Thursday, May 07, 2015


So here I am back in New York, at the height or depth of allergy season, and I don't mean to sound like an old(er) woman, but I am.
Have been suffering sniffling through several days wondering why I am here, but I do love the theatre, to at least I did.   I am hopeful, therefore-- I have some commitment to Bryn Mawr, my Alma Mater which means Soul Mother, and it is, so I must use sentence construction that sounds educated though arch-- that something will be wondrous.  Both things I have seen so far were disappointing, but my mind is open, as opposed to my nose, so we shall see.
      This evening I am attending a wine-tasting with probably the most glorious sips this side of the Loire, at the home of a Bryn Mawr woman with history and glasses at her fingertips, as well as the finest wines offered by an anonymous donor-- I know who she is, and am honored to have her in my spiritual corner rooting for me as she is the smartest person to have gone to Bryn Mawr which is truly saying something.  Everything thus far in this allegedly great city has been less than satisfying, -- and that includes meals, things seen, and breathing.  I wonder if all those New Yorkers like Dorothy Parker we admired who used to have lunch and be witty had hay fever, if hay fever maybe hadn't come into the Spring scenario yet, or if there were just so many things to be secretly besieged and unhappy about, a runny nose was nothing.  It is not in my Nature, I don't think, or at least hope, to be a kvetch, in the tongue of my forebears.  But it is annoying, especially when there has been nothing thus far to lift the spirit, besides the little babies who wave back at you even though they don't know who you are, or why you are being friendly.
       Most disillusioning thus far has been the highly touted On The Town, which features brilliant dancing that still manages to be incredibly boring, and goes on for fucking forever-- a crudeness of language I use only because that illustrates how dreary it made me feel.  I had the privilege and thrill of rubbing elbows through his cape-- I think it really was, --with Leonard Bernstein one summer when I went to Tanglewood and actually sang Beethoven with a group of people who could really read music, as opposed to me who only pretended to, but still managed to sing what was called for.   He was as handsome and dashing as everybody said, and seemed not to mind the friction on his elbow or the fact that I was a girl.  But his music, besides the greatness when it worked, was boring when it didn't, and whoever put the show on should have edited.  And the woman doing the part of the lady taxi driver, which my beloved friend Betty Garrett originated all those many years ago, whom I will not grace with a mention, was truly obnoxious in addition to grossly overweight which supposedly added to the comedy unless you had once been a fat girl, which I was, so I know with discipline you can get past it and become who you really are.
     All in all, I see how short-tempered and unforgiving I sound and maybe have become, as there has to be a reason to rejoice in being here, and so far that is neither the weather nor what I have seen on the less than Great (and not so) White Way.  I must, however, blow a big kiss to the man who has put up the money to refurbish the theatre, as it is several adjectives up from Glorious, complete with popcorn and meals in your seat during intermission, darling (they seem to be) women bringing them, and charming costumes that must have cost an additional small fortune.  
    So I hope everybody will go as long as they don't mind being restless.  Alas.