The Play That Goes Wrong – sidesplitting.

On the Aisle

As a girl I dreamt of a life on the stage,  I acted in neighborhood and college theater, and spent a wonderful summer directing camp productions,  but alas I didn’t pursue that early dream.   (See Theater Dreams,  and Piano Man – Remembering Herb)

But going to the theater has always been a guilty pleasure,  and it’s what I missed most during the pandemic when Broadway and Off-Broadway houses were shuttered.

Over the years I’ve seen innumerable shows and  if I saved all the Playbills they’d surely cover many yards on the proverbial football field.  And my most memorable?  Of course numerous productions of Shakespeare done traditionally,  radically,  in modern dress,  with non-traditional casting,  or every which way – I won’t even count those.   And so in no special order,   here goes.

Almost anything by Tom Stoppard,  including his most recent,  the brilliant and devastating Leopoldstadt.  And all of Terrence McNally.  (See And Things That Go Bump in the Night)

And the long-running Cats except for the awful set.  And my favorite playwright Edward Albee,  especially Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,  and Zoo Story.  And Brian Friel’s Dancing at Lughnasa and Philadelphia Here I Come.

And The Man Who Came to Dinner,  and of course all of Samuel Beckett including  Waiting for Godot and Endgame currently being revived at the Irish Rep.

And West Side Story and Assassins and almost everything else by Steven Sondheim.  And Chorus Line,  and  She Loves Me.  And all of Tennessee Wiiliams,  especially The Rose Tattoo and Streetcar.  And all Neil Simon’s wonderfully clever plays,  and Frank Lesser’s Guys and Dolls.  And Ragtime,  and Kander & Ebb’s marvelous and moving Cabaret.   

And Fiddler on the Roof  twice –  in English and in Yiddish.   (And no,  you don’t need to speak Yiddish to understand the play,  and anyway it’s all translated unobtrusively on the backdrop.)  (See Tradition)

And Eugene O’Neill’s autobiographical Long Day’s Journey into Night.  And William Inge’s Bus Stop,  and the fabulous 42nd Street.  And Alfred Uhry’s  poignant Driving Miss Daisy.  And the irresistible Jersey Boys,  and all of Rogers & Hammerstein,  especially my favorite,  their sublime The King and I.

And lest I forget Athur Miller’s Death of a Salesman,  and anything by Anna Deavere Smith.  And the surprisingly moving Come from Away,  and the absolutely side-splitting The Play That Goes Wrong.  (If you see it wait for Duran,  Duran.)    And How I Learned to Drive,  and The Vagina Monologues.

And Agatha Christie’s always-running-somewhere The Mousetrap.  And The Fantastics,  and Noel Coward’s canon.  And anything produced by Elevator Repair Service Theater  especially Gatz.  And Beautiful,  and Million Dollar Quartet.  And Wendy Wasserstein’s Heidi Chronicles,  and August Wilson’s painful Ma Rainy’s Black Bottom and Fences.  And all the other wonderful plays I’ve loved and left out.

But please don’t think I’m not discriminating,  quite the contrary.  I’ve walked out of the theater dozens of times well before the final curtain.  So if you sat through Book of Mormon,  we can still be friends –  but don’t tell me what happens after the first act,  I couldn’t care less!

The King and I –  sublime.

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

What Does a Woman Want?

That supposed smart guy Sigmund Freud may not have been as smart as we thought.   His friend Marie Bonaparte ,  the great-grandniece of Emperor Napoleon,  a French author and analyst herself,  once sought treatment from the renown psychoanalyst for her own sexual problems.

Famously Freud asked her,  “The great question that has never been answered despite my research into the feminine soul is – what does a woman want?“

Her response is unknown,  but I venture to guess she’d been listening to 4 Non Blondes  and  so she may have said,  “Isn’t it obvious Herr Doktor?  We just want to know what’s going on!”

RetroFlash / 100 Words

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

Melting (Soup) Pot

One afternoon taking a break between chores I stopped for lunch at the 2nd Ave Deli,  one of my favorite eastside haunts.

After a leisurely meal I was waiting on line to pay my tab when I overheard the following conversation at the take-out counter:

Young Asian woman:   “What soup do you have today?”

