Following yonder star

I bought last year's Christmas cards from UNICEF -- a worthy charity gets some cash; my friends and family get some attractive artwork and cozy holiday wishes to decorate their mantelpiece/refrigerator/trash can; everybody wins. I probably won't be sending cards this Christmas (maybe we should add "P.S. Happy Holidays!" to our wedding invitations?), but when the UNICEF Cards & Gifts catalog arrived this week, I flipped through it anyway. My favorite Xmas card design was "City of Bethlehem" -- until I read the description more carefully. What's wrong with this picture? "Embossed with bronze accents, the City of Bethlehem glows in the evening sun, while a shimmering star guides Joseph and Mary." That star is pretty and all, but I'm pretty sure that's not how the story goes.

Seriously though: UNICEF does good work; their Christmas cards are nice; you should consider buying some... but if you go the religious route, maybe look for a design with a slightly better grasp on the nativity story details.

What global not-for-profit will I find petty fault with tomorrow? Come back and see!

I often ask myself that very question

Had a fine time relaxing in the Hamptons over this surprisingly sunny weekend. I wouldn't have minded too much if it rained, though, since I enjoyed having the time to read and poke around online and such. And it had been a long time since I devoted the better part of a Sunday afternoon to reading the Times. My 4-and-a-half-year-old nephew came along, looking for some entertainment, when I was just picking up the NYT Magazine (which I'd left for last). He looked at it, and then at me, and then he asked, "If it's not interesting, why does it have a robot on the cover?"

His assumption that the NYT Magazine was "not interesting" was probably the result of an earlier exchange with some other grown-up, but I prefer to think it was a completely spontaneous pronouncement. In any case, his point was well taken. Why was I seeking out the content in the NYT Magazine when I could be doing something rewarding, like playing with my nephews? We ended up watching the last half of the Yankees-Orioles game, after which everybody went outside to play some backyard wiffleball, with rules made up Calvinball-style by the aforementioned four-year-old. After making contact with the ball, he trotted proudly around the "bases" we'd established, then headed off into the far reaches of the yard. "I'm still running the bases!" he called back to us. "There's lots more of them over here!" Eventually he finished his victory lap and came back to establish a new rule: all players called "out" had to sit in "Baseball Jail" (the nearby Little Tykes playhouse) until someone else got out and took their place. Baseball Jail is sort of like the pickle jar, but more awesome. And more challenging for those of us over 4 feet tall. Frankly, I think baseball's popularity would soar if the MLB adopted some of these rules.

...Where we're twice as upset as in town

Perhaps I jinxed myself when I expressed doubts about whether I'd have anything to blog about this weekend. Not half an hour later I left my apartment and stepped straight into a comedy of errors... except without the "comedy," really. Do you like reading long and irritable accounts of other people's travel mishaps? No? Too bad, because that's what you're getting. The one thing that got me through this afternoon without snapping at innocent passersby or giving up on my little vacation was the thought that, when I got back to my computer, I would write such a blog post about all this.

Things started off well enough. When I left my apartment I was toting a heavy backpack and an equally heavy laptop bag and wearing not-so-practical shoes (this is rare, for me, and I almost always regret it), but I made it to the bus stop two blocks away at the same moment the bus arrived, which I took as a positive sign. Yes, it was crowded and slow-moving, and carrying at least 15 noisy preschoolers on some sort of day-camp field trip, but at least it took some of the legwork out of the errand I had unwisely decided to run on my way to Penn Station. I still had to walk two long avenues west when I disembarked to run said errand, and then two long avenues back to Broadway to catch the subway (I didn't have time to take the bus all the way downtown -- nobody does, really, unless they're not picky about when they arrive). It was hot and humid and just after 1:00 when I arrived at the 86th St. downtown 1 train platform, a dripping, sweaty mess. I set my bags down gratefully and looked around at the surprisingly large number of people also waiting on the platform. Obviously there hadn't been a train in quite some time. Great, I thought, a nice crowded ride downtown. I was too tired to dig out any reading material, and anyway, I'd be reading plenty once I got on the train, so I just stood there dripping and gazing down the track, waiting for the 1 train to appear. It did appear rather quickly, but unfortunately it was speeding past us on the express track. Say it with me: ruh-roh.

