troll Joan Rivers could do it, so could I.

Now, I have a theory that women should age gracefully and should be proud of their wrinkles. I also have a theory about Lee Harvey Oswald and the cast of Three’s Company but that’s neither here nor there. But I also believe that a lady should look her best if she’s going to be inspiring and entertaining throngs of adoring masses. That’s why I’ve compromised and only had the bare essentials done (three face lifts, a chemical peel, rhinoplasty, boob job, calf implant (but just the one calf), full body liposuction, and ankle replacements). And I have to tip my hat to the Merlin of the scalpel Dr. H.J. Rosenwigenhammerstein of Beverly Hills for believing in a poor international superstar who was down on her luck and let me get most of these procedures done on credit.

The first time that I ever had plastic surgery was in 1978 after my television series “The Facts of Crystal” was about to be cancelled midseason. The producers said to me, “Crystal you’re a dynamo, but it looks like you’re face is melting worse that a Malibu igloo. Get something done or we’ll have to replace you.” Now I was absolutely appalled. No one had ever spoken to Crystal Gomes like that (except for maybe Sinatra, but after that night in Reno, I really had it coming).

So, I told off the producers, got Geoffrey to pull the car around, and then had Geoffrey apologize to the producers as he drove me to Dr. Rosenwigenhammerstein’s office. I wasn’t prepared to let go of a hit show just because of something silly like self-respect.

Dr. Rosenwigenhammerstein was a miracle worker. With a stroke of his trusty surgical equipment I went from George Burns to Lena Horn is three short weeks. After the swelling went down I went back to the studio to try to get “The Facts of Crystal” up and running.

The producers took one look at me and said, “Crystal your face looks great, but I think that left calf of yours looks a little flat. Get something done about it or we’re calling Cher. That woman’s calves could stop a locomotive full of jews.” I know for a fact that that was a true statement. I had seen Cher, with my own eyes, stop a train in Munich just by showing a little gam. And it was also true that I had taken some shrapnel in my left calf during the war when I was trying to get to the officer’s lounge from Schwartzkopf’s tent to refill my martini bowl during a little friendly fire.

At that time, “The Facts of Crystal” meant more to me than a few thousand dollars and a quickie in the locker room of LA General. So I called Dr. Rosenwigenhammerstein again for a little of his surgical voodoo. Geoffrey was a little worried about me going under the knife so quickly after my last surgery but I assured him that the good doctor knew what he was doing and that Geoffrey could have a reoccurring walk-on part in “The Facts of Crystal” if he would just shut his fancy little mouth for once. He started weeping like a woman and said that he was just worried that he may lose me and that he wouldn’t be able to go on living if that was the case. I patted the boy on the head and reminded him that I couldn’t stand to see people crying due to my bothersome lack of personal moisture. He got a hold of himself and flounced out of the room as I prepped my calf for surgery.

Well, to make a long story the appropriate length, the surgery went like gangbusters. I got the implant and rushed back to the studio to show of my new stems to the producers. They were finally satisfied and I went back to work the next day, where I filmed the infamous scene where Lucy Ricardo guest-starred as my Chinese houseboy.

I went under the knife again four years after that to get my full-body liposuction after the steroids that I had been taken had given me a fatty gall-bladder and I just decided to get the whole shebang taken care of in one fell swoop. Geoffrey wept again right before that surgery and begged me not to get it done, and I reminded him of the success of the Lucy Ricardo episode and I asked him if I had ever steered him wrong before. He clung to my leg the whole way to the operating room, but after feeling my taut, shapely calf, realized how silly he had been acting.

Take that Joan Rivers.

