I met Sam Singhaus 30 years ago, in the back room at Out & About Books on Mills Ave. Nothing salacious. 1990 was a different time, and Bruce Ground’s wonderful bookstore was the safe space for Orlando’s blossoming LGBTQ community.
It was my first meeting as a member of the Metropolitan Business Association’s board of directors. Back then, the membership directory was printed on dark colored paper so that it couldn’t be photocopied. My experience was equally timid. MBA was one of my first forays into gay life outside the bars.
Sam was there as the owner of Big Bang, a groundbreaking downtown nightclub with a devoted following. He was sitting at a folding table, and as the meeting unfolded I saw something special in his handsome face, exuberant spirit and twinkling blue eyes. It was the glimpse of a future for me in Orlando filled with meaningful activism and unforeseeable characters and experiences.
If you knew Sam, you know what I’m talking about. He was excited about life, seeing opportunity for connection and adventure around every corner. “Yes” was his default. He quickly became my Sherpa and treasured friend.
When I started Watermark, he roped fellow performer Bill Haire into co-writing a popular nightlife column they dubbed “From the Bungalow of Lola O’Lay.” When we snagged an interview with Phyllis Diller, Sam joined me and famously asked if she saw a resemblance with Cruella de Vil. “Resemblance?” cackled the comic legend. “She is I!”
And when Watermark produced the first Beach Ball at Disney’s Typhoon Lagoon, Sam and Julian Bain turned the beach at the massive water park into a gay fantasia. The still-memorable costumes were created by Sam’s beloved sister-in-law, Marcy Singhaus, who died from ALS just three months ago.
Sam had an amazing life, and I encouraged the retelling time and again. Sam grew up in Orlando and was introduced to theater at Boone High School. He took dance classes with local legend Kip Watson, who advised him to try New York. A scholarship with the Richard Thomas Ballet Company turned into a 10-year stint in the city, four on Broadway as one of the original “Cagelles” in “La Cage aux Folles.”
That energy was on display when Sam returned to Orlando in the late ‘80s and opened Big Bang. Since I’ve known him, his drag character “Miss Sammy” has been a dazzling presence at Club@Firestone, Parliament House, Hamburger Mary’s and just about every Pride and charity event he’s been asked to attend. For Sam, the answer was always “yes.”
Miss Sammy was beloved, and I think that’s because she was essentially Sam in the glorious costumes Marcy made for him. If you closed your eyes, it was impossible to tell the difference. Sam would come over to my house after an event, doff the wig and high heels and hang out in full makeup. It wasn’t the least distracting.
I was blessed to know Sam as a close friend. We shared joy, disappointment and heartbreak. He never failed to let me know that he loved me.
During one memorable trip to New York, Sam took me backstage at “Saturday Night Live” (he knew the costumer) and “Wicked” (to meet George Hearn, who was playing the Wizard at that time). But my favorite memories are of hanging out on Saturday afternoons watching Florida Gator football games. Sam’s dad coached football at Edgewater High School, and Sam knew the game well. On the day Sam slipped from consciousness, we had planned to watch Florida play Texas A&M with his devoted partner, Jess.
The moving tributes in local media, and all those glorious photos on Facebook, just make his death more surreal. Two weeks after his death, Sam is still with us; still present in our hearts. I had planned to grow old with Sam, telling and retelling our stories. I hope his passing never completely sinks in.
Karen Brown
“People / People who need people / Are the luckiest people in the world…” – Barbara Streisand
We didn’t know it but Orlando needed Sam Singhaus and he needed us and we were the luckiest of all people for having had a seat at that show.
Sam was pure energy and radiated the often venerated but rarely witnessed, deep and important talent. Sam possessed a bright heart, candy coated in camp and satin gloves. Sam was kind and gentle and always a friend to me. Without fail, we always smiled when we spotted each other.
He never said no to any charity event I was organizing. Miss Sammy was always there making a joke or singing a Streisand song. As a matter of fact, I was adopted by the entire Singhaus clan and am a peacock proud Sunday Singhaus regular.
Once, I chanced upon Sam at some event. It wasn’t my usual circle or his but that day he introduced me as family. That was a very fulfilling day for me, I will always be grateful and it will always be one of my most precious “Sam Moments.” It felt as if I had earned my “flamingo feathers.” I was finally a fabulous enough bird of a feather to flock together with that rarest of species … Singhaus.