A few more minutes went by before an announcement was made over the PA system. It was basically unintelligible, but I believe it went something like this: "Due to a stalled train and a passenger needing assistance at 96th Street, the downtown 1 train is running on the express track. As an alternative to downtown service, transfer to an uptown 1 train to 96th Street and take the express downtown."

Lately I've been reading a lot of headlines about the MTA's proposed fare hikes. I also read about the most recent findings of the Straphangers Campaign State of the Subways Report, which found that the 1 train was the best in the system in terms of dependability. Because of where I live, where the fiance lives, and where I work, I tend to ride the 1 train almost exclusively, and my response to that was, "Wow, if the 1 train is the best, then the MTA is doing even worse than I thought." Because, seriously. I suppose you can't blame the MTA for a passenger's "needing assistance," whatever that means, but you sure as hell can (and I sure as hell do) blame them for taking so long to inform all of us would-be downtown passengers that we were screwed. Based on the number of people waiting on the platform, and the 1 train that whizzed past us on the express track just after I arrived, service had been suspended for some time already when I got there. But nobody stopped me, or any of the people after me, from running a Metrocard through the turnstile, paying for a ride we would not be able to take. I even saw a guy swipe in after that announcement had been made (fighting against the tide of people storming out); nobody bothered to stop him, either.

I have an unlimited-ride card, so I didn't join the throng of customers looking for a refund or a transfer from the token-booth clerk. Instead I went upstairs and hailed a cab, because it was now 1:15 and I didn't have time to go uptown and then downtown again on the subway. (Plus I was really sick of lugging around my bags, and teetering a little on my not-so-practical shoes, and did I mention it was very hot?) So I rode downtown, feeling sorry for myself as I watched the price ticking up on the cab's meter -- it ended up costing me more to get to Penn Station than it would to get from there to Bridgehampton -- and feeling sorry for the people stranded on the corners of Broadway wherever there was a 1-train stop.

When I finally got to Penn Station, the clock there said it was 1:34. My train was to leave at 1:39. So I ran to the nearest ticket machine, which actually accepted my credit card on the first dip (I'd say the machines fail to read my card a good 65% of the time), and then ran back to the departures board. I saw "1:39... track 19," and rushed down the stairs. A conductor (do they call them conductors? Can a train have multiple conductors? I like that word, and will use it until you suggest a better one) was standing in the nearest train doorway, so I asked him, "Jamaica?" (I always have to switch at Jamaica to catch another train to Bridgehampton), and he said, "Yes." Phew! I hopped on. No seats available, so I stood in the entrance-area, happy just to put down my bags.

Here's something you should know about me: I hate being late for things. If it's up to me (and I am not thwarted by, say, the subways), I almost never am; when it's not up to me, I have a hard time believing things will come out all right. And here's something else (possibly related) you should know about me: I have very little faith in my travel instincts. I always secretly suspect I'm on the wrong train, or airplane, or bus, or highway, or elevator, and I only calm down a little bit after the conductor (or whoever) checks my ticket. (They would probably tell me if I were on the wrong train/plane/bus, but you never know.) This quirk of mine doesn't stem from any real-life experience that I can recall -- I've never flown to Spain when I wanted to go to Pittsburgh or anything like that, and I usually do a decent job of figuring out where I'm supposed to be. It's just one charming manifestation of my personal insecurity. Normally, these two quirks -- my preference for leaving myself lots of extra time, plus my hyper-vigilance about the details of travel -- prevent me from actually messing things up, or at least I believe they do. But what happens when the MTA takes away my extra time? I fail to notice that, apparently, there are two trains departing from Penn Station at 1:39, and one of them is going straight to Jamaica, where it will make its connection to the Bridgehampton-bound train, without stopping at Woodside, Forest Hills and Kew Gardens first. I am only guessing, because I am on the 1:39 train that makes all of those stops, on its way to Jamaica and points beyond. When the conductor punches my ticket, he says, "Okay, you'll have to transfer at Jamaica... and there's an information booth on track 8." An information booth? I am not encouraged. This does not look good for Homestar Runner.

When at last we arrive at Jamaica, I have a bad feeling about what kind of information I am in for, but I ask the information-booth lady anyway -- trying to sound as hopeful as possible -- "When is the next train to Bridgehampton?" She answers -- is that a smirk? -- "Not till 4:25." It is now approximately 2:10. Super. I consider whether I can kill 2 hours in Jamaica (not with my heavy bags I can't). I consider taking the subway all the way back, which would definitely kill a good chunk of that time, and which is already paid for, but after what I've been through so far today I just don't trust the subway. So I buy a round-trip ticket to Penn Station (I'll have to ride back out here again, remember, to catch that 4:25) and jump on the 2:14 Manhattan-bound train. More money wasted, as the conductor walks right past me when he comes collecting tickets.

