And she is hundreds of miles away growing and learning.

But I miss her to pieces

I miss her world class hugs for no good reason.

I miss her making up songs in the car between discussions

of why people need to learn math and our never ending

appreciation of the superhumanity of Hugh Jackman.

I miss listening to teen-age tragedy songs of the 50′s

especially those girl group geniuses, The Shangrilas.

I miss watching Madmen together.  (And she always

indulges me in my retelling of how I worked in a place,

as a fifteen year old office boy, just like the one on the

show.)

I miss her sense of humor.  So, dry you could make an

award winning martini with it.

I miss bonding over babies that we see on the street

and Starbucks.

I miss her harmonizing with anyone who happens

to be in the car at the moment.

I miss her expertise at mimickery.  (In the

first few weeks of kindergarten she could

sound like any kid in her class.  Though, she

never did it outside the house.  It might hurt

someone’s feelings.)

I miss walking by the kitchen table as she

did her whimsical drawings of Aces as the

soft melody of Law and Order: SVU played

in the background.

I even miss her being 18 and that was just

yesterday.

Happy golden birthday from your Pop,

Emma.  If today is just 1/100th as amazing

as you are it’s going to be one swell day.

Able to fill Thanksgiving plate while fewer-limbed members of the family are still dolloping out their mashed potatoes.

Start decorating the Christmas tree while still stringing on the lights.  Or putting the star on top. (For show-offs only.)

Have an arm to put around everyone in the family during group picture. (Limit of eight, please.)

Able to put up two hands while being mugged but still having the other two free to surprise and subdue the thug.

More options when asked to have your palm read.

An awesome sight while performing the “raise the roof” gesture at basketball games.

Able to accompany yourself on harmonica while also playing the spoons.

Turns you into a veritable applause machine.

Fill a black jack table all by yourself.

During intense bouts of anxiety allows you way more nails to gnaw on.

If you have four arms you must be a Goddess.  What’s not to like?

The night our improv group “Mother’s Kisses” left Chicago to make our fame and fortune in the City of the Angels. (Just ignore the fact that we broke up three months later.)

The night an unbelievably cute girl in floppy jeans crossed the Groundlings stage and my heart burst out of my chest. (Thirty five years later and I still have her convinced I’m not a complete fraud. And they say I can’t act!)

The night I went on the Gong Show after having quit my last ,full time, non-show biz, job earlier that morning.

The Night Pee-wee’s Playhouse premiered on  the Groundlings stage.

The night Katherine Nora Steinkellner was born four and a half hours before dawn on the 4th of July. (Have there ever been more fireworks on tv?)

The night Theodore John Steinkellner slam dunked onto this planet.

The night Emma Rose Steinkellner left Fairyland and deigned to come brighten our nursery and lives. (Though, really it was the afternoon.  A picture of Teddy holding her that first week could melt titanium.)

The night they premiered our animated film ,”Teacher’s Pet”. There it was up there on the marquee just two blocks away from the  Hollywood Boulevard bookstore I worked at during my first four years in LA.

The Night Milton “Mr. Television” Berle gave us our first Emmy.  (After the show walking by the building with an ice skating rink in it  gave  the whole evening a surreal dream quality .)

The night we had breakfast with Alan Menken. (Okay, it was morning. But later that night we had changed our lives and were suddenly in the Broadway musical business.)

Tonight.  (Depending on how today turns out.)

Aunt Blethwyn — A red riding hood outfit that Edna Jean instantly adored until one of the Carstairs twins (probably Quentin) spilled punch and made some of the trimming dissolve. (Aunt B. pr0mised to make a replacement with something sturdier than crimson felt.

Bernie Dierdorfer — A ball which Edna lost in a trice.  So rapidly that it will be impossible to replace without a lot of embarrassing questions.  Praise the gift to the skies but use vague phrases.

All the other Aunts — A magnificent red and silver tricycle.  Uncle Jeremiah ran over it when he backed out of the garage.  Check to see if it can be fixed.  If  not come up with some fantastic but logical reason that Edna Jean is never seen riding it. (Allergies?  Stolen by a transient?  A friend borrowed it and then moved without leaving a forwarding address?  Ask Uncle Goodwin.  He has written for Vaudeville and must be excellent at coming up with something witty but believable.)

The Burton Family– A book titled: The Adventuring Girls and the Great Footed Monster of Tibet.  Oh, dear.

Little Oswald — A book mark in the shape of Peter Rabbit. Obviously not new, though there is a chance it’s a family heirloom. Tread lightly here

Not Hawaii.  It can get hot. And you have to keep slapping sunblock on especially if you go in the water.

The beach?  Like Hawaii only worse. (Though, you get to skip five hours on a plane.) There’s all that sand.  And if you have to drive all day to some sand castle contest you are in hell, my friend.  Or so I’m told.

No, the happiest place on earth you once lived in for over 3/4 of a year. Then you left before you realized how good you had it.  Before your very first breath. Yep, that lovely pink room known as the womb.  The original “no worries, mate” snug studio apartment.  Not a care in the world. Euphoria personified. Might even be a little piped-in singing from the Goddess you are floating inside of.  Remember?   You’re right.  No one does. (Why are all the important questions concerning birth and death seemingly unanswerable?)

I know one thing for sure.  I miss it.  And I’m going back there one day.  All I gotta do is play my cards right.

