September 24 – Day 18: Things Settle Into a Rut -- But That Hair!

As I mentioned, I’d gotten it into my head that I wanted to see Landscape of a Fact, which is a new play (by three people [Jeremy Kareken & David Murrell and Gordon Farrell, to quote the billing], based on a book by two others [John D’Agata and Jim Fingal, who are characters in the play]). I figured (in retrospect, against all odds) that it would be child’s play to order a ticket on line, so I went to Telecharge and tried to buy one.

After filling in all the information, I got an error message that the sale couldn’t be completed “because of unusual activity.” This happens occasionally, so I tried it again, and got the same message. I figured that, since it was late, they might just be doing site maintenance. I waited a little while and tried again, and still no completion. I figured “okay, there’s just a glitch” and tried every so often throughout the rest of the evening.

After about the fifth rejection, I tried calling Telecharge’s customer service department, but they had closed at 10:00 pm. I began to wonder if the problem might be due to my making a lot of charges in New York over the last couple of weeks, that my credit card company might have put a hold on my account. I called them and was assured that everything was in order, so I tried Telecharge again, and still nada. I tried a couple more times before giving up, and finally turned out the light about 4:00. (Like I said, Monday was our day off, so it didn’t matter when I got up.) Before I did, though, I set my alarm for 8:30. It was a good seat, and I wanted to make sure I got it before someone else did (which may have been a good idea, given that all the other good seats around it were occupied once the show started).

I slept as best as I could (there’s something about this place that makes me wake up about every two hours or so) and when the alarm went off, I tried to order again and again came up with a goose egg. The difference between this time and the others, though, was that customer service was finally open.

I called customer service and got through pretty quickly. I explained the problem to the guy, and he called up my account—and literally gasped. There had been 11 charges and 11 refunds issued, and the reason almost of them had kicked back was because I was trying to make a charge on the same card over and over. (This didn’t explain the problem on the very first charge, but whatever …) Because of the circumstances, he had to kick the call upstairs, so I waited while he transferred me (and was fortunate enough to hear the overture from My Fair Lady no less than three times). Once I was through, the woman on the other end looked at the situation, and told me that it was a little complicated, so could she call me back in about 30 minutes? I said sure, hung up, and napped.

Even though I didn’t quite expect her to, she did indeed call me back in about a half an hour, telling me that, even though she thought she’d solved the problem, it’d probably be better if I tried another card. I gave her the number, the charge went through, and she sent me a confirmation email, so I went back to sleep for a while.

My primary task for the day was going to be doing laundry; not that I needed to—and would normally have waited until next Saturday or Sunday, but we’ll be in rehearsal both of those days, and I didn’t want to wait—plus, as I discovered last time, my laundry bag will hold only so much.

Since I’d bought quarters last week, I had only to pack up the bag and head over to the laundromat—and, of course, I’d forgotten where it was. I looked it up on my phone, and it turned out I was actually across the street. I crossed over and saw that it was just as busy as last week, with the added attraction of two women doing someone else’s wash (and taking up both seats—they’ve added one!). I found two empty machines, and after seeing that one would have been virtually empty, loaded everything into one—saving myself some dough in the process.

The wash cycle was about 25 minutes, so I stood and looked at my phone (avoiding more people doing other peoples’ wash), then went through the dry cycle (more of the same), then came home. Somehow, though, I seem to be missing a pair of socks. I’m guessing they’re brown, since the only shirt that didn’t have anything to match them was itself brown (could this be more boring?). I don’t think they were lost in the machines (I checked both); I think they’ve just gone missing … somewhere.

I had nothing to do until 6:15, when I was going to leave for the theatre, so I watched some television and caught up on the blog. I finally ended up walking up to the theatre (about an hour’s walk) on what was a very nice evening. It had finally cooled off (it was about 62 when I left), so I took a jacket, but ended up not wearing it most of the time, since I tend to overheat in situations like that.

I’ve mentioned before how much I used to love Times Square, and how much I hate it now because it’s so overcrowded with theme-park patrons. As I got to 42^nd and Broadway, though, it was even worse than usual. I couldn’t figure out why until I got closer to 43^rd and saw that the opening night performance of Samson and Delilah from the Metropolitan Opera was being broadcast on a number of big screens (and huge loudspeakers), and people were sitting around watching the telecast. While it was gratifying to see so many people indulging in high culture, they were also taking up even more room than the costumed jackals who try to con people into taking photos of them. (My consolation is that the Times called it “kitsch … inert … old-fashioned … and dull.” The impression I got from the few seconds I saw just reinforced my own dislike of opera and impression that, at its “opera-iest,” it’s pretentious, self-absorbed, and snotty.)

 One of the reasons I hate opera: money wasted on big-ass sets that don't serve any purpose.

I finally arrived at the theatre (Studio 54) and walked right in, which was a nice change of pace. Lately, it’s been wait in a line for will call, wait at the box office, wait to get wanded, finally get in.

The production itself is well done and very well-acted (Daniel Radcliffe, Cherry Jones, and Bobby Cannavale), but I’m not sure it’s a “play.” It brings up a lot of interesting ideas and discussions about “what is truth?” versus “what is reality?,” but it’s something of a debate rather than a story where things change and characters develop. (Not that I’m opposed to the latter; I mean, a lot of Chekhov is nothing but a lack of plot and characters stuck where they are.) This is not to say it’s not interesting; it’s very thought-provoking (especially the ending—which is what I’d hoped it would be), well-written, -acted, -directed, and –designed; it’s just that not a lot happens beyond the debate. To be fair—or maybe “complete” might be the better word—the audience seemed to love it and leapt to their feet at the end (though that means nothing nowadays). I’ll be interested to read the reviews when it does open.

 That lifespan is approximately an hour and a half.

One of the most remarkable things about the evening was the hair of a guy who was in front of me, in the front row. From the rear, he resembled nothing so much as a nail, with the sides cut very short and a mushroom-like bulge of about one inch at the top. As he moved his head around, though, his hairstyle’s architecture was fascinating. Looking at it from the top and sides, it was obvious he was desperately attempting a comb-over, but didn’t have enough hair for that. Seen from the top, his head would have had a big bald spot toward the rear (without quite enough hair on the left side to cover it), and the front three inches starting with a part just over his left ear, culminating in a big wavy lump on the front right. From 1 o’clock to 7 o’clock on his head, he had the appearance of hair; everywhere else, it was just a complete denial of reality.

I considered taking the subway home, but it was such a pleasant evening (mainly because of the chill) and it was early enough (the play was only 90 minutes) that I decided to walk. I was thinking of maybe getting some supper, but when I stopped into the speakeasy from Sunday night, the new bartender was so focused on reading something that he never saw me, and two of the other places were just too damn loud. I ended up at a little Irish pub for a quick drink before coming home and polishing off the barbecue leftovers I had from last week.

After that, it was some writing, some reading, some television, and some going over my lines, since Tuesday is our off-book date. I’m, like, 99% off-book, but I wanted to be ready.