guilty pleaseure submission 2

 

     repeating myself

    There are a lot of opinions among teachers and counselors regarding how each district or building is or is not handling Post Covid public education. All I will comment on here, is that I have had to repeat myself more frequently. Perhaps hearing loss is a side effect of the Covid Lockdowns. In our district, we were online for 18 months. On paper, the students were shuffled through an ineffective "session schedule" that gave way for an A/B "In Person" rotation that left 100% of the students confused. I was supposed to have ten students in person during Session 2/ B rotation and I had one show up every day. Sweet kid. He showed up in class in person, but the rest of the class who were on A rotation were not supposed to be in the building, were online. The B rotation kids numbered at 15, so in theory I should have had 15 students in class. Nice theory. They did not show up. All combined between A and B, I had 15 kids actually click into the meet for class. So I had 15 of the 31 enrolled in class clicking into the google meet, and one in the classroom, who also logged into the video chat while sitting five feet away from me.

    So that's how that went for the 2020-2021 school year. And that's when the repeating became more evident. And that's when I realized I liked the comfort. I would write out the goal on google classroom. Then I would click on the meet,  turn on my camera, and read the goal to the class. Five minutes later, I would have to repeat the goal for a student who logged in late or walked away from their computer .Fifteen minutes into class, I would check on those whose cameras were off, and repeat the goal. At some point, the sweet kid sitting five feet away from me would admit that he was lost, and I would repeat the goal to him in person. I would repeat the same words a minimum of five times within twenty minutes. 

    The comfort I felt was explained later when I saw a post on social media stating that when under severe duress, people tend to retreat into repetition. It was referring to binge watching the same shows during the plague days, which I was also doing, but the explanation rang true for my teaching style. I had become A Repeater. 

    One would think that habit fell away when we returned in person for the 2021-2022 school year. But no. In fact, that year was such horror, that the only constant was knowing I would repeat the same directions five times every twenty minutes. Students had ceased to arrive to class on time, and there was no indication that they cared one way or another about attending at all, let alone attending on time. The only constant that fall, as the restrooms were ripped apart as a Tik Tok challenge and Omicron, was my repetition.

    Things are not nearly as dire this school year, yet I find myself repeating directions, anyway. I am back to teaching my content in a semi normal way, so the assignments are not the same as they were during the plague. We are on our feet more, and instead of repeating every five minutes, or repeating for late comers, I repeat the instructions three times in a row at the beginning of class. If kids are late I make them ask a friend what is going on. Repeating myself three times at the top of class, and watching those who arrive on time look at me and nod, fulfills a tiny section of my cold black heart. I look forward to the beginning of class. I have the music chosen specifically as they enter to set the tone, and at the tardy bell I stand directly in front of the screen. Even if we're moving to the stage that day, I start class in front of the screen. I tried starting class on stage a few times, and found myself unsettled for the rest of the day. It is impossible to repeat this way, the kids are on stage in a circle and those arriving late are much more disruptive. This guilty pleasure may be more than just a pleasure. Or a habit. It may be a need.

    Gross. I don't have room for a need. So let's keep calling it a pleasure.

M Post

  This has been chosen by One Night Stand theatre to be performed in February! Every time they use my work I make them use a psueudonym. Last time I didn't like the fake name, so this time I asked them to use Leigh Rhodes. She's a character in the only real play I wrote. It will be performed as a monologue in February for "Guilty Pleasures". 

  Teachers have all sort of secrets that we do  not share. Not many of them are guilty pleasures. Honestly, most of them are the nightmares that plague us, the gnawing anxiety for those of us who are not going to make it to the magical 33rd year to retire at sustainable salary, the stress of walking into our building and not know if we will be attacked by our evaluator, our principal, a parent or our students. Some have side hustles, even full businesses, that they keep under wraps until the business is ready to either take its place as their next career, or sustainable by other teachers in the building. The businesses are never teaching -adjacent, like  tutoring. They're brew pubs, breakfast restaurants and real estate. I feel like I know a lot of teachers who became realtors. 

