Experiences From Front Row Seating

I passed up an opportunity to sit in the first row of the Helen Hayes Theater Thursday night to see Jessica Lange, Jim Parsons and Celia Keenan-Bolger in “Mother Play.”

Gilda had to exchange our normal Second Stage tickets. We were given the first seats off the aisle in rows A and B. I suggested Gilda might prefer sitting in Row A to thwart the possibility my head might obscure some of her view. At play’s end she gave the production and her seat rave reviews. 

Last time I sat in the first row for a Broadway show was back in the summer of 1968. On a day off from counseloring at Camp Columbia in Elizaville, NY, a group of us drove to Manhattan and bought discount tickets to Tom Stoppard’s smash hit  “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.” 

I don’t normally remember specifics about where I have sat for Broadway shows but what transpired that day has stayed with me for more than five decades. 

During one of their conversations about Hamlet, either Rosencrantz or Guildenstern—I could never distinguish between the two lithe actors—edged too close to the lip of the stage and … fell into my lap! I quickly and eagerly helped him regain his stage presence. 

I’ve had several other notable front row experiences. On another day off from summer camp, this time to see Peter, Paul and Mary at SPAC (Saratoga Performing Arts Center), my front row seat enabled me to make eye contact with Dick Kniss, the trio’s long-time bass player positioned several yards behind them. Eye contact developed into nonverbal communication which ended dramatically when our “dialogue” caused Kniss to miss by a beat his cue to accompany the singers (another apology—I cannot remember the name of the song). 

A Third Apology: I cannot say during which performance at Playwrights Horizons I was unintentionally spat upon by actor Peter Friedman. Sorry, but from 2009 through 2017 Friedman was in five plays we saw at the Off-Broadway theater company. All I remember is him standing at the edge of stage left and articulating his soliloquy so boldly that I was repeatedly showered in my front row seat. I could have used an umbrella. 

Speaking of an umbrella, that protective device provided me momentary fame at the conclusion of “The Thin Place,” another Playwrights Horizon production in December 2019. A play about telepathy ended with the lead actor facing me as I sat to the extreme right of the stage. 

She wanted to demonstrate anyone could experience telepathy. She took a pad and marker pen out of a table drawer, wrote down a word, held it to her chest and implored me to concentrate on this unknown word that she would be trying to transmit to me. 

She asked what I had heard in my head, just behind my forehead. I replied, too softly at first for her, let alone for the audience, to hear. Louder, I said, “Umbrella.” Turning the pad toward the audience she revealed what she had written—Umbrella. The audience gasped. The stage went dark. The audience clapped.

Audience members approached me to ask, Did I really receive a telepathic message? Had I been primed by the theater staff prior to the performance to say umbrella? Was I an actor planted in the audience?

No, on all counts. Just before I was ready to say a different word, I heard a faint but distinct metallic voice say, “Umbrella.” I quickly processed my role, though to be sure I at first whispered “umbrella,” hoping the actress could read my lips. With her encouragement I repeated aloud the last word of the play.

No one else had heard the transmission, not even Gilda seated next to me. The theater must have targeted a narrowcast to my seat alone. I couldn’t prove it but it was the only rational explanation. After all, I was familiar with narrowcasting systems retailers have sometimes used to direct messages to workers or shoppers in specific locations so as not to alert or bother customers or staff throughout a store. Messages such as a special sale for those currently in the housewares department. Or staff should clean up a spill in aisle eight. 

Live theater and concerts, especially if you’re in the front row, can provide bold and unexpected experiences. 

I’m Just Saying … Opinions to Consider

I’m just saying …

… if politics is the art of compromise, then today’s Republicans are not engaged in politics; 

…if I knew half the stars in the commercials I see on television I might enjoy the ads more; 

…if star troopers are supposed to be elite soldiers, how come they keep missing when shooting at Luke, Hans and their successors?; 

… if the House of Representatives continues to be dysfunctional, President Biden should evoke President Harry S. Truman and run an aggressive campaign against the “do-nothing” Congress. Of course, that assumes Biden can channel the “Give ‘em Hell, Harry” spirit of 1948; 

… if you thought there was any chance Donald Trump would be a witness in his own defense in the Stormy-Daniels-sex-scandal-falsifying-business-records trial you are not just deeply disappointed, you are extremely naive; 

… if you want an explanation as to why millennials blame Israel and not Hamas, and why anti-semitism and neo-Naziism are flourishing, ascribe some of the reason to a change in cultural touchstones. Unlike Baby Boomers and the following cohort, the next two generations were not subjected to a treatise through film on the evils of Nazi Germany and the Holocaust. Indeed, during the millenials’ formative years Germany and Japan were not our enemies but rather our strong partners in democracy and economic success. They were replaced as enemies by space aliens or post apocalyptic tyrants.  Israel, during its first 25 years, was the underdog. Newer generations have only known Israel as a fierce and successful warrior and master over millions of Palestinians. There is no context for Israel’s struggle to survive and the repeated refusal by Palestinians to accept a two-state solution;

