October 21 – Day 45: Well, All the Jokes Can't Be Good


Today's title comes courtesy of Mr. Julius H. Marx in Animal Crackers: 

 

We finally hit the end of the week. I still don’t feel great, but don’t really feel bad; I’m more tired than anything. As I write this, I’ve got kind of a raw throat (right around the uvula, where the nasal apparatus meets the throat), and a tiny bit of congestion. I’ve sneezed a couple of times in the last hour, though, which is very unlike me. I’m hoping a good night’s sleep—and some NyQuil—does me some good.

Anyway, it’s felt like a long day. After yesterday’s arrival at the theatre with the dressing room locked, I decided to postpone today’s arrival just a little. If nothing else, it gave me about 15 minutes more sleep. It was cold last night, and I couldn’t get the radiator to work, so when I woke up, it was a little chilly in here. It wasn’t really noticeable until I was in the shower and didn’t have the hot water running over me. I persevered, though, and was soon ready to go. I wasn’t sure what the temperature actually was (it was supposedly 46 degrees when I woke up and 49 when I was ready to go), so I opened the window to stick my hand out to see if I could tell. I couldn’t.

I put on my new warmer jacket and left the house, got about 50 yards down the street and thought it was good, but not quite warm enough, so I went back and put my other jacket over it, and that was fine the rest of the day.

I stopped for a tea (which was waiting for me!) and continued on to the 6, walking through the farmer’s market that surrounds the park on Sundays. I only wish I had the time to stop and shop, though (other than making toast) I haven’t done any cooking.

The commute was the usual, and I arrived at the theatre pretty quickly. Trish was doing her hair and Face Timing her nephew (somewhere in Canada, one assumes) and I got roped into saying hello.

The preshow was typical, though everyone seemed pretty ready for the week to be over; I know I was. It wasn’t so much whatever I’ve got going on in my nose and throat; it was just being tired.

As far as the show went, it was okay for the most part. YAQA, but I just felt like I stunk up the joint. I like to gruff up my voice when I play Kraft, and when I started, it just wasn’t where I like to place it. I mainly felt disconnected with the words, though. They were all there; I just wasn’t feeling them. Maybe autopilot is enough, but I didn’t feel satisfied with anything I did as Kraft. Goebbels and Gutman were okay (no dropped water bottles today), but Kraft never seemed to click for me. As I’ve mentioned before, that’s the crazy (and great) thing about live theatre. I can try doing the exact same thing I did the night before, and sometimes it just isn’t there. Other times, I do something different and it works crazy well. Go figure.

Despite the cold, under normal health conditions, I might have been tempted to walk home, but today, I just wanted to get back, so I took the 6 to Union Square, stopped to buy some peanut butter, crackers, and the Sunday Times, came home, collected the wash, and headed straight for the laundromat. I picked a good time, since it was nowhere as busy as last week. (Maybe the cold was dissuading people?) It took something over an hour to finish everything, then I came back home, put everything away, and collapsed—sideways—on the bed.

I napped for about 45 minutes, and could happily have stayed there the rest of the evening, but I was getting hungry and decided to go out to dinner. Walking back from the laundromat, I had passed by a number of places, but figured that I was going to hit either Pardon My French or the Cornerstone Café. Both were pretty empty (again, the cold?), but in looking at the menus online, I realized I would either have steak frites at the former or chicken and pasta at the latter, and since I’d had steak just the other night, I opted for Cornerstone.

 The table in the back where the guy in black is sitting? That's where I was.

Looking at the menu once I got there, I was torn between chicken with lemon sauce over fettucine, chicken parm, baked ziti, or spaghetti and meatballs. The siren call of meatballs won out, so it was that, a bowl of chicken soup, and a glass of pinot noir. It wasn’t bad. Very fresh (especially the soup) and flavorful. Great service and just a really nice atmosphere. It’s the kind of joint that should be in every neighborhood; simple, home-made fare with enough of a flair to make it special enough. (Apparently, they do a very good brunch, but—as explained previously—I’m not a brunchy kind of guy.)

I came home, watched some TV, and am now working on this post. I expect to be turning in soon, and have no idea what I’m going to do Monday. A lot of that depends on how I feel when I wake up, whatever time that is. I don’t want to waste the whole day, but I also don’t want to force myself to do something. We’ll see. All I know is that I’m on my own until Tuesday evening.

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