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Saturday, January 21, 2006

Crystal Survives Tour Bus Roll-over

We regret to report that Crystal will be cancelling some of her tour engagements due to a minor bus accident. Although no one was hurt, Crystal's "do-it-yourself" winery was lost, Ethel Steinberg--Crystal's Saint Bernard/Tshizu mix suffered a diviated septum (although it is unknown as to whether that was due to the accident or not), and the bus driver was striken with an unexpected case of coma. Unfortunately, the following tour dates are postponed indefinitely until a cure can be found for Ethel Steinberg's sneeze-whistles:

The Old Country Buffet in St. Louis
The Rent-a-Center of Tulsa, OK
The Bergen County Fair, Bergen, NJ

Although it is unknown what caused the bus to rollover, Crystal had this to say to her dissapointed and concerned fans:

"I told that homely bus driver bus-made wine is just as good as the store bought kind. Goes down the ol' gullet like sweet, alcoholc motor-oil. As soon as he gets out of that coma he better fork over that buffalo nickel he bet me. Ethel, stop that noise. Geoffrey, get Ethel out of here, that wheezing is repulsive. Someone needs to rewrap my turban. Holy Moses, what the hell happened to the bus?"

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Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Show Biz Eating Habits Revealed!

Here's another juicy tidbit from Ms. Gomes' show, which just ended a sold-out three night run at the Sioux City Community Airport Inn & Suites & Suds. Check back soon for more! Enjoy!

"One thing that few people know about me is that I’ve never eaten a vegetable. Not one. Not ever. While some hotheaded “doctors” may raise their eyebrows and say that this is the cause of my several cases of gout, or my Polack’s Knee, or my five month tryst with Transcendentalism, I say pish to them. I’m a renowned superstar, I don’t have to eat green beans if I don’t want to. Geoffrey is always telling me that I should at least nibble on some lettuce, to which I say “Who do I look like? Shelly Duvall? I’m no rabbit.” Well, now that I’ve shared this little tidbit about my eating habits, I thought I’d tell you about the habits of some of my dearest celebrity friends.

Eva Gabor, sister to slapping sensation ZsaZsa Gabor, wouldn’t eat anything that was prepared by a person under five foot six inches. She had been terrified of little people ever since she witnessed a druken dwarf devour the right hind leg of her family dog, Zachary Taylor. Speaking of dogs, Geoffrey’s Basset hound/Lhasa Apso mix Ethel Steinberg only eats dog biscuits in the shape of Mamie Eisenhower’s head.

There was one time about twenty years ago, or maybe it was yesterday, when I was having lunch at the Ivy with French figure skater Suriya Bonaly and the grand duke of comedy, Dr. Ed McMahon, Esq. Now Ed always orders the same thing, a Cobb Salad, hold the salad, with a side of Cuttysark. I always have a lamb steak and a dirty martini bowl. Suriya ordered the crab cakes. It was really a lovely meal. When she finished, though, Suriya had to rush off for some sort of practice, so Ed and I were left alone to have an after lunch drink. Well, by about the third martini bowl, Ed was looking more dashing than Don Knotts singing at Carnegie Hall (which happened once and only once. God bless the Tokyo Philharmonic.)

Ed had the idea that we order a little dessert, have one more drink, and then go pull some pranks on Dick Clark. Dick and Ed have secretly hated each other ever since Dick, at the height of his hashish use, called Ed a “walking blooper” and slept with all three of Ed’s wives (I’m talking about you too, Pia.) This feat, while pretty amazing considering Dick was 98 years old at the time, was the final nail in the friendship’s coffin, which had been rocky ever since Dick pantsed Ed at the Peabody awards in ’72.

Now Ed and I both knew that the best way to really stick it to Dick would be to somehow interfere with his nightly Chinese food delivery (three wontons, two fortune cookies, and three pounds of shrimp lo mein). I had the idea that we pants Suriya Bonaly, but Ed failed to see how that would really zing Dick. Instead he chose to beat the delivery man over the head with a giant check he had in the back seat of his car and, when Dick opened to door, yell “Hey Dickie, looks like there’s a dead Chinaman on your lawn.” (For legal reasons I do have to state that this anecdote was not in any way the inspiration for my 1983 recording, “Hey Linda Ronstadt, I Think You Killed that Hindi Couple.”)

