Saturday, March 1, 2008

My Day As a Poem

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Hearty Art, Hardy Meal

Today provided spring-light,
and cold to offend my cold.
Sitting in Pat's favorite
Port Authority place, seeing
signs not to sleep or linger
longer than 30 minutes,
I read about "Tootsie" in
"The New York Times," killing
time prior to our play.

The reporter wrote of
Jessica Lang's "rose-vanilla
breathiness," saying,
unwittingly to Dustin Hoffman,
"Dorothy, I love you,
but I can't love you."

I was transported back to
the year of my dad's death,
when "Tootsie" and "Yentl"
both were on the big screen --
including two precious
scenes of apparently and
apparently not women,
being romantic with
each other.

Thank God I survived that
lonely adolescent time.

30 minutes and six blocks
later, Pat and I descended
the escalator to take our
seats for "Crimes of the

Three sisters of the South
extended and fended off
their mother's legacy in
the off-Broadway "dramedy."

Me, I prefer a full-on drama.

"'night, Mother," which also
won a Pulitzer Prize, was
more my taste. Suicide is
not a laughing matter --
except somewhat in "Harold
and Maude" -- and Marsha
Norman's brand suits my
theater-going taste better.

Early dinner at Le Madeleine
off of 9th Avenue felt nice
and date-like; Pat still is
great company nearly 16
years later.

Another cold march to our
car from dinner and then
we shot straight into the
Lincoln Tunnel and to our
house in decent time.

When we turned off the alarm,
Pat said, "Hi, nice home."

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