I Saw Michelle Obama and You Dinnit (Minny Minny BooBoo)

Way, way way back when I went to college (for the second time) at the University of Iowa (not my alma mater, but a holding pen while I had a slo-mo nervous breakdown) I had a great job, perhaps one of the best jobs of my life.  I was part of a group called the Commission for Alternative Programming (CAP), founded by a couple of visionary friends, Dave Olive and Jim Tade, who were multimedia artists long before the phrase had air quotes.  (I remember back in 1974 Olive asked me if I could rap [which I couldn't and still can't].  I looked at him for a beat and said, "I just delivered the Gettysburg Address."  Asked and answered.)

Anyway, CAP produced concerts at the University and within a couple of years I had helped present Keith Jarrett, Pharaoh Sanders, David Bromberg, McCoy Tyner and others.)  After a while what with all the sound checks, the missing luggage, the hotel accomodations and the groupies you're just too busy getting the show up to be in awe.  The gene of sangfroid in the presence of fame or greatness was seeded for me during those days; it got catalyzed in the 1990's when I was writing for opera and musical theatre.  (But that's a story for another day.)

A few days ago when Susie V. told me that she had an extra ticket to hear Michelle Obama speak at a fundraiser for Dick Blumenthal in Stamford my first thought was "Naaaah, do I really want to go?"  Then I have a vision of Husband No. 1 screaming in my ear like a drill sergeant who can't find his Preparation H:  You never go anywhere except to the bathroom!?"!+!$^@!  I'll show him, I huffed, and told Susie V. yes, even though it meant that it was going on 2 weeks where I had to be somewhere or be with somebodies instead of having an unscheduled and solitudinous (get used to that word because you are going to see it A Lot) day here at home.  I told Lilli that I was going to see Michelle Obama, and in that lovely way of children she asked, "Can I go, too?"  I told her I'd tell Michelle Obama hi for her and that was enough.

We arrive in Stamford on Monday morning.  I see a line snaking around the block, thinking, these folks are too well-heeled to be applying for food stamps.  (An overactive imagination makes you stupid.)  We park and join the line.  It slithers.  We get into the Palace Theater.  With a little VIP treatment we get seated.  We wait having been warned by someone who's "done this before" that the Secret Service observes the crowd for an hour.  Someone (god bless 'em) has programmed great music over the PA system.  I swear I'm listening to Charlie Parker.  Susie leaves to say hello to a few of the thousands of politicos she knows.  I lean over the balcony looking at, not for, people from New Haven.  I'm hoping "In a Sentimental Mood" is up next.

It's the usual set up:  the disembodied voice thanks us for our patience, the pre-introductions are done by campaign workers with circles under their eyes, the beneficiary speaks, and then the star appears.  We stand in unison and give her a standing ovation and sit down to be charmed.  After all, this is what we came for, right?


Michelle Obama is a pro who knows what her job is and does it.  She came to Connecticut to buck up the troops which she did with wit, panache and efficiency.  There is something in her voice which belies an attractive warmth that can seduce you into thinking she could easily be your BFF.  But her job that morning was to "carry water" for her husband, the administration, and Democratic candidates nationwide all under the guise of merely being the Mom-in-Chief and The Wife.  And I thought to myself:  I hope this isn't all there is (for her) because this woman is being wasted.  Wasted.