Port Authority

Months ago, Larry shut down the insane fantasy of going across the Atlantic to see Jim Norton in whatever play he is in next. Moot point now. Norton is onstage at the Atlantic Theater in NYC, as one third of the cast of Conor McPherson's Port Authority. This is one of McPherson's earlier plays, one of those in which the actors engage in long monologues that read like short stories. In fact, some of them are almost too literary to be short stories, if that's possible, unless we're to believe that down and out Irishmen talk like grads of the Iowa Writer's Workshop. Well, grads with an exceptionally acerbic wit, grads unafraid to be pretty funny when things are darkest. (Not too many of those running around, are there?) I read these early plays and I want to write him a letter, saying, Can you just write a novel or something? Cause 90 minutes of this isn't quite enough, frankly. Shining City? Very nice, but I was still hungry at the end. 

So, when I found out this play was opening off Broadway, I said to Larry, let's go to this. That was at the end of March, just two weeks before his job ended. We were still a little spooked about, well, everything. I had yet to sign a book contract. We had no idea what he was going to do. He had resumes flying everywhere and a staff to worry about, and he had just brought home a stack of papers indicating that our healthcare bill would likely top out over the mortgage payment every month, starting in May. Not much spare cash left over from that to pay for train tickets to the big city because someone in the irrational half of the marriage has a little crush on an actor. (Jim Norton: 70 years old and still smokin hot!)

I dropped the matter. At least I stopped talking about it. As things spooled out, Larry had the chance to take a couple of freelance contracts. Not jobs, because who wants that? I helped him draw up proposals. We talked about what he should charge, and he sent them off. And then there was silence.  People tend to sit on their hands in these situations. Saying yes takes time. The no comes right away. The yes takes time. Being able to sit in the hang time, to give your price and sit through the uncomfortable silence that follows is a key skill. During the days we sat waiting, I said, "If you get this work, can we go see that play?" Foolishly, he agreed. Although we didn't get tickets before Norton was nominated for a Tony (for the Seafarer), we did get them before the New York Times raved about this production. Yay!

And this is where we'll be on Thursday night. In a little theater off Broadway watching these three guys. My boyfriend is the one in the middle. He lives in my iPod where he narrates Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman. More on this later.

Ancient Roman Boyfriends

Just finished listening to the Emperors of Rome series of lectures from the Teaching Company (nerd alert!) in mile two of this morning's run and moved right into the first of 48 lectures on the History of Ancient Rome. Earlier this spring I listened to Great Battles of the Ancient World, all by the same lecturer. I waved my iPod at Larry, who was on the treadmill next to me and said: "This guy is pretty much my boyfriend by now." I don't even use the lecturer's name (Garrett Fagan, Irish intellectual). He's just this guy who lives in my iPod and says wildly droll things about deceased despots. Larry knows who I mean. He knows a lot more about me these days now that he's at home. We even work out together every day, which is either sickening or really cute. Hard to tell which.

"What is it with you and the Irish," Larry asked without breaking stride. "If I started drinking heavily and stopped bathing and brushing my teeth, would you be into me, too?"

"Don't know," I said. "Can you do the accent?"

Guilty Pleasures 2

A few weeks ago, Larry came home on time, which was a surprise, mostly because I was glued to the TV set and the place was still a mess. In my nightly click-around, I had found my favorite actor in a new (to me) movie, Veronica Guerin. He has a bigger part in this one, a pimp, and while waiting around for his next scene, I got sucked into the story.

As a result, the whole evening was out of whack. No dinner for the kids, no jammies, not that they noticed. They were happily playing in the next room. I could hear Garret making his killer robot sounds and his lava sounds--imagine aggravated flatulence interrupted by explosions--while Sammie sat next to him, chatting away. She was portraying both halves of a mother-daughter team of rescue cats about to save the robots from the lava. But first? Shopping! For shoes, maybe some groceries. I heard her ask Garret what sort of snacks the robots might like after their rescue. How wise she is. People do get peckish after a crisis. Robots, too, I imagine.

So, Larry walked through the house to find chopped vegetables next to the empty soup pot. Bills stacked up to be paid. Not a single coat, art project or half-eaten snack cleared from any surface. Bad mommy.

He walked up to the TV. "Isn't that Julius Caesar?" I said the actor's name out loud, and then, "I adore him."

Larry sniffed. "Sweet look for your boyfriend."

To what could he be referring? The greasy hair? The sad moustache and fat-Elvis sideburns? The orange tinted aviator sunglasses? Or the wardrobe of rayon and pleather? I pointed to the TV. "On him, that outfit is sexy." I'm sure Larry was chewing up a mouthful of something to say to that, but the kids intervened. We heard: Stop it! followed by Quit lookin' at me! Then we heard a slap followed by a scream. I handed Larry the remote and trotted off to initiate peace talks. Larry stretched out on the couch and asked for a recap. I tossed a couple of headlines over my shoulder: Reporter takes on Irish mob. Violence ensues.

"Great," said Larry. "A message film." He continued to watch, though, and to provide extremely cynical commentary while I whipped up mac and cheese and herded the kids to the table before issuing the usual threat: I am holding your desserts hostage. Anyone throws milk, spits food or pokes someone's eye out with a fork and both desserts will be destroyed uneaten.

Garret sang "You're a Grand Old Flag," but substituted the word fart for the word flag, and the word wave, and then most of the other words. Each time he did this, Sammie shrieked "NO!" hitting ever higher and more piercing notes. In the living room, Larry rounded the bases on a speech about the trouble with message films. I poured a little wine. Then Larry interrupted himself to call out, "Hey, your boyfriend has no shirt on." I scurried on in, but was too late. The scene had migrated to close-ups. My favorite guy was doing his creepy sinister look, while the actress was looking, well, exactly the way an A-lister is expected to look when she has to be brave, deeply self-righteous and smokin' hot all at once. No semi-nudity of swarthy character actors was forthcoming.

"How did he look?" I asked Larry, who just shook his head.

"Gravity is a bitch."

"What do you mean?"

Larry waggled his hand in the air. "I give him a B cup."

Here I said something regrettable. "On him, even man-breasts would be sexy."

Larry smirked. "How old is this guy, anyway?"

"Shut up. Women will want him when he's 90. He will make wizened, toothless geezerhood sexy."

Larry looked to the ceiling. Perhaps he was scrolling down a list of responses to this crazy tidbit, but the kids intervened again. We heard a cluster of soft plops, the unmistakable sound of wax beans hitting a vertical surface. I trotted off to impose a no-fly zone.

Ever since then, Larry has referred to the actor in question as "Your boyfriend, Mr. Flapjack Tits."

THE EXERCISE: That story's not going anywhere. There's no real reason for it to exist, but it was fun to write. On some days, inspiration grows cold. I have three things I'm supposed to have edited by today and a huge long document to write, and instead, I came up with this. On some days, the task is to write something, anything. Today, write something fun that makes you smile, even if it's not going anywhere. Let the work be your guilty pleasure.