Elaine Stritch dies - true-to-you.net

Elaine Stritch dies - true-to-you.net
17 July 2014

Elaine was my friend for a while. She was, of course, a demented genius - in loveable ways.
Can we appreciate the people who are around us right now? The answer, of course, is No, for we are all pathetic human beings.

It takes death for us to say aloud: thank you for everything, Elaine Stritch.

Morrissey
Switzerland, 2014.

---

Related news:

Elaine Stritch, Tart-Tongued Broadway Actress and Singer, Is Dead at 89 - The NY Times

Excerpt:

Elaine Stritch, the brassy, tart-tongued Broadway actress and singer who became a living emblem of show business durability and perhaps the leading interpreter of Stephen Sondheim’s wryly acrid musings on aging, died on Thursday at her home in Birmingham, Mich. She was 89.

 

[Anonymous]

Not all sociopaths hurt people, or light firecrackers in turtles.

Yes, all sociopaths DO hurt people. It's true that some may not physically hurt people, but you must know that's just one way to hurt somebody. Also, it would be extremely rare to find a sociopath that didn't hurt an animal in some way as a child. Just read a little and you will see he doesn't show the signs.

 

[Anonymous]

I read 'Autobiography', they didn't strike me as being friends at all from what he described. Have you read that part? perhaps you should read it again. Seemed more like Morrissey was interested in her as a fan and Elaine indulged that for a very short while.

I don't see how he could ever be annoyed at a fan who approaches him in public in a reasonable way, as he's done it himself any times.

 

[Anonymous]

Sociopaths hurt people. They're not people who don't appreciate their fellow humans. He has not shown any signs of sociopathy. If he was a completely average person like some people want him to be, he wouldn't have had his artistic career, or even be interesting enough for discussion.

An easy way to diagnose a sociopath is they often hurt animals when they're children/minors. For ex, George Bush used to put fire crackers inside of turtles when he was a child. Notice Morrissey doesn't even eat meat.

I never knew that. As if I needed another reason to hate Bush.

 

[Sunday Girl Everyday]

When Morrissey said, 'It takes death for us to say aloud-thank you for everything' he actually states a realization that is so true and would be appreciated by anyone related to someone who has passed on.

 

[Head Singer Ritual]

Elaine Stritch cooks in the mid-day sun, long-necked and busy at her courtyard table at the Bel Air hotel. She eats chopped fruit from a large plastic Zip-lock bag. Stritch stretches back one hundred years, a true star of the American stage, and a hallowed prize on any of her rare television appearances. She is a cauldron of Lucille Ball, Tallulah Bankhead, Coral Browne, Estelle Getty and Beatrice Arthur – her creaky tough-nut croak of a voice is loud enough to fill the hotel foyer. She is a blasé broad of yesteryear – so funny that people hope that she will soon stop talking. She has the rare distinction of ducking commercial speculations unless they please her own infallible critical guide.
'Y-y-y-yes ?' she looks up at me as I approach her table.
'My name is Morrissey,' I start off .
'That's a funny name sit down,' she orders – minus any commas.
Like the very best of them, the face of Elaine Stritch never twitches at her own lightning wit, and she remains stonefaced even whilst delivering the most rafter-quaking retort. All of her acting takes place around her mouth and eyes. The body doesn’t do much. We sit and talk for an hour, and I explain that I had seen her on stage in New York in a play called A Delicate Balance.
'Oh, yeh,' she says, midway between gruff and boredom (but probably very interested), and I remind her of her harrowingly funny contributions to BBC Radio's Just a Minute with Kenneth Williams.
'Oh yeh,' she looks away,'I remember him,' she coughs, suddenly a commendable wreck.
I can imagine Elaine in the heat of disagreements to be savage and pitiless – ‘calling ’em as she sees ’em’ – with useful enemies trampled to death. Elaine is here in Los Angeles to film an episode of the television comedy Third Rock from the Sun. ‘Come along and watch what time shall I pick you up and what’s your home address ?’
Elaine's studio car pulls up at Sweetzer the following day and off we go to the television studio in Burbank. Elaine is given a mobile-home dressing room, but as I step in she tells me to step out. 'No, you go and busy yourself leave me alone for awhile,' and she grabs another Zip-lock bag of fruit and slams the door. I am not off ended. I understand the tubercular theatrical typhus of one such as Elaine Stritch, who acts as if she had fought under the Sultan of Turkey (and probably had). The crushing replies to silly questions were all part of the ungovernable control, and the overreaching frenzy of rage is high altar in the depth and sweep of theater. It isn't friendly, it is a substitute for intimacy, and even if it seems overdone you will still accept it as a passionate experience of truth. The art of the put-down is in no hands more capable than those of Elaine Stritch.
'Did you ever know Richard Conte ?' I ask, like a bouncing cheerleader.
'Oh, STOP it,' she says, a square of watermelon jumping into her mouth, 'how many thousands of years old do you think I am?'
On set, Elaine introduces me to a host of people whom I do not know and who do not want to know me – because Elaine is in the room and her gift occupies space with volcanic power. A constant interrupter, Elaine wants it known that she has been there first – as she has, irrespective of where 'it' might be. The monumental face is a wretchedness that is great, and, because she has never learned how to be timid, she points the way for all assembled technicians and actors. She knows herself and she knows her worth, and we all spend our entire lives in search of such prizes.
'Ah, the very best,' says the star of Third Rock from the Sun, John Lithgow, as he extends his hand to mine but has already raced past before I have time to return a single word. A herd of bison encircles Elaine, and I back away as she is led to her mark on the set. The episode is called 'My Mother, My Dick', which I assume to be a pun on Nancy Friday's famous My Mother, Myself book. I watch the live taping from a secret spot side-stage, where French Stewart, who seems to act with his eyes closed, paces the room whilst running his lines through his head. Elaine is enviably brilliant, and gets a huge roar from the audience each time she belts out a contemptuous snap of dialogue. She is a great success. I slip away without saying goodbye because I feel like excess baggage. A week later a handwritten letter arrives from Elaine, and I reply, but she then doesn’t.