Back on 34th Street, I call my sister to tell her I'll be later than I originally planned, and then call the fiance to tell him how my day is going (I felt he would want to know of my unhappiness). Then I head across the street to Borders, where I read the book I'd been saving for the train and nurse a coffee. (I was tempted to buy one of those high-calorie, low-nutrition "blended coffee drinks," but I'd blown my luxuries budget on the cab.) I head back out to Penn Station well before I need to, just so I'll have plenty of time to study the departures board before making any sudden moves. When the 3:58 pulls out, I am sitting on it, across the aisle from a young man with a German accent who is SHOUTING into his cellphone about his evening plans. ("HELLO? YES, I AM ON ZE TRAIN TO SOW-TAMPTON! VAT TIME IS ZE OPENING?") The conductor does take my ticket this time. At Jamaica, I transfer for the last off-peak train to Montauk, stopping at Bridgehampton (and running express to West Hampton; thank the MTA for small favors), and I move to the end of the platform to increase my chances of getting a comfortable seat. Then the train arrives, and it's one of those short ones that don't take up the whole length of the platform, so I have to run back along the platform to where the last car stops, with all the other morons who thought they were beating the system. But I've been feeling like a moron all day long, so this is nothing. I'm just happy to finally be on my way. (I suppose it bears mentioning that, when I complain about "the MTA," as I often do, I really just mean the subway system. The LIRR and Metro-North have never let me down. That is, unless the whole "Connection to Bridgehampton? What connection to Bridgehampton?" screwup was theirs and not mine... but it probably wasn't.)

Epilogue: When I get on the train, I find a flier on my seat. (I noticed many similar fliers littering the floor of the train to Jamaica.) It is headed "The Fare Facts" and takes the form of an open letter from Elliot G. Sander, Executive Director and CEO of the MTA, printed in English and, on the reverse, in Spanish. He "encourages" me to read the MTA's Preliminary Financial Plan for 2008-2011 and "form [my] own opinions." But, he adds, "When you do, bear in mind that it's about more than just fares and tolls." (Emphasis his.) Then he outlines some of the other things it's "about" -- first, "uncontrollable costs like pensions, health care and debt service" that have left the MTA with "future budget gaps." I'm not sure I'm prepared to accept that "uncontrollable" at face value, but I have no stats to back me up, so I'll grant him that. The next bullet point lists the ways that the new plan proposes to close said gaps: "We are tightening our belts with internal administrative efficiencies and better use of technologies, among other things." This I would like to hear more about. "We are also proposing modest increases in fares and tolls." Oh, you know, I think I may have heard something about that... The next point is my favorite: "We have proposed no cuts in service." Don't you love it? It reminds me of how NBC (along with, I believe, the other major networks, but I don't presently watch a lot of network TV) interrupted its programming schedule in March and spent the next 6 weeks or so airing either reruns of The Office or something else entirely during the 8:30 Thursday slot -- and then, when they were wrapping up their little vacation, aired a bunch of promos announcing that they would be showing only new episodes until the end of the season! Gosh, NBC, I am overwhelmed by your generosity! Why, that's 5 whole weeks when I'll be able to watch the show I like to watch in the time slot you're supposed to air it! Aren't I a lucky little consumer! Similarly, I feel overcome with gratitude that, in exchange for charging its customers more, the MTA is pledging not to provide less service than it currently provides. Now that's something to look forward to!

This open letter ends by inviting me to contribute my "advice by email, by letter, or by attending the public forums that will be scheduled" and advertised "well in advance." Perhaps I will. In the meantime, MTA, here's an idea: this afternoon you took $2 from me, and a whole bunch of people besides me, and then told us we wouldn't be getting a train after all. When you're looking to fill those budget gaps, I suggest you start with that money first. Let me know how it goes. As for all the other money I wasted today because of that little service glitch, it would be great if we could count that against my personal fare hike, too. Meanwhile, it would be ungrateful of me not to recall that, for my trouble, I've earned a free trip from Penn Station to Jamaica (or vice versa)! And I thought I wouldn't get to go anywhere exciting this summer.

