It's a scandal, it's a outrage

So this is apparently real:

PITTSBURGH (AP) — A Pennsylvania school district has decided not to stage a Tony Award-winning musical about a Muslim street poet after community members complained about the timing so soon after the 10th anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks.

The show: Kismet. And although I read this story thinking "There has to be more to it," there isn't, at least not according to the public reports. School district officials didn't find anything objectionable in the content, but the dropped it anyway, because Kismet has Muslim characters. And by the way, by "so soon after the tenth anniversary..." they mean in February. February of 2012.

Now, I'm not sure high school students should ever attempt to put on Kismet, because the music is difficult. But the idea that mentioning the existence of Baghdad or Islam - in a cartoonish way, in a 1950s stage musical - would be somehow inappropriate would never have crossed my mind. (Unless it was decided that the content, cartoonish as it is, was insensitive to Muslims, but we are very far away from that sort of thinking here.)

[School superintendent Thomas] Fleming said sensitivity about the play is understandable because of Flight 93's demise in nearby Shanksville, and because the sudden death of a drama student in a car crash affected students last year.

Oh Lord, it's like the "Ground Zero Mosque" nonsense all over again, smaller and dumber. I don't care where you are; if you're offended by the mention of Arabia, you shouldn't be humored. And that last part might be relevant if (a) the show were being canceled altogether, because the drama students are too upset to put it on regardless of its content, or (b) the show were about a car crash. It does not explain why they have to switch to a different show because someone realized that the guy who sings "Baubles, Bangles and Beads" is a Muslim (and so were the terrorists!).

When I read the brief story in the Johnstown Tribune Democrat, I gathered that what Fleming must have been trying to say is that he feels the kids have been through enough already, and they're trying to protect them from futher turmoil. They're educators, after all:

"We’re in the business of trying to do what’s best for the kids – not to do anything detrimental if we can avoid it."

Yes, think of the lessons they might learn if the performance were allowed to go on.

But wait! This is the best part:

The play has no inappropriate content, [music director Scott] Miller said, but he and other members of the performing arts committee decided to switch to "Oklahoma!" after hearing complaints.

I'd like to think of this as a sly act of rebellion on the part of the "performing arts committee." I just hope nobody tells those concerned community members about Ali Hakim until opening night.

Ben Brantley, gossip columnist

So, Ben Brantley took some lady to the theatah, and she showed her appreciation for the free ticket and sweet orchestra seats by... forgetting to silence her cell phone's "particularly obnoxious" ring tone! This led him to feel bad for her, or hope she learned her lesson, or be convinced she learned her lesson, or something like that. He... thinks people should have hated her less? He thinks it's understandable that someone who "does not as a general rule carry a phone" but on that day "felt she should be reachable" would ignore the preshow announcements, signs, etc. designed to remind people in her exact position to silence their phones? It's not really clear. But that's not what I care about anyway, because he starts off his little please-comment-on-this prompt with a BLIND ITEM:

I seethed righteously when an eminent theater writer seated in front of me took his grudging time in quieting his bleating phone, as if it were a matter he shouldn’t have had to be bothered with.

Who? WHO? Which critic who goes to plays for a living didn't have the good sense to turn off his phone or even be embarrassed when it rang? That's what I want to know. Guesses? I'd say John Heilpern (formerly of The New York Observer), except, is he "eminent"? Or maybe John Simon. Except, does he have a cell phone?

Deliver us, O God...

...from falling for every stupid smear that plays to our prejudices and distracts us from discussing important political issues like adults. (More at dotComm.)

Update: Since I know you all like a good blog fight, you may also want to read this follow-up.

Things the ladies sitting behind me at last night's performance of Irena's Vow said out loud while the show was in progress

[When Tovah Feldshuh entered] "There she is."

[In the middle of a scene] "You know who she reminds me of?" [lengthy exchange about which actress on which TV show Feldshuh reminds this lady of. Finally:] "The girl from Another World, that's it."

"I knew he was gonna say that."

"Ohhhh, she can't keep the baby."

"He loves her."

[After a character onstage says, "On one condition..." and pauses meaningfully] "...Marry me." [A bad guess, by the way.]

"You get the gist." [?]

"Oh no, he's not gonna kill himself!"

All of these come directly from my notes on the show. Since the four ladies behind me were speaking as loudly as any of the actors in front of me, I figured I might as well write down their contributions to the script. (Which don't accurately reflect its content, by the way--no spoilers here.) I have not included the many, many exchanges that went like this: "What?" "[Someone else repeats whatever was just said onstage]" "Oh." And there were also several moments when something very mildly interesting happened in the play, and the women behind me reacted with a loud "Hm" or "Oh" -- but all four of them would do this in succession, so that I and everyone around me heard, "Oh. OH. Oh. Ohhhh."

Instead of telling people to turn off their phones -- which never works anyway (someone's phone rang during this show and they didn't even try to turn it off! It rang six or seven times!) -- I think preshow announcements should say, "If you should have a thought during tonight's performance, please remember that it's OK not to vocalize everything that comes into your head. In fact, when you're in a theatre watching a live performance, you're encouraged to keep your thoughts to yourself." Spread the word! Tell your friends!

You can talk at home for free

Why did the woman in the row behind us feel the need to narrate everything that was happening onstage to her teenage son? He could see and hear. He seemed to be of average intelligence. And it's not like In the Heights is all that hard to follow. Sure, there's a lot of Spanish, but this woman didn't seem to know any Spanish (thank God). She was describing the most obvious things, and doing so out loud. And I mean loud -- not even in a normal conversational tone, but louder, since she was trying to make herself heard over the show that was happening onstage. For me, the final straw came during "Benny's Dispatch," when Benny made reference to the "GWB" and I heard this woman shout, "...THE GEORGE WASHINGTON BRIDGE." I was like, Lady, I'm sure you're very proud of yourself for knowing the lingo, but it's not crucial to the plot, so maybe you could refrain from showing off to your child until the show is over.

Of course, when I say that was "the final straw," all I mean is that's when I decided not to feel bad about turning around and giving these people a dirty look. But as you might have guessed, they weren't the type to notice or respond to dirty looks (and they were getting a bunch from the people sitting much closer than I was). Quite frankly, I'm not sure this lady realized there were other people present. So the patter kept up, all through the show. And I kept thanking God that In the Heights is such a loud show. Although, once I thought about it, I realized I'm not sure where to draw the line between cause and effect: was it the volume of the show (and the actors' mics in particular) that made this woman feel like it was OK to yell whatever came into her head? If she'd been doing that in a quieter theatre, the whole audience would have been shushing her after the first ninety seconds. On the other hand, maybe consistently noisy audiences are the reason the show's volume is turned up so high. This possibility occurred to me as we settled in for the second act, and I could hear a woman across the aisle open a bag of chips (why in the world would a theatre sell people chips?!) and start munching loudly. Then her cell phone rang, and she had to rummage through her bag to turn it off, making the bag of chips go crinkle, crinkle. Then back to eating. And then the phone rang AGAIN. I was just about ready to throw my program at her when the orchestra really kicked in... and after that I couldn't hear her anymore.

Speaking of obnoxious behavior at musicals, The Onion has a truly harrowing account of a situation I think we can all relate to: Oh No, Performers Coming Into Audience. Shudder.