Now Dick, burdened by his one hundred and three years, wasn’t entirely clued into what was going on, so it’s my understanding that he ate the delivery man and tipped the three pounds of shrimp lo mein four dollars.

Isn’t it wild what celebrities eat?

Lucille Ball used to eat cigarette butts she found outside the studio and sneak down to the garbage dump to eat old cans like a common goat. And Desi Arnez? Forget about it. Let’s just say he never met a house cat he didn’t like. Or eat.

Yes, it seems that you really are what you eat in showbiz, although if that’s the case I’m not quite sure why Rosemary Clooney never turned into a giant pack of Sara Lee honey ham. I was discussing this very same issue with my friend, accompanist, and six time ex husband Jimmy Tunes and he turned to me and said “Who knows, Crystal baby, I mean you never saw her without that dress on.”

Of course I couldn’t tell him that he was wrong; that’s a long dark story that only ends with Danny Kaye’s second suicide attempt.

All of this just goes to show that I don’t need to eat vegetables to be a superstar. If anything the vegetables should eat me to become superstars. Which is a horrifying thought. That’s why I pushed Geoffrey down a flight of stairs when I saw him coming up to my apartment with a bag of salad (it’s not, as he claims, because in a drunken stupor I mistook him for Mindy Cohn coming to collect on an old debt.)

Now if you’ll excuse me, one of my stylists is coming over to wrap my turban. I have to look good for court, you know. Someone’s got to convince that jury that Dick Clark isn’t a cannibal…on purpose. "
(C) 2006 Gomes Group Inc.

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Saturday, January 14, 2006

RIP Shelley Winters.

Ms. Gomes wished to express the following thoughts about the death of her friend Shelley Winters.

"Well everyone, let's all raise our glasses to one of the classiest broads out there. Shelley and I first met at one of Marvin Hamlisch's box luncheons. We hit it off over a couple of quarts of hooch I nicked from Kitty Carlyle's pantry the night before. I think my favorite thing about Shell was her ability to bed the most eligible of Hollywood's non-fancy bachelors, and still eat a whole ham steak at supper. We'll miss you Shell. I'll be seeing you someday soon, I'm sure. Save me a seat at Dino's table, and get yourself a whiskey neat, on me."

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Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Another Crystal Chronicle...

Thanks to all the fans for making Back to Basics a sucess! We've sold out shows in King of Prussia, PA and The Golden Banana outside of Revere, MA. As a little thank you, we've included another zany story from Crystal's act. Enjoy!

Whenever I’m introduced to new people, they almost always ask me the same questions: “How did you meet Burt Bacharach?” and “Can you please get up, you’re on my coat?” And I always tell them the same thing: “I’m not answering any questions until you get me a sloe gin fizz and a leg of lamb.” But, I figure I’ll answer the first of those questions now (hopefully so people will stop asking in the future and head straight towards the gin and lamb, which will invariably answer the second question).

I met Larry in 1965 (he likes when I call him Larry, only myself and the extraordinary Sandy Duncan are permitted to do so) in Calcutta at a piano bar called “Montenegro.” The details on our first rendezvous are a little hazy since Geoffrey was on vacation in Provincetown at the time and was not around to document the situation in its entirety. But, I will say that he was rather tall and I was wearing an extravagant necklace I had nicked from Golda Meir’s private collection when she thought I was going to vomit in the bathtub.

Now, this whole thing was happening during my 30 year long feud with that ratfink bitch Crystal Gayle. And I think that Larry had been made aware of this (if not from the tabloids then definitely from that long-haired hussy herself) so he was acting rather demure. I, on the other hand, was quite enamored with Mr. Larry and I had asked him to play me one of the old songs on the baby grand that was currently being neglected by the Indian piano boy. He obliged and I kissed him squarely on the lips which I think threw him for a loop because he began playing a toe-tapping rendition of “Send in the Clowns” that Calcutta won’t soon forget. When the applause had died down he said, “Crystal, I need you desperately. Sing on my next record.” I, of course, said yes, but only after he had gotten me a sloe gin fizz and a leg of lamb and I begrudgingly relinquished his coat.