P.S. Now that I've gotten all this out of my system, I should add that I know, in the grand scheme of things, my day wasn't all that bad. First of all: Boo hoo, I had a difficult time getting to the Hamptons for my 4-day weekend! I know. And second, this time last year, I wouldn't have gotten nearly this far. I couldn't have spent my afternoon running hither and yon, I couldn't have carried a bag that heavy, and I definitely couldn't have worn shoes that were the least bit impractical and expected to get away with it. So you probably shouldn't feel too sorry for me today. But you should still join me in scorning the MTA.

A weekend in the country

My summer vacation is happening this week, apparently, so I am off to the Hamptons for a nice long weekend retreat. I promise to blog if I have anything to blog about -- like, for example, if a groundbreaking theatrical production spontaneously breaks out in the backyard. But if not, things will be quiet around here. I hope you can cope.

Must be the season of the witch

Wicked, which took up residence in NYC just a couple of months after I did, has been running on Broadway for close to four years now, and I think it's safe to say it's a hit. In the face of anything Ben Brantley or Michael Feingold or any other critic might say about it, and in spite of a not-so-impressive showing at the 2004 Tonys, it is a major hit and a big crowd-pleaser. I saw it for the first time last night, and ordinarily that would mean a lengthy review here today. But I have a feeling that if you were going to bother to have an opinion about Wicked, you would have formed it long ago, and so it seems like a waste of time for me to review it now.

Instead I will just say that, if you are inclined to see Wicked (for the first time, or on a return trip), right about now would be a good time to do so. As Elphaba, Julia Murney is wearing the green paint with as much dignity as she can muster, and using her powerful pipes to bring some color to Stephen Schwartz's generally colorless score. Sometimes you can even hear her over the mechanical blare of the "orchestra." Kendra Kassebaum is sensational as Glinda: there isn't a joke in the show that's better than feeble, but she still made me laugh nearly every time she was onstage. Finding a performance that feels spontaneous and alive at the heart of all that noise is no small miracle, and if that "replacement cast member" Tony ever got off the ground, she'd be a nominee for sure.

I digress, to ask a question with no good answer: Why do both leading ladies have vanity-site URLs in their bios, but no actual vanity sites? Juliamurney.com is "under construction," and kendrakassebaum.com takes you to one of those sketchy ad-laden "search engine" sites. And the show's current Boq, Logan Lipton, pulls the same trick. People, don't advertise a website you haven't built yet! I shouldn't have to tell you this!

Finally: I love those flying monkeys. I want to write a new musical just about them -- and I wouldn't wimp out by making them friendly and misunderstood, either. Winged Monkeys! Fearsome. Irredeemable. Sure to give your 11-year-old daughter nightmares. Tell me there isn't an audience for that.

Jazz Odyssey

Last night the birthday boy and I thought we were going to the Village Vanguard to hear their regular Monday night jazz orchestra, but when we got there we saw a sign on the door: closed! Apparently the orchestra is on tour. Fortunately, the fiance knows all the cool spots in the area, so we backtracked to the nearby Smalls Jazz Club, which in my head is really called "Derek Smalls Jazz Club" ("He wrote this!"), where we caught a set by the Rafi Malkiel Group. I know very little about jazz, so you'll have to go to the fiance for a detailed analysis; I'll just say I loved these guys. They have a fascinating instrument balance -- trombone, sax, piano, drum kit, but also clarinet, flute, bassoon (!), and Latin percussion -- so their music combines the discipline of classical music with the unpredictability of jazz and the alegria of South American rhythms. We were especially taken with the clarinetist, Anat Cohen (you can hear her interviewed on NPR here). And, of course, I was excited to see women performing, period. (They also had a bitchin' female bassoonist. A bassoonist!)

All of the above links will take you to websites that play music -- the Smalls site has an entertaining animated intro, as well -- so I'll stop chattering and let you go listen. I have a Broadway date tonight, so you can count on hearing about that tomorrow!

Happy birthday, it's your present

Many happy returns to my fiance, who celebrates his birthday on this very rainy day! So blogging will be light, because I have celebrating to do. (I think we're going out to hear some jazz tonight, so we'll see whether I can say anything intelligent about that tomorrow.)

