The Producers

I saw “The Producers” tonight, and it was an elixir. It’s been a while since I’ve had a smile on my face constantly for two and a half hours.

Nathan Lane’s replacement, Brad Oscar, was terrific. Unlike Nathan Lane, he’s balding, but when he was wearing a hat, he bore a striking resemblance to the guy. And his voice and mannerisms were so similar to his as well. It was as if he were portraying Nathan Lane portraying Max Bialystock. It was as if he were channeling Nathan Lane despite the latter’s absence. It was nice.

Anyway, although Nathan Lane is a major part of the musical, he’s not the sole reason for its success. It’s a wonderful show without him — there’s Matthew Broderick, and Cady Huffman, and a screamingly funny gay couple, and nonstop gags, and shameless humor, and terrific dance and musical numbers choreographed by Susan Stroman.

On an interesting side note, when I left my parents’ house this afternoon, I took the train back to the city area instead of taking the bus. While getting on the train I ran into this friend of my parents. He and his wife were at my aunt’s house for lunch on the first day of Rosh Hashannah, and my parents and my aunt have known them forever. They have two grown daughters and a dog. The guy is a huge theater nut — he sees two or three shows every weekend, and sometimes more.

He also majorly sets off my gaydar.

Anyway, when I saw him at the train station, he was with a male friend of his, and they were on their way into Manhattan together to see “Dance of Death,” a Broadway show starring Helen Mirren and Ian McKellen. The friend set off my gaydar even more. He was kinda cute, too.

Interesting, interesting, interesting.

So, let’s see. I’m not really looking forward to starting my new job on Monday. And I’ll be out of town Saturday and Sunday, so I may need to use tomorrow (Friday) to do laundry and get a messenger bag repaired and whatnot.

As for now, I’m tired, and this is probably the least interesting entry I’ve written in two weeks, but, hey: I’ve written intensely about Current Events for nine days straight with no letup, and I needed to write about something different. I admit I felt nervous getting on the subway at Penn Station tonight and riding to Times Square. But it’s starting to dawn on me again that I actually have a life to live.

And it’s a life that doesn’t feel very fulfilling right now.

Choire writes, “most of my discussions are with people now realizing there are things they won’t put up with in their life anymore.” Amen to that. I’m realizing once again that I’m not particularly fond of my apartment or of my neighborhood. And I haven’t started my new job yet, but we’ll see what that’s like. You know, given the current state of things, part of me just wants to move to New Zealand and become a sheep farmer.

Where was I? I don’t mean now, but where was I a couple of weeks ago? Oh yeah. I was reading the Great Books. I was trying to decide what to do about Wes. I’d taken an all-night walk up Park Avenue and had been cruised on the street at 6:30 in the morning. When was that? A century ago? But Wes has come back from his vacation, and Herodotus’s “Histories” is on my nightstand (which I no longer really feel like reading), and I start my new job on Monday. Some semblance of routine will return. Life’s obligations will close in on me again.

Everything seems pathetically less important than it did two weeks ago. And yet, we have to focus on such things. Our lives don’t run themselves. Also, those little things help restore some sanity and regularity to our lives. In fact, they help remind us that we’re alive.

Escaping to Absurdity, and From It

This weekend I’m going to Richmond, Virginia, to attend a memorial service for my friend Doug. Until now, it’s always seemed kind of imaginary. How can he be dead if no body has been found? How can he be dead when he’s 27 years old and lives in Manhattan? How can he be dead when I’m still not sure the past nine days have actually happened?

But now there will be a memorial service for Doug on Sunday.

And on top of that, a scholarship will be established at his old high school in his name.

When I found out that last part, I suddenly realized this is actually happening — this is permanent. Doug is actually dead. My friend Doug, who was an awesome card player; my friend Doug, who once broke his leg right before a spring break trip to Ireland; my friend Doug, a terrific schmoozer who had no problem striking up a conversation with the prettiest woman in the room or on the subway, to our constant amusement; my friend Doug — has died in a terrorist attack. He died not because he committed any crime against humanity; he died not because he was a threat to world stability. He died merely because he happened to be doing his job one morning as a bond trader for Cantor Fitzgerald on the 104th floor of the World Trade Center.

And that’s all. There’s no sense to it. What the hell did he ever do to these people? Nothing.

And now he’s gone forever.

The rumor is that Governor Jim Gilmore of Virginia might be at the service on Sunday, because the governor has been actively involved in other memorial services of victims from last Tuesday’s attacks. We’ll see.

So on Saturday, my friend CanadaGirl and I will rent a car and drive down to Richmond. And on Sunday afternoon we’ll take a deep breath and, with our other friends, we’ll do the unthinkable.

And then that evening, we’ll drive back home. And the next day — absurdly, absolutely absurdly — I will start my new job as a public utilities lawyer for the State of New Jersey.

This two-week vacation has not exactly gone as I’d expected. So much for a relaxing break.

In the midst of all this, tomorrow night I’m going to see “The Producers.”

Last Monday night — the night before the world turned crazy — my mom called me up to tell me that she’d managed to get me a ticket to see the show. My parents had seen it last spring, and ever since, my mom had felt guilty that they hadn’t bought a ticket for me as well. So on a whim she went to the Telecharge website last week and, bizarrely, had managed to find an orchestra ticket. Now, it turns out that one of the two major stars, Nathan Lane, is on vacation, which is probably why the ticket was available. It would be great if he were going to be in it tomorrow night, of course, but really, come on, there are more important things in the world to worry about right now. And anyway — I’m getting a chance to see the hottest ticket on Broadway, for free, at a time when I really could use a laugh, and that cutie Matthew Broderick will still be there. Also, after reading what Charlie wrote here a while back about standby performers, I have a newfound respect and admiration for them now. It’s going to be a great, hilarious evening — something I desperately need.