    My secret is not one for which I can leave teaching early. It is not separate from teaching. It is not, as you are now wondering, even teaching itself. I am not so lame as to write that intro and then reveal that my secret is that I Love Teaching. Ugh.  

   What I love is logging an "M" for a missed assignment in infinite campus, I hit the "M" key extra hard and I say the kid's name and I make up an excuse for why they missed it to amuse myself. The entire process can take me up to twenty minutes. My colleagues speed through it much more quickly because they do not enjoy it. I want to enjoy it. Reality has no place in my moment. The kids are traumatized and feel hopeless and depressed, there is no tangible excuse for flunking classes. They do not even have the wherewithal to make up an excuse. So I make it up for them  as I plunk an "M" in the grade column. I've hit the letter on my keyboard with so much force, so many times, that it sits unevenly in its place. Soon it will dislodge, I'm sure, but I keep slamming it harder thinking that the force should pop it back in to its retainer clip.

    To ensure I am not caught, giggling and talking to myself, I lock the door to my room and turn the music up loudly. My office is a shared space, and I am not comfortable logging grades where I might be observed or interrupted --or worse---judged.

     Some personal favorite quotes I shout into the classroom come from Steve Martin and When  Harry Met Sally. I say the lines out loud and cackle like a lunatic. Some excuses have included: "I wanted to be in school but I was trapped under a refrigerator" and "I couldn't come to school today because my hair smelled".  When it is the end of the quarter and all hope has been lost, I say "If you aren't enjoying the class so far, you're wrong" as I post the final grade. If they would give real reasons I would likely collapse in a puddle, horrified at their reality, which is why they do not use any excuse. They've just given up. So I choose to enjoy logging the missing grades. If I allow myself to engage realistically, I, too, will lose my sanity. Like so many colleagues who have left the profession. Instead, I choose to enjoy myself. Without anyone knowing, which makes it a guilty pleasure.

     In my district, a 60% equals a grade of B. Yet, students cannot even manage that. We also do not give zeros because that is "bad for their self esteem", so instead we must log an "M" for "Missing" which calculates at a zero, but is somehow better for their psyche that way? Regardless, I have the highest failure rate in the building. I am not a "hard" teacher, my content is not difficult, but it does require showing up to class daily. Students fail because they do not attend. And so, every week when I must put grades in, I sit at my desk with Guns N Roses blaring, and cackle at each "M", and shout excuses into the classroom as I do so. Pure, Hilarious, Joy.

    "My sister was abducted by aliens last night, I didn't get any sleep." Clack.

    "We ran out of toilet paper, I had to sleep at my Aunt's house and the bus doesn't come to her neighborhood." Click.

    "My arm fell off, " pause. "It got better." Clack.

    Clack clack clackity click. Bwaaahhhhh. God I'm funny. Clikity clicky clack. I am so damned funny. The empty classroom bounces my laughter back to me through the music, and my laptop keyboard keys pierce through the music and my glee. Together they become a cacophony of such delight, anyone passing by the door in the hall will believe there is a great jubilation, at a Dr. Seuss caliber, and they will smile as they pass, delighted to know that teaching brings such bliss.

    This is the best time. My favorite day of the week! My very own guilty pleasure! I shout between songs "I don't fail kids, kids fail themselves!!" Click. Post Grade at Save. Click Save. Click. Post Grade at Save. Click Save. Next class. I hear the Dentist in Little Shop of Horrors in my head as I move to the next screen, period three. "I want to enjoy this. I need some nitrous oxide." This quote sends me into orgasmic rapture. My eyes are tearing up. I can barely see third period's spreadsheet. I slide to the first empty box, hungrily awaiting its weekly feeding of the letter "M". As I tap the letter, a bit more forcefully than ten minutes ago, I whisper "It was raining. I can't go out in the rain" and a single tear rolls down my check.

    If only grades had to be entered every day! I'd never leave the building.

NYC An Irish Pub On Every Block

 

         We drank our way through Manhattan.

         It's a good way to see Manhattan.

         Take pictures though, cause you'll be drunk and won't remember much.