Who can believe it, but at that very moment Crystal Gayle burst in the door yelling and screaming like the crazy bitch that she is. She said something about me murdering her chinchilla. I very calmly told her that her ugly little rat probably got tangled in her hair and hanged itself. She was quite upset at this comment and, though I don’t remember much after this, I do remember that Larry was a gentleman the entire time and I’m pretty sure Crystal Gayle never came back to Calcutta. I did have one last encounter with that slattern, but it was well into the 70’s and a little too involved to be included in the “How I met Larry Bacharach” story.

So I ended up singing several songs on Larry’s record as you all might remember (the most fun of which was a duet of “Flight of the Bumblebee” with a fetal Bernadette Peters). His record, as you can imagine was a hit. I can remember leaving the studio after our last day of recording and we were mobbed by a mob of what I can only assume were reporters (although they may very well have been the mob).

Now these reporters starting snapping pictures and asking all sorts of personal questions about Larry and my relationship. Luckily Geoffrey had come back from his vacation by this time (he had gotten his hair done in those delightful corn-rows that vacationers and housekeepers tend to have) and he informed me that pictures had been leaked (by who I can only assume was that damn Gayle woman) of myself and Larry in a carnal embrace. Larry and I had never had a carnal embrace or even a vegetative embrace separate from that first kiss in “Montenegro.” Well, I was livid. I asked Geoffrey for copies of the photos which he happened to have in his backpack. Sure enough, Crystal Gayle had positioned me and Larry in a compromising way long after we had passed out on the piano that first night in Calcutta. I assured Geoffrey and Larry that I would get that bitch for this and I hoped it would not jeopardize the success of the new record.

Well, did those little shenanigans ever backfire on Miss Gayle, let me tell you. That record, which Larry later entitled “Hit Maker! Burt Bacharach Plays the Burt Bacharach Hits” became an overnight success regardless of the fact that Larry hadn’t included any of my songs. He did assure me that it had nothing to do with the Crystal Gayle debacle, though Geoffrey couldn’t find Ethel Steinberg, his dog, for several weeks.

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Monday, January 09, 2006

A Tuesday Afternoon at the House.

Recently a photographer from "Lady Fancy" magazine came to Ms. Gomes' New York apartment to do a shoot for an upcoming article on our favorite chanteuse. Here's an exclusive alternate shot that you can only get here! Enjoy!

-The Gomes Group Staff.

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Another Thrilling Excerpt

Here's a lovely excerpt from "Back to Basics" about her loyal accompanist, Jimmy Tunes. Enjoy!

So many young kids who want to get into showbiz always ask me, “Ms. Gomes, you can’t have always been the international superstar that we are blessed with today. How did you get your start?” Most people think that it was something that happened overnight, or that I worked my way to the top. Well, none of that hogwash is true. I’m not going to beat around the bush; it took a little elbow grease and a lot of sleeping around. But there was a moment it my life when I thought, “Hey, Crystal get off the can and open your eyes, you’ve made it, sweet heart!”

It all started when I stepped off the bus in the windy apple itself: Tallahassee. I was down on my luck at the time (yes, Crystal Gomes had humble beginnings just like you, reader). I thought that I had gotten on the bus for New York City, but it turns out that giving the ticket-monger a what-for in the men’s room only gets you as far as Northern Florida. I had actually gotten on the bus in Northern New Jersey, but I thought the bus driver had hit some traffic on the George Washington. Nope, Tallahassee. I wasn’t deterred though, I put down my sack of oranges and said to myself, “Myself, you’re home.”

