June 30, 2025

Walked north to 5th Avenue yesterday morning to attend mass at St. Thomas. Magnificent, as usual. I was not in a worshipful mood, but all was glorious as it had been before. Attendance not much better than All Souls. Attended the final performance of Old Friends, a review of Sondheim’s greatest hits, with some of Broadway’s brightest stars, like Bernadette Peters and Lea Salonga. Some trick of having booked only a few hours before got me in the front row, where I do long to be. I could have reached out and touched Bernadette Peters’ shoes. Did not do so. Peters spent a surprising amount of time looking at the front few rows– at me, I fantasized– while others kept their eyes on the back of the balcony. Was she expecting someone? Had she always been that way? Was it a gimmick to involve her audience more personally? Matthew and I met a portion of the cast at the Glass House across the street afterward, and one of the boys– the most beautiful onstage– apologized for spitting on me, so I know he too scanned the front. I assured him it was an honor to be spat upon. The show was quite wonderful– overpowering, even, sitting that close to the tip of the action, close enough to note every gesture was precise, sharp, readable, no slack moments on any face. Peters was a little delicate and past her prime, and there were a lot of crepey bare arms onstage– the cast being”legends” after all–but the energy was a blast furnace. I expected to be a little patronizing and above-it-all at such a spectacle, but assuredly was not. It was their final performance, so everybody got weepy onstage and all the backstage crew had to be introduced and applauded. Matt came down from Washington Heights to meet me afterward. We retired to the Glass House where, as I say, the younger portions of the cast gathered to celebrate loudly. I met them, praised them with extreme praise which was, nevertheless, fully warranted. Two of the main boys looked towering onstage, but were actually not quite as tall as I. The one I mentioned before was unimaginably beautiful, with the affect of kid right off the farm. He said he’s waiting with fingers crossed for his next role, having done a number of auditions. You never know for sure, but I think he has stardom written on his brow. Matt and I talked mostly about teaching, writing, and how much we hate Trump. I fell on the bar steps, and had to be levered up by Matt and the hostess. After Matt left, I retired to the Rum Bar and chatted with the giant Albanian bartender, who told me how to say “stupid” in Albanian, and that the word is also the word for a kind of flute. A couple from Columbia seated across from me were almost unnaturally beautiful, as though they had been chosen and set there by a theatrical director.  

On the street were mostly boys in glittery costume returning from the Pride Parade. V offered me a place on the Riverside Church float, but riding the streets of gay New York in the heat was not on my agenda. Besides, I had nothing appropriate to wear. Maybe somebody would have lent me a boa. Stopped answering V’s phone calls after the first one went nearly an hour, with lists of his acting credits and genealogies extending back to the old country. People look remote and dignified until you get them on the phone. 

PM: After a series of subway mishaps, wove my way through Union Square and Washington Square, sweating profusely. It was a mistake, based on the theory that Tuesdays are easier travel days than Mondays, to add this day. I wanted to be home the whole time, staggering here and there out of a sense of duty to fill each hour.