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.

No, this photo is not in focus
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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I saw “A Day By The Sea”

What I saw: “A Day By The Sea,” a play from 1953, staged by the Mint Theater Company at the Beckett Theater at 410 West 42nd Street, off-Broadway in NYC.

What I wore: Chinese-made Australian boots, James jeans, indigo-dyed Tanner belt, brown Eileen Fisher jersey top that I wear when I can’t think of anything better, taupe Garnet Hill fringed cardigan (a thing I sometimes love and other times hate to wear), mascara.

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What I did beforehand:  walked and fed the dogs; had a riding lesson; took a shower; rode a train where I sat in the quiet car and people sat down next to me and argued loudly in two languages for 40 minutes, undeterred by occasional announcements that the last two cars are quiet cars; saw the dentist which was supposed to be quick and simple, but was less so; visited the Morgan Library to see my favorite baby Jesus again and the Dubuffet drawings which I gushed over; ate some food when the numbed teeth woke up.


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Who went with me: plenty of old white folks, and a couple of my demons.

 How I got tickets: on line, in the middle of last Saturday night.


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Why I saw this show: impulse, because it seems like a dentist appointment alone isn’t reason enough to go to the city.

Where I sat: Row E, seat 2, between two men who were also there by themselves.


What it is: a play from the fifties, about loneliness, or the crisis of middle age, when so many of us realize that we are running out of time to correct the course our lives amidst the crushing accumulation of disappointments. 

Things that were sad:  see, “What it is.”

Things that were funny: there were many funny and/or poignant moments. According to the program, before serving in World War II, playwright N.C. Hunter wrote frothy comedies for the London stage. After, his works were more bittersweet, but not without humor. I believe there were more laughs in this script than the studious, elderly New York audience was willing to let loose. 

Things that were not funny: I laughed regularly, but alone. At one point, my giggles were joined by others’ chuckles, until an audience member on the other side of the theater shushed us.


Who should see it: people who laugh; fans of TV shows set in English manors in search of better-written plots, more interesting dialog, more honest interactions, and fully-fleshed-out human characters, who, like me, might have had to stop watching after the rape scene.

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What I saw on the way home: turned my ankle avoiding the puddles of vomit on 42nd Street.

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I saw the new “Ghostbusters”

What I saw: the new “Ghostbusters” at the Bow-Tie Cinema on Main Street in the village of Mount K., in Westchester County, where New Yorkers go live when they want to be surrounded by other white people, or they want a yard.

What I wore: baggy boyfriend khakis with the ankles rolled up, hot pink TomboyX undies, TomboyX “Divided We Stall” t-shirt, hair crammed into elastic, black suede Puma sneakers with striped socks, Danner belt, no makeup, glasses.


What I did beforehand: Pilates, riding lesson, tried to upload the new Flash player to my computer, watched the latest Carpool Karaoke with Michelle Obama on my iPad because I couldn’t  update the Flash player on my computer.

Who went with me: the Bacon Provider and some families.

How I got tickets: online, using Fandango

Why I saw this show: because American misogynists try to ruin everything

Where I sat: fourth row, on the end

Always popcorn
Things that were sad: I laughed loudest and longest.

Things that were funny: soup jokes, hearse jokes, aquarium jokes, jokes about academia, and everything that Kate McKinnon does onscreen. 

Things that were not funny: the woman of color in this movie is the non-scientist-Ghostbuster, and assholes on Twitter treated her like shit, too. 

What it is: funnier, scarier, and better than the 80s original, this movie features excellent and silly special effects, costumes that will be really fun for cos-players and trick-or-treaters, and female scientists who kick supernatural butt. 

Who should see it: everyone. 

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What I thought about on the way home: my middle child loved Mr. Bean, and years ago we took the kids to see the Mr. Bean movie (1997). There is a scene in that movie (as in this one) about giving someone “the finger,” and my middle child, then no more than 5 years old, had a lot of questions about “the finger.” I explained that it means, “I hate you. So punch me in the face.” 

I won’t look at some of the other reviews of this “Ghostbusters” movie, since so many reviews have been written by woman-hating man-babies who can’t envision a world where women are funny, important, powerful, and central to a story. Instead, I’d like to offer them “the finger.”