Old deli guy:  “Split pea,  lentil,  mushroom & barley,  chicken noodle,  chicken & rice,  vegetable,  and kreplach.” 

Young Asian woman:  “Kreplach?”

Old deli guy:  “Jewish dumpling.”

Young Asian woman:  “Ah, that sounds good,  I’ll take a quart.”

Did I tell you I ❤️ New York?

RetroFlash / 100 Words

– Dana Susan Lehrman

 

Lyrics and Lyricists

When we moved to the Upper Eastside many years ago,  we never imagined how much time we’d spend at the 92nd St Y.

My husband joined the gym and swam several times a week in their Olympic-size pool;  I became a Poetry Center member and twice or thrice a month I heard the most acclaimed writers of the day read from their latest works;  and we enrolled our toddler in a wonderful children’s art class called Red,  Yellow,  Blue,  and Glue.

One year at the Y I learned to use a potter’s wheel;  and a few years running I had Sunday morning bagels there as literary biographers talked about their subjects in a series called Biography and Brunch;  and one year I took a memoir-writing class;  and twice at the Y I read James Joyce’s masterpiece Ulysses.

And for many years I used the Y’s wonderful members’  library until sadly it closed.   A librarian myself,  I bonded with the Y librarian,  now a good friend.   And over the years we’d hear movers and shakers in every field from politics to science to the arts lecture at the Y,  and in the same elegant Y auditorium we enjoyed concerts in musical genres from classical to jazz.

In fact for more than 40 years we’ve subscribed to a concert series called  Lyrics and Lyricists.  In five concerts mounted between January and June,  L & L pays tribute to an American Song Book or a Broadway lyricist,  or a musical theatre theme,  with songs performed cabaret style by an always fabulous cast of singers and dancers.  And to the delight of loyal L & L fans,  each first act closes with an audience sing-along.

But each fall when our L & L tickets come in the mail,  I’m reminded of the time I almost landed myself in the doghouse.   That year when the series renewal letter arrived it somehow buried itself in my desk and was forgotten.  As January approached  I realized we hadn’t gotten our tickets and I called the Y box office in a huff to complain.

”Sorry,” I was told by the young lady on the phone,  “we have no record of your renewal.”

”That’s impossible,”   I said,  “we’re long-time subscribers,  we sit in the balcony, house right,  seats DD1 and DD3.  We’ve had those seats for years!”

“I’m sorry,”  she said again,  “but it seems this year you didn’t renew.”

I demanded to speak to the box office manager,  but he rebuffed me too.

“I’m sorry madam,”  he said,  “we didn’t receive your renewal and the dates you want are sold out.”

Then it dawned on me that with no cancelled check or credit card receipt to present,  indeed I may NOT have renewed.   It was time to bring out the big guns.

”Please sir,”  I cried,  you must give us back our seats,  we love Lyrics and Lyricists,  we’re loyal fans!”

”Sorry madam,”   he said,  “there’s nothing I can do.”

”But you must,”  I wailed   “my husband will kill me!” 

Between sobs I begged a bit longer until over the phone line I heard the box office manager heave a big sigh.

”Hold on please madam,”  he said,  “I’ll see what I can do.”

Soon he was back on the phone.

“Madam,  you’ve worn me down.”  he laughed,   “I’ve got your tickets.”

And so here we are back in the balcony,  house right,  seats DD1 and DD3,  getting ready to sing along!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Sold Out!

I love theatre and go pretty regularly,  often with my fellow theatre-loving friend Babs.  And although we’re both pretty savvy about ordering tickets,  sometimes one or the other of us screws up,  and the last  time it was me.  Here’s the embarrassing story.

For years Babs and I have shared a subscription to 59E59,  a wonderful off-Broadway theatre company on East 59th Street whose mission is to bring new and innovative works to a New York audience.  We usually love what we see there and were looking forward to the next production.

We checked our calendars and found a good mutual date.  I wrote it in my little date book and told Babs it was my turn to call and reserve our tickets.

The next morning I phoned and got a recorded message saying the box office hadn’t opened yet and to call back after 12 noon.   But apparently I got busy and forgot.

Then on the morning of the fateful day I called Babs to say I’d be driving down from Connecticut that afternoon.   Rather than meet for dinner as we usually do before the theatre,  I said the tickets would be at the box office and we should meet at the seats and have a bite after the show.