        Coming in from the airport, we spotted several Irish pubs. We were pointing them out until it became redundant and we realized we were in New York, there are A Lot of Irish pubs. The World Cup was also happening, so many of them looked packed. There is at least one pub on every block. They're all walk ups, narrow staircases, crowded and have but one single seater, m/f/unicorn who cares bathroom. In my mind, they were built before indoor plumbing. Before fire codes. Before wheelchairs and walkers and obesity and sidewalks. And they haven't changed. And I love them. The bartenders are all from Queens, or Queens, or Brooklyn or Queens. A lot of bartenders are from Queens, I'm just sayin'.  OH, except the one in Hell's Kitchen. He was from Hell's Kitchen. 

        In addition, there are the lovely local small restaurants that somehow manage in the insanity of Broadway shows. The Glass House Tavern, a fine example, was next to the Edison hotel and a few steps down from an Irish Pub.  Both are situated to bookend the giant purple neon SIX  shouting at 47th street from the Lena Horne theatre. We discovered the Irish Pub  becomes an annoying dance club after eight pm. I blame this on Six playing next door. Suddenly everyone is En Vogue, and they all want to huddle and drink on their feet after the show. Ugh. We knew something was up when there was a doorman checking ID's at The Mean Fiddler Irish Pub. We could tell from the door it was not behaving as an Irish Pub should, it was jammed with humans swaying to TLC (we discovered the same music choice across the street at the Brooklyn Chop House, but with different results) and waving mixed drinks in their hands. Three warning signs Jim and I will not stay in a pub: They are playing dance music of any kind. People are standing with mixed drinks. We can't get to the bar. All three critera were met, so we walked a circle around the bar to confirm the situation, and walked out. The door man nodded as we left. He knew when we entered we wouldn't stay. He could tell. So we stepped away from The Mean Fiddler to The Glass House Tavern. Which was narrow and looked friendlier. There were tall tables, but no body was standing without a table. Check. There was no music. Check. There were seats at the bar. Check. Weirdly, I noted it looked inaccessible by wheelchair (this became a thing with me in New York, I'm not in a wheelchair, but I became hyper aware that if I were, I would not get in anywhere)- but one night I saw a wheelchair in the corner of the bar, so they could get in- and had a limited menu, and seats at the bar. We do love empty seats at a bar. I may have repeated that a few times. So in this case, the regular bar won over the pub. The Glass House, with its trendy young bartenders and tight space, could easily have chosen to give in to the En Vogue hurricane that hit The Mean Fiddler.  But The Glass House Tavern chose to maintain her dignity and remain a quiet, trendy supper bar without selling her soul. The Mean Fiddler was not so much a mean fiddler, as true mean fiddler woulda told those 90's loving R&B soul funk new jack swing pop hip hop dance goobers to go get a goofy drink next door, this is a pub. 

    We were "regulars" at The Glass House, deliberately shunning the mad rush of girl band fans "dancing" at the alleged Irish pub. We got to know Skye the young bartender who was at the waiter station end of the bar. A bar this close to Broadway is forced to offer what a bartender friend of mine called "Goofy Drinks", meaning a lot of stupid named mixes of juice and flavored vodka and fruit. I swear I saw cranberries on a drink. With names like:  Sparkling Peach Martini, or Jalapeno Cilantro Martini or Gary's Place--which is essentially pineapple flavored everything with pineapple--are exactly the kinds of drinks audiences at SIX would like. Again I wonder why the IRISH PUB is the place playing the girl group music, and The Glass Tavern is where I could get a beer. There were clearly patrons who wanted the Goofy Drinks, as Skye was very busy and quite adept and mixing them effortlessly. Jim and I just watched him dance with the drinks while we chatted and people peeped and occasionally checked to see what was on the bar televisions.

      For several years, I worked at a bar in Denver with a bartender from Hell's Kitchen. He did not tend bar in Hell's Kitchen, he was from Hell's Kitchen. He'd had some success in stocks or trading or delivering the Wall Street Journal, and retired to a penthouse in Denver. Three days a week, he would leave and come tend bar as a hobby. He was my favorite. He still had his NY Take No Shit accent and attitude. I thought of him a lot on this trip, as I watched bartenders in pubs talk loudly about whomever or whatever was on their minds while drawing beer and occasionally mixing a martini. Even though he was not a bartender in New York, I believe that all New Yorkers are the same type of bartender: You'll drink what they bring you. 

