A freak, midday warm front descended upon the city so I went for a walk. The change in temperature was so sudden and dramatic that it caused a mist to rise off the surface of the pond in Central Park.

I want an iPhone 4s because it’s got a better camera than my iPhone 4. I certainly get a lot of use out of the camera feature and my lousy phone doesn’t sufficiently capture the drama of the scene. Clearly, it’s the phone’s fault. It can’t POSSIBLY be operator error.

I stripped out the color in this one. It makes it look Victorian and sinister. As though Professor Moriarty is about to jump out of the bushes. Speaking of iPhones and villains…

At the end of Mike Daisey’s The Agony and Ecstasy of Steve Jobs, he tells the audience that we’ll never look at our Apple products the same way again. And he’s right.

I had always assumed that iPhones, iPads and the like were constructed on long, complex assembly lines by robots, as did Mr. Daisey. That is not the case. Mr. Daisey visited China. He discovered, and conveys in graphic terms, how these devices are painstakingly hand-assembled. The New York Times recently ran a lengthy exposé on how people, some no older than 13 or 14-years old, and with the full knowledge and consent of Apple (and other companies), are being worked, literally, to death. Apple isn’t as benevolent as their P.R. machine would like you to belive.

This is a tough, fascinating monologue that weaves three stories simultaneously; the history of Apple, the rise, fall, and rise of Steve Jobs, and the netherworld of disposable labor in China. By the time some of these kids reach 25, their hands are destroyed from years of repetitive motion work on assembly lines. Apple knows. They all know. But they don’t care.

I probably wasn’t the only one secretly wondering if Jobs’ early demise was some form of cosmic retribution for the people-destroying machine he created. It was recently reported that at a conference, he told President Obama that Apple manufacturing jobs were “never coming back to the U.S.” Now I know why.

Self-pity is one of, if not the, least attractive all human traits. As soon as I catch myself wallowing in the throws of it (which is pretty often) I make an effort to grind it down to a fine powder. It’s downright unmanly.

What helped snap me out of my recent funk (although I had good reasons this time) was the theater, which will come as no surprise to regular readers. I am moved by a live performance the same way others are moved by a piece of music or literature or a gourmet meal.

Who in their right mind would sit through a play about a woman dying of cancer? Sounds like an awful night out. But it isn’t! When WIT opened off-Broadway in 1999, there was talk of moving it to a Broadway house. But the bean counters decided that nobody would go. It went on to win the Pulitzer Prize for Drama and there have been countless regional productions.

It’s finally about to open on Broadway with Cynthia Nixon. She’s on stage dying of ovarian cancer for the entire 1:45 with no intermission. It was a tough, superb performance and an exceptional piece of writing.

They mess with your emotions by loading the script with heaping helpings of sharp humor. Laughs abound. But they can’t fool me. They only do that for juxtaposition. They get you laughing so that when she’s crying in pain it seems all the more horrific. It’s the oldest trick on the book but it works. There was a lot of weeping in the house.

If anything, I suppose the play can be accused of being highly manipulative. But I dare anyone to not surrender to Nixon’s performance. I can’t imagine the critics saying anything negative about her or her excellent cast mates. (Although, you never know, with those bitter old queens.) In the last scene, in a final act of heroism, Nixon stands in a bright, white spotlight, arms stretched upwards, completely naked. Not that her nakedness was the primary focus of the moment. But I did notice.

I can’t put these off any longer. I’ll try be as succinct as possible but you know how I can get.

Isn’t that a great line? The play is loaded with them.

As my pal CB said afterwards, Rickman could read the phone directory in a compelling manner. There are no weak links in the supporting cast. Lily Rabe, who I saw go toe-to-toe with Al Pacino last season in Merchant of Venice, stands her ground in front of another seasoned veteran. Great direction and pacing. Can’t wait for the reviews. I’m CERTAIN the critics will agree with me [this time].

What the hell was I doing at this show? I’m not a fan of Big! Broadway! Musicals! They’re too damn cheery. I am NOT the target audience for this sort of thing. Hugh Jackman Back on Broadway is a one-man singing and dancing extravaganza. (Well…one man with a full 18-piece orchestra and six hot, hot back-up singers who have angelic voices and look to have been poured into their little black dresses.

The pre-opening hype has been fierce. The understanding around town is that the run is completely sold out and is, therefore, critic-proof. A sweet spot to be in! I was walking past the Times Square half-price ticket booth on my way home from work and, astonishingly, discount tickets were available. I got caught up in the groundswell of hype and decided to go. The lady in the ticket booth told me Jackman insisted that blocks of tickets be made available at a discount to make it affordable to a wider audience. Nice guy!

It’s as good as they say it is. I’m sure the critics are going to fall all over themselves with praise. But I probably would have enjoyed it more if I were a fan of musicals. Did I need to hear Oh, What a Beautiful Morning or songs from Carousel and The Music Man? Not so much. He played clips from his movies and made very funny self-effacing comments about them. He juxtaposed still photos of big, tough, Wolverine with big, gay, Peter Allen, who he played on Broadway a few years ago. A helluva good dancer. He worked his ass off to please the crowd and isn’t that where the rubber meets the road?

