Smoking and drinking

Day 33: Tuesday, March 21

Tuesday was odd in that it was my first real “day to do nothing.” By that, I mean, I really didn’t want to go out and do anything because of the show in the evening.

What I ended up doing was, in fact, pretty much nothing. I read the paper, updated the blog some, then decided to walk to the theatre since I hadn’t done anything all day.

It was beautiful weather; warmer than Monday, in fact. I wasn’t sure how warm it would be, so I wore a sweater under my lighter jacket, but soon had to take it off since I was sweating too much. The walk itself was uneventful, other than my stop at a drugstore to buy a hairbrush. There was a woman making a scene at the counter about wanting some kind of refund she wasn’t getting, then continuing the scene by demanding the security guard check her bag to make sure she hadn’t stolen anything. The whole thing reeked of “protesting too much,” but it’s New York.

The most notable part of the walk was that I was hitting the canyons of Park Avenue just as people were getting out of work, so it was extremely crowded, a situation not helped by the smokers on the sidewalk. I don’t know what it is about these people, but they stand at the curb, puffing away like junkies shooting up (which they are in a sense), or when they’re walking, they swing their cigarettes around with abandon (forcing everyone else to steer clear) or exhale really noxious fumes. I had an epiphany a few weeks ago when watching one of my old movies, that, in the 30s, 40s, and 50s, when everyone smoked, the world must have reeked. I’m old enough to remember when people could smoke in bars, restaurants, and airplanes, and I remember how unpleasant that was (you’d go somewhere to eat or drink and have to hose down afterward), so I can only imagine what it was like when there was no respite anywhere.

I arrived at the theatre, settled in, and did a little work on my hair with the mousse and hairspray I’d bought the night before. At first, it was something of a failure. I don’t really have enough up there to back-comb it and get some altitude, so I had to kind of brush it up on the side and hope to get some height. Once it all started to dry, it was better, but the biggest problem with my hair is that it has a pretty stubborn natural wave, so if I want it to lay straight, I have to plaster it down, which really doesn’t lend itself to altitude. I finally got a decent-enough look, but, given the wave, I looked more like Criswell the Magnificent than anything else. I’ll try it again tonight, but expect similar results. If I get them, I’m abandoning the whole project. A hair professional might have more luck than I, but there isn’t one in the budget.

More than a slight resemblance, I'd say ...

It was opening night for the show next door, so the kids were more boisterous than usual. I’m not used to their loud energy, but I’m resigned to it, so why complain? (he said as he complained …)

Brendan and I ran the first three scenes before the show, just to get reconnected, and, in performance, they went pretty well. Scene 4 was good, too, and I was feeling all right until Scene 5, when I started to feel disconnected with the script. It was almost an out-of-body thing, in that I felt like I was watching myself more critically than usual and finding all kinds of flaws. (Which is not to say that it was bad—for the most part; it was just different. I don’t know how much was good and how much was not as good; it was just stuff I hadn’t done before.) The last scene was fine, and even though it was a small house, they were good (the laughs on Brendan’s first entrance were the key, as always), and it ultimately came off well, I thought.

Coming back into the dressing room, I mentioned how odd I felt in Scene 5, and Brendan seemed surprised, but not too much so.

Since it was a nice night, I decided to walk home, if only to shake off some of my feelings about Scene 5. I kind of hoped there’d be an open Starbucks, so I could get a tea, but there was nothing. I ended up at Grand Central and thought I’d like to have a drink in the terminal, so I went up to the bar at the Michael Jordan’s Steak House, which was an interesting mix of commuters, oddballs, and angry businessmen. When I sat at the bar (in keeping with my “aggrieved customer” theme), one of the last was loudly complaining to the bartender that he’d either been charged for someone else’s drinks, or they for his, or that he hadn’t gotten his credit card back—or some combination of all of the above. The bartender—who really didn’t seem to care—more or less calmed him, and he left. The guy to my right was very confused over whether he wanted a second beer at all, and, if so, what kind. Over to my left was—well, she wasn’t a “barfly,” but let’s just say she had experience talking to men in bars. She started a conversation with a guy to her right and it was fascinating to watch them flirt and try to pick each other up while both knew that nothing was going to come of it. Every so often, the older gentleman to my left—the one I referred to on Facebook as “a professional drunkard”—kept chiming into their conversation every so often, while referring to (and being referred to by) the bartender on a first-name basis, and every so often breaking into snatches of song under his breath. He was the archetypical “happy drunk,” but how he could afford to drink regularly at that place (with its jacked-up prices) was a mystery. He was very well dressed, though, so he’s probably a success at more than just alcohol consumption.

 Who wouldn't want a drink here?

I left the bar and was thisclose to taking the subway home when I decided I’d walk the rest of the way; it was only 30 blocks or so and the weather was still nice. I made it the rest of the way down Park, stopped at one of the Union Square Starbucks to pick up a tea and use the restroom (along with half of Manhattan, it seemed), then came home.

I hadn’t eaten, so I remembered the steaks I’d bought at Trader Joe’s soon after arriving. One was still in the fridge, so I butterflied it, broiled it up, and had what was there. It wasn’t bad, and was certainly the cheapest supper I’d had in a while.

After that, it was up to bed, with some TV and Internet, and off to dreamland.