Read more: http://www.rollingstone.com/music/n...-on-the-set-of-friends-20131203#ixzz37rubfUlG

 

[Anonymous]

Elaine Stritch cooks in the mid-day sun, long-necked and busy at her courtyard table at the Bel Air hotel. She eats chopped fruit from a large plastic Zip-lock bag. Stritch stretches back one hundred years, a true star of the American stage, and a hallowed prize on any of her rare television appearances. She is a cauldron of Lucille Ball, Tallulah Bankhead, Coral Browne, Estelle Getty and Beatrice Arthur – her creaky tough-nut croak of a voice is loud enough to fill the hotel foyer. She is a blasé broad of yesteryear – so funny that people hope that she will soon stop talking. She has the rare distinction of ducking commercial speculations unless they please her own infallible critical guide.
'Y-y-y-yes ?' she looks up at me as I approach her table.
'My name is Morrissey,' I start off .
'That's a funny name sit down,' she orders – minus any commas.
Like the very best of them, the face of Elaine Stritch never twitches at her own lightning wit, and she remains stonefaced even whilst delivering the most rafter-quaking retort. All of her acting takes place around her mouth and eyes. The body doesn’t do much. We sit and talk for an hour, and I explain that I had seen her on stage in New York in a play called A Delicate Balance.
'Oh, yeh,' she says, midway between gruff and boredom (but probably very interested), and I remind her of her harrowingly funny contributions to BBC Radio's Just a Minute with Kenneth Williams.
'Oh yeh,' she looks away,'I remember him,' she coughs, suddenly a commendable wreck.
I can imagine Elaine in the heat of disagreements to be savage and pitiless – ‘calling ’em as she sees ’em’ – with useful enemies trampled to death. Elaine is here in Los Angeles to film an episode of the television comedy Third Rock from the Sun. ‘Come along and watch what time shall I pick you up and what’s your home address ?’
Elaine's studio car pulls up at Sweetzer the following day and off we go to the television studio in Burbank. Elaine is given a mobile-home dressing room, but as I step in she tells me to step out. 'No, you go and busy yourself leave me alone for awhile,' and she grabs another Zip-lock bag of fruit and slams the door. I am not off ended. I understand the tubercular theatrical typhus of one such as Elaine Stritch, who acts as if she had fought under the Sultan of Turkey (and probably had). The crushing replies to silly questions were all part of the ungovernable control, and the overreaching frenzy of rage is high altar in the depth and sweep of theater. It isn't friendly, it is a substitute for intimacy, and even if it seems overdone you will still accept it as a passionate experience of truth. The art of the put-down is in no hands more capable than those of Elaine Stritch.
'Did you ever know Richard Conte ?' I ask, like a bouncing cheerleader.
'Oh, STOP it,' she says, a square of watermelon jumping into her mouth, 'how many thousands of years old do you think I am?'
On set, Elaine introduces me to a host of people whom I do not know and who do not want to know me – because Elaine is in the room and her gift occupies space with volcanic power. A constant interrupter, Elaine wants it known that she has been there first – as she has, irrespective of where 'it' might be. The monumental face is a wretchedness that is great, and, because she has never learned how to be timid, she points the way for all assembled technicians and actors. She knows herself and she knows her worth, and we all spend our entire lives in search of such prizes.
'Ah, the very best,' says the star of Third Rock from the Sun, John Lithgow, as he extends his hand to mine but has already raced past before I have time to return a single word. A herd of bison encircles Elaine, and I back away as she is led to her mark on the set. The episode is called 'My Mother, My Dick', which I assume to be a pun on Nancy Friday's famous My Mother, Myself book. I watch the live taping from a secret spot side-stage, where French Stewart, who seems to act with his eyes closed, paces the room whilst running his lines through his head. Elaine is enviably brilliant, and gets a huge roar from the audience each time she belts out a contemptuous snap of dialogue. She is a great success. I slip away without saying goodbye because I feel like excess baggage. A week later a handwritten letter arrives from Elaine, and I reply, but she then doesn’t.