    And I loved every, single second in every, single pub and bar and even the purple and sultry Brooklyn Chop House, which had me looking for Eddie Murphy in a corner booth. That bartender was Caribbean, and her partner who tended the waiters at the other end of the bar was definitely a born and bred New Yorker, moving quickly and having no time for your personal issue of needing a dumpling without cauliflower.  Do you see cauliflower anywhere in the ingredients? Nope. 'cause there is no cauliflower in the dumpling, ma'am. Next. This is why she was assigned the waiters and not the patrons at the bar. I don't know why she chose that moment to go rogue, but I had a good time watching it. Drinks and a show! We ended up at the Chop House on Monday, as weirdly the Glass House was closed. So we sat at the Chop House bar looking out the window at the closed Glass House and judging the Chop House. They had more space than any other restaurant besides Friedman's that we encountered, they had two stories of tables and generous bar space. It was very much a steak house, the kind I remember from the 1980's. Lotta wood, everything is dark, music playing low. Booths. That was the day we walked to Central Park and back, so we were hungry and ordered dumplings. They had french onion soup dumplings. The menu was weird, but the dumplings were great. So we went ahead and ventured to order a $86 steak cooked medium. We think it was a language issue with the bartender, the steak was well well shoe leather well done. We ate it because we were hungry, and we did not complain because what good would it have done? Everyone's still struggling to staff their restaurants, even on 47th. The next day the Glass Tavern was open again, so we did not return to the Chop House. But Jim did buy a baseball cap there. I am unsure as to why.

    My friend Pete took us to a pub in his 'hood- Hell's Kitchen- called Gossip. We also went to the Playwright Celtic Pub which had a doorman, but his job seemed to be to sort people between the upstairs bar and the restaurant downstairs. Bartender from Queens braying about something he did not care for that recently occurred. They had a few original brews, the Jack's amber was great. They also still had their big plastic tents out front, a few places kept those. I suppose it does help with seating, as I said, nothing is wheelchair accessible. There was also Arriba, Arriba in Hell's Kitchen, whose margaritas knocked me flat and I had to be walked back to the hotel between Pete and Jim. We ventured to Sardis because you have to go to Sardis, and confirmed my hatred of martinis. But we saw Neil Diamond enter on the red carpet for opening night of his show A Beautiful Noise, it was like we were peeping Toms from above. I took a napkin 'cause they say "Sardis" on them, just like it's still 1952.

    And so, all in all, to sum up, in conclusion, there are a lot of bars in Manhattan. We did not make it to every one of them. That'd be a fun trip...hmmm.

    Scene.

New York 2022: The Hell With The Tiny Seats?

 

          During the shut down, many theatres took the opportunity to renovate. 

         This is what I was told by my lovely seat neighbor, as we were crammed together in the Neil Simon theatre to see MJ the Musical. I cannot find any information on how many houses actually renovated during that time, or if any did at all, so I have to take her word for it. She was a lovely woman, a native New Yorker raised in the city who had relocated to Pennsylvania, but returned frequently for shows. I asked her about the small seats. As I looked around and witnessed: 

    * A woman in a wheelchair, relegated to the very back row where her view could easily be obstructed by anyone tall seated in front of her.

    * A man of over 6 ' tall, whom I tried to follow back to his seat after intermission to see if he had a collapsible skeleton, but got distracted by my need to relieve my bladder and the impossibly long but fast moving ladies room line. How in The Hell he got into a seat, I still wonder.

    *My seat neighbor, a woman about 5' 5" tall and not skinny, who eloquently wedged herself into her seat where she remained during the entire show.

       My new friend said "I'll try not to brush thighs with you too much," to which I smiled and told her to relax. We're human sized. These seats are for Smurfs. I said as much to her.