I decided that I needed to devise a plan if I was going to make it in this whirlwind called Tallahassee. I went to a phone booth and looked in the yellow pages under “booze.” There wasn’t anything there. I thought, “What kind of rinky-dink town is this if you can’t even look up booze in the phone book?” I started to hyperventilate until I realized that across the street from that very phone booth was a gin joint just like I was looking for. I cursed the city of Tallahassee for keeping secrets from me (a curse that is still on the books today) and waltzed over to sell my wares. I said to the barkeep (this was in the days before Geoffrey was around to speak to strangers for me),

“Barkeep, my name is Crystal Gomes and I’m here in Tallahassee to make it big. Do you have any room in your cabaret for a future star?”

That barkeep looked at me and said, “We don’t have a cabaret, sweet cheeks.”

“Get me a gin milk punch, hold the milk and give me some extra punch. I’m starting a cabaret in this here establishment and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Well I threw down my other sack of oranges and hopped on the piano. I yelled, “Is there anyone in this stink hole of a bar that can play a tune on this music box?”

Some one from the audience yelled, “It’s three in the afternoon and that’s a crate of Jose Cuervo. That’s the piano over there.”

Well, as I was embarking from the crate, a liquor soaked voice from the corner squeaked, “I can play it Miss Gomes.”

And do you know who that someone was? You guessed it, the incomparable Jimmy Tunes himself. He had a lay over for a flight from Key West to Cincinnati four years earlier, fell in love with the city, and never left. I didn’t learn that, though, until much later. I just said to him:

“Hey stranger, get on these ivories in the key of C.”

To make a long story short, he did, I sang, and we brought down the house like a crippling electrical fire (which was actually the final fate of this gin joint in 1993, ironically enough). That day, the two of us promised to stick together through thick and thicker. The barkeep came up to the two of us after the applause had died down and said,

“Hey kids, that wasn’t half bad. If you want a regular gig, you’ve got it.”

And that was the start of Jimmy’s and my time in Tallahassee. We played to a packed house every night to the delight of the Floridian barflies and Japanese businessmen who frequented that establishment. I made enough in tips and drinks to pay our rent in a boxcar by the quarry. It wasn’t much, but it was home. In retrospect, I’m not exactly sure who I was paying rent too for that boxcar (I addressed the check to “Boxcar” and sent it on its way) but I definitely never missed a payment.

Well, after eight months had gone by, I looked at Jimmy and I said,

“Jimmy, this is it. If we don’t get on a bus and try to make it to New York, Tallahassee will never let us leave. We’ve breathed a new life into this town, and it’s time we shared our talent with the rest of the world.”

Jimmy didn’t answer because he was asleep under the burlap sack that we used as a duvet. But he most definitely agreed and as soon as he woke up, we went to the bus station from whence this story began and made sure to get on the right bus (Jimmy supplied the what-for this time just for good measure). On that bus ride, I happened to sit myself down next to a gentleman and strike up a conversation about the joys and uses of beeswax that I found quite engaging. After I told him about our little story and the gentleman stranger said to me, “Crystal Gomes. I am famous producer. I will make you a star.” Well, sure enough he was lying and Jimmy and I ended up tying him up and leaving him at a Roy Rogers that we stopped at near Charleston.

The next morning we found ourselves in the capital of the universe, New York City. We both immediately felt like we had found our home away from the boxcar and made it our first order of business to find me an agent. We both ditched our sacks of oranges in a Port Authority locker and got to work.

Now, you all know the rest of this story is the basis of the movie, “The Muppets Take Manhattan” so I needn’t bore you with the details. But I want to get back to the point at hand, which is the moment that I realized I had hit the big time. I think it was when Jimmy and I were tying up that dirty liar in the Roy Rogers bathroom. I looked over at Jimmy and I thought to myself, “This is it. This is what show biz is about. If Jimmy and I can win over Tallahassee, survive in a box car and take down this stranger with a doozy of a two fisted wallop, there’s no telling what we can do. The only other time I’ve felt a surge of euphoria like that was when former President Jimmy Carter goosed me at the Kennedy Center Honors (turns out he had actually mistaken me for Ladybird Johnson…which I get a lot).

So, what I want to impart to the future of show biz is this: even if you get on the wrong bus at first, don’t stop giving out what-fors because eventually you’ll make it to that shiny big apple in the sky.

