Arrival
I've got a lot to look forward to at the end of the month, but in the meantime, a little piece of me can die happy. (Fourth item.)
Note to regular readers: if the above item looks familiar, well, that's because it is.
I've got a lot to look forward to at the end of the month, but in the meantime, a little piece of me can die happy. (Fourth item.)
Note to regular readers: if the above item looks familiar, well, that's because it is.
Friday night. We're at Almost an Evening, the Ethan Coen play, at an intimate theater on Bleecker Street. Thirty-four-weeks along, Amy is experiencing the usual late-stage pregnancy issues, so we situate ourselves fairly close to the restroom, which, due to the layout of the theater, requires walking past the stage in front of the audience.
The play is three one-acts without an intermission. Amy excuses herself between the second and third. Unfortunately for her, the stagehands work fast, and the third act kicks in while she's away.
F. Murray Abraham and Mark-Linn Baker are on stage, engaged in debate as two gods. Abraham is in Moses garb: white tunic, moccasins, long flowing gray hair, beard. He is deep into a tongue-in-cheek monologue full of swearing.
Amy has to get back to her seat, so over she comes, stage right, past the front row and up to her third-row aisle seat. She wants to be invisible, but no luck.
F. Murray Abraham's monologue stops short. A glimmer in his eye, he glowers at Amy's back as she climbs the stairs. The room collapses in laughter.
There's a pregnant pause in the show, long enough for her to turn to me, nervously, and ask, "What's so funny?"
"He just glared at you," I say.
We look back at the stage, and a second later, Abraham is making eye contact with Amy.
"Was it something I said?" he bellows. The room cracks up again.
"No, really, I love pregnant women," he says. "You go anytime you want."
Abraham is still in voice but the play is fully derailed by now. Peals of laughter fill the theater. People are applauding. Abraham buries his face in his hands to hide his own smile.
He steps back to the podium, looks down, then around the room, and commandingly says: "Where was I!"
More laughter. Amy is about ready to die by now, but Abraham laughingly says, "I lost my place," then regains his rhythm and the show goes on.
The rest of the play was decent; the first act was the best, but the inadvertent cameo stole the show.
On the subway platform afterward, a woman with a light British accent approached us on the play, and asked with a smile, "So outside of your scene, what did you think?"
"For better or worse," I replied, "her scene was the funniest of the night."
Updates on my music notes from last week:
1. Jon Pareles agrees with my Madonna observation in this weekend's New York Times Arts section, although he takes it more positively than me: "It's the kind of album a record company longs for in the current embattled market: a set of catchy, easily digestible, mass-appeal songs by a star who's not taking chances.... Her grand statement on 'Hard Candy' is nothing more than that she's still around and can still deliver neat, calculated pop songs."
2. When I tell other "AI" watchers David Cook is dweeby, they look at me in shock. Which tells me two things. One, that a Simon Cowell-anointed series of appearances on national television, coupled with some honest to goodness talent, does wonders for one's public impression. And two, that his combover is really good.
3. Seriously: new music from the Odds! Go listen!
1. I figured out this morning my disappointment in Madonna's 4 minutes: she's running with the pack. Timbaland and Justin Timberlake are ringers, sure shots, contemporary 2007-2008 American pop.
Yawn. I loves me the Timbalake output, but not in this context. This is not the Madonna who brought Eurodisco and gay culture to pop, who helped define music video, who discovered or promoted talent ranging from William Orbit to Alanis Morissette to Ali G. Madonna's new track suggests that, for the first time, she isn't ahead of the game. Which, as a near-50-year-old mother of three, perhaps she doesn't have to be. But it's a game-changer for her, and not in a positive way.
2. I'm watching "American Idol" this season for the first time (Amy's fault), and I have two observances. First, that it truly is a popularity contest--Carly Smithson was by far more deserving than the pretty-boy and flaxen-haired competition that remains.
Second, and more importantly, David Cook is my hero. If that guy wins, man, it's like a dream come true for a million dweeby high school guitar god wannabes. Gotta love a guy who name-checks Big Wreck and Patrick Swayze on his national profile.
3. Seriously, have you listened to the New Odds yet? Brendan Benson could learn a thing or two from Craig Northey, I tell you what.
So much new knowledge:
~ The Close Door elevator button doesn't do anything except pacify impatient riders.
~ Clarins, my former employer, who has sworn for years that it wants to remain independent, is installing a new CEO as the son of the founder steps down, throwing his and his brother's majority family ownership into long-term question.
~ Lancome, Orlane and Sisley, three major beauty brands, were all founded by different generations of the same family. (Side learning: reading T Magazine online is abhorrent.)
~ The infamous waiting list for Hermes Birkin bags doesn't exist.
~ And, not least, this taste-test of dogs' preferences for gourmet treats versus good ol' Milk-Bones. No spoilers here.
We moved into our apartment one year ago Sunday. To commemorate the occasion, I made a narrative collage of some of the many lovely details of our century-old home, which we strived to reveal wherever possible.
Our apartment is full of little surprises that make it fun to occupy: patterned glass transom windows, thick solid-wood doors and inlaid wood floors, the huge Magic Eye peephole, restored leaded-glass bathroom windows, and call buttons for the maid/butler in the dining room floor and master bedroom door frame, which make us marvel at how space has changed: once upon a time, our relatively humble 1000 square feet or so housed an owner and his help.
The collage can be viewed here. Enjoy it. We do.