Unfortunately I hit bad traffic and called Babs again to say I might not make the 7:00 curtain,  but would get there as soon as I could.

In fact it was close to 8:00 when I got to the theatre,  walked through the empty lobby,  and asked at the box office for my ticket.  Hearing my name the guy at the window told me to wait a moment while he called the manager.

”Ah madam,”  said the box office manager,  “your friend said to tell you she left since we don’t have your tickets,  and tonight’s performance is sold out.”

”But that’s impossible,  we’ve had a 59E59 subscription for years,  and I called weeks ago to reserve seats for tonight.  I even have it written in my appointment book!”.  I proclaimed angrily,  taking the little book from my bag and practically thrusting it in his face.

”Yes, I understand that you’re long-time subscribers,  and I see you noted it in your book,”  he said with the practiced patience of a box office manager,  “but it seems you never actually called to reserve tickets and unfortunately tonight we’re sold out.”

I realized of course he was right.

Embarrassed,  I called Babs at home to apologize,  afraid she’d be annoyed at me to say the least.  Her husband Bernard answered.

“She’s not home”,  he said,   “isn’t she at the theater with you?”

I called her cell phone.

“No problem,”  said my ever well-dressed friend Babs,  “Bloomingdales is open late tonight.” 

(I’m glad to say we saw the show a week later and it was great!)

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Smokey and the Screen Door

Until she outgrew it,  my baby sister slept in a lovely little wooden cradle.   One morning my mother found our cat curled up in the cradle next to the sleeping baby.

Not an animal lover herself,  my mother had tolerated pets in the house for our sake.  (See  The Puppy in the Waiting Room and Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes).

But a cat in the cradle was too much for her.   Although I never knew her to be superstitious,   she evoked the old wives tale about cats who smell milk on babies breathe and smother them,  and she banned the cat from the baby’s room.

Years later when our son Noah was born,   my mother implored us to keep our cat Smokey out of the baby’s room at night.   To placate her we promised we’d keep the door closed.

But the baby asleep behind a closed door was intolerable to me,  and so I asked our super to install a screen door on Noah’s room.  That way we could keep the cat out of the room while we could look in.

Then one morning I realized Smokey hadn’t slept on our bed that night as he usually did.   Nor was he in the kitchen circling his bowl and meowing for breakfast.

I walked down the hall and looked through the screen door.   In the crib was the sleeping baby,  and curled up on the floor under the crib – the sleeping cat.  Apparently the night before we’d locked Smokey in Noah’s room instead of out.

Needless to say,  we didn’t tell my mother.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

The Jane Addams HS boys basketball team with Coach Jon Ostrow (Ozzie) in the blue shirt.

A Favor for the Coach

I’ve shared many memories of my years working at Jane Addams HS.   (See Magazines for the Principal , The Diary of a Young Girl,  Going Back to Work , Mr October  and The Parking Lot Seniority List)

Here’s one more.

I live in Manhattan’s upper eastside and for the many years I worked at Addams,  which is in the Bronx,   I commuted to work by car.   It was an easy drive  –  in the mornings the southbound lanes on the FDR Drive would crawl,  but I was heading north against the traffic and would breeze along.

And I’d either drive alone or carpool with other eastsiders depending on our semester’s  schedule – our school had both early and late sessions.   But one eastside colleague who was never in our carpool was my friend Ozzie.   He coached the boys basketball team and stayed late for after-school team practices and games,  and thus drove up to school himself.

However on the afternoons the team had games at other Bronx schools Ozzie would leave his car in the school parking lot,  take public transport with the boys to the host school,  after the game take a bus or subway home to Manhattan,  and the next morning take public transport back up to school.  But in addition to the inconvenience of no car for his morning commute,  leaving a car in the parking lot overnight was always a bit risky as our school was in the infamous south Bronx,  a high crime neighborhood.

And so one day Ozzie asked me if I would do him a favor and on the afternoons Addams had away games,  I  would drive his car back to Manhattan and park it.   He and I lived only a few blocks apart and of course I said yes.

Ozzie was on early session and I was usually on late,   and so rather than wake up an hour earlier to drive up with him,  I’d come to school with my carpool and later drive myself in Ozzie’s car back to Manhattan.