I was not only friends with Sam but I had the profound and marvelous honor of being very close friends with his sister-in-law, Marcy Singhaus. It’s impossible for me to remember Sam without remembering Marcy. Like all the fabulous costumes and Headdress Ball gowns she designed for both Miss Sammy and me, those memories are delightfully stitched together with love, laughter and a little tequila.
Just before she passed in July, I promised Marcy we’d meet again and shop the best thrift store in the universe. We’d pick through all of Liz Taylor’s old clothes and have lunch and cocktails at some cosmic Brown Derby.
It is a date I intend to keep. I’m sure Sammy will join us. He didn’t like to miss a good time. I am the “luckiest people” in the world.
Beth Marshall
My special name for Sammy is Sis-Bro.
This came to be when I begin playing the role of Pearl Locksdale in Wanzie’s “Ladies of Eola Heights” saga.
The cast always addresses one another as sis, whether we are doing the play or not. It is just our greeting and Sammy’s was extra special because he was both our sister and brother.
I first met Miss Sammy at Southern Nights when I was a contestant on a game show hosted by Miss Sammy and Julian Bain. For years, I had a relationship with Miss Sammy through fundraising events for numerous charities and socializing at bingos, trivias and drag brunches. Miss Sammy had a magical presence wherever she graced.
Later, I got to know Sam the man and was equally in love. We shared very similar political ideology and often were the most progressive in thought of those around us. We had several inside jokes about this and I am so glad that my Sis-Bro got to get his vote in before he crossed the Rainbow Bridge.
I want to share something deeply personal about an impact on my family that Sammy has made since he passed.
My husband suffers from Severe Depressive Disorder that has largely been resistant to a variety of both eastern and western treatments and has worsened since the COVID pandemic began and a series of friends passed.
I was fortunate to speak to Sammy while his partner, Jessica, held the phone and while this did bring me some relief (as I am sure it did for a good majority of our tribe), I found myself beginning to sink into my own situational funk.
In true Miss Sammy fashion, my husband rose up from his own depression and got the Life cereal out of the pantry and begin doing a dance number with full choreography and singing “That’s Life” while throwing the cereal around on me in the same style Sammy did in his show number with us in “Ladies of Eola Heights.”
It was the first time my husband has done anything that playful since March.
Thank you Sis-Bro! I love you and miss you.
Mimi P. Saunders
For 43 years I had the amazing gift of being able to call Sam Singhaus my friend; until his untimely passing on October 12, 2020. Sam and I met at the old Civic Theatre of Central Florida in 1977. I was a “townsperson” in “Bye, Bye Byrdie.” He was assisting in costumes. We met and bonded instantly. We both shared how we aspired to lead a healthier lifestyle and together decided to eschew red meat and pork from our diet. We were going to begin our journey easing our way into a quasi vegetarian life.
It was summer and that meant fun in the sun as well as cooling off in the pool at my folks home. I invited Sammy over to swim for the afternoon and enjoy my special vegetarian chili. He came bounding into the house, as he rarely, ever just casually walked anywhere. Such is the gait of a dancer. I said “let’s hit the pool.” I immediately dove in and began floating in the water. I watched Sam slowly come down the steps of the pool. I asked him to swim over next to me so we could chat and enjoy each other’s company.
He said “you know, I can’t float.” I responded, “you mean you can’t swim”? He repeated again “I can’t float. I need a raft.” I was perplexed. He swam into the water, got close to me in the pool and tried to assume the same position as I. My eyes couldn’t believe it. Flat on his back, with his hands resting on his ribcage he began to sink to the bottom of the damn pool. He stayed there, with no effort for 30-40 seconds. He finally swam up next to me and grabbed on to the edge of the diving board. He explained that he truly wished to be able to float around like everyone else but he simply could not do it. The physiological reason was that he was so fit (damn him) and had such a low fat index he was truly unable to be buoyant without the aid of a raft or an inner tube.
I will never forget that first visit to my home — outside of our theatre lives. There would be many more memorable visits, trips, vacations, performances, shopping excursions, lunches, dinners, pop-in’s, parties, laughter, tears and unconditional love in our 43 years of friendship.
I can’t recall the last time I have felt this bereft or felt this much heartache. It is beyond my comprehension.
David Lee
I consider it an immense blessing to have known Sam Singhaus for over 30 years. I first met him in the fall of 1989 at his fabulous dance club for Orlando misfits, The Big Bang. The second I stepped into Sam’s Perfectly Edgy Playhouse, I knew I had found a utopian social scene unlike anything I had ever experienced. I had just graduated from college and had moved back to Orlando with the hopes of starting my own theatre company. Everyone told me that would be impossible to pull off without money and support and a few years, if not decades, of struggle.