        "Yes, when they renovated the theatres during Covid, they just recovered the seats. They did nothing about actually renovating them so people can fit comfortably."

        " Right? I'm only 5'7" and I'm wedged in here. How does anyone survive these seats?"

        "It's really disappointing," she continued "As a native New Yorker, I know these seats haven't changed since I was a kid. It seems rude not to accommodate real people. Can you imagine, spending $200 a ticket, flying out here from where ever and not being able to even be seated?" She shook her head. "I almost just got a wheelchair seat, " she indicated the free floating chairs in the back row. "But if you're coming from out of town, you don't know those are there. So disappointing."

    "I'm pretty well wedged in here," I laughed. Not just my height, which exceeds the Neil Simon theatre's recommended apogee of 5'2", but my weight  which is north of 200 and therefore above the recommended 120 pounds for comfort. "Not sure I'm getting up at intermission."

    I did manage to un chock block myself at intermission, but I had to wait for the man in front of me to get up, as I needed to use the back of his seat for leverage. My friend remained seated and chatted up the others around her.

      We had encountered a similar issue at the Westside theatre for Little Shop Of Horrors, but because it is clearly a much older theatre with no renovations, we just accepted our lot. It was not unlike sitting in the Mayan in Denver. A person with legs that only hinge with one set of knees is challenged to sit, it's  much more like a perch. But the real killer is how low the seats are: your entire lower half goes to sleep. It's like that 30 Rock episode when Jack makes such terrible couches that they are sold to the CIA as torture devises. Then there is the lack of width... we were seated in a row with two gentlemen who were both large men: over six feet tall, and over 200 pounds, they were crammed into the tiny seats, right next to one another, and next to us. During the show, I noted two empty seats two rows down from us. At intermission I asked the house crew if we could move so the gentlemen in our row could spread out and be comfortable, as they clearly were not. Remember, The Westside has a mask mandate as well. She graciously let us move, and the gentlemen also expressed their appreciation. And I think it took Jim by surprise that I had no reservations about asking house crew if we could move so that these gentlemen could at least enjoy Act 2 without discomfort.

    The Winter Garden was no better, but we somehow scored tickets in the balcony, first row, so we had leg room between us and the railing. Broadway tip: Do That.

    The most comfortable seats were at Radio City Music Hall, but the house management was struggling to get all 6,000 of us through security before curtain. They failed. That was the only theatre that required an airportesque security check. The other theatres just had signs out front that said "Please don't bring in a weapon. Thank you."

    When I win the lottery and open my Broadway House, I will do so For Everyone. Wheelchairs down front. Seats reasonably wide and not so low that only children can comfortably  watch the show. I do not need to make so much money that I make people feel uncomfortable by insisting they fit into cookie cutter seats. It's bad enough that the airlines have crammed so many seats in each row that the bathrooms are now standing room only--great for you men, but for us it's a challenge. Can we stop being so greedy that we make human beings feel bad about themselves?  Or is there a conspiracy to starve us all, and the by product is that we'll all fit in the airline seats and Broadway houses...that we can no longer afford. Which is why we're skinny: grocery prices skyrocketed...

    Before I go off in another direction, this is my Broadway Seat Report.

    Respectfully submitted 13 December, 2022.

    Douglas C. Neidermeyer

New York 2022:There Are Loose Planks On The Brooklyn Bridge

 

    There is nothing more to be said.

New York 2022 Sutton Foster, Lena Hall

     When we made reservations for The Music Man with Hugh Jackman and Sutton Foster, my friends immediately began to hate on it. We are, we three, fans of Sutton's. But weirdly they said "She can't sing it",  and dismissed the whole thing and I was like...ummmm...yes, yes she can. She's Sutton Foster. What do you mean she can't sing it? Explain she can't sing it. It was an off color hater moment, and I sat while they snarked and listened to the non sequitur in my head, which was Nathan Lane screaming "He's chewing gum while I'm singing, he's not supposed to chew gum while I'm singing."