It's as if we always knew

Lately The Colbert Report hasn't been as sharp as it once was, and I haven't been watching as regularly. But their sendoff to the Bush Administration was sublime. Not least because it gave us all another reason to worship Christine Ebersole. In case you missed it:

The Colbert ReportMon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

Tribute to the Bush Administration - Christine Ebersole

While we're sharing videos, I suppose I ought to link you to this frightening (yet unsurprising) Patti LuPone freakout, caught on (audio) tape by, apparently, some other scofflaw Gypsy audience member who is lucky not to have been caught in the act by La LuPone. I've come across this a number of places, but my favorite writeup was by J. Kelly Nestruck of Canada's Globe and Mail, who joked that the picture-taker had been "Patti Lu-Pwned." Hee.

As for my thoughts, well: no sympathy for the picture-taker, obviously. But I do feel sorry for the rest of the audience (even if I doubt Patti's assertion that "every single one" of them was exhibiting "respect" -- come on, I've been in Broadway audiences before). If I pay a lot of money to see a Highly Acclaimed Performance, and the star breaks character in the middle of a solo number that happens to be the emotional and dramatic climax of the show, and it's not a medical emergency, I'm going to be annoyed. Of course, that's exactly why I never did pay money to see this particular Highly Acclaimed Performance on Broadway. And at least some of the people in that audience (including whoever was taping the audio) probably felt they got exactly what they came to see. "This is the theatre!!" You know, on second thought, I'm not sure she did break character. Doesn't that just sound like Momma Rose?

Tis the season to be jolly

Eventually I'll give you my serious appraisal of the two plays I saw this week. For now I'll just tell you about the exciting circumstances under which I saw them both.

First, spotted in the audience at The Cripple of Inishmaan: Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick! A celebrity twofer! Coincidentally, they were also at the same performance of The Homecoming as I was. Are they following me?

The December 2008 Playbill I got at the Atlantic was highly collectible. On pages 16-18 I found a feature article on Christian Hoff, ousted star of Pal Joey. The pull quote was what caught my eye: "It's taken him until the age of 40 to have his name above the title -- to be a Broadway star -- and he's savoring the moment." Ouch. And on page 49-51 you can read an interview with Haley Joel Osment, in which he explains that he took a semester off from NYU to appear in American Buffalo. I guess it's back to the books for HJO.

The article about Osment was headlined "Buffalo Boy." One of the two young men sitting behind me must have been looking at it, because the other one said, "I heard that play was really bad -- Buffalo Boy." There was a pause before his friend replied, "...It's American Buffalo." The first guy was unperturbed, "Whatever it's called. It got terrible reviews." You know, he heard. He didn't actually read them himself, or know anything about the play. Conversations like that make me wonder how anything ever stays open longer than a week.

Last night I went to the first performance of The American Plan, MTC's revival of the Richard Greenberg play. The husband and I were in the first row of the mezzanine, which was nice (you don't want to sit farther back than that, because the mezz is so steeply raked you'll be looking down at the actors' scalps all night). Behind us were a couple of middle-aged guys. They seemed the cranky type. They also turned out to be the type of audience members who react out loud to things every now and then -- the kind that hear a significant line and acknowledge it by going "Hm." Why do people do that?

The mezz was only half-full, and just before the show began I saw the usher encouraging people to move down and fill in the empty seats. So at intermission a couple must have decided to do just that, and settled on a pair of seats two rows behind me. Alas, that was their fatal mistake. I didn't notice them until I heard a woman's voice protest, "...I didn't kick you!" And one of the guys behind me roared back, "Well, SOMEONE kicked me, and if you don't WATCH IT I'll call the USHER over here!"

The woman gasped, "Well!" And her husband (I assume -- I was trying very hard not to get involved, so I didn't turn around) said, "I don't think we want to sit here after all..." I can't really blame him for adding, as he was leaving, "...Not with this jerk."

Of course the guy behind me reacted as though this were an outrageously unjust attack. "Ex-CUSE me?!" He shrieked. "You're a jerk!" the man who actually had been unjustly attacked replied. (He was ignoring his wife's attempts to drag him away from the maniacs in row CC.) Then the jerky guy threatened to beat up the other guy, and the other guy called him "insane" (again, only speaking the truth). It culminated in the jerk behind me shouting, "Well you're a fucking ASSHOLE! FUCK you!" Getting the attention of everyone else in the mezzanine. For a moment I really thought these two late-middle-aged audience members were going to start slugging each other in the aisle. But happily, the not-obviously-crazy man decided to walk away, though he tossed off a final retort: "Fuck YOU. You're a nasty old... fart." And I admit I was cheering inside when I heard that, because, Ha! This guy was totally a nasty old fart.

I don't know what the other old fart who was sitting behind me did while this was going on. He may have been participating in the shouting of insults and threats -- since I was trying not to look in their direction, I couldn't exactly tell these guys apart. Or he may have been pretending he'd found a really interesting Playbill article at just that moment. He certainly didn't try to talk his friend down, and I didn't get the sense either was embarrassed. I suppose this wasn't the first time Old Fart #1 went off at some innocent bystander because of a very minor perceived slight. You'd be pretty used to it if you hung out with him a lot.

I guess the old farts were emboldened by their thuggish behavior during intermission, because the unnecessary vocal reactions got worse during Act Two. Now it wasn't just "Hm," but "Oh Jesus" and "Ohhhhh shit!" and "She's got 'im now" and "...That was a good line." I had assumed these guys were gay (as I normally do when two middle-aged men are at the theatre together), but they reacted to a smattering of "homosexual content" like they were eleven years old, so now I don't know what to think (besides GROW UP, LOSERS). Also, one or both of them had purchased a box of Good & Plentys at the concession stand (Dear Samuel J. Friedman Theatre: Please don't sell those), and they ate them noisily throughout the evening. Rattling the box... Chewing loudly... Rattling the box some more. Normally that sort of thing calls for a meaningful glance or two over the shoulder, on the off chance that the person will realize that he is disturbing people with his behavior and (this is the iffy part) care enough to do something about it. But no way was I shooting any dirty looks at these guys. (The people next to me were similarly stoic.) Who knows what kind of profane tirade that would provoke. So, as usual, I just made mental notes and saved it all for you. Happy New Year!

Oh, NEPA

I saw this headline on Wonkette, and I just had a feeling I knew what part of Pennsylvania they were talking about: "Drunk Pennsylvania Bitter's Post-Election Rage!" Sure enough, they're linking to a story from the Times-Leader, the Wilkes-Barre newspaper (which, by the way, has a much better website than the Scranton Times-Tribune, though that's not saying much). It's about a man who got so angry Tuesday night over this whole President Obama thing that he got really drunk at Pizzle's bar (Pizzle's!), started shouting "obscenities" (we just have to imagine what they were), and ended up hitting people with his cane (he was 70 years old) and biting some guy on the nose. The best part of the story on the TL site is the first "reader comment," which says: "I don't believe that this is the first and only instance of a bar-fight over some political issue or other. I'm only surprised that there hasn't been more. But, to go to jail for expressing your political views?"

Ah, yes, clearly the fact that this story got written up is evidence of the notorious liberal bias of the media of Northeastern Pennsylvania, and not at all related to the fact that it's the most embarrassing and hilarious item from that day's police blotter. Seriously: my friend, I know you're upset. But try to control that persecution complex. The man is not going to jail for expressing his views. He's going to jail for biting a guy on the nose. That's not change we can believe in!