I went to visit Sam in 1990 on a Saturday afternoon while he was cleaning the bar from the previous night’s Dee-Lite and Bud Light fueled Little Rascal’s type rave. He was alone and I helped him collect empty bottles and stock the coolers from the Frigidaire in the back room. I told him about my idea for doing theatre performances on his dance floor on the weekends before regular bar hours. He was slightly trepidatious at first but when I told him my plan for pre-show, intermission and post-show beer and wine sales, he asked: “So, when do you want to start?” Six weeks later, The Per4mAnts Theatre Co. debuted with “Women Behind Bars” starring Michael Wanzie, Judy Diamond, Christine Robison and a handful of other local thespians and, by the summer of that year, we were selling out our second show, “Psycho Beach Party.” From 1990-93, Sam let our little theatre company redecorate and re-envision his Big Bang dance floor with our costumes, sets and show shenanigans with over a half a dozen plays. Sam was always our biggest cheerleader and he went on to host many other theatrical projects and companies in his sacred space before he moved on to rule the Firestone Club as the ubiquitous Miss Sammy.
Almost a decade later, I had graduated from grad school and was living in a post 9/11 NYC.
I was depressed and wanted to come home and do a show. I called Sam and said: “Hey, I heard you have played a couple Hedwig tunes a few times around town. Would you want to do a full production of the play?” He replied: “David you know I don’t learn lines! Why don’t you come play the part and let me play the keyboards?” That started a Hedwig blitzkrieg that rocked over three years and three cities. Sam did my makeup for almost every performance. He took care of me and the band. His sheer joy playing the role of “Captain Morgan on the Organ” was palpable and infectious. Sam’s joy for life was the same. He could host a private party in his home or an event for a thousand people with effortless effervescence. He played a mean piano and an even meaner tambourine. He was always the life of the party on or off the stage and I just wish I could help him stock the bar at Big Bang one more time. The Groove was in the heart.
Jorge Estevez
Stronger than the strongest activist. Better than the best performer. Kinder than the kindest person in the room.
Miss Sammy was one of a kind for our city. As a business owner, Sam broke down boundaries by relentlessly fighting for equality. As a performer, Miss Sammy rocked every stage with her talent, wit and charm. I had the privilege of working alongside Miss Sammy on stage for so many important causes. Blonde, brunette or ginger — her talents were boundless. Miss Sammy always made everyone around her on stage feel comfortable. She made everyone else the star and was always there to help land a joke or a punch line.
The first time we worked together, we started talking about “Our Act.” We worked out a couple of kinks and then that Saturday night it was as if we were a vaudeville act from the ‘20s. It was that night that she said I was the Ricky to her Lucy. From then on we never rehearsed until minutes before we would go on stage and we would go over bits as the night progressed. As a performer, she always reacted to the crowd that loved everything she did; from her outfits, to her voice, to her genuine passion for her craft.
I will always be grateful for people like Sam. It is because of his tireless dedication that I and so many were able to live out loud!!! We salute you Sam Singhaus because without you there would be no us!
Patty Sheehan
Like many people, I got to know Sam through his support of numerous fundraisers for many great causes ranging from HIV/AIDS — which his twin brother died from — to animal organizations to Trash to Trends for the City of Orlando. I never thought I would see the day that a city-sponsored event would feature a female impersonator. But Miss Sammy made everything fun, entertaining and thought provoking.
I also knew another side of Sam. We would walk our dogs in Lake Highland Park by his house. We would share stories, political thoughts and our love of our furry friends. I would see Sam after hurricanes cleaning the park of palm fronds and broken limbs and stacking them for pickup. No one knew he did it. It is important what someone does on and off the stage. We were just not ready for Sam’s curtain call.
There are Adirondack chairs in Lake Highland Park that were placed in his honor by Commissioner Stuart and me. You can leave tributes, flowers or simply reflect on his extraordinary life. No one can fill these high heels.
Greg Triggs
Sam Singhaus died Too soon. Too painfully. Unfairly.
Sammy wasn’t one to dwell on the pain of life. Joy was his domain. When Sam gave into anger, it was of the righteous variety. He rejected cruelty. He loved crinoline, which creates its own cloud. He didn’t get bogged down in the trivial. He chose trivia, which he hosted with incredible style.