Read more: http://www.rollingstone.com/music/n...-on-the-set-of-friends-20131203#ixzz37rubfUlG

He's SUCH a fanboy. I love it.

 

[Johnny Barleycorn]

Elaine Stritch cooks in the mid-day sun, long-necked and busy at her courtyard table at the Bel Air hotel. She eats chopped fruit from a large plastic Zip-lock bag. Stritch stretches back one hundred years, a true star of the American stage, and a hallowed prize on any of her rare television appearances. She is a cauldron of Lucille Ball, Tallulah Bankhead, Coral Browne, Estelle Getty and Beatrice Arthur – her creaky tough-nut croak of a voice is loud enough to fill the hotel foyer. She is a blasé broad of yesteryear – so funny that people hope that she will soon stop talking. She has the rare distinction of ducking commercial speculations unless they please her own infallible critical guide.
'Y-y-y-yes ?' she looks up at me as I approach her table.
'My name is Morrissey,' I start off .
'That's a funny name sit down,' she orders – minus any commas.
Like the very best of them, the face of Elaine Stritch never twitches at her own lightning wit, and she remains stonefaced even whilst delivering the most rafter-quaking retort. All of her acting takes place around her mouth and eyes. The body doesn’t do much. We sit and talk for an hour, and I explain that I had seen her on stage in New York in a play called A Delicate Balance.
'Oh, yeh,' she says, midway between gruff and boredom (but probably very interested), and I remind her of her harrowingly funny contributions to BBC Radio's Just a Minute with Kenneth Williams.
'Oh yeh,' she looks away,'I remember him,' she coughs, suddenly a commendable wreck.
I can imagine Elaine in the heat of disagreements to be savage and pitiless – ‘calling ’em as she sees ’em’ – with useful enemies trampled to death. Elaine is here in Los Angeles to film an episode of the television comedy Third Rock from the Sun. ‘Come along and watch what time shall I pick you up and what’s your home address ?’
Elaine's studio car pulls up at Sweetzer the following day and off we go to the television studio in Burbank. Elaine is given a mobile-home dressing room, but as I step in she tells me to step out. 'No, you go and busy yourself leave me alone for awhile,' and she grabs another Zip-lock bag of fruit and slams the door. I am not off ended. I understand the tubercular theatrical typhus of one such as Elaine Stritch, who acts as if she had fought under the Sultan of Turkey (and probably had). The crushing replies to silly questions were all part of the ungovernable control, and the overreaching frenzy of rage is high altar in the depth and sweep of theater. It isn't friendly, it is a substitute for intimacy, and even if it seems overdone you will still accept it as a passionate experience of truth. The art of the put-down is in no hands more capable than those of Elaine Stritch.
'Did you ever know Richard Conte ?' I ask, like a bouncing cheerleader.
'Oh, STOP it,' she says, a square of watermelon jumping into her mouth, 'how many thousands of years old do you think I am?'
On set, Elaine introduces me to a host of people whom I do not know and who do not want to know me – because Elaine is in the room and her gift occupies space with volcanic power. A constant interrupter, Elaine wants it known that she has been there first – as she has, irrespective of where 'it' might be. The monumental face is a wretchedness that is great, and, because she has never learned how to be timid, she points the way for all assembled technicians and actors. She knows herself and she knows her worth, and we all spend our entire lives in search of such prizes.
'Ah, the very best,' says the star of Third Rock from the Sun, John Lithgow, as he extends his hand to mine but has already raced past before I have time to return a single word. A herd of bison encircles Elaine, and I back away as she is led to her mark on the set. The episode is called 'My Mother, My Dick', which I assume to be a pun on Nancy Friday's famous My Mother, Myself book. I watch the live taping from a secret spot side-stage, where French Stewart, who seems to act with his eyes closed, paces the room whilst running his lines through his head. Elaine is enviably brilliant, and gets a huge roar from the audience each time she belts out a contemptuous snap of dialogue. She is a great success. I slip away without saying goodbye because I feel like excess baggage. A week later a handwritten letter arrives from Elaine, and I reply, but she then doesn’t.