Why can't you behave?

If I complained about every case of bad audience-member etiquette I witness in my theater jaunts, I'd never get around to talking about the show. But at the end of last week I ran into a few exceptional cases that I really think you need to hear about.

First, on Thursday, I went to a preview performance of the Roundabout's revival of The Marriage of Bette and Boo. I'll talk about the play separately; for now I just want to focus on the experience of seeing it on that particular night, with that particular audience. The first thing I noticed, as I was taking my seat in the Laura Pels Theatre, was that the audience included director Walter Bobbie and, a few rows behind me, playwright Christopher Durang. Perhaps knowing that made me hypersensitive to audience-etiquette issues; it was certainly an odd experience to be sitting directly in view of the playwright while watching his play. But this would have been a notable evening under any circumstances. You had, first of all, your standard "people talking out loud to their companions as though they were at home watching television." But that's to be expected when you're at a not-for-profit, subscription-based theatre; subscribers seem to feel it's their prerogative to give feedback during the performance, instead of afterward. The elderly couple just behind me had no compunctions about sharing their thoughts with each other, in full voice, at several points during the performance; this was especially distracting because their thoughts tended to be hilarious. For example: there's a character in the play whose speech is completely unintelligible -- one of those Durang flourishes. Everything he says is a mush of vowels, although he goes on talking as though nothing were wrong. At one point in the second act -- this was after some ninety minutes of the play had elapsed, at which point the conceit was long established -- the old lady said to her husband, "He sounds just like Justin." For the rest of the scene, I wondered: Who is Justin? And, have you considered writing a play about your life? Because if this world feels familiar to you, I think you might just give Durang a run for his money.

This let's-all-talk-out-loud routine also gave rise to a skirmish -- in the front row -- that I was afraid might lead to violence. ("Shut the F up!" "What's your problem?!" etc.) It went on for most of the first scene. It's a good thing the actors can't see or hear anything that happens past the edge of the stage, because they just might find a thing like that distracting.

But the Audience Jackass award goes to the men a couple rows behind me, sitting dead center in what were basically the best seats in the house. Great view of the stage -- and, since it's a small theatre, the stage had a great view of them. They were middle-aged businessmen, wearing suits and bright red ties (both of them, I think). And every once in a while, they decided to have a conversation. I'd be watching the play, and then all of a sudden I'd hear a competing dialogue coming from behind me. Hostile stares did nothing to deter these guys; they didn't even seem to realize other people were present. And then, during the second act, the talking went on so long that I turned around to see that one of the guys was on his phone. And it wasn't a fumble-for-the-cell, "I can't talk, I'm at a play!" situation (although that's horrifying enough). This guy was carrying on a conversation, totally at his leisure, and cupping the headset mouthpiece in his hands like that made it okay.

I was sort of hoping someone -- an actor, Walter Bobbie, Christopher Durang -- would stop the performance to call the guy out and eject him from the theatre at that point. Part of me wondered if that person should be me. But although half the audience turned to stare at this guy, the show continued, and as far as I know, he is still at large today. For all I know, he may be one of the Roundabout's biggest donors. But he's still an incredible asshole.

On Friday night, the husband and I went to the Beacon Theatre to see a Steely Dan concert. (His choice -- but I'm not ashamed to admit I've had "Peg" stuck in my head for days now, and don't you try to pretend you don't love "Reelin' in the Years.") The tickets were pricey, but that's the kind of venue in which I prefer to see live music. I don't enjoy the whole crowded-club, standing-all-night, too-loud speakers, two-drink-minimum, drunks-spilling-beer-on-you scene; I'd much rather have a seat in a theatre with good acoustics and watch the show like the civilized wet blanket I am. Since Steely Dan attracts a largely baby-boomer crowd, I figured we were in for a pretty low-key evening. But there was at least one person in attendance who would have preferred to be seeing the band in the aforementioned crowded club -- and guess where her seat was? Directly in front of mine! Lucky me! Actually, I'm not sure which seat was "hers," because she switched with her two male companions multiple times during the evening. (Plus, one or another of them was always on the way to or from the concessions stand for more drinks.) But she was in front of the husband and me, already plainly drunk even before she started on the first of the four drinks she downed during the show. And when they launched into "Hey Nineteen," she let out a drunken "Wooooo!" and stood up to dance. And stayed standing up, writhing like a pole dancer, even though not another soul in the entire orchestra section was on his or her feet. You'd be surprised how effectively one skinny drunk girl can block the view of the stage. Sharp, annoyed whistles and shouts of "Down in front!" came from behind us, followed by louder cries of "SIT DOWN!" which our dancing friend seemed not to hear. It was as though the pressure and shame that should have reached her was falling just short of her and landing in my lap. This went on for the entire song; this girl wiggling her hips and waving her arms, and everyone behind her fuming and sending mental beams of hate in her direction. So, when the song ended, my very patient husband tapped her on the shoulder and asked, in his unfailingly courteous way, if she would mind sitting down so that the people behind her could see.

You've probably already figured out that she was not the type of person who would say, "Oh dear, in my great enthusiasm I didn't realize I was interfering with everyone else's enjoyment of the show! Thank you for bringing that to my attention!" No, she was the type of person to sneer and say, "No! I want to stand! ...I don't care if nobody else is standing up! That's their problem!" Like, social contract? I never signed any social contract! (Her friends didn't seem to feel strongly either way; they pretended not to notice any of this was going on.) The woman next to me was so angry she went to find the usher. But fortunately, despite her outward defiance, Hey Nineteen girl did keep her butt in the seat after that. (Well, until they played "Black Friday," toward the end of the show. But, man, it's like, they're playing "Black Friday," and...it is Friday! You gotta stand up for that, man! Like, what are the odds?!) I'm sure that was just because she wanted to sit down, though. She was still right.

I wondered whether the usher would have had the authority to do anything (if he hadn't been busy running around telling people to turn off their cameras). And I found that the Beacon has a surprisingly detailed, and slightly absurdist, code of conduct:

We ask all guests to be respectful of others around them. Any guest who interferes with the enjoyment of another individual during an event is subject to ejection from the building. During performances we ask all guests to remain seated for the duration of the performance. Depending on the demographics of certain events (such as concerts), standing may be accepted as normal protocol. Guests are permitted to stand if the majority of the audience is doing the same. Some entertainers will instruct the Beacon Theatre staff not to ask anyone to sit down during their performance.

"Guests are permitted to stand if the majority of the audience is doing the same." If you think about that too hard, it might just blow your mind.

Even though she be only a woman and a Christian and therefore unworthy of your interest

I returned to NYC last night, and the city welcomed me this morning with rain, fog and unexplained subway delays that made me 15 minutes late for work. In my experience, in terms of refusing to communicate with its customers, the MTA is rivaled only by the Martz Trailways bus company. Aren't I lucky that I was able to make both a part of my holiday travel! I was at work for about an hour before I realized I had my sweater on inside-out. In my defense, it's one of those sweaters (popular last season) where the seams are designed to make it look inside-out when you're wearing it correctly, so it looked fine -- except for the tag sticking out of my hip. And the one at the back of my neck. And I'm not wearing anything under it, so I had to sneak away to the bathroom to fix it. This is going to be some week, I can tell.

