From George Clooney:
Here’s the thing: I grew up in Kentucky. I sold insurance door-to-door. I sold ladies’ shoes. I worked at an all-night liquor store. I would buy suits that were too big and too long and cut the bottom of the pants off to make ties so I’d have a tie to go on job interviews. I grew up understanding what it was like to not have health insurance for eight years. So this idea that I’m somehow the “Hollywood elite” and this guy who takes a shit in a gold toilet is somehow the man of the people is laughable.
People in Hollywood, for the most part, are people from the Midwest who moved to Hollywood to have a career. So this idea of “coastal elites” living in a bubble is ridiculous. Who lives in a bigger bubble? He lives in a gold tower and has twelve people in his company. He doesn’t run a corporation of hundreds of thousands of people he employs and takes care of. He ran a company of twelve people! When you direct a film you have seven different unions all wanting different things, you have to find consensus with all of them, and you have to get them moving in the same direction. He’s never had to do any of that kind of stuff. I just look at it and I laugh when I see him say “Hollywood elite.” Hollywood elite? I don’t have a star on Hollywood Boulevard, Donald Trump has a star on Hollywood Boulevard! Fuck you!
I have to ask, though: does George Clooney really not have a star on Hollywood Boulevard??
Looks like someone was wandering around in a Wild West ghost town! I hope he did not get tossed into an abandoned jail under the suspicion of stealing gold doubloons from a wily old prospector!
Here's where I stopped to gaze at the lake and the skyline and contemplate the longterm prospects of the human race vis-à-vis 2017 events thus far (FYI outlook not so good):
Here's where I took a detour to walk up the Bethesda Terrace steps because I decided I needed to "kick it up a notch":
Here's where I passed two sixtysomething women discussing where to funnel their hurricane donations. "Whatever you do, don't give anything to the Red Cross!" one said to the other, and I pictured myself in 15 years, likewise shouting pronouncements at A Friend:
Here's where I stopped for a minute to sweat before I bought a bagel:
p.s. White Gold Butchers is very delicious but does not open until 8 a.m., which is at least 60 minutes too late for me. I have zero patience at the best of times but when it comes to early morning hunger, it's at approximately negative 10 billion.
You can watch Dame Judi Dench here for free; it cost us $50 a piece and was worth it ("how could anything involving Judi Dench not be worth it?" is one of my general rules for living).
She told a dirty Merchant of Venice story and taught us a new word ("the irrational fear of being stared at by a duck": anatidaephobia). There were the usual boneheads determined to relay their own life history during the audience Q&A portion of the event, which is always a mistake, and for some reason the first lady up to the mike thought it would be a good idea to bring Dame Judi Dench two books to read (one on the art of losing [?!] and the other a collection of poetry by Wisława Szymborska [who I personally adore]), neither of which, I am quite sure, ever made it into the hands of Dame Judi Dench. C'est la vie. Stars are not your friends, ma'am. This should never be news to people.
Afterward SarahB and I stopped for a nightcap at a magical restaurant called Thalassa, which at 8:30 on a Monday was light on eaters but generously staffed: she ordered a glass of rosé and I had a Greek lager, and both were refilled by the bartender for free, along with a plate of cheese and a small dish of fresh, plump, oily olives. We had a lovely old time chatting, and when we finally exited we were each handed a bottle of water and a tiny to-go bag filled with cookies. It was one of those delightful New York City eves that are worth savoring, and we did! We really did.
Then we hit the streets for a ride home, which you can enjoy right here, also for free.
I love this photo of Dame Judi Dench giving Jake Gyllenhaal a stern dressing down, aka "a talking to" (also ♥️ the English language, btw). And how she's wearing her usual sensible footwear and earthy linens while he goes full-on Johnny Cash at 7:30 in the morning. I love them both! SarahB and I are seeing her tomorrow @ TimesTalks where she plans to do, apparently, more talking.
p.s. I only found out about this photo via the Jake Gyllenhaal newsletter, which is going away after Halloween so get in while you can.
I saw Carrie Coon in a play today, Mary Jane, which is in previews at the New York Theatre Workshop in the East Village. It's about a single mother caring for her chronically ill son, surrounded by female nurses and doctors and Buddhist hospital chaplains and mothers in similar circumstances (all of the actresses but Coon played multiple roles; there were no men onstage). The character was very much like Nora Durst—who along with Laura Roslin was the greatest TV hero that ever was—which is to say a no-bullshit, take-charge seeker of answers who finds nothing but more questions yet refuses to let go. From now on I'll know them as "Carrie Coon types," whose animating forces are tenacity and fearlessness and hope.
I left early this morning so I could vote in the NYC primary before work, only my voting location was not where I expected it to be (I was one block and one school short. Why are there so many blocks and schools in this town?). I decided to vote after work instead but realized I'd left my MTA pass in the jacket I was unexpectedly wearing yesterday so I had to haul my whole ass back up four flights of fucking stairs to fetch it. (There was less cursing than you might expect, illustrating some true personal growth on my part.) Then I decided I was too mad to take the M7 down Columbus so I took the M10 down Central Park West instead. This turned out to be a wise decision, since who couldn't use a 20-block-long view of Central Park first thing in the morning once in a while? Especially in late-late summer in sharp, vaguely humid sunshine? Come on, the answer is nobody. There isn't a single person in the world who wouldn't make that deal.