Sam was an exceptional drag artist. Always smiling, leaving laughter and good times in his wake. He should’ve died suddenly, in an ironic way. Without suffering. Better to get run off the road by a semi-trailer full of pride flags. Were he here, I’d tell him cancer is obviously caused by the wearing of poodle cut, acrylic wigs. He would have howled, repeating the story, improving the joke each time. Making it his own.
Sam assumed everyone he loved knew each other which was mathematically impossible. Too many people loved him for the equation to work.
“Greg, I had lunch with Gretchen. You know how she can be.”
“I don’t know Gretchen.”
“Yes you do,” he’d say with an eye roll that could be heard over the phone. “The one-armed tattoo artist from Oviedo? She was at my show last week. You were two tables away from her!” leaving me to kick myself for missing my only chance to meet a one-armed tattoo artist from Oviedo.
Going to the home Sam shared for many years with his brother Steve and sister-in-law Marcy was like entering the world of Auntie Mame. Fabulous chaos, served up on a midcentury platter of fun. A place where anything could happen.
They had two huge poodles, a brother and sister they neglected to get fixed. The siblings mated and had inbred puppies. They kept one. “He’s not the brightest boy, but he’s so sweet.”
Lesson learned. Ignore judgment. Embrace joy. That big, stupid poodle was always happy. Sure, he’d walk into walls, but everyone did at Casa Singhaus. The drinks were just that good.
As Orlando held its breath, my friend Judy Marie posted a video of the 1983 Tony Awards, featuring Sam as Clo-Clo, an original Cagelle in the first Broadway production of “La Cage aux Folles.” Watching it for the first time since 1983, I remembered myself buried in the closet as those beautiful men performed “We Are What We Are.” They were braver and stronger than I could ever imagine myself being. Breathtaking. To know one of them. To have such a friend. What would that be like?
Then it happened.
Sam owned a bar called the Big Bang. The backroom was a black box theater. I’d come to see my friends in a play, intending to leave afterward. Instead we stayed when the theater surprised us by morphing into a dance floor. We closed the place drenched with sweat.
While walking to our cars a handsome man in Daisy Duke shorts rollerbladed up to us. It was Sam. We escorted him to the night deposit box as though we were Brink’s bodyguards protecting the night’s receipts.
Instead we were on the brink of a 30-year friendship.
If heaven is a talk show, and who’s to say it isn’t, the band was playing “I Am What I Am” when Miss Sammy entered. He lived that anthem. He saw life from a different angle. He loved each feather and each spangle. He understood there’s just one life and that it should be lived proudly, in the open. There was no room for Sam Singhaus in his closet. It was full of fabulous dresses. He was the Orlando Met Gala. A life lived exceptionally well.
Right now what I am is sad. I’m trying to lead by my friend’s example and let joy of knowing Sam outweigh my grief. I plan on facing this loss with a little guts, and lots of glitter, just as he taught me to do, long before I ever knew him.
Jamie Hyman
When I first met Sam Singhaus, it didn’t even occur to me that he could be nice.
In 2009, a group of Orlando theatre aficionados were gathering on Wednesday night for an analog viewing party of the TV show “Glee,” dubbed “Glee-hab.” I’d been working at Watermark for a few months, and freelance writer John Sullivan invited me to the Singhaus’ home for the weekly viewing.
Everyone was beyond friendly — Steve and Marcy Singhaus welcomed me like family into the home they shared with their brother — but the evenings could become intense, with occasional heated debates over favorite characters and frequent demands for rapturous silence as Lea Michele slayed the room with her gorgeous voice, so passionate it demanded our collective attention.
Sam slipped in during a spellbound moment, late to the party after hosting bingo at Hamburger Mary’s. He was still in full makeup, without Miss Sammy’s wig, hair raked back, wearing a loose top and cozy pants. A gorgeous tapestry, half unraveled, and I remember thinking that it felt almost too intimate, like a glimpse of a sacred, secret transformation not meant to be seen by mortals. As a mortal, I was in awe.
And I was also an idiot to be intimidated, because as anyone who has met him will tell you, Sam is endlessly, unfailingly warm and kind. We shared space at dozens of events, and I always looked forward to the moments we carved out to talk about anything and nothing. As an introvert, I have to draw upon my energy reserves to be “on,” and although chatting with Sam was technically a social activity, it didn’t feel like one. It felt like space to breathe, a time to relax and refresh before heading back out to network and mingle.
Of course, Sam connected with countless others in the same way. Not only was he a charismatic performer, but he channeled that gift into his one-on-one interactions, ensuring the person he was spending time with felt important and valued, the spotlight rotated outward.