You're welcome.

(C) 2005 Gomes Group Inc.

Posted by Geoffrey :: 3:33 PM :: 1 Fan Mail:

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Friday, January 06, 2006

New Excerpt from Back to Basics!

The following is an excerpt from Ms. Gomes' latest touring show, "Back to Basics." Stay tuned for more! Enjoy!
-The Gomes Group Staff.
"One thing I like to do occasionally after shows is a little Q&A talk back with the audience. While these are not as popular as my T&A talk backs I was once so famous for, I still like them. I remember one of these as if it were yesterday. I was in Boise, or Wichita, or one of those horrible places where everyone’s ugly and couldn’t make a good gin gimlet if their sorry lives depended on it. Well, whatever Stinktown I was stranded in, I had just finished a show and decided to spice up the evening by doing one of my unabashedly anti-Protestant and Irish Q&A’s. So this one little lady who looks like Don Rickles in an egg costume raises her hand. She wanted to know who was the one person in my life that I simply couldn’t live without.
I thought about this for some time. Surely my milkman, Dr. Barnabus Nickleby was invaluable. Or what about Eileen Dagmire, who gets the smell of schnapps and lost dignity out of my carpets? And who could live without Johnny Gielgud and his hilarious “dog-in-a-bee-suit” photo diaries? Many people in my life are reliably good for a laugh and a stiff drink, but in the end I settled on one person; my loyal assistant, possible illegitimate son, and valet, Geoffrey. Geoffrey has been with me for a number of years, ever since he found me wandering around downtown Encino looking for Barbara Eden’s Cadillac El Dorado. (As it turned out, Barbara had taken the car back to the shooting range and thought I would meet her there after she picked up Shirley Jones from the dry cleaners. But Barbara never told me that. Or maybe I forgot. Either way Geoffrey took me to a coffee shop to sober up and we eventually found Barbara and Shirley taking shots at old cans down by the water.)
Geoffrey is absolutely priceless. He drives me places, he books my shows, he picks little crusties out of my eyes while I sleep. While the last one may be a little strange, few could argue that those crusties don’t get really annoying after a while. Well, I guess all of this testimonial wasn’t enough because little Miss Rickles wanted me to tell a story about what Geoffrey means to me. What resulted was the preliminary ground work for my twenty-third album, “Sad Songs For And About The Late Carol Burnett: A Tribute to Carol Burnett” Now, I don’t remember what the story was, exactly. But I know it involved Geoffrey, sixteen pounds of Quaaludes and a young Nigerian boy named Tse-Tse. I do wish I could remember that story right now. If you want to hear it, listen to the record. For now I’ll give you another little yarn about just how much I need Geoffrey in my life.
The year was 1986, Geoffrey and I had been on a whirlwind tour of the Dutch West Indies while I performed my show “A Black Thai Affair: My Oriental Travels with Harry Belafonte.” Well, when we finally got back to New York, we were exhausted. I had just one engagement that weekend, singing a small cabaret act down at Mr. Moriarty’s Midtown. Geoffrey, unbelievably, requested the weekend off. Now normally I don’t believe in giving anyone time off. What am I supposed to do, tie my own shoes? Take my own baths? Throw my own rotten yams at hobos from the backseat of my limo while I chuckle and sip sterling hooch straight from Noel Coward’s private stock? I think not. But on that day, maybe it was the look in his eyes or the seven glasses of bitters I drank on the plane, I decided to give in. Geoffrey jumped and clapped like a little girl and pranced away to Chelsea.
So later that night I was all alone and bored. I decided to call my old pal Yul Brynner and see if he wanted to have a few laughs. Now Geoffrey has warned me time and time again. He says he knows how Yul and I get, and he doesn’t want me getting into any trouble. But, Geoffrey wasn’t there to tell me this time, so I gave Yul a ring. Well, three hours later I’m wearing nothing but an old pillowcase, drinking Riesling from a salad bowl, making wigs out of spaghetti in Yul’s kitchen.
