Well, that sounds like a cheery evening of theater, doesn’t it? This time I was about as far off Broadway as you can get. The Abingdon Theater Company is one of a myriad of black box theaters that dot Manhattan. I saw The English Channel, which I was drawn to by a favorable review in the Times but I wasn’t impressed. It revolved around the love/hate friendship between William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe. Does anyone know if Marlowe was gay? Because this Marlowe was really, REALLY gay. Another English historical drama. Some people would say that I’m in a rut. I prefer to call it a groove.
Before the play, I ate at the Tick Tock Diner on 8th Avenue and 34th St. It’s not really a diner. It’s a restaurant with a diner theme which is pretty lame, since there are plenty of authentic diners still around. My waiter was an old man who had no business waiting tables. He should be retired instead of grinding out a restaurant job. I felt just awful for him. He looked to be in his late 60s and had to wear a stupid Tick Tock Diner outfit—a blue logoed polo shirt and a blue baseball cap. It seemed undignified for someone his age. All the other waiters were young men and women. There’s little doubt he does it for the money.
My dear mother, who is 73 years old, just had to quit her telemarketing job for health reasons. She claims she liked working because it got her out of the house. I’m sure there’s an element of truth to that, but the fact of the matter is that she has a tough time making ends meet on Social Security alone. I do what I can and send her some money every month but it still isn’t enough. What’s going to happen when all the aged Americans who need to work because they don’t have enough money to live on can’t work anymore? How did this happen in such a prosperous country?
I came out of the gym shower and saw a guy close my locker. I walked up and said, “What are you doing in my locker?” He said, “You lock was left open and I closed it for you.” “Thanks!,” I said. Three hours later I looked in my wallet and my credit card was gone. Mrs. Wife called the bank to cancel and over $1,000 had already been charged. I found all this out just minutes before the curtain went up. I spent the first :10 minutes of the play stewing in a deep, violent, hateful, very un-Zen like anger that I had been so incredibly stupid.