Remembering Sam has led me to reflect on the concept of influence. Bolstered by the advancement and proliferation of social media, modern influencers hold considerable power to drive consumption, advocate for meaningful action or spread ignorance and misinformation. The rise of this power has accelerated the conversation around authenticity — who are society’s influential figures, and what galvanizes them? Are they trustworthy? Are they good for humanity? While this discussion is important to have, the very act of scrutinizing these motivations serves to cast suspicion on our fellow humans. I’m not a curmudgeon — progress and the evolution of how we communicate are inevitable — but it’s hard not to feel a little hollow, faced with an environment where we’re constantly forced to question and fact check each other and our true intentions.
My thinking about influencers always circles back to Sam, and I suspect his form of influence may be a necessary antidote to the innate mistrust that is now a party of our daily lives. As a gifted performer, Sam had undeniable power he could have easily monetized for his own personal gain. Instead, he used his power to connect with others, a form of lasting influence that is evident in our collective and copious memories of Sam.
Michael Wanzie
I’m sure there’s no shortage of touching and heartfelt tributes to Sam included herein, and if I go down that route I fear that while writing this I will fall back into a crying jag that has already incapacitated me for far too many days. So I’m going to keep my Sam Singhaus memory one that is lighthearted in nature, a little bit dicey and completely true.
Way back in stone-age Orlando when I served as executive director of The Center, our big annual fundraiser was a complete buy-out of a SeaEscape (a six-hour gambling cruise into international waters and back to port) ship which we would re-brand as GayEscape. We would charter the ship, market the evening sailing as an all-gay cruise and bring on all our own custom entertainment. Years after leaving that post I privately produced my own all-gay, three night cruise to Mexico which proved a huge success, but shortly afterwards SeaEscape went out of business.
A newer entry into the gambling cruise market at the time was a company out of Ft. Lauderdale called Discovery Cruises and they invited myself and a guest to come experience their product, which was an overnight gambling cruise to the Bahamas. I invited Sam as my plus one. We were friendly colleagues and some-time co-performers at that time but had not yet become truly close. The reason I am sharing this somewhat sordid tale is because it was this experience over which Sam and I truly bonded.
As fate would have it we boarded the ship just as a tropical storm was brewing out at sea and even embarking there was speculation among the cruise staff that the sailing would likely be canceled due to dangerous weather conditions. Eventually the captain announced that we would indeed be sailing but he would have to go off course to avoid the storm and would likely not actually get to the Bahamas. He gave people the option of disembarking or staying aboard for a gambling cruise minus the Bahamian destination and the landslide casino experience. Many folks got off. Sam and I stayed on with the captain’s assurance he could avoid the storm.
At dinner Sam and I were seated by ourselves at a table for four in an unpopulated area of the room. The remaining two thirds of the dining room was populated with people all cozily seated together four and six to a table. Every person in the room — other than Sam and I — had grey, white or blue hair with average age being older than Christ’s underwear.
The sky prematurely darkened and the seas became uncommonly rough. It took some doing (No really it did) but I convinced Sam that the only way we could have a good time was to each take one of the two hits of ecstasy I had brought along. Sam insisted that he had no experience with doing ecstasy and I believe that was true at the time.
We stopped eating, each ingested a pill and sat there enjoying an after-dinner drink waiting for the show lounge and casino to open where there would be the requisite visual and audible stimulation to compliment the drugs.
Suddenly, without warning, a fucking Poseidon Adventure-type wave slammed into the side of the ship causing it to so jarringly lift to one side that the ceramic dinner plates stacked at the start of the buffet line leaped up out of their spring-loaded warming towers and crashed onto the tile floor surrounding the buffet, breaking into shards. Sam and I, being the youngsters that we were at the time, each quickly picked up and saved our cocktails with one hand and grabbed on the table for stability with the other hand. Glassware and dishes went flying off tables all over the room and literally everyone other than Sam and I simply fell off of their chairs onto the floor or fell over while still seated in their chairs. Honest to Christ, Sam and I were the only two people remaining upright in the entire dining room. People started moaning and crying as cruise staff came rushing to the rescue. People were hurt. Some were bleeding from their heads. Sam casually soaked in this scene and I started laughing uncontrollably. It was like a scene straight out of a disaster film and we could not stop laughing. Our roll had kicked in.
Then came the announcement that the casino and show room would not be opening. All activities were canceled and everyone was to be sequestered in their cabins. An interior cabin the size of a postage stamp with no ocean view and bunk beds is where we found ourselves banished to, with no music, no TV, no flashing lights — nothing to make our high tolerable.
