I went to a play this weekend with my friend Gerald, who never disappoints in the cool and swell departments. I only made him wait like 15 minutes, and for me that's pretty good considering I don't always do so well in the on-time department. Wow. This fledgling corporation that I call life certainly has a lot of departments! Where are the heads? And who can I complain to in Human Resources about the negative thoughts that cloud my otherwise sunny disposition? They are getting in the way of my productivity! Where was I? Oh yes. Gerald and I. The Play.
We went to see our friend Arthur in a production of "Uncle Vanya". He was excellent, as always (hope you are reading this Arthur), and i was genuinely moved by his obvious love of the material, as well as his co-star. She was real real pretty and he got to kiss her. Twice! Nice work Arthur. All around.
The theatre was located on Bond Street between Lafayette and Bowery. I am all too familiar with that area from my trashy downtown slink about days, but it was good to see it during the day, fully lit as it were. Good, and also disturbing. I know, I know, "Bla bla bla, things have changed so much! Where's this? Where's the old that? Oh my gawd the East Village is a mall!" I'm not one of those. I actually saw the absolute worst side of the Lower East Side, Trashaholics, and you know what? I prefer the mall. But it is still unsettling to see parts of the city you know so well, looking so different; better, yes for the most part, but way different. It's must be like when the Grandma you love gets a face lift? So like, it's hard to look at her, even though she looks less wrinkly? More smooth? But you loved those wrinkles! You spent time in those wrinkles! Or when your favorite star gets her eyes done, and she looks so weird it makes you mad? But then, in a couple of months, you're kinda glad she did it because you love beautiful things just as much as the next guy? I digress so hardcore here, Trashionistas. MY POINT?! My point is...some things change, and some things stay the same. And some things should change, and some should stay the same.
This theatre on Bond? That's one of the things that has stayed the same. It's called the "Gene Frankel Theatre" and, for those of you who don't know who Gene Frankel is, why you can look him up on the Internet, just like I did! Seriously, I knew that Gene Frankel had directed an important production of Jean Genet's "The Blacks", during the Civil Rights Era. When I wasn't busy sleeping with my professors in College, I was busy learning that. What I didn't know was that on August 4, 1973, his Mercer Arts Center collapsed. Frankel, who had been conducting a rehearsal at the time, noticed the ceiling and walls beginning to buckle and heroically led the actors and several residents to safety. Ironic, to say the least, as thrice during our Sunday sojourn at his namesake theatre I proclaimed, "This is a death trap. A death trap!" And no Gene Frankel to save us, either! Only dust covered photographs of Gene Frankel and, for some reason, Loretta Swit! And rickety stair cases, and creaky floor boards, and rat poison, and dirty toilets and holes in the wall and peeling lead paint, and god knows what other dangers waiting to bring us closer to our death!!! I was afraid, seriously afraid of the theatre, but genuinely glad that it was still there! Glad that it was still hanging on by an asbestos covered thread! A survivor among the condemned and converted. There's something to be said for that.
The Ohio Theatre is also an old theatre. It is also downtown. It is also cream filled, and delicious, and also happens to be the theatre that I called 'home' for many, many years. Not to be confused with Home, which was the first theatre I performed in here in New York City. That closed many many years ago and was absorbed by HERE, which is also a theatre that is no longer here*, but I performed in as well. At the end of the Summer The Ohio's closing. So for now, the lion share of my theatre history exists within those walls. Which means that in a few months, my theatre history will exists within the walls of a Marc Jacobs store, no doubt. For real, Friendos. It makes me sad. Erase me now. Just get it over with.
I wish all the old theatres could just stay open. Just stay open and stay decrepit and dangerous until they collapse and swallow all of the actors and audience up in a big belch of dust and rubble. That's how I want to go. When I'm 92. In a big belch of dust and rubble. OXXX
Side note: I probably will go that way whether I am in a theatre or not. At 92, your pretty much completely dust and rubble anyhow.
*Also, is Here here? Or is it not here? Comments...
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