Time and time and time again ...

Day 39: Monday, March 27

Such an exciting day!

The most important item on the agenda was to do laundry. Fortunately, the laundromat is right downstairs; it’s literally twenty feet below me as I type this. In theory, I could drop everything off and pick it up at the end of the day, but on an early visit, I checked out their prices and a single shirt was $2.50. Multiply that by two weeks’ worth of dirty clothes, and it’d be prohibitively expensive.

Normally, I have a black plastic garbage bag that I throw everything into, then haul that to the washing machine, but the last time I did wash, things became flimsy and precarious. Fortunately, there’s a hamper in the closet, so I loaded the bag into that, added all the towels and such, and headed down.

Based on my previous experience (when I discovered that many of the machines are taken over by women doing laundry for the cleaners’ clients), I waited until early afternoon to head down. It may not have been less crowded, but I was able to find enough empty machines that I could do a couple of loads. (I also discovered that these laundry ladies wash and dry everything in hot, so leaving my clothes with them would probably lead to my not being able to wear them afterward … )

I picked my machines, loaded them, and then started to put the quarters in. Many quarters. Lots of quarters. One machine took 19, the other 11 (still cheaper—and safer—than letting them do it). I pulled up a chair, broke out my laptop, and started writing until the loads were done. (I always keep a wary eye on my laundry in such establishments. Not that I don’t trust the clientele or suspect that anyone else would want my underwear; I’ve just heard stories.)

The whole process went relatively quickly (about two hours), and I went upstairs, replaced all the towels, matched all my shirts with the appropriate socks*, then did some writing.

Finally, the time came for me to leave for the theatre. I had a ticket for Groundhog Day, the musical based on the movie. Pidge had seen it and liked it, so I figured I’d give it a shot (I was on the fence). I had a great seat (second row center of the mezzanine) and hadn’t been in the August Wilson Theatre since 2000 (The Wild Party; where Eartha Kitt blew the roof off the dump), so it was nice to go back inside.

Thanks to a remark from the distinguished American playwright Richard Hellesen, I was reminded I should have a drink at the Algonquin Hotel, an establishment I hadn’t frequented in decades. The hotel has undergone a fairly recent renovation, which wiped out a lot of its heritage (the Rose Room, where the legendary Round Table was located; the Oak Room, which was a marvelous cabaret [I saw Jessica Molaskey there in 2006]). The bones are still there, but you have to look hard to find the history. At the rear of the lobby is a restaurant of sorts, with a small round table, but it’s not the Table and it’s nowhere near the real position.

I was a little worried when I walked in, though. In spite of the Algonquin having a large lobby (as all hotels should), most of the spaces were taken up by startup kids clicking away on their Macs (the room was chockablock with power cords) and business types having quick dinners where they were making loud deals.

I was handed a menu and decided that, if I was in Algonquin, I was damn sure going to have a cocktail, so I ordered an Old Fashioned, which turned out to be both potent and tasty, which is all one can ask for in a cocktail. Fortunately, the crowd soon thinned out drastically (seriously; there were only about four of us left), so I was able to enjoy the rest of the drink in peace. At one point, I looked over the front doors (which seem to be the originals—or close) and marveled at the creativity and brain power that had walked through them in the decades since Frank Case opened the place.

Say what I will; they can sure make a drink

Before I left, I made sure to pay homage to the Vicious Circle and headed to the faux round table, which is backed by a painting of many of the members of the Thanatopsis Literary and Inside Straight Club. I took a photo, mourned what was gone, and headed to theatre, hoping I could make the eight short blocks and two long blocks in time.

"Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair ... "

As it turned out, there was no need for panic. The by-now customary bag check was taking more time than it really needed (maybe a separate line for those of us with no bags?) and I made it inside in time to use the restroom, check out the Theatre Guild memorabilia on the walls, and climb the stairs to my seat.

 A night at the theatre

Something I’d forgotten was how intimate the Wilson is. It officially seats 1228, but feels much smaller. The show began and never really took off for me. My main reaction was wondering why anyone felt it needed to exist. I know Stephen Sondheim was tempted by the prospect, but it seems like he was more interested in it as an exercise (he saw it as dealing in “themes and variations”) than an actual project. The performances are fine (especially the leads, Andy Karl and Barrett Doss), but it struck me as a show about staging (which is pretty creative in places, especially an on-stage car chase; though, frankly, Low Moan Spectacular did it better in Bullshot Crummond), but there are a few unnecessary numbers, some overly-busy choreography, and terrible lyrics by Tim Minchin. Maybe this stuff passes muster in London, but these are the big leagues. While I have to admit that the audience reaction was explosive with laughter, and Act Two was (surprisingly) better than Act One (things happen and there are consequences), overall, I feel it would be much better served by cutting some of the numbers (do we really need insight into Ned Ryerson’s personal life?) and making it a one-act musical that comes in at around two hours, rather than a padded 2:45. It’s not bad; it’s just unnecessary. Of the new musicals I’ve seen this trip, this was the least of them.

After that, I’d planned a visit to a place called Dutch Fred’s, which advertised a good burger and unique cocktails. I arrived and it was loud, but not terribly so (I was spoiled by Sunday’s visit to Boucherie, whose music featured a series of female jazz singers). The most striking thing about the place was that I was sat at a banquette, and my feet didn’t reach the floor. That hasn’t happened since I was a child. The burger was merely serviceable. It was good, but not great. (Somewhat like the show, come to think of it.) The cocktail, “The Working Class Hero,” though, was remarkable. It comes in a flask, and combines Irish whiskey, vermouth, caramel porter, and smoke. Seriously, one has to let the smoke permeate the alcohol for at least a minute, then when it is time to pour, it sort of flows into the glass. It has a remarkable smoky sweet tangy flavor that would lend itself to repeated tastngs.

 A glass of smoke

Since there was no dessert menu (surprisingly), I made my way to the subway, took the train to Union Square, where (also surprisingly, the terrible violin player wasn’t there tonight; he was replaced by a terrible saxophone player) I caught the L to 1^st and, after stopping to buy a paper, made my way home. I had the last of the Veneiro mini-cheesecakes, made a cup of tea, and came upstairs.

As I write this, it’s raining (the skies pretty much opened about ten minutes ago), so my plans for Tuesday are up in the air. My hope is to make it out to Queens to visit the Machpelah Cemetery and the grave of Harry Houdini, but if it’s raining, I may just have to stick around the house. Regardless, the final week of performances will commence at 7:30. I’ll be curious to see if the Times review (which will come out in the actual print edition on Tuesday) will add to our houses.

Only time will tell …

*I was buying a suit once and the salesman asked me if I needed socks (I have eight sock drawers, so no … ), saying “the socks should match the pants.” I corrected him: “The socks should match the shirt.”