    As I sat in the Winter Garden Theatre on Wednesday, I realized my friends were both right and wrong. Sutton Foster is not a trained "legit" soprano. She is not an opera singer. She is a musical theatre singer with an impressive belt, innate comedic timing and a killer time step. We call that a Triple Threat, friends. There's a difference between that and a legit soprano. No, she does not sound like Shirley Jones, Shirley Jones sounds like Shirley Jones.  She is not Barbara Cook. Barbara Cook is Barbara Cook. Both of those women were trained differently for their voice types. Sutton Foster is a Triple Threat. A true TT is going to have a different voice, one that is adapted to dancing and singing, not just pulling off a park and bark. Marion the Librarian is written as a park and bark. Usually you cast the voice who cannot really dance in the role. I can't tell you why the producers chose Sutton Foster. She is a different choice for sure. Her "Goodnight My Someone" and "There Were Bells" were lovely, and heartfelt and there was nothing wrong with her pitch. If you say someone can't sing something, I assume you are referring to them finding or holding the pitch. Clearly, you cannot be suggesting that Sutton Foster struggles with pitch.  So what are you talking about? Explain "she can't sing it".

     I figured it out while watching the show: It's the quality of her voice. That's what you're talking about. She is not a legit soprano. She is not a park and bark performer. My friends were referring to how they'd prefer the role to be presented, or how they are used to the songs being sung. It's not about her being unable to sing it, it's about my friends preferring other voices. Sutton can sing it and she can act it, but no, she's not Barbara Cook. Or Shirley Jones. And that's fine. Stop saying "She can't sing it" because she can. You just don't like the casting choice. Use your vocabulary,  you're in theatre, friends. Sutton is not Barbara Cook. Or Shirley Jones.

    And they are not Sutton Foster. Neither of them would have been able to pull off Thoroughly Modern Millie or Anything Goes. It goes both ways.

    Sutton Foster's interpretation of Marion was also starkly different. As trained sopranos who had been playing roles that are "wholesome", neither  Barbara or Shirley gave Marion much spunk outside of her moment with the traveling salesman in search of Professor Harold Hill. They were pretty, and they sang pretty, and they responded appropriately to Hill's advances under the guise of "peaches and cream". But in the hands of Sutton Foster, Marion is much more wordly. She actually is "the sadder but wiser gal" that Hill sings of, bringing that song  home on a level I've never seen before, and I sat in the audience believing she has a personality of her own. The way she would say "Ugh", or "Yeech", every single time she saw Hill communicated her deep disgust of him. Simple moments, like the ones between Marion and Amaryllis, where she's clearly not as patient as her predecessors, were a welcome change. There is not a lot of wiggle room in the libretto for character exploration, but she found a few cracks where her comedic timing was useful, and pried them from Meredith Wilson's cold, dead grip.

     Then I saw Lena Hall as "Audrey" in Little Shop of Horrors at the Westside theatre. I loved this theatre. It reminded me of our smaller houses here in Denver; the Off Broadway theatre is upstairs, and the lobbies featured additional alien esque plants throughout. The direction was astounding, driven home by the fact that they opened in 2019 right before Covid, closed, reopened, switched casts and I saw an understudy for Seymour, with other swings abounding. It is clear they've struggled with Covid, as they're the only theatre we attended with a mask mandate in place, and open gratitude for their understudies. The show has to be tightly directed to survive a revolving door of Seymours and Audreys. The sign at the stage door read "Due to Covid  we will not be signing programs".  Clearly, this is a production that has been beleaguered by plague yet relentlessly moves forward. However, due to the sign, I was worried I wouldn't get to see Lena. I figured everyone else in the cast had been sick, it was probably her turn. Of course she'd be sick the night I was there and I wouldn't get to see her.

     But I did.

     Her Audrey is not a dumb blonde. She's a streetwise New Yorker with red hair who is wounded in other ways. She is not stupid, she's tired. She's betrayed. She believes she deserves Skid Row. Because Ellen Green set the standard that everyone followed, it took a few minutes for me to adjust. If you remove the dumb blonde approach, the humor shifts to something more heart wrenching. The pain of the human condition is allowed to wail without the mask of a stereotype to mute it. The show becomes something more authentic with this direction.