Her wake-up and go to bed orange juice smelled suspiciously like the white medicine.

Her little brother was getting all the attention for doing really stupid stuff like rolling

a ball or saying “uh-oh”.  (The kitten could do that trick for cripe’s sake and he was

just born a few months ago.

She got sick the last time her best friend was over and she didn’t know when she would

ever see her again.

She didn’t feel much like rocking at night any more. (She got too tired during the day and was lucky if she could keep her eyes open through all three books.)

The family room VCR was on the fritz so if she wanted to color she had to watch baseball.

She was awful mad,today.  So everybody better just stay out of her way.

Googie swept into the social whirl with all force of a Spartan attacking the Persian front. Then quickly halted to get her bearings. She spotted The Dick circling the perimeter like the oiliest snake in Snakeville. She should pay her respects but she didn’t think she could handle it without two fingers of something much stronger than the water with gas that she was presently clutching.
Across the room girl, Taylor’s dad, the ersatz actor was desperately trying to make eye contact. She had liked his dimpled cheeks when she saw him on the local news filling up a trailer truck for the unfortunate people of New Orleans or whatever the tragedy du jour had been that week. But now that she saw him in the flesh at room’s length there was something about him that just didn’t seem very substantial.
The President of the PTA was bending someone’s ear about funding. She had a very serious look on her cute punim. Googie was certainly going to skirt around that area. She had once fallen asleep in mid conversation with that perky presence. Granted she was on cold medication at the time but it was still quite embarrassing.
Then like the sun breaking through the clouds she saw the Steinkellners across the room. She made a beeline for them of such magnitude that I pity the bee that might have gotten in her way. At last. Now, she could dish.

“Doctor, the Monster won’t go down.”

“What’s her status?”

“We’ve fed her Mcnuggets, fries and a little soda.”

“With a little cupcake and a chocolate kiss for dessert?”

“Yes, yes. Do I look like a fool? After that we read three
books with no effect. And this was after we managed to lure the
beast away from a newly rented Duck Tales video.”

“Great Zeus’s great toe that should have done the trick.”

“I know, right? Then we let the Monster pile on top of us,
had a robust pillow fight that we pretended to lose,
and then engaged the You Can’t Take My Daughter sequence.
We even gave her a detailed itinerary for tomorrow and
a little sip of apple juice.”

“You’re starting to scare me and I don’t frighten easily.
You didn’t forget hush-little-baby, the list of things to
dream about, I love you with a good night kiss and promise
to leave the bedroom door open this much?”

“The whole shebang– in order. But the
creature is awake threatening our very existence.
She’s just lying on the floor next to her bed staring
at a coloring book with a stupefied look on her face.”

“Our only hope then, gentlemen, is the Puff the
Magic Dragon routine. If that doesn’t work may
God have mercy on our souls.”

We are ordinary folks.

We like fart jokes.

If you want to make your movie #1, you’d better keep us in mind. (Sometimes this
fact perplexes the “experts” but they always try to please us, often without
success.)

We always laughs when somebody falls down… and at fart jokes.
Probably the funniest thing of all would be a man who
farted so hard he fell down.

Fake vomit is funnier than people vomiting unless it was the villain
who vomited. In that case it would be okey-dokey by us.

We don’t like to figure things out. But if you make it look
like we have to figure things out but make it so easy that it
is as if you told us the answer already but made the whole thing
look like a mystery? We sorta like that. Especially, if you make
us feel smart without forcing us to pay attention in school or
other hard junk like that.

We like regular hours and set jobs that we can go home and put
up our feet on the ottoman from.

And beer. Cold beer. Mmmmmmm.

As far as the 2012 election? We remain undecided.

Charlie Spievogel ruled the Great White Way at the beginning of World War I. (And by beginning I mean when the good ol’ USA entered the conflict, Buddy because those pinky in the air types, with their sub-titled films and peanut butter like concoctions that they spread on their kid’s toast that tastes like month old fudge, are always begging us to save their bacon at some point.) Charlie had a stupendous drunk act. Though, he preferred “Thespian in a Tips-a-chorean manner”.

But whatever you called it it was knee slapping, fall down, I think you just wet your pants funny. Brilliant? Yeah, brilliant like the sun when you first come out of a matinee. It simply shed that much light on the human condition.

If you just read it off the page, sure it just looked like slurred speech and some shuffling about in rumpled clothes. But you could say the same for The Little Tramp on paper. Art is what leaps off the page into your heart.

It was so good that legend has it that a man, a lush for years, laughed so hard he laughed himself sober and never took a drink, again.

Alas Mr. Spievogel’s talent did not have legs. It lasted a very short time. Less than Hamlet’s candle.

He began to have bouts of ineffectiveness. (Some blamed his wife, Eloise, who squandered much of Charlie’s earnings on imported liquer candies shaped like the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.) He pressed. He tinkered. The slump made him anxious off stage and on. To steady his nerves he began to drink.

One night he became so despondent he performed his drunk act while he was drunk. A girl juvenile in a fiddle/tap duo, now 86 years old said it was her most dispiriting moment in theater. Decades later it still made her cry.

That night, broken, Charlie retired the act. Over the years it was rumored that some had seen him in a cheap carny show where he swallowed beetles and an occasional centipede. His last official appearance was as an aging bellboy on After-MASH. His character, though rickety, was not a drunk. He had no speaking lines.