I really love the cafeteria in the building where I (sometimes) work. I love that there is one, first of all, and the food is generally very good. Every day there's a theme for the hot-food options, and today it was "Global Vegetarian Indian." Music to my ears! After waiting in a slow line, I was finally helping myself to some tofu and eggplant masala when a couple of women stopped behind me to read today's theme. "Global vegetarian Indian -- ugh," said the first. "The only word I like there is 'global.'" Her friend laughed and said, "I don't trust vegetarians." Hello, I am standing right here, filling my plate with said food. I'm sorry if my meal choice disgusts you, but maybe you could save the insulting generalizations for when you're more than a foot away from me? I'm used to being basically invisible when I'm working as a freelancer, but that's just bad manners.

That reminded me of an experience I had at St. Patrick's Cathedral, the beautiful but regrettably zoolike seat of the Archdiocese, on Fifth Avenue. Once not too long ago, I found myself with some time to kill in the area, so I stopped in to look around and say a prayer or two. There's a side altar dedicated to St. Elizabeth Seton, with a striking, modernist bronze sculpture of her. (You can see a picture of it on the artist's website -- if you're standing at the main entrance to the church, it's on the right side aisle.) Mother Seton happens to be my patron saint, so I went over to say hello and light a candle for my intentions. As I was standing there, head bowed reverently in prayer, a couple of teenagers who were making their way around the church stopped behind me. "Ugh! What the hell is that?!" scoffed a boy, referring, I presume, to the sculpture. Even though I managed not to shout, "That is a shrine in honor of my patron saint, and you might have noticed that I and others are praying beside it. Which is what one does in a church. Which is where you are, in case you weren't aware," I'm afraid my prayers didn't get very far after that interruption.

Nowadays I know better than to go to St. Pat's and expect to pray. And that girl who doesn't trust vegetarians -- well, something tells me I wouldn't trust her either. But am I wrong to expect people to keep their negative opinions to themselves until they're out of earshot of others who might love the very thing they scorn? I've sat through some truly terrible theatre in my day, but I try to wait till I'm outside the lobby before I share my opinion, so as not to offend the strangers nearby who actually thought the show in question was a masterpiece. And I think Go, Diego, Go! is just about the most irritating background noise I can imagine, but I wouldn't say so in front of my very devoted nephews while they were watching it. (Even though they wouldn't hear me, because when Diego is on, nothing else matters.)

Ooh, and while we're on the topic of annoyances: the guy at the 96th Street subway station who plays the electric guitar and whines his way through standards and Christmas songs? His rendition of "Misty" makes me want to throw myself on the tracks. He can go away now. People leaving the subway who go through emergency exits and set off the alarms because they don't feel like standing in line for the non-emergency exit like everyone else? I don't feel like listening to the alarm blaring after they're gone, and I hope someday they get stuck in a floor-to-ceiling turnstile for hours. And people who hold up cafeteria lines by selecting their food very slo-o-owly and placing it on their tray very meticulously, as though they were planning to enter their completed plate in a food-photography competition? They need to get over their obsession. Because I get cranky when I'm hungry, and someday I am going to grab the tongs out of their hands and stab them in the neck.

Phew. I think I might need another holiday weekend.

Please, Mr. Postman

Now that the 4th is over, I would like to send out a big screw you to the Postal Service, who waited until just after I bought my save-the-date stamps to roll out the new, 41-cent "Wedding" design. Cute stamps are one of my favorite things about this great nation of ours. And the ability to buy said stamps online is another of my favorite things. Seriously, people, there's no line, and you can pick the ones you want! No more endless waits at the bricks-and-mortar post office, along with every other out-of-work person in your neighborhood! (The last time I was at the post office, mailing a package, a woman ahead of me in the line called the police because some men, also in line, were bothering her. She felt threatened enough by whatever they did to call the police, but she didn't get out of the line. And the worst part was, I arrived after all this happened, so I only got to see the part where the police showed up and rolled their eyes at everyone involved.) No more icy refusals from the lady behind the counter when you ask if they have something other than flags, like perhaps those new Ella Fitzgerald stamps advertised on the poster right behind her! No more vending machines that load you down with Sacagawea dollars! And the shipping, the price you pay to avoid all that, is only $1! So worth it.

I usually enjoy my online stamp-buying experience, at least in comparison to the usual in-person experience, but thanks to the recent rate increase, I had few options when it came time to buy stamps for our first big wedding-related mailing. It's not bad enough that I have a desk drawer full of fun 37- and 39-cent stamps (the Muppets, Judy Garland, children's storybook characters) that I now must combine with those ugly 2-cent Navajo Necklace rate-increase stamps... Now I have to send out all my save-the-dates with boring flags and Liberty Bells. (I would even have been happy with the Pollination stamps, but they hadn't been released yet, either. And that's just as well, because nobody wants to get that ugly bat in their mailbox.) So I spent my Independence Day contemplating these symbols of our freedom and grumbling, because I liked the doves better. Hell, I even liked the American Diplomats better.

When I was finally finished stamping and stuffing and sealing and such, I checked the USPS site again, for some reason, and that's when I saw the new "Wedding" stamps. Thanks a lot, Postal Service. I did learn some interesting facts about this rate change, though, which I'd like to share with you, because either I'm not exposed to enough reliable sources of news (very likely), or this whole postal-rate mess has been under-explained and under-advertised to all of us. Last year, the standard 2-ounce wedding invitation cost 63 cents to send (and the response envelope was the regular 39). Now the base rate has been increased, but the rate for the second ounce has decreased, so the invitation will only cost 58 cents. Woo hoo, this wedding won't bankrupt us after all! Of course, that assumes you don't mind the horrible pink color of the stamp. Bleh.

And I learned something else that's much more exiting, especially for those of you not stuck in the parallel universe of wedding planning. Along with my coil of boring-old-flag-stamps, I bought a bunch of Liberty Bell stamps that say "USA FIRST CLASS FOREVER" along the side. I assumed this was just standard jingoism, like "UNITED WE STAND" or "THESE COLORS DON'T RUN" or "THE USA IS THE BEST COUNTRY IN THE WORLD AND YOUR COUNTRY ISN'T." But, in fact, these Liberty Bell stamps are valid first-class postage... forever. That means you can buy a bunch now, and then, when the rate goes up another 2 cents next year, you'll still be able to use them! Everybody else will be paying 43 cents, but not you! And 60 years from now, when mailing a postcard costs $2.73 and very old people are the only ones who bother, you will still be able to use them! Even if they've lost their stickiness, and even if the Liberty Bell doesn't exist anymore, your "Forever" stamps will still be good. So says the Post Office. I just hope you don't get sick of looking at the Liberty Bell.

Three weekend subway tales

Saturday evening, I step onto a downtown train, and as the doors close I realize there are two teenage girls seated in the center of the car having a heated argument. Terrific. The girls were sitting right next to each other (every seat was taken), and Girl #1 leaned in even closer to Girl #2 as she shouted, "If you gonna talk about that, how 'bout what you pulled at my birthday party?! Girl, we talkin' my SWEET SIXTEEN party, and you all, Just walking him out, and you don't come BACK for 45 minutes." Her friend responded in like manner (dismissive gestures were flying, usually accompanied by "Psshhh"). And when I say they were shouting, I mean, this conversation was being carried out at a volume level that I'd say is only appropriate to normal conversation if you're standing next to the speakers in a nightclub, or maybe operating a jackhammer. Not, I would say, on a rather crowded but quiet subway car, when you and your conversation partner are sitting hip-to-hip. Every few sentences, the girls would laugh -- angry though they ostensibly were -- so I was satisfied this wouldn't escalate into a hair-pulling, earring-ripping, bystander-injuring fight. But it was still alarming, and still hurting my ears. So I changed cars. Girls, I'm sorry you don't get enough attention at home, or at your birthday parties, but I'm not here to make up for that. I'm just trying to read this copy of Commonweal.