* * *

How’s this for a pedigree: Three one-acts written by Ethan Cohen, Woody Alan and Elaine May. A large cast of seasoned professionals including Julie Kavner, Marlo Thomas and Steven Guttenberg. How can it go wrong?

When it opened a few weeks ago, it received lukewarm reviews. Once again, the critics got it wrong. Lukewarm is being kind. It was one of the worst things I’ve seen in quite some time. If it were one play, I would have walked out at intermission but because it was three separate pieces, I hung in there hoping the next one would be better. The Woody Alan piece was so filled with negative Jewish stereotypes that if a Gentile had written it, Mossad would assassinate them. The Cohen play unraveled at the end and not only was Elaine May’s contribution NOT funny, it actually made me angry. She was the biggest offender. The three of them owe me a refund.

The Public Theater down in the East Village is NYC’s epicenter for Shakespearean productions. It’s been around for a long, long time. Currently on the main stage, there’s a production of King Lear starring Sam Waterson that got a bunch of mediocre reviews. The production is 3:30 long and it’s not cheap! I won’t be going to that. But I DID see a spectacular production of Love’s Labor’s Lost in the tiny, upstairs theater.

Not many props. Sparse costume budget. But there was electricity in the air, which just goes to show you that venue and marquee names count for very little. It’s all in the acting, kid. It’s one of those productions tucked into a corner that I discovered and want to share with everyone. The tickets were a measly $15 bucks! I’ve paid more and have gotten a lot less in return (see above). I think Love’s Labor’s Lost is considered one of Shakespeare’s early lightweight plays but I thought parts of it had real gravitas. [Note to Daisyfae: the Princess of France, the lead female role, was played by Renee Elise Goldsberry, who played the upscale wife in Good People. Now, THAT’S range!]

Poor Hugh Dancy.

Imagine turning out an exhausting, effective performance, but having to share the stage with a firecracker just out of acting school. Such is poor Hugh’s plight. In Venus in Fur, he plays a director trying to cast a role. He shares the stage with Nina Arianda, who just recently graduated from the NYU acting program. Graduate from school and go to Broadway! That’s like a newly minted lawyer arguing a case in front of the Supreme Court.

It’s a two-hander so there’s no place for the actors to hide. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. That she’s a Goddess dressed in black leather and lace underthings who exudes sexuality throughout much of the show certainly does not help poor Hugh. I think her seductions were directed at me specifically, even though I was in the back of the balcony. I wonder how she was able to sense my presence from so far away? Acting!

I was knocked on my ass with the flu all weekend. All my life I’ve had a fairly healthy constitution and never had a propensity to get sick. Since I have no benchmark for what it’s like to be really ill, something like the flu seems cataclysmic to me. But this was a bad one. I didn’t leave my bed for two days and was delirious.

I slept for astonishingly long periods of time. I occupied a half awake/half asleep dream state whereby I could hear things going on around me but couldn’t respond to any of it. I looked really, really bad and was moaning a lot. At one point, 9-Year Old Daughter walked up to me and asked, in all seriousness, “Dad, are you going to die?”

I was tossing in bed having one of my torturous fever-dreams. Mrs. Wife and the two Daughters were gone from my life. Just like that! Pfft! No reason was provided by the devils sticking forks in me. Someone walked up and asked me, “Do you feel liberated?” I knew what he meant. And I thought about it. And my answer welled up from the part of me that was still of sound mind and I yelled at him, “No! Bring them back immediately!”

I started feeling dizzy on Friday night while in a Broadway house seeing Venus in Fur. If you were in the audience for that performance and don’t feel quite up to par, you can blame me.

Hugh Dancy is such a good actor. He holds his place on a stage well. Not just a pretty boy. He turned out an exhausting, effective performance. But here’s his problem: The show is a two-hander and he’s sharing the stage with a newbie just out of acting school named Nina Arianda and she is a friggin’ firecracker. She spends long swaths of the show in black leather and lace underthings seducing him and, I felt, me. It’s hard to take your (my) eyes off of her. What I did see of Dancy was great. It’s a play about control. Who has it. What are you willing to give it up for. It’ll be interesting to see if any community theaters have the guts to put this on.

The Great Gay White Way.

I saw a fantastic new play at the Roundabout Theater. Sons of the Profit is still in previews and it’ll be interesting to see what the critics say once it opens. I always like to have my opinion validated by the professionals, although sometimes it works the other way around. I loved Enron but it closed the week after it opened. What do I know?

Sons of the Profit is a well-written and superbly acted comedy/drama. Some of the plot elements regarding an aging family member in declining health hit a little too close to home for comfort, but most of it was very funny with a whip-smart script by Stephan Karam. I’d like to see it again to catch the punchlines I missed.

Here’s what concerns me: There was a gay make-out scene, which typically isn’t a big deal. But I suddenly found myself surprisingly uncomfortable watching two dudes paw at each other. This discomfort came out of nowhere! I’ve seen the original production of Angels in America and many other gay librettos and never gave this sort of thing a second thought. But this time, it pulled me out of the story and made me want to thumb through my Playbill until the scene ended.