Thanks, mom — you’re the best.

You know, tonight — after the second day of Rosh Hashannah has ended, after my aunt and my cousin and her daughter had gone home, after the dishes had been washed and put away — my parents and I watched a repeat of last season’s finale of “The West Wing.” It was the first time I’d seen the show since May, and as the stirring, patriotic theme music played, my eyes welled up unexpectedly. It seemed so beautiful and reassuring.

And yet — I wrote about the season finale the first time around, but this time around, it seemed so stupidly innocent and blissfully irrelevant. Wow, the president had multiple sclerosis and he knew it and he didn’t tell anyone and he might not be able to run for a second term?

Oh, to live once again in a world where such a minor presidential scandal is our biggest problem. How very 1990s.

I wonder what’s going to happen to “The West Wing” now. I wonder if it’s going to become increasingly irrelevant or if the writers and producers will find some way to stay relevant. Can such a show even work anymore? Who knows. Probably. We all need some escape.

And yet, watching NBC’s commercials tonight for the return of “Must See TV” and the upcoming one-hour season premiere of “Frasier,” you would have thought these were the most dramatically important things in the world. It just seemed so inappropriate and naive.

On the other hand, it’s nice to know that I’ll be able to escape, even for a little while, from this world — a world in which I have to attend a memorial service for a friend who died in a terrorist attack, a friend whose body can’t even be found.

God, this is madness.
—–

Escaping to Absurdity, and From It

This weekend I’m going to Richmond, Virginia, to attend a memorial service for my friend Doug. Until now, it’s always seemed kind of imaginary. How can he be dead if no body has been found? How can he be dead when he’s 27 years old and lives in Manhattan? How can he be dead when I’m still not sure the past nine days have actually happened?

But now there will be a memorial service for Doug on Sunday.

And on top of that, a scholarship will be established at his old high school in his name.

When I found out that last part, I suddenly realized this is actually happening — this is permanent. Doug is actually dead. My friend Doug, who was an awesome card player; my friend Doug, who once broke his leg right before a spring break trip to Ireland; my friend Doug, a terrific schmoozer who had no problem striking up a conversation with the prettiest woman in the room or on the subway, to our constant amusement; my friend Doug — has died in a terrorist attack. He died not because he committed any crime against humanity; he died not because he was a threat to world stability. He died merely because he happened to be doing his job one morning as a bond trader for Cantor Fitzgerald on the 104th floor of the World Trade Center.

And that’s all. There’s no sense to it. What the hell did he ever do to these people? Nothing.

And now he’s gone forever.

The rumor is that Governor Jim Gilmore of Virginia might be at the service on Sunday, because the governor has been actively involved in other memorial services of victims from last Tuesday’s attacks. We’ll see.

So on Saturday, my friend CanadaGirl and I will rent a car and drive down to Richmond. And on Sunday afternoon we’ll take a deep breath and, with our other friends, we’ll do the unthinkable.

And then that evening, we’ll drive back home. And the next day — absurdly, absolutely absurdly — I will start my new job as a public utilities lawyer for the State of New Jersey.

This two-week vacation has not exactly gone as I’d expected. So much for a relaxing break.

In the midst of all this, tomorrow night I’m going to see “The Producers.”

Last Monday night — the night before the world turned crazy — my mom called me up to tell me that she’d managed to get me a ticket to see the show. My parents had seen it last spring, and ever since, my mom had felt guilty that they hadn’t bought a ticket for me as well. So on a whim she went to the Telecharge website last week and, bizarrely, had managed to find an orchestra ticket. Now, it turns out that one of the two major stars, Nathan Lane, is on vacation, which is probably why the ticket was available. It would be great if he were going to be in it tomorrow night, of course, but really, come on, there are more important things in the world to worry about right now. And anyway — I’m getting a chance to see the hottest ticket on Broadway, for free, at a time when I really could use a laugh, and that cutie Matthew Broderick will still be there. Also, after reading what Charlie wrote here a while back about standby performers, I have a newfound respect and admiration for them now. It’s going to be a great, hilarious evening — something I desperately need.

Thanks, mom — you’re the best.

You know, tonight — after the second day of Rosh Hashannah had ended, after my aunt and my cousin and her daughter had gone home, after the dishes had been washed and put away — my parents and I watched a repeat of last season’s finale of “The West Wing.” It was the first time I’d seen the show since May, and as the stirring, patriotic theme music played, my eyes welled up unexpectedly. It seemed so beautiful and reassuring.

And yet — I wrote about the season finale the first time around, but this time around, it seemed so stupidly innocent and blissfully irrelevant. Wow, the president had multiple sclerosis and he knew it and he didn’t tell anyone and he might not be able to run for a second term?

Oh, to live once again in a world where such a minor presidential scandal is our biggest problem. How very 1990s.

I wonder what’s going to happen to “The West Wing” now. I wonder if it’s going to become increasingly irrelevant or if the writers and producers will find some way to stay relevant. Can such a show even work anymore? Who knows. Probably. We all need some escape.

And yet, watching NBC’s commercials tonight for the return of “Must See TV” and the upcoming one-hour season premiere of “Frasier,” you would have thought these were the most dramatically important things in the world. It just seemed so inappropriate and naive.

On the other hand, it’s nice to know that I’ll be able to escape, even for a little while, from this world — a world in which I have to attend a memorial service for a friend who died in a terrorist attack, a friend whose body can’t even be found.

God, this is madness.
—–