I saw Dylan Moran


What I saw: Dylan Moran at The Town Hall, on West 43rd in NYC. Constructed and opened in 1921 by a suffragists’ organization, this venue is one of the few public structures of the city intended to reflect the principles of a democratic society, and lacks special box seats. 

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What I wore:  gray Pumas, gray chinos, black Danner belt, black Lululemon tank, gray and white animals silhouette shirt, Faroë Islands cardigan, messy ponytail, Kit Heath silver earrings, mascara.  

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What I did beforehand: bought bird seed, went to the post office and the bank; had a riding lesson, shower, fell asleep in a towel, woke to find an unexpected photo of my brother online; got dressed, walked the dogs, found a lost dog toy; drove to town, walked to the train, bought a ticket as a northbound train pulled in below me, and though I knew it wasn’t my train, it made me anxious to finish the transaction; drank a beer in a restaurant in Grand Central, bought another coat at The North Face.

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Who went with me: the Bacon Provider, and 1498 strangers who knew how to laugh. 



How I got tickets: noticed the event walking past the theater in August, but bought the tickets online.

Why I saw this show: fan of Black Books.

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Where I sat: orchestra, row J seat 11

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Things that were sad: we were repeatedly reminded that we are all going to die.

Things that were funny: calling Trump a “tsunami of lunchmeat and hairspray,” dissing Finland for being just “darkness and stones,” and, of course,  “Nobody has a cat, you just know a cat.”

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Things that were not funny: our beers in plastic cups were like $30; the eerie way the woman behind us laughed without using any force to press air from her lungs, so it was all whiny and warbly and seemed like she was in distress. Maybe she was.

What it is: a couple of hours of blistering stand-up comedy, with a slide show of doodles played but not commented on.

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Who should see it: Americans who didn’t need to see the third debate to know who to vote for, fans of “Black Books,” parents of young children, pet owners, people who like British sit-coms, anyone else who thinks folks with Irish accents are faking.

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What I saw when I got home: 

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