* * *

Sunday morning, I'm on the uptown 1 train platform at Columbus Circle, just beginning my walk all the way to the end. Which is a great tip, by the way, in all cases but especially when you're heading uptown from 59th St. on the 1: instead of just stopping at the center of the platform, where the crowd is already three deep, and then fighting your way onto the already-full car that stops in front of you? Walk to the end of the platform, where you will find fewer people waiting for spaces on cars with lots more room. I don't know why this is such a well-kept secret, but I'm trying to get the word out. (Also: stay to the right. And step aside to let others on and off the train.)

Anyway, as I was saying, I was walking along the platform, and a white-haired man approached me and said, in halting, German-accented English: "Miss. We go to Guggen-hehm Moo-seum?" I thought he was asking me out on a date or something until I noticed the three middle-aged ladies nearby, also awaiting my response. Just harmless tourists! Phew. I'm always happy to help lost tourists if I can, because the subway system is hard enough for us residents to figure out (especially on the weekends). But this was no easy case, because -- as you've already realized, if you're a New Yorker yourself -- there is no simple way to get to the Guggenheim from 59th Street, especially not from the 1-train platform. (At least they had the uptown part right.) And they obviously spoke almost no English, and I speak almost no German (I can sing "Happy Birthday," but that wouldn't have helped much). "The Guggenheim..." I said, and the man nodded and said, "Eighty-six." One of the women held out a map, on which she (or someone) had circled the B-C 86th St. stop. Right street -- wrong side of the park. I tried to demonstrate this by pointing. "The Guggenheim is here," I said, dragging a finger across the green rectangle that represents Central Park. "Yes, and ve are here," the man said (almost rolling his eyes, or so it seemed), pointing to 59th St. The woman spoke up: "B or C?"

If only it were that simple. Even tourists fluent in English would probably get turned around if I gave them the best getting-to-the-Guggenheim advice I could muster, and these tourists were definitely not fluent in English. The woman with the map did not feel like waiting around for me to think of a good answer. "To eighty-six," she insisted. "B or C?" Like, Come on, lady, we don't have all day. But of course, I was trying to think of a route that wouldn't take them all day. I looked around for backup -- maybe someone would help me convince them that they should consider another path? But everyone within earshot was staring straight ahead, or up, or down; anywhere but at me and my new friends. I was on my own. "You could take the 1 train..." I began, but they all shook their heads, and the woman repeated, "B or C?" and jabbed an impatient finger at the map. Maybe it's just the German/American social barrier that made them seem so impatient, but by this point I wanted to say, "Look, you seem awfully confident, so why don't you just go ahead and pick a train yourself." Instead I said, "You could get off at 86 and take the bus," trying again to convey the message that crossing the park would be necessary at some point. They conferred briefly ("Bus?") and seemed to reach an agreement that this would work. So when the woman holding the map asked again, "B or C?" I told them, "C," hoping that's the line that runs on weekends (it's all I can do to keep track of the ones I ride every day), and they headed off. I hope they found their way to the Guggenheim, or at least ran into a native they trusted more than me to direct them there.

* * *

Sunday night I encountered a personal subway first: an otherwise sane-looking passenger clipping her nails. I thought -- I hoped -- that this was just an urban legend, but no, I can now confirm that there are actually people who think nail-clipping is appropriate public transportation activity. And she was doing a really thorough job, too; this was no emergency hangnail removal. Clip, clip, clip, all the way downtown, in spite of many dirty looks tossed her way by the rest of us. (Wouldn't it be great if dirty looks were effective? So many of my problems would be solved.) I think I speak for all of us not raised in barns when I say: Ew.

I can't help my concern that the ladies of River City keep ignoring all my counsel and advice

Here's a fun time-wasting blog, for those days when Restricted View just isn't absorbing enough: Passive-Aggressive Notes. [Update: they've moved here.]

In my experience, "passive-aggressive" is an oft-misused label; people enjoy accusing others of "passive-aggressive" behavior in situations that fall well outside the purview of the actual definition, possibly because this sort of not-strictly-passive-aggressive-but-still-annoying behavior lends itself so well to complaining, and possibly because "passive-aggressive" is kind of fun to say. (The same goes for "anal-retentive.") I'm not sure all, or even most, of these notes would really qualify as "passive-aggressive." (The folks that run the blog are aware of this, to their credit.) But they're fun to read, because each pissy little Post-It tells a story, a saga of human behavior and misbehavior. Sometimes a tragic story; more often a farce; almost always a story with which you, the reader, can identify. Sometimes you identify with the note's recipient/target; more often, you identify with the person who left the note, or with the bystander who took the picture. For the past few weeks I've been mentally composing my own note, a list of "instructions for using the garbage chute," because some of my neighbors don't seem to realize that they shouldn't leave their garbage bag (or, more often, plastic grocery bag with the handles left untied) squatting behind the door, at the top of the chute, waiting for me to come along and give it a push. I don't want to touch your garbage, people. I don't even want to touch my own, but we all have to do things we don't like from time to time.

I probably won't actually write and post that note, or any of the others I compose in my head in response to similar annoyances. Not because it would be passive-aggressive (which it wouldn't; I think "bitchy" is more accurate), but because it probably wouldn't work, and then I'd just be more angry: not only are people ignoring the conventions of civilized society, now they're also ignoring my note! The nerve! So I'll just keep on blowing off steam here instead. Because, really, what is a blog, if not a series of (so-called) passive-aggressive notes?

P.S. I seem to be invoking Marian Paroo a lot lately -- I've always identified with her. And you just know she wrote scoldy notes to post around the library.

I know what the gentleman wanted.

Yesterday I was heading into the main terminal at Grand Central Station, dressed for success, as I was on my way to New Haven to speak at the LifeTales reception. A man (thirty-something black guy, nice-looking, wearing a suit) stopped me and said: "Excuse me... Do you know if they made an announcement that Your Majesty would be here today wearing that beautiful dress?"

Didn't see that coming, did you? Neither did I, which is my excuse for not coming up with a snappy comeback. (I wish I could have seen the expression on my face -- I just said, "No..." and walked off, aloof as Marian Paroo, or so I hoped.) But seriously, what is the appropriate response here? I don't even know what the intended effect could possibly be. I suppose he gets points for creativity -- it beats "Hey baby, nice rack" -- but if you're going to hit on some random woman, why the false pretenses? Does throwing her off her game like that really increase your odds? Or was this guy just the verbal equivalent of a flasher? "Excuse me, I'm just asking you for directions OH NOW I'M COMMENTING ON YOUR LOOKS!" You thought I wasn't going to objectify you but guess what I am!

I would have assumed this was some sort of fraternity hazing stunt, except that the guy was too old, and he was far too well-dressed for a panhandler. And he looked like he should have known better, generally. But perhaps taking people by surprise is how this guy gets his kicks (although in that case, I would expect the "surprise" part of the sentence to be more crude and less fanciful). I wonder if he goes to bars and does the opposite? "Hey, baby, I've been watching you from over there all night, and I just had to ask... do you know whether the 2-3 is running express this weekend?"