Read more: http://www.rollingstone.com/music/n...-on-the-set-of-friends-20131203#ixzz37rubfUlG

Jeez. This intolerable veil of tears. I had no idea they were that close. No wonder he is saddened by her loss. Poor guy.

Will I too feel that deep sense of emptiness if one day I hear of the passing of the bloke who spent two days tiling my bathroom in 2009?

 

[mcrickson]

The crushing replies to silly questions were all part of the ungovernable control, and the overreaching frenzy of rage is high altar in the depth and sweep of theater. It isn't friendly, it is a substitute for intimacy, and even if it seems overdone you will still accept it as a passionate experience of truth.

Morrissey, explaining his fascination for he, himself, being a diva. Honestly brilliant.

 

[Anonymous]

I read 'Autobiography', they didn't strike me as being friends at all from what he described. Have you read that part? perhaps you should read it again. Seemed more like Morrissey was interested in her as a fan and Elaine indulged that for a very short while.

Yes, I read it. Once again, why would him classifying her as a friend matter to you?

 

[Chickpea]

I read 'Autobiography', they didn't strike me as being friends at all from what he described. Have you read that part? perhaps you should read it again. Seemed more like Morrissey was interested in her as a fan and Elaine indulged that for a very short while.

I'm perplexed by the assumption that Autobiography contains every detail of each interaction between Morrissey and every other person mentioned in it. Has it ever occurred to you that his friendship—which is his business to define, not yours—with Elaine Stritch could have continued beyond the single anecdote relayed in the book? You have no idea. "Elaine was my friend for a while" doesn't imply that they were lifelong best friends, anyway. His statement is a pretty pure one meant to acknowledge her passing, her presence, and our tendency as humans to not openly appreciate people before they're gone. Why does that need to be picked apart and critiqued? I don't get it.

 

[fredkocherpepsi]

I'm perplexed by the assumption that Autobiography contains every detail of each interaction between Morrissey and every other person mentioned in it. Has it ever occurred to you that his friendship—which is his business to define, not yours—with Elaine Stritch could have continued beyond the single anecdote relayed in the book? You have no idea. "Elaine was my friend for a while" doesn't imply that they were lifelong best friends, anyway. His statement is a pretty pure one meant to acknowledge her passing, her presence, and our tendency as humans to not openly appreciate people before they're gone. Why does that need to be picked apart and critiqued? I don't get it.

Thumbs up to that! I agree x 1000000

 

[Anonymous]

Looks a bit 183rd Facebook Friend-ish to me.
Not quite indispensable, just adds to the impressive number, makes your page look good 'n all that.

"And did you ever know Paolo Conte?!? " asks I, jumping around, as somebody grinds pepper in the distance...

 

[Anonymous]

Morrissey, can you ever not be a complete jerk-off?

 

[Anonymous]

I never knew that. As if I needed another reason to hate Bush.

Well then after all the bullshit of the last six years, you must REALLY HATE Barack Obama.

 

[mcrickson]

Morrissey, can you ever not be a complete jerk-off?

 

[I Like You]

What's he doing in Switzerland?

 

[Anonymous]

What's he doing in Switzerland?

He has a lake house there.

 

[Poppycocteau.]

I had never heard of Elaine Stritch, but from the stories on this thread and Morrissey's account of her, she sounds really annoying

 

[Anonymous]

I love the sentiments of my hero Morrissey. He always has such meaningful things to say. However, I'm not pathetic, but I don't appreciate the people around me because they're just a neighborhood nuisance.

Stritch was eating fruit that day Moz met her, but was she a vegetarian? If she ate meat I'm sure she would be too annoying for my hero Moz.

I had a friend who got too annoying for me because he wasn't a cruelty-free veg-type person (one of those people who claims to love animals, but eats meat.) I found out he was dying and I told him I would see him in far off places, but I didn't go visit or anything because I figured that would be hypocritical since I found him too annoying when he wasn't dying, so why get all sentimental when death is approaching? Before that another friend got so annoying I hung up on his phone call (ironically, he was another one of those types who claims to love animals, but eats meat.) So, he didn't let me know when he was dying because we weren't talking.

GoneForeverNotQuite

He has a lake house there.

 

[Anonymous]

Pardon my trust issues, but f*** off.

Seemly your "trust issues" cannot be pardoned. Not even exorcised i'd imagine. All i done was give you a genuine compliment on morrisseysolo.com.
What a perfect advocate you are for getting new members to join the site. Mr tseng you must be so proud of some of your "members".