New York, New York

May 15, 2009

My early trip to the airport was prophetic, as on the day I was actually scheduled, I ended up delayed seven hours in the wretched Charlotte airport. They blamed weather, though planes for New York were taking off all around us, and after a while members of the crew “expired” and had to be replaced, at least once by people who refused and themselves had to be replaced. US Air handled it very badly– essentially a series of deceits, as though their passengers were whining children–but the complaint personnel–whatever you call them–treated me with almost unbelievable graciousness and helpfulness. At about midnight I did at last arrive at the Paramount Hotel on W 46th, and inhabited my incredibly incommodious–though not unattractive–room. Still couldn’t go to sleep, but wandered out onto Times Square, and bubbled with joy at the sheer energy of the place, and my delight in being there.

Meeting with Bruce and Jack of Sunny Spot this morning. Quite astonishing. They have elaborate plans for presenting The Loves of Mr. Lincoln to producers, believing that it has a real chance. I might not have believed it–they being effusive and broadly enthusiastic–except they are offering real money and a contract, and the few things I managed to think of to ask, they agreed to. And they paid for breakfast.

Lunch and tour of the Met with Steve and Adam. It’s good to be there with others, whose interests lead you to places you would not go on your own. I had never looked very hard at either the armor or the musical instruments. Steve and I competed in telling Adam anecdotes about the art. Adam is someone I have never been–the effortlessly beloved.

Jersey Boys in the evening. Shows how far you can go on a concept and not much invention. The play is flimsy, largely unnecessary; the performances were superb, the music fun– like being a kid, like being a kid forever. The woman next to me sang along with all the songs. There is really nothing to it but the songs. Passed 33 Variations just as Jane Fonda was leaving the stage door. People stood twenty feet deep, but she emerged just where I was just when I was there, and gave me a big, tired smile. The irony is that of all the people waiting, I had probably been the one who cared least about seeing her. Maybe that isn’t an irony at all, but the way things work. Walked on in time to see Susan Sarandon getting into a limo, as cell phone flashes sparkled all around her. Walking to the August Wilson, I passed many theaters, each with a throng waiting to get in, the largest crowds, for the most part, at the silliest shows. People take theater seriously, at some times and in some places. It is a type of haj: you must go to New York and you must see a Broadway show, but for many it never filters into ordinary life.

Wanted to walk the streets all night. The spirit was willing . . . .