The walls were paper thin and all we could hear was the senior citizens lodging on either side of us puking their guts out.
I told Sam we had to get out of the cabin or I was going to jump out of my skin and die. Oddly enough it was not raining so we each took a blanket and pillow and went off to sleep outside on deck chairs.
We snuck to the uppermost sun deck. All the deck chairs had been stacked and chained down because of the storm. But the sky was strangely clear and pitch black, and the stars were all the disco lighting we needed. Sam and I discovered that the wind into which the ship was heading was so strong that we could stand up facing the ship’s forward motion, spread our arms out like wings, scream at the top of our lungs as we thrust ourselves forward attempting a nose dive onto the deck, but that wind would catch us and knock us back upright before we would make contact with the AstroTurf upon which we stood. This would have seemed really cool had we not been tripping, but high on ecstasy it was utterly amaze-balls! We did this together for at least two hours.
We eventually sat on down on the AstroTurf. Sam rubbed my shoulders for awhile and then I massaged his feet. We shot some salad for a bit — which for those of you who may not know, “shooting salad” is the term my circle of friends use to describe that phase of a roll wherein people feel the need to talk a great deal, and in fact do, even though nothing they are saying is in anyway remotely intelligible.
When our salad shooting phase had passed, we spread out our bedding and laid down side-by-side, on our backs, holding hands, gazing at the amazing light show in the sky until we eventually fell asleep and there we spent the night and with that were officially close friends.
I miss you Sam. And I shall miss our tag-team retellings of our dramatic and wonderful shared maritime adventure.
Margaret Nolan
I first met Sam at the end of 1985 when he was in Orlando visiting his family. He was still living in NYC and in the cast of “La Cage.” We romped around O-town a bit with mutual friends and had a great time. A few weeks later I saw him in NYC and he gave me a ticket to see him in “La Cage.” It was my first big Broadway musical.
There I was, sitting in house seats in the fourth row, watching this amazing, groundbreaking fantastical musical and he and some of his cast mates were smiling at me from the stage. He in his gorgeous plumage, beaming his megawatt smile and can-canning and tapping with those signature gams! I was levitating in my seat!
After the show, he took me backstage where I held some of those costumes and met some of the cast. Then we headed out into the New York City night where he took me dancing at the Limelight and we ate pizza slices on the street. He delivered me back to my hotel as the sun was coming up.
From that point on we were friends for life as chosen family! I visited him a few more times in NYC.
When he moved back to Orlando, I introduced him to the woman I was dating at the time, Betsy Benson. And we began dreaming and scheming about opening a small club. We looked at some spaces. They became business partners and opened the iconic Big Bang!
Sam was the most open-hearted, fun-loving and loyal spirit I’ve ever met and was like that with everyone he met.
Orlando is a better place because of him.
Ron Sheridan, Jr.
Miss Sammy and I worked together for 20+ years. I hired her for several events with me DJing and her performing or hosting. I remember several years ago I hired her for Karaoke at the Convergence Convention (Chubs and Chasers). She set up her equipment and the room filled up with excited singers. Apparently the big boys love to karaoke. However her monitor wouldn’t work. Without that, the song lyrics couldn’t be displayed. I tried, in vain, to swap out cables but it could not read a signal. Miss Sammy being the epitome of professionalism decided the show must go on and had potential singers Google their song lyrics. Eventually the monitor worked again but Miss Sammy wasn’t going to allow any disappointment. I will miss her dearly.
Steve Oehler
I had seen Miss Sammy perform countless times before actually meeting Sam Singhaus in person at a fundraiser held by Michael Wanzie. The fundraiser featured two short films. The first film featured Miss P and the second Miss Sammy. Unknown to me, Sam Singhaus was sitting next to me. After the film, Sam said, “You seem to love Miss Sammy.” I simply said, “What’s not to love?” Sam simply said, “Well she’s happy to meet you!” This is the Sam that everyone knew and loved. A kind, compassionate person and entertainer. The arts community has lost a legend, but his works and life will live on.
Janine Klein
There’s not much to say that hasn’t already been said about him. I just feel a light has gone out, and my heart is broken that this loving man is gone from my life. It’s extremely painful to think about the fact that he won’t be sashaying into a room and lighting it up with his wit and loving smile. I still feel pretty broken. Losing him and Marcy in such a short span of time has really launched most of us into a pit of sadness, it’s hard to put words to.
All photos used are property of Watermark or supplied to Watermark courtesy of one of the authors.
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