I was meeting the fiance shortly thereafter, and I couldn't wait to tell him this story, but it took me a long time to manage it, because I started laughing every time I got to the "Your Majesty" part. (That guy must have rehearsed a lot to keep such a straight face.) And later that evening, I received a few genuine compliments on my dress (which is pretty, if I do say so myself, though not especially regal) from kind older ladies, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Or from saying, "Please, please: you may address me as 'Your Majesty.'" I have decided that I will now refer to that dress as "my imperial robes" or "my coronation gown" (e.g., "I'm glad my coronation gown is machine washable, because I have to wear it again next week"). And I have a feeling the fiance and I will be trying to ambush each other with hilariously convoluted compliments for months to come. "Did you already send in that deposit to the photographer, or should I do it right after I finish admiring how nice you look with your new haircut?" It's totally fun. Submit your ideas below!

At Citibank we will meet accidentally

This evening I ducked into a branch of my bank to deposit a check. An elderly lady was sitting there in the vestibule, perched on a broad windowsill, wearing one of those plastic head-wrap things that old ladies wear. She didn't seem likely to mug me or steal my PIN, so I didn't pay much attention to her; I figured she was just keeping out of the rain, maybe waiting for a ride or something. And then, just as I put my card into the ATM, she said, "Will I die like my sister did?"

Was she talking to me? Who knows. She didn't seem offended by my failure to respond, and she didn't repeat the question, so I figured it must have been rhetorical. Then, after a silence (save for the beeping from the ATM keypad as I entered my PIN), she added, in a mournful tone, "She was only 40 years old." If I thought she really wanted an answer, I might have pointed out that she's clearly got her sister beat by a few decades at this point. Instead, I pretended to be really, really focused on my transaction. And just as the machine returned my card, the woman (changing the topic?) said, "A negro homosexual..."

She trailed off there, and although I am sure the rest of that thought was worth hearing, I didn't stick around to find out. Now I'm wondering if perhaps she was some kind of oracle. A new service provided by my bank: sad old ladies will put your problems in perspective while you wait!

Speaking of the elderly (how's that for a disrespectful segue): tomorrow I am off to New Haven to celebrate the release of Choices & Milestones, the long-awaited anthology of LifeTales stories. I'll be reading from my story about Paul Press (which, I am tickled to note, is a cited source for the Wikipedia article about J. Press), and speaking a bit about my experience as an intern. And, consequently, probably not blogging. But when my life returns to normal, you will be the first to hear about it!

Do you move your lips when you read?

I recently put together a birthday gift for my friend Tim, some home-crafted objets d'art that I thought might appeal to his unique combination of taste and wit. In one of those classic-film photo books I'm always cutting up, I found a handful of silent-movie title cards, reproduced to serve as thumbnail sketches of an era. I mounted them on pretty paper and dropped them into funky little glass frames, to make attractive paperweights or bookcase accent pieces or whatever Tim decides to use them for. They came out very cute, in my humble opinion.

I mention this because I think they tell us something interesting about the experience of going to the movies in the pre-talkies era; something not captured in all the stills of Gloria Swanson and John Barrymore and Alla Nazimova. One of the cards said (I'm paraphrasing, because I didn't think to write all this down before I gave them away), "Please be patient while the operator changes a reel." I paired it with another request: "Please read the titles to yourself -- loud reading annoys your neighbors." A simple request, but totally revealing, no? It communicates something concrete about the everyday experience of going to the movies in the pre-talkies era, a detail that isn't part of the official film-history account and is therefore not part of anybody's mental image of what moviegoing was like in its early years, even though it seems totally obvious now that I think about it. Of course people read the titles out loud! They didn't have cell phones, so they had to do something to annoy each other. And if I'd been a blogger in 1919, I would have been complaining about it regularly, I'm sure.

The others are interesting from a women's-studies perspective: "Ladies! Please remove your hats" was accompanied by a cartoon of a frustrated man seated behind a woman wearing a very large hat. (I recall a sketch on Sesame Street that found Bert in a similar predicament, although I don't quite remember the punch line. Did the woman have very large hair beneath the hat?) And I love the one that says, "Please refrain from smoking -- it disturbs the ladies." And how.

The theme I'm getting at here -- the difficulty of seeing the past clearly through the distorting prism of the present -- is explored (delightfully, I think) in Richard Greenberg's play The Violet Hour, and I'm reminded in particular of this moment from the very last scene (not a paraphrase; I looked it up):

JESSIE: Well, I don't know about you, but I would like to get to the theater early for a change --

GIDGER: Oh, absolutely. Because eighty years from now, there are going to be signs in the lobby that say WARNING: THIS PLAY CONTAINS CIGARETTE SMOKING, so we don't have a minute to lose.

(Everybody but John laughs, gaily, as in a twenties play.)

MTC's 2003 production of that play contained very little that was bright or effective. But Greenberg's spooky joke paid off, because at that very moment, just such a sign was on display in the lobby of the Biltmore.

Who says New Yorkers aren't friendly?

I took the subway to Lincoln Center the other day, and followed the underground tunnels to the little-used exit that led to my destination. The MTA, in its infinite wisdom, had set this exit up so that it could not be used as an entrance: there were turnstiles, but a large, locked gate on the "entrance" side prevented passengers from being able to swipe in. There was no such gate on the subway side of the bank of turnstiles, so you could, if you wanted to, walk through in that direction, but then you'd be face-to-face with the aforementioned gate, so the only real exit options were two "high exit turnstiles" -- you know, those floor-to-ceiling spinning gates that people hate to use. Normally I wouldn't have bothered to take note of all this, but it turned out to be the set for an exciting pre-theatre event.

As I said, there wasn't much traffic at the time, but as I approached the exit I noticed a man standing on the other side of the gate, looking concerned. And then I noticed the cause of his concern: a blind woman, led by a guide dog, was heading for one of the gated-off turnstiles. The drama was already in progress, and I missed whatever happened in Act One, but by the time I got there the man was clearly trying to talk the blind woman out of exiting through the turnstile, and she was clearly not heeding his advice -- in fact, she seemed to resent the intrusion, or so I gathered from the way she was snarling at him. And so he watched helplessly as she and her dog exited through the turnstile and found themselves imprisoned by the gate on the other side. At which point the woman said, sheepishly, "Gosh, I guess I should have listened to you, sir. I'm sorry to have to ask, but do you think you could help me get out?"

Just kidding! What actually happened was, the woman spluttered angrily, "Now what am I supposed to do?!" as if the man were the cause of her being stuck. He didn't really have an answer for her, and I didn't, either; her only options were to duck under or climb over the turnstile that had locked behind her, and she didn't look nimble enough to manage either maneuver, even under the best of circumstances (i.e., sighted and with no dog to worry about). So the man just said sadly, "I tried to tell you not to go through..." And she responded with more incoherent biliousness, finally accusing him, "I asked you a question and you didn't answer me." Although I missed the first part of the exchange, I'm going to go out on a limb here, based on what I saw of this woman's receptivity to assistance, and say that's not actually true.