… if recognizing a Palestinian state, as Spain, Ireland and Norway espouse, is desired, then greater understanding of the Middle East is required. It would be a symbolic gesture, meaningless until Hamas, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad the Palestinian Authority and other Islamic entities accept Israel’s right to exist in peace and security. A non negotiable condition for any Palestinian state is recognition of Israel in secure boundaries. In 1948 Israel accepted partition of the British mandate into a Jewish state and an Arab state. Arab states and their people rejected Israel, have done so repeatedly over the ensuing decades and subsequently have lost wars and territory. The path to peace in Gaza requires Hamas to renounce violence against Israel and Jews. Will it recognize Israel’s right to exist? How would any such promises be monitored and enforced? Remember, the Taliban promised to be more tolerant toward women once it reclaimed governance of Afghanistan. How’s that working out? Not as promised. Why would anyone expect Hamas to be any more compliant with terms of a cease fire when it was Hamas that violated the ceasefire on October 7? Why would anyone expect Hamas to be any more democratic, have any more acceptance of democratic values than it has been since ousting Fatah in an election in Gaza 18 years ago, the only election it has sanctioned? Hamas has been awash in money from Qatar and its own businesses around the world. What makes anyone expect Hamas to use its funds to enhance the lives of Gaza residents when it has failed to do so in the past, diverting its monies into tunnel construction and rocket making? 

… those voters who say they have abandoned President Biden because of his handling of the Israeli-Gaza war surely should not expect Donald Trump would be more even-handed and sympathetic to the Palestinian cause. Trump has denounced Biden for withholding arms shipments to Israel. And those who believe Trump would stop the flow of migrants, asylum seekers and refugees across our southern border, they do not realize that even with all the mayhem Trump would bring to America and its border, the U.S. still is better than other countries, thus the desire by the desperate to risk all to come here. 

This Time of Year, Typical Day in Omaha

The siren wail lasted a few minutes. In Omaha, Nebraska, residents know what it means. Gilda and I surmised it meant “tornado watch.” A confirming alert pulsated through her iPhone.

The skies, which a few moments before had been bright and blue, turned grey and foreboding. Rain came down. Hard. But for just a few minutes. Then the sun reappeared.

I needed to go to the supermarket a mile and a half away. Gilda checked her iPhone for weather alerts. All clear. I headed off. Halfway there it started sprinkling. Again the skies darkened. My head swiveled between looking at the road and scanning the grey skies for any signs of a funnel. By the time I reached the supermarket it was a full scale downpour. 

I had taken a jacket but not a hat, so I perched a shopping bag atop my head as I walked the 20 yards to the store entrance. A bald man leaving the supermarket teased he had no need to worry about wetting his hair. 

After quickly filling my shopping list I was all set to flee back to my car, but the cashier advised it was best to wait out the storm. So I hung out in the vestibule near the automatic doors. A woman was waiting for her husband to join her after parking the car. They had encountered small pellets of hail during their ride. 

A few minutes later the rain subsided to a soft drizzle. On the way back to Ellie’s house puddles, BIG puddles, hugging roadside curbs displayed the intensity of the storm. It had overwhelmed the storm drain system’s ability to absorb the water. My pathway was flat. No danger of driving into a puddle of unknown depth. While I was coping with the rain and possibility of a twister, Gilda sought safety in the basement of Ellie’s home.

As I write this, the sun is shining once again. The forecast for the rest of the afternoon is for winds in excess of 20 miles per hour. Last night winds were equally as strong. Rain, perhaps even hail, pelted the windows, siding and roof. Phone alerts advised moving away from windows. Areas of Omaha received more than five inches of rain. 

I have no regrets missing an actual tornado. I’m more than content beingthisclosetotheexperience.

Pedal Blocks Killed My Malibu Moment

I’ve driven many cars since I obtained my license 57 years ago, some I’ve owned or leased, most I rented during business and pleasure trips across the United States, Canada and Europe. 

But never a Malibu. I most likely will never drive a Malibu as General Motors announced Wednesday it is dropping the model from its Chevrolet lineup (https://www.nytimes.com/2024/05/09/style/chevy-malibu-culture-cool.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare). 

Not that I didn’t walk into a Chevy showroom in early 1982 with every intention of buying a Malibu. Our second child had been born weeks earlier. Gilda needed a car she would be more comfortable driving than the blue Buick LeSabre my father had “gifted” to us a year or two before. He made us give him Bertha, a red with black vinyl top 1969 Buick Skylark Gilda had learned to drive on. He wanted our Skylark for one of his workers, Lucy, as his months-old car was too new to just give away to a non family member. To Gilda the LeSabre was a boat. Used to driving a Buick Electra 225 or a Cadillac DeVille, my father thought the LeSabre was too small. 

On a Saturday afternoon we entered the Chevy showroom looking for a Malibu. Gilda sat down in the driver’s seat, adjusted it and proclaimed it “undriveable.”

Why? Because no matter how far forward my 5 foot 2 inch wife set the bench seat—yes, the Malibu had a bench seat, not bucket seats—she was not able to touch the accelerator or brake pedal. 

Not wanting to lose a commission the salesman speedily suggested blocks could be fastened to the pedals to make them accessible. Gilda’s scornful laugh still reverberates in my ear. 

As Gilda wasn’t going to grow any taller we reasoned we needed to find a car company with experience serving the vertically-challenged. We drove to the nearest Datsun dealership in the midst of its rebranding to Nissan. 

Gilda hopped behind the wheel of a Nissan Sentra hatchback and became an unofficial apostle for the Japanese carmaker’s marketing sensibility in producing cars for short drivers. She credits GM’s shortsightedness about meeting the needs of female drivers as a major reason for the decline in its market share.