     "Suddenly Seymour" is the greatest love song ever written, I don't think you can mess it up. Lena  doesn't belt it the same way that Ellen did, but her soul is belting her pain in a way that communicates straight to the heart. The structure of the note and chord progressions are going to elicit all of the feels, anyway. But in the hands of an actor who can sing it and understand the core of humanity's hunger for understanding, crying is your only option when the notes reach you in the house.

    I think a lot gets lost in our craft when actors and directors simply imitate previous performances. This is why I don't like to see tours, they're limiting. The actors literally mimic the Broadway performances, and were cast for their ability to do so and fit the costume. What's great about what we do is the craft itself, and our deep connection with the ridonculous human condition with which we are universally saddled. I see no reason to hate on one performer for doing their job, and making the role their own. They should be celebrated. We should all be celebrating the fact that Broadway shows returned, and everyone is back at work doing what they love. 

                Scene

  

New York 2022 INTRO

 

     Today is Tuesday, we arrived Saturday about noon. Last night, Jim ventured out for his first trip to a bodega. He returned stating "I hate New York. But I love New York."
    It took him four days. Hmmm

    In twenty years of teaching, I've always been a rule follower. At Littleton, we had "Blackout" days, days we were not allowed to take off. Even though we are adults. Even though we have four personal days for any reason that no one is supposed to question. Even though most of us have over 12 sick days we'll never use. Regardless, we could not be out the Friday or Monday around any break. The week of finals, fall or spring. I scheduled Dublin two weeks before spring break just to avoid the hassle, and still: I was hassled.

     A couple of years ago, Jim started making noise about New York at Christmas. Much as I balked at Moab at Thanksgiving, I balked more at New York at Christmas. It's a madhouse. The only time I can travel is over the break, and I dug in my heels and said I will absolutely not travel those two weeks. I would consider coming out the week between Christmas and New Year, but that was all. Nope. Jim wasn't having any. He's always been a guy for whom Christmas is over on the 25th. No Christmas movies after that. Nothing. Over. So. Not An Option to come out then.

    Covid year we had actually started looking at dates. I was no longer at Littleton, and Hinkley didn't seem nearly as wound up about babysitting teachers. So we decided we could make it work the week before finals the next year. But of course, Dec of 2021 was still rough so we put it off. Again. 

    We're here now. I am shocked at how many shows Jim wanted to book, I assumed we'd be doing other stuff. But he signed us up for four shows. Which turns out to be a good thing, as it's expensive to eat here. And drink. We're "sleeping in " this morning, my feet are killing me. We've two more days and two more shows. I swear I'm going to make us leave three hours early for the airport, maybe four. Traffic is insane and the airport is gonna be slammed. Probably not with people leaving, but who knows. 

    Imma break this up, post bit by bit. Our topics will include garbage, bellhops, hotels, shows we saw and a smattering of Why IS Everything Small And Crowded.

The Bellhop

I got stuck behind a bell hop in the ridiculously narrow entry way. He and his lovely eastern block accent were chatting with the young women-maybe in their late 20's or early 30's- whose luggage he was moving. I over heard the following.   

    "Where are you from?" He asked nicely

    "Manchester."

    'Oh, yes! England. You're funny. Benny Hill."
    

    Blink. Blink.

    "He is funny. Do you like Benny Hill?" He repeated himself, being polite because maybe they didn't hear him over the luggage mover.

    Blink, Smile.

    "Really? He is British. He is very funny. You would like him." His smile never waivered.

    Me: Blink. Blink.

  The man knew what he was talking about, and it's impressive that he knows Benny Hill. During our trip we discovered many Ukrainian folks working as bellhops and pedi cab drivers. We concluded they must have four TV channels that they grew up with, and one played old BBC comedies, and the other ran Home Alone 2 Lost in New York on a loop every holiday. We heard those references more than once. And it ends a conversation, once you find out they are Ukrainian, you can't really keep asking stupid questions about why they moved to New York..."Home Alone 2: Lost In New York is a very popular movie in my country. I've watched it a lot" is a show stopper. There's no where to go after that.