After work I voted because SarahB would never speak to me again if I did not, and also because I believe people who don't vote are idiots. It's literally the easiest thing you can do as a citizen of this country. The polls are open from 6am to 9pm, which is a pretty wide spectrum, although if you're working more than 15 hours somewhere you may obviously be excused. All other things considered, though, it's a low bar to meet.
After voting I went to Barnes & Noble to see Robin Sloan read from his new book, Sourdough. I've been a fan of Internet Robin Sloan for a very long time (he used to have quite an active blog) and have been a fan of Novelist Robin Sloan since Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore, which is as charming as its title. He has a background in tech (he once worked at Twitter) and a broad curiosity about a lot of things, which I find refreshing, particularly in this fractious socioeconomic climate, and his views on technology today tilt toward optimism without excluding what came before: he's both forward-looking and backward-grateful. He revels in imagination and appreciation and finding use for things. He signed books after the reading and stamped them with the GPS code of the exact location of the bookstore, which was delightful and also a very Robin Sloan thing to do. More superheroes should be like Robin Sloan.
Then I shelled out some heavy clams for a bunch of books, and here's why:
- Sourdough by Robin Sloan (see above)
- Holes by Louis Sachar (because of this piece by Jia Tolentino in the New Yorker on her love for the books of Louis Sachar)
- The Principles of Uncertainty by Maira Kalman (because of this On Being podcast)
- Less by Andrew Sean Greer (because Robin Sloan mentioned it)
- Maddie Lounging on Things by Theron Humphrey (because Maddie)
Keep me from going to sleep too soon
Or if I go to sleep too soon
Come wake me up. Come any hour
Of night. Come whistling up the road.
Stomp on the porch. Bang on the door.
Make me get out of bed and come
And let you in and light a light.
Tell me the northern lights are on
And make me look. Or tell me clouds
Are doing something to the moon
They never did before, and show me.
See that I see. Talk to me till
I’m half as wide awake as you
And start to dress wondering why
I ever went to bed at all.
Tell me the walking is superb.
Not only tell me but persuade me.
You know I’m not too hard persuaded.
I don't use the word "blessed" very often (or ever) because I find it silly, but there are times when it's all that fits. I've been blessed that my life in New York has been filled with so many performances by so many performers I used to—once upon a time—only dream of seeing live on stage. If I'm honest, they are probably the reason I wanted to live here in the first place, and if in the decade since they have proved not enough to get me to stay forever, that's due to a slow but steady shift in my own priorities over the last few years. They have been endlessly giving and I have been endlessly rewarded. They are everything I wanted them to be.
The line for Hello, Dolly! stretches long into Shubert Alley, and on certain nights there is some grousing along the way from out-of-towners who for some reason did not realize that purchasing or holding a ticket labeled
means they will not, in fact, be seeing Bette Midler. I'd like to tell them how lucky they are to see Donna Murphy do anything, but if you're not a person who recognizes this already, I'm not sure you could understand—unless you stay and see the show.
Donna Murphy is one of those stage legends, a two-time Tony winner and consummate theatrical pro who excels in both comedy and drama (she won for Passion and The King and I), that Hollywood has no earthly idea what to do with. You have to see her perform live, and to see her perform in Hello, Dolly!—an across-the-board stellar production of a dated but thoroughly delightful show—is a gift and a small miracle and yes, okay, a blessing, She is sharp and funny and wise and never less than true, drawing every joyous belt and wink and mug from her copious carpet bag of tricks and gleefully sending them all up to the rafters to you, in the audience, who are seeing what it actually means to be a star.
+ I can find no YouTube evidence of her performance yet, but here she is recreating a number from Anyone Can Whistle, in which she played the devious Mayoress, Cora Hoover Hooper, at (where else) Encores! way back in 2010. Lord, was that something. I was so lucky!
+ this mean, delicious bit from Follies, at Stephen Sondheim's 80th birthday celebration at Lincoln Center, also in 2010:
I like people who think with their hands; it's just a different kind of poetry.
+ see also: Austin Kleon, who is never-endingly inventive & inspiring
- roll of scotch tape
- black papermate flair pen
- box of 24 crayola crayons
- 3-ring binder
- 100 plastic sheet protector sleeves
I would be so happy!
I left work early because it rained most of the day and when it rains all bets are off. Three packed D trains in a row might show up and I'll be standing on the platform forever (or ~15 minutes). Sometimes I think they just forget to send the B train through. I imagine it re-routing through Pittsburgh somehow, or winding through the Catskills, and since nobody ever looks up from their phones, how would they even know? They could be sailing across the Adriatic Sea. But it was there when I reached the bottom of the stairs, and only modestly packed, two small public service miracles. I was home by 5:50.
. . . . .
The young woman sitting across from me had a wrinkled Sephora bag tucked between her feet. Her hair was long and dark and I could see out of the corner of my eye her head pitching forward, over and over, as she tried to keep from falling asleep. Finally she gave up and pulled out her phone. The universe's great multi-tool: I hope it saved her.
People who live alone
Fart in cars
Pick their noses
And never flush
In the middle of the night
Most people who live alone
Things have to stay where
Things were put
Like there is no room
In my heart for change
Or hamburger that I don't grind
Or coffee that drips
Or tears because
People who live alone
It is all