New York 3

May 28, 2012
Memorial Day.

Porgy and Bess on Saturday night was sensational. I’d not seen it before, and have no comparisons to make, but to me it was flawless. People say it is the great American musical, or the great American opera, and whatever skepticism I might have had is vanished. It is. Not only that, it renders the history of musical theater after the 30's a puzzlement, for why did it do what it did, having Porgy to build upon? Carousel, fresh in my mind, looks like a camp skit by comparison. The last criticism I had read about Porgy concerned the ways in which it is offensive to black people. Maybe, but the hundred or so black people in the theater that night did not appear to be offended, but rather uplifted and beside themselves with delight, in ways I probably don’t fully understand. Audra McDonald’s performance was nuanced as a fine diamond.

Watched a mockingbird harassing a great hawk over Central Park. Walked up 5th, where they were filming Walter Mitty, to the Frick, with its modest size and immodestly outstanding collection, including the Bellini Saint Francis that dwells from visit to visit in my mind. Moving down from the Park toward Times Square is one of my favorite walks in the world. Stopped for an iced tea. The boy at the register closed the drawer before rendering my change, and, as the manager was busy, asked if I wouldn’t mind waiting until the next customer opened the drawer. That didn’t seem so bad, except that it turned out the next customer was a 15 year old girl, pretty, but the stupidest person in Manhattan.
“I want a small burger, but only the meat.”
“You want it without the bun?”
“No, you know, only the meat.”
“So, you don’t want the bun?”
She waved her hand in the air to clarify things, and said, “You know, like, only the meat.”
Somewhat after due time I chimed in, “SHE WANTS IT WITHOUT CONDIMENTS OR TOPPINGS. “
Once he knew what she wanted came the paying for it. She handed hm some bills, then poured a hill of change into her palm, moving it around, counting and recounting. I realized after seeing her put some of it aside, and then remix with a sigh of frustration a couple of times that she was not able to count out 47 cents from her treasury. When she finally handed the register boy some change, he had to hand about half of it back to her. The boy gave me my two bucks from the finally opened drawer whispering, “I sincerely apologize.”

The maids reached my room at the wrong time, so I set out for my matinee early, stopping at the Playwrights’ Pub for a drink. With a sweet Irish boy on one side and a girl from Atlanta all enthusiastic over the theater on the other, I put down maybe too much, and then, liking the sensation, stopped at another bar before I reached the theater. There I was, staggering drunk down 8th Avenue in the heat of the day, happy as a boy. My beneficence was well, for I discovered that the Barrow Group Theaters are not where the Barrow Theater was actually putting on the play– that was Barrow Street, wherever the hell that is–and I missed the show. I walked back to 47th, entered a bar, the Rum House, I’d seen in my ramblings, determined to renew my buzz. I had Eric the bartender to myself for most of the time. He told me of his life as a graffiti artist, giving me insights into the aesthetics and courtesies of that interesting group, all the while plying me with different drinks whose alcohol had been replaced by rum, to see how I liked them. I liked them fine. How I got back to my room I don’t know, but I did, and when I woke from my drunken stupor at 8:30, I went back out onto the street. I’ll need to receive my credit card bill before I’m sure exactly where I went, but I was never more than a block from the Paramount, which would make Manhattan necessarily fatal if one ever tried throughly to “do” the town.

It’s Fleet Week, so the streets are thronged with sailors and Marines, which is, of course, charming. The first bar I visited hosted a throng of Marines. One pair was clearly interested in one another, but the rest left each with two girls following behind, and I thought that was well indeed. The bars seemed generally to be manned by burly Brooklyn boys, which is an excellent idea. Chatted with a sailor who plays trombone in the Navy band, who informed me that sailors from ships have to spend their own money (having the ship for room and board) but he had no ship, and was given $70 a day for food. We agreed that the taxpayers money often went for worse things. It was like watching a different version of On the Town on each corner. Returned to the Rum House, where Danny was even friendlier than Eric. I was pretty plastered by then, so the fine edge of his conversation may be lost to me. I do remember him explicating the scenes from Shel Silverstein poems he had tattooed in his arm. Met Rana, an Egyptian girl who grew up in Oklahoma City. She was seriously informative about matters in Egypt. Met a family from Melbourne, Australia, who wrote down the time and place of my play, saying they would come see it. I was gladdened to see father and mother slamming down drinks with son and daughter, something that never happened in my own experience. Danny and Mikey behind the bar entertained us all, and I think I did a little entertaining of my own. Danny gave me a beer, saying it would bring me down from my rum high. If he meant it would prevent a hangover, it seems to have done the job, unless I am right now still a little drunk. I think I probably am. Left the bar and stood on Times Square watching the show until 1:30 or so. The taste in my mouth this morning suggests I had a shish kebab, but I certainly don’t remember ordering it, or eating it. Strewn across the floor are several bits of paper with names and phone numbers on them–one I recognize, Danny’s recommendation to a bar on West Broadway– and a name tag bar with the name Calvin on it. I have tried manfully to recall Calvin. I hope a good time was had by all.

By my accounting, I was drunk 3 different times Sunday. I think I will go slow today.