Ordinarily, my hat is off to anyone with impaired vision who has the courage to navigate the subway system. I find it difficult enough with all of my senses intact. And the MTA probably should do more to prevent something like this from happening. But I don't care what your personal burdens might be, or how much you are inconvenienced by the mismanagement of the subway system -- when a well-meaning stranger goes out of his way to help you, I think you ought to respond with something other than unbridled abuse. Call me old-fashioned.

So now the woman was well and truly stuck, more dependent than ever on the kindness of strangers, and more abusive than ever to the few strangers who were trying to help. I can understand that she was probably feeling a bit humiliated by this point, but she wasn't about to learn any lessons from that! Another woman who'd been looking on came to the defense of the man, saying as gently as possible, "He did try to tell you not to go through there..." And the blind woman snapped back, "Oh, shut up!" Um, lady, I thought, at this moment you are completely at the mercy of strangers. Perhaps you could tone down the bile just a bit. Perhaps informing passersby of their shortcomings should not be your very highest priority at this moment.

Seeing that my help wouldn't exactly be welcomed -- even if I could think of a way to help -- and feeling bad about standing there gawking, I walked on. But I would love to know how the situation resolved itself. I was sort of rooting for the man to just walk away and leave her there; he'd absorbed more than his fair share of hostility already, and perhaps, by the time another helpful stranger came along, the woman might have been humbled into a more grateful state of mind. I'm pretty sure he felt obliged to see it through, though, God bless him. I'm also pretty sure that woman never thanked him for his concern, or apologized for her behavior. And I'm certain the guy will think twice the next time he's tempted to help somebody out (what is it they say about no good deed?). As for me, I think there may be a parable in all this, but I'm not sure I want to know what the lesson is.

Some people say this town don't look good in snow

We are in day 5 of the great delayed arrival of winter here in NYC, and I know we don't have much to complain about compared to some Restricted View readers, but I'm going to complain anyway, because it's gross. Walking down Broadway is fine as long as you don't have to cross any streets; the businesses and apartment building management companies make sure the sidewalks are shoveled, but nobody takes responsibility for the intersections, so every time you get to a corner you have to navigate a path through knee-high piles and/or knee-deep puddles of slush. This situation, combined with the chin-to-chest posture encouraged by the arctic winds, makes the every-man-for-himself pedestrian code even more ruthless than usual.

I saw that nightmare schizo bum from the subway yesterday, panhandling at the corner of 96th and Broadway. Even with my head lowered against the chill, I recognized him by his peculiarly angry pitch: "If you have no food, even a penny..." I would think that the overtly hostile approach would be even less effective on the street than it is on the subway, but hey, what do I know. I didn't have much time to worry about it, because I was focused on trying to get across 96th St., which even on a good day is the pedestrian-signal-ignoring, flagrant red-light-running and consequent box-blocking capital of the world. The badly or not-at-all plowed streets only made the drivers less patient than usual, and so when I got to the corner the "crosswalk" was blocked by 3 lanes of immobile traffic, even though the signal said I could "walk." As if scaling a mountain of slush and then winding a path through many dirty bumpers wasn't difficult enough, the woman in front of me decided that this time and place (i.e., in the middle of traffic with the lights about to change) was the perfect moment to tinker with her iPod playlist. And I thought to myself, Here is someone who would positively profit from being screamed at, and she's mere feet away from that crazy man who seems compelled to yell at people, particuarly women. If only there were a way to harness his surplus of hostility and direct it toward society's needs! Everybody would win!

(So that's the kind of mood I'm in after several days of dirty snow and freezing temperatures. How was your Valentine's Day?)

I also have a celebrity sighting to report: Hayden Panettiere and her family-cum-entourage made an appearance in the lobby of the office building where I was freelancing this week. You may know her from Heroes; I know her primarily from her role as the Annoying Little White Girl in Remember the Titans (a fine performance, but good lord, has any character/narrative contrivance ever deserved a good punch in the face more than that little girl?), and from her not one but two guest-starring roles on L&O: SVU. Like me, she had to hang out in the lobby until someone signed her in. The security desk lady asked her who she was -- as in, "Are you famous?" which seemed a touch unprofessional, to me. Ms. Panettiere answered politely, from what I gathered, and sat down next to me to wait for clearance, but the security-desk lady called her back to ask for an autograph. Again, unprofessional, and also a bit rude, don't you think? Are you famous, and if so, will you sign this for me? But anyway. That was my brush with fame for the week.

P.S. She's also a musician. Of course she is.

Maybe I should just think of it as a live theatre event

I told you, back when I started this here blog, that I might be posting about weird subway encounters from time to time, and I said that because I knew, sooner or later, some unpleasant subway situation would burn itself into my brain, and the only way to get it out would be to blog about it. So, a warning: anger follows.

Yesterday morning I was riding an uptown 1 train with just a handful of passengers in the car -- everybody sitting, and there were still lots of seats. I was reading last week's New Yorker (I was right in the middle of that article about the color consultant, the one that starts out really fun but ends up being mostly about industrial siding, which couldn't be less interesting), but as the doors closed at 72nd Street, I heard: "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry to disturb you..."

I don't know about the rest of you, but when I hear the beginning of a panhandling spiel, I do a quick mental assessment (without looking up, if possible): How easy will this person be to ignore? Or, to put it another way, How likely is it that this person will become confrontational before we get to the next stop? This particular guy looked kind of familiar, and maybe you've seen him too: white guy, short, dark hair, probably in his 40s; dirty, obviously, and kind of wild-eyed. Something about the way he was talking set off alarm bells -- his pitch was loud, fast and nervous, and he was pacing up and down the car while he talked. The words were pretty typical -- "Any food you can spare, or if you don't have food, if you can spare some change, even a penny will help" -- but where most panhandlers shoot for "pathetic" and/or "grateful" in their delivery, his tone was oddly impatient, even hostile, as though we were wasting his time by refusing to surrender the food we had hidden on our persons. This made me nervous, and I considered bailing at the next stop, but he hadn't done anything too out of the ordinary by the time we arrived at 79th street, and I didn't want to wait for another train, so I kept staring at my magazine and hoping he would go away. The train pulled out and he finished working the car, having collected whatever he was going to get. Then, without warning, he approached 2 women who were sitting across from me. They were a mother and daughter, maybe 60 and 30, and as far as I know they had done nothing to attract this man's attention. But he leaned over them until his face was inches from theirs and treated them to a long and vile tirade. I couldn't hear everything he said, but I could tell from the words he emphasized that it was violent, sexual, and generally disgusting. The women stared straight ahead, pretending not to notice him, which is almost definitely what I would have done in their shoes. Having said his piece, he strolled down to the end of the car, said something similarly crazy (but much more polite) to a white-haired man sitting near the door, and then walked back along the length of the car, muttering something about how it was "his stop," and disembarked at 86th Street.

