23 February So, back to Sunday. After leaving the basement of the Empire State Building, Patrick and Roe and I headed back uptown in the same direction that we came from originally. "You'll only see ten blocks of New York," I said to Patrick, "But you'll see them several times!" We ended up at my extremely old stomping grounds, Rockefeller Center, because Patrick wanted to see what he ended up calling "the smallest, most badly kept ice rink in all the land" and we watched the skaters fall down and carve giant divots out of the ice with their dull rental skates. I got some good pictures that would have been better had I brought my longer lens and found that Roe is one of those people who refuse to have their pictures taken. "But you have a cam!" I cried, "I guarantee you that anything I take will be better than your cam!" "But that's the point, cams take bad pictures and that's the way it is, but if you take a high quality picture and it's bad, then it's my face that's the problem!"
We went to Crabtree and Evelyn and I put on the perfume that Roe's mother wears (I must go back and buy it) and then to Godiva (don't throw me into that briar patch!) to open our mouths and be stuffed with chocolate like a goose, and then to the Coca-Cola store, where we jeered at everything and ended up with me knocking an intensely expensive glass to the ground with my Godiva bag. I was very pleased that they did not have a "You break it, you bought it" policy. So, we were looking at each other on the sidewalk, wondering what to do next with our rapidly dwindling time. "We can always eat again!" "Yes! Let's eat more!" and we set off with a spring in our step to the Brooklyn Diner. I sucked down some split pea soup with hot dog pieces, then ran to the theatre for my picture call.
I picked up the keys from the bar and did not let them out of my sight all evening long. Nobody touched them but me. After our show closed, anyone who wanted to could lose them all they wanted, but until then I was guarding them like a junkyard dog. My picture call went a deal longer than I expected, but I think I got some good shots, and the show went swimmingly. Cynthia was most pleased that she got all of her laughs for the first time--every single one of them. And I just watched it, laughing and laughing. Ant'ny saved his best performance for last, and Fred was, as usual, funny as hell. And the two of them did their "Tibbadee-Tibbador-Tibaudier" bit as close to right as they were ever likely to get it!
Afterwards, I saw Patrick and Roe and Tracing and Colleen and Kate and Melissa, who looked faint from hunger (and she's pretty pale to begin with!) and we went to the bar. They took one look at the menu and decided that it was an upscale place and wanted to leave, which confused me because this is the place where I always get a plate of nachos big enough to choke a horse for $4 (and actually ended up spending more that I usually would where we ended up going), but I forget about the stuff on the menu that no-one I know ever eats. At first, I thought that they were saying "We want to go and quickly get some pizza then go home, so goodbye" but then I realized that it wasn't that they were trying to ditch me, but that they wanted to go elsewhere, so we did. We had lots of fun, besides the bit where I realized that I had left my camera at the theatre and had to go back, but luckily the 9p show had not started yet, so I was able to get it out of the booth and go back to the restaurant. Too early did everyone want to leave, but since I was the only one who actually had to work on Monday, I was willing to go, too. I just wish that we all lived nearer each other, though we certainly live nearer each other than some journallers do. Earlier in the day I had postulated the idea of JournalTown, because, for instance, I wish so much that I lived nearer Beth to see her more than the once that I have. Well, I want Kate and Melissa and Colleen and Patrick to live in JournalTown, too! Tracing and Roe already live nearby, they already live in my JournalTown.
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