Now Yul really loved his spaghetti wig. The moment he put it on, he started running around the house singing Anna’s part from “King and I” in an Italian accent, occasionally stopping to yell “Etcetera” in a traditional Siamese accent. (Harry and I learned on our travels that Siam is now called Thailand. They do not like to be called Siamese. It’s just like how you can’t call Sumner Redstone “Ol’ Jewy” anymore.) I put my spaghetti wig on and began a five hour tirade against Annette Funicello, accusing her of rooting around in my trash late at night. (Which, as it turns out, she was. She was pretty heavy into Mescaline in those days and was trying to find her long dead cat, Inspector Jonathon. )
Needless to say, I woke up the next day with a doozy of a hangover. Yul was lying halfway in the dishwasher, wearing an old Sears & Roebuck catalogue as underwear and sucking his thumb. I woke up on his terrace, still wearing the pillowcase, with a snow boot full of drinking ammonia next to me. I stumbled to the clock and to my horror saw that it was seven-thirty at night. My gig at Mr. Moriarty’s Downtown was in half an hour. Now, normally I would have called Geoffrey to come pick me up with a change of clothes, a thermos of Sanka, and some Doral Extra Longs. But, little lord Fauntleroy was on vacation, so I was without assistance.
After ten minutes of waiting on the curb, I finally caught a ride in a gypsy cab that cost me fifty dollars. I didn’t have the money so I gave him the boot full of ammonia, which I had brought along as a little pick-me-up. I got to the club at 7:55, just in time to run backstage, smoke a cigarette, and do a few quick “Red Leather, Yellow Leather’s”. It was very tight. I was exhausted. But all in all, the show went fine. The audience, however, was a little confused by my appearance as, in my hurry to get to the club, I had no time to pick up my bag of wigs at the cleaners, and so was forced to wear the spaghetti wig I’d fashioned at Yul’s the night before.
The moral of this story, really, is that I cannot function without Geoffrey. Where was he to remind me why Yul and I mix about as well as Michael Landon and a malignant cancer cell? Where was Geoffrey with my costume and bag of wigs? Where was Geoffrey later that night when I fell down a flight of stairs and engaged in a misguided late night lawsuit against the entire cast of “Starlight Express?" He was on vacation when I needed him most. Which is why I decided that Geoffrey should never be unavailable to me. The very next day (after losing my lawsuit in court because of what the judge called “flagrant disregard for the American legal system and violation of numerous New York state decency statutes) I set up a cot for him in my pantry where he’s been very happy for the past twenty years.
Come to think of it, I should have told that girl in Bumsburg this story. It has more zing than the Nigerian drug running story ever did. I think. I really wish I remembered that one. I should go listen to the album. Whose title, by the way, I changed to “Lovely Love, Love: Songs for Yakov.” I changed it because, as it turns out, Carol Burnett isn't dead. And you want to know who informed me of that (albeit seven months and several confusing conversations later)?
Yup, you guessed it.
My darling Geoffrey.
What a guy. "
Copyright 2006 Gomes Group Inc.

Posted by Geoffrey :: 6:32 PM :: 0 Fan Mail:

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Thursday, January 05, 2006

Crystal Needs Your Help

Ms. Gomes would like your help in identifying the papparazzo who took these unauthorized photographs before her latest show in Daytona Beach, FL. There was the typical mob of six to eight people waiting for her at the venue (Ricky Ticky's Contiki Shoppe and Grille). Of course Ms. Gomes was her usual camera-shy self, covering her face in her Fashion Bug afghan as she made her way gracefully (only one major spill) into the building. Even the cameras couldn't stop this class act. If you have any information about the photographer please contact us. He was described by Ms. Gomes as "shortish, probably a mongoloid. A little like F. Murray Abraham. He had hair. And pants. I don't know Geoffrey. What am I, a detective? Where's my gin thermos?"

Posted by Geoffrey :: 4:26 PM :: 2 Fan Mail:

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