Act two started when the doors shut behind him, and the younger woman came to life. "Did you hear what he said to us?!" she asked the old man at the end of the car, who just shrugged. She turned her attention to the man sitting across from her (and a few seats down from me), and asked him, "Did you hear what he said?!" That man didn't answer audibly, either, which I found extremely provoking. "I would have punched him in the face if he weren't obviously crazy," she said; still no response from the man next to me (other than a "whaddaya-gonna-do" shrug). Not even a "Me too." I'd like to think that, if I were a young and able-bodied man, I would have come to the women's rescue while they were actually being harrassed; probably just a "Do you have a problem with these ladies?" delivered with the proper emphasis would have been enough to make the guy back off. But even if that's not true -- even if a male me would still have just sat there, pretending not to notice what was going on and trying to avoid being cursed at/spat upon/stabbed in turn -- I would at least be willing to acknowledge, once out of danger, that what had just happened was horrifying and unacceptable and unfair, if only to redeem the honor of men in general. Maybe this guy was ashamed of himself for not doing anything, or maybe he was afraid to "get involved," but the whole thing was making me fume. I was about to say so, but then the woman turned back to her mother, who was shushing her, to argue. This might be a good time to mention that these women were Asian; I don't know if that has anything to do with the mother's reaction, but for whatever reason, she felt strongly that her daughter should not be making a fuss. You know, let's all just put this unpleasantness behind us. This made me even more angry, but I didn't want to get between them. They argued about that until the train reached my stop, and I got off the train wondering what, if anything, I could have done differently, and whether I can take anything but resentment away from the experience.

I am absolutely certain that, if those 2 women had been accompanied by a man, the crazy panhandler guy would not have harrassed them. He wasn't that crazy; he was a predator who knew an opportunity when he saw one. And who guessed, correctly and probably based on past experience, that none of the other passengers would interfere. The other thing I know for sure is that if I had gotten off at 72nd Street, like my brain was telling me to, I would have avoided witnessing the whole ugly scene. So does that mean, from now on, knowing what I do, I should never ride the subway without a man to protect me? Or, if I must, I should be sure to give myself an extra 15 minutes to get where I'm going, so I can afford to switch trains whenever things are looking a bit dodgy? I hope you can appreciate why I'm not really satisfied with those conclusions.

From time to time I hear people complain about the draconian authority of the transit police: they fined me for putting my feet on a seat; they gave me a ticket for having my bike on a train even though it was totally empty; etc. But I have witnessed situations like the one I just described many times, and never once has a police officer been around to intervene. So I want to know what lines they're actually policing, because it isn't the ones I ride. However, whether or not they're around to enforce the rules, I do know that there is a rule against subway panhandling. And that's because panhandlers make the subway not just uncomfortable, but unsafe. So I don't give money to anybody on the subway, regardless of their talent or sob story. That seems responsible, but it doesn't really do anything about the problem of men victimizing women, for kicks, because they know they can get away with it. It doesn't alleviate any of the fear and frustration those 2 women are now carrying around. So what's the answer? A return to "women only" subway cars (which they have in other countries, I am told)? Do you New Yorkers have a coping mechanism for these situations? Have you been victimized, and/or have you fought back? I would really love to hear about it.

You are all mad

Ladies and gentlemen, as you entered the theatre this afternoon, you may have noticed the sign in the lobby asking you to please turn off all cell phones and electronic devices. Perhaps you also noticed the insert in your program, again reminding you to turn off your cell phone. And surely you heard the announcement that was made just before the play began, which once more reminded you to turn off your cell phone. Apparently all this has confused you, so I would like to clarify: when you go to the theatre, you are expected to turn off your cell phone. It's not a suggestion, it's a requirement. And you are not exempted just because you don't know how to operate your phone; ask someone under 70 to show you how to turn off the ringer.

While we're on the subject, I want to clear up one other tiny area of confusion: the actors on the stage? The people you've paid a lot of money to see? They are actually here, in person. Real live people, doing their jobs in this very room, a mere 10 yards away from where you sit. They are not on a screen, like Kramer and Jerry. They are not animatronic robots, like in Disney's Hall of Presidents. They are actual people. With that in mind, enjoy the show.

...Sigh. Yesterday I attended a matinee of The Clean House, at Lincoln Center's Newhouse Theater, which I'll review in a forthcoming post. If you take a moment to picture the kind of people likely to turn up to a Wednesday matinee at Lincoln Center, I think you'll agree that a certain amount of uncouth audience behavior must be expected. I was prepared to hear people loudly repeating jokes to their seat partners, or loudly asking their partners to repeat a joke they didn't catch. I was prepared for the occasional cell phone or beeping watch to interrupt the silence, in spite of the many warnings regarding same. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened during Act II. It was, of course, a climactic moment; Jill Clayburgh and Blair Brown were onstage, staring each other down, at the height of a dramatic confrontation, when... bleebleeblee! bleebleeblee! A cell phone. Some fumbling, much tsk-ing and turning around and staring and so on. The actors pretended not to notice. And then a voice, loud enough for everyone in the theatre to hear, says: "I can't talk now! I'm at a play."

Ladies and gentlemen, this person answered the phone. Some details, so you can picture the scene: the Newhouse is an intimate house, about 300 seats, with a thrust stage. Because there's no proscenium, the audience is always partially lit, and this person was sitting in the very last row of the center section, so everyone else in the theatre could see her. (I think it was a her.) And at this point everyone (including, I would imagine, the 2 actors onstage, who were already facing in that direction) turned to get a good look at her. How, we wondered, could we have spent all this time in the company of someone so dangerously stupid, and not realized it?

After a moment, the actors continued on as if nothing had happened, which disappointed me. There's a lot to be said for being professional, and facing the rudeness of any audience is an act of great heroism in my book. But when the audience member's behavior goes so far beyond inconsiderate, and when the distraction is so monumental, I think the only appropriate thing to do is to stop the show and acknowledge it. What wouldn't I have given to see Blair Brown drop character, shade her eyes and say, "Are you fucking kidding me?!" Even just an icy "Does anyone else need to make a call?" would have been great. Anything to drive home the fact that theatre is a live event, a shared experience, and that this particular shared experience had been inexcusably damaged by one idiot who didn't even realize that she'd done anything wrong. Maybe getting a reaction from the stage would have shocked this lady into realizing that, Good heavens! I'm not home watching TV! Maybe the shame of being dressed down by Blair Brown would have helped her to remember to leave her damn phone home next time. Or maybe not. But at least it would have released the tension for the rest of us, and allowed us to take a collective breath before refocusing our attention on the play-in-progress. Instead, the resentment just festered, palpably, for the rest of the performance, and at the curtain call I imagined that I could see the cast trying their best not to glare at us all. Who could blame them?

I saw the great Brian Murray in Hobson's Choice a few years back, at the Atlantic, another intimate Off-Broadway house. He, too, was right in the middle of a big onstage argument when a phone rang, and without breaking his stride, he yelled, "Stop it!" right at the actor he was in the middle of berating. Then he slowly turned to glare into the house, and I realized with a thrill that he was talking to us! The phone was silenced, everyone (except, presumably, the offending patron) applauded, and the play continued. And I'm pretty sure it didn't happen again. I'm quite sure that that particular person never forgot to turn off his or her phone again. After the show, I had the opportunity to speak to him briefly, and I told him how well I thought he'd handled the situation. He'd forgotten all about it by that point; it took him a moment to recall what I was talking about. He handled it and moved on, but for me it was a thrilling and memorable only-in-the-theatre experience. Whereas yesterday, hours after I left Lincoln Center, I was still fuming about the moron who got away with answering her phone, for chrissakes, in the middle of a play I wasn't even particularly enjoying. So, stage actors of the world, for what it's worth: I advocate the direct approach.

Anyone else have an opinion, or an even more shocking tale of audience idiocy? It might make me feel better.

P.S. A big hello and welcome to my visitors from A Tiny Revolution and the Dizzies! And anywhere else you may have come from. I hope you're glad you stopped by.