I garaged my own car,  but Ozzie parked his on the street so once back in our neighborhood I’d have to look for a space,  being mindful of alternative-side and the myriad of other New York City parking rules.   And as the upper eastside is the most densely populated residential neighborhood in Manhattan,  finding a legal overnight space could take as long as an hour.  Then once I found a spot,  I had to let Ozzie know where to find his car.   He and his wife Liz lived in a small apartment building that had no doorman,  or that would have been an easy solution.

So this is what we did –  I’d find a parking space,   walk home to my own building,  and then write a note saying where I’d parked .  I’d give the note with Ozzie’s car key to my doorman for Ozzie to pick up when he got back to our neighborhood after the game.

And I’m happy to say during my years at Addams we had many winning basketball seasons.   The credit goes to the boys on the teams and to their great coach of course – but maybe just a bit of the glory should go to the coach’s friend who did him a favor and parked his car!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Birthday Bakers

Going to birthday parties has always been great fun for kids.   When I was young I’d wear a pretty party dress and my mother would take me to the birthday kid’s house,  with me proudly carrying the wrapped gift.   Then we’d put on paper hats,  play games,  and eat cake and ice cream while the celebrant’s father took home movies as we waved shyly at the camera.

A generation later things were quite different.   The birthday parties I took my son to were usually themed and held in restaurants,  gyms,  or museums,  with entertainment supplied by hired clowns or magicians.   Pizza or 6-foot heroes were usually on the menu,  and the kids were completely unfazed by the professional videographer recording the event for posterity.

But for my son’s birthdays I always tried to come up with party ideas that had special meaning for him,  and one year I capitalized on his early love for cooking and baking.   (See Reading with Hattie, Baking with Julia)

He was 7 or 8 when I hired the Birthday Bakers,  two lovely young women who arrived at our apartment bringing everything that was needed for a dozen little kids to bake and decorate a cake,  even little chef aprons for them to wear and keep.

All I was asked to do was preheat the oven while the Birthday Bakers spread everything out on our dining room table,  and helped the kids break eggs,  measure flour and the other dry ingredients,  mix the batter,  and make the icing.

Then while the cake was in the oven,  the kids sat in a circle on our living room floor and our two Birthday Bakers read them Maurice Sendak’s wonderful book In the Night Kitchen.

And that year everyone agreed our birthday party really took the cake!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

 

Had someone drugged the soft drink they served me, at the offices of the mining company where my newfound friends needed to make a stop? Was I influenced by the sultry thirty-something woman who insisted that I receive my first lesson in appraising sapphires?
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The Puppy Farm

I’ve written before about my wonderful childhood puppy  (See Fluffy, or How I Got My Dog and Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes)  but sadly there is more to tell.

I’m sure today’s child rearing gurus would advise you to tell your kids the truth no matter how painful,  but I suspect my folks practiced the old school kind of parenting.

When I was 10 Fluffy was hit by a car and the really awful thing was I saw it happen.  I was coming home from school when she saw me from across the street and ran towards me.

I don’t know why Fluffy was off the leash that day,  or if somehow she had gotten out of the house alone.   I only remember the sound of screeching brakes on our usually quiet street,  my beloved dog lying motionless near the wheel of a car,  and my mother and my visiting uncle kneeling in the street trying to console me.

Eventually they led me to the house and told me the vet was taking Fluffy to a puppy farm in the country where she would get well.

I never saw Fluffy again and although we never got another dog,   we did have a succession of wonderful cats.  (See Missing Pussycats ,  Mr Bucco and the Ginger Cat,  Hotel Kittens,  and The Cat and the Forshpeiz)

Over the years I must have wondered if there was something a little fishy about the puppy farm story and whether city dogs who get hit by cars really do go to the country for rehab.   But I never questioned my parents because they were grownups and I knew grownups never tell lies.

And now my parents are gone and my uncle is gone,  and surely the vet is gone too,  and so there’s no one left who can tell me what really happened on a shady Bronx street one afternoon over half-a-century ago.

And so I choose to believe that Fluffy did go to that puppy farm in the country,  and for all I know she’s there still.   For in my mind’s eye I still see her running through the fields  –  the Elysian puppy fields.

– Dana Susan Lehrman