I would like to say a word about the recently announced Emmy nominations, which you can find here. (You could also start at the Emmys' official website and spend a good portion of your morning looking for the list of nominees yourself, if navigating poor web design is something you enjoy.) And that word is: hooray! Minnie Driver's brilliance on The Riches has been recognized! I shouldn't be surprised, because she is so seriously awesome in that role, and if they could find room to nominate Mariska Hargitay again (for a season of SVU that even I found too painful to watch), they can certainly afford to nominate Minnie Driver. But usually the Emmys need a couple of years to catch up (e.g., no other nominations for The Riches), so I am very pleased they got with the program so quickly in this case. Speaking of which, other performers whose brilliance was finally recognized: Jenna Fischer, Rainn Wilson. Now where's the Emmy for Supernanny Jo?

Two! Two amusing YouTube clips!

Actual, not-made-up caption from an Us Weekly spread (July 30 issue) about Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O'Connell's recent wedding:

A gospel choir sang Foreigner's 'I Want to Know What Love Is' as the bride strolled the aisle on her dad's arm. Later, the groom crooned 'Save the Best for Last.'

The funny thing is, I think I had a nightmare where the very same thing happened.

Speaking of nightmares, the other day I tried to amuse my nephews by showing them this clip the fiance and I dug up on YouTube.



My affianced and I were just looking for classic Ernie and Bert routines (I can never get enough), but we were excited to uncover this early appearance by the Count, who was much spookier when first introduced. They hadn't settled on his signature post-counting laugh at this point, and I find the sinister freeform cackle deeply unsettling. And I don't remember him having the ability to stun others into silence, deployed several times here. Still, the Count is not so very menacing, strictly speaking, and the things that make him "scary" are mostly cultural references not yet part of my nephews' vocabulary. So, I wondered, without any exposure to Bela Lugosi or Vincent Price or monster movies, would the boys still register this character as "scary"? And now I can tell you that there is something about a guy in a cape with an Eastern-European accent, pointy ears and sharp incisors that is inherently frightening. Or maybe it's the throaty laugh, or the widow's peak, or the minor-key organ music that accompanies his entrance and departure. In any case, my nephews watched the entire clip in silence, until the Count skulked off for the last time, prompting my not-quite-three-year-old nephew to shout, "I think he's coming back!" He never took his eyes off the screen, but when the clip ended he jumped down from my lap and ran from the room, shouting, "Hurry, before he comes on again!" I turned to his older brother, still standing on the chair next to me, and said, "I guess the Count is a little scary, huh?" He nodded and observed, trying to sound nonchalant, "He has kind of a scary voice." I had to promise: no more Count. Too bad, because this is totally awesome.



I believe the fiance said it best: "The Count is a trip."

In praise of creative pronoun use

I just finished reading Patricia Marx's new novel, Him Her Him Again The End of Him, and as long as we're discussing titles around here, I felt I had to mention it. I love this title. Every time I look at the book's cover, I want to read the title out loud. Speaking of which, I also love the cover design, with its elegant italics in exactly the right places... My (advance reader's) copy doesn't credit the designer, but lucky for you, this website does! (It also misuses "nonplussed," but what else is new.) Yes, it's difficult to remember, which is probably a drawback from a marketing point of view, but in terms of the material, that diffidence is entirely appropriate -- and once you've read the book the title is suddenly easy to recall. In fact, one of the best reasons to read the book is to feel the title taking shape, turning from apparent word salad into something approaching coherence. The novel itself has a similar trick of withholding details (names, dates, circumstances) but creating a vivid picture out of the holes.

I've a sorry tale to tell

Today Restricted View is mourning the death of tenor Jerry Hadley. I know shamefully little about opera, but Hadley made occasional forays into the world of musical theatre; I first heard him on the recording the 1992 Sondheim -- A Celebration at Carnegie Hall concert, singing "Johanna" and "With So Little to Be Sure Of," and he was Gaylord Ravenal in the 1988 studio recording of Show Boat. But I knew him best as the best of all possible Candides. The 1989 Bernstein-conducted Candide -- the "final revised version," as it is billed in the 1991 recording -- is notable for including all of Candide's meditations and laments, and Hadley's performance as the endlessly suffering title character goes straight to the heart. Now his "Nothing More Than This" will be freighted all the more with real-world sorrow.

(Incidentally, the fact that you can own this complete, two-disc Candide for only $15 means there is no excuse for not adding it to your collection. There is also a concert DVD, if you're the Netflix type.)