When I die and go to heaven, I want it to be Elaine Stritch at the Café Carlyle. No fooling. It’s the greatest. Maybe you’ve had the experience of sitting in a darkened theatre or nightclub or cabaret, and knowing, just knowing, that This Is Happiness. That this is one of life’s Great Good Times—a trip to the moon on gossamer wings, a moment of seamless bliss, and if the carousel would only keep spinning forever, you’d never, ever want to jump off. Or maybe you haven’t. But if you haven’t, then it’s probably because you’ve never seen Stritch’s cabaret act—and in that case, you should call the Carlyle pronto, and make a reservation for January’s show, which is sure to sell out any minute now.

I have friends who do understand what I love about Stritch, and I have friends who do not. Those who don’t tend to mention that she doesn’t have a “pretty” voice. That she sort of screams a lot, and often seems a tad, well, cranky. I suppose all that’s true enough, but then again, fuck pretty. I’m so goddamn sick of the tyranny of prettiness, which just tends to spoil the hell out of everything. So that the whole, twirling world ends up smelling like White Diamonds and sounding like Celine Dion and looking like People magazine, until the red beating heart of everything is dead dead dead. I think Truman Capote said, “Good taste is the death of art.” It’s the flat truth, and here’s my own epigram—“Prettiness is the death of beauty.” And Elaine Stritch, joshing and screeching and dead-panning away, has the same sort of divine off-kilter beauty as Garland and Coward and Cole Porter, and Diana Vreeland, and also, my grandmother.

That’s another reason I love Elaine Stritch. She reminds me of the women in my family—brilliant, witty, and furious. I suspect that many others feel the same way, and that this constitutes a large part of her appeal. In her pearls and cardigans and tightly rolled hair, Stritch is the upper-middle class suburban lady susperstar. She’s what all our mothers and grandmothers might have been had they’d hopped a train to New York City, and had an affair with Marlon Brando. It’s why “The Ladies Who Lunch” moves us so enormously—because Elaine is the lady who escaped that racket, singing about all those who didn’t. Tremendous.

All of which doesn’t do a lot to expain the good time aspect of her show, but trust me, she’s hilarious. The Carlyle is glorious, and looks just like something out of the Batista Regime. The food is so-so, but who cares? If you want art and truth and beauty, not to mention a fucking blast, go see Elaine. There’s no better show anywhere. If you have to, sell your children for a seat.