Tales of The City

Sometimes there's so much going on in New York City, you don't know where you are or where to look.

Sure, America was watching their local football team on Sunday, but here in the city so nice we named it twice we come from all over, so our sports bars have to please everyone all the time with all the games everywhere. Redskins fans are reaching over cheeseheads for their Buffalo Wings and Bears fans are left to cry after the first half, just like they always do.

"Do you know why we don't pass on third down?" I asked Chris. "Because it always looks like that."

"Look, a pile of guys," said the cute bartender in the Michael Vick t-shirt, torn to display her midriff.

"Tell me," I asked, "Are you really a Michael Vick fan or do you just hate dogs?"

"I don't really follow football," she sighed, looking down at her top. "I just like red."

I had to leave at the half because I had tickets to Midsummer that night in the park. It was a Shakespeare-like week. Two nights before, Ian McKellen and the RSC opened King Lear at BAM. I was sitting in the front row with Judith, trying to avert my eyes during the mad scene, which he played naked with his shirt over his head. There are a lot of folks out there who would pay just to see Gandalf waving his magic wand, especially when Doctor Who is playing the Fool, but I'm too demure for such bold choices.

Monday night, Clare And The Reasons soundchecked early, trying to battle the squawk so they could sound less like Jimi Hendrix and more like this. I couldn't stay for the show because Little Johnny Walch was being inducted as a member of the class of 2014 over at New Dramatists. In case you missed it, Lisa D'Amour says John Walch is a lot of fun when he's high. I wouldn't know anything about that, but I like his writing.

As we left the bar after the ceremony--a block and a half West of Times Square--a woman in a Detroit Lions cap approached Illyana and I and asked, "excuse me, are you from around here?"

"Yes," we replied, ready as always to help a tourist.

"What city is this?" she enquired.

Illyana and I looked at each other like Vaudeville pros setting up a spit take and said, "what?"

"Is this Manhattan?"

Now, apparently she was confusing "city" with "borough"--she was looking to dance the night away at a club and wanted to know if she was close to the famous Times Square dance scene (insert spit-take here)--but. lady, if you have to ask, you must be doing something right . . .