(Wherein our intrepid hero gets the theme to Phantom of the Opera stuck in his head for the rest of the trip)
After an ethonolic-recovery-mandated somniatic session, some wandering around the upper west side, including the depositment of my dirty clothes at a nearby Laundromat, inquiry into the availability of tickets to The Daily Show with Jon Stewart was rendered. The result? A ticket booked online, and instructions to be waiting in line by 3:30, (The show begins taping at about 6). Waiting in line with some friendly ex-Nova-Yorkians, who had returned to the city to do all the things they never did when they lived here (some things are a universal constant, it seems), who obligingly assisted in the taking of another of mine daguerrotipic reproductions of species Spencerius in situ. Water and ice-pops were handed out by a friendly intern, who no doubt spent four years at film school for the privilege. I amused the security staff and interns alike with tales of Emu hunting, explaining that the crocodile hunter is, in fact, the dandy of the outback hunting world. Finally, entrance to the studio, where once more I find myself in the centre, this time 4th row, and a rousing warm-up by production assistants, capped off by a Q&A session with messr. Stewart hisself, the highlight of which, the final question, courtesy of an especially frail 86 year old woman in the front row: ” Does your wife know I’m in bed with you every night?” Those of you that have opportunity to catch the 26th of July episode may now understand his comment “ Honey, if you’re watching, I have bad news… We have company tonight. ” at the opening of the episode, which is otherwise left unexplained.
Thence, a rapid trip to the theatre district, to TKTS, whence tickets to Curtains were sought. For the discount price of $75, I was offered “partial view” seats. (Apparently, getting to see the whole show is a privilege reserved for those willing to pay over $100)… “Would you like box seats to Phantom of the Opera instead?” Yes, yes I would.
Spectacular, of course. Are we surprised by this?
Following this, a late-night wander around Times Square, in hopes of procuring some clothes, having realised that all of my clothes were now either dirty, or hostage of the laundromat until Friday afternoon. Finally, having secured a clean t-shirt and pair of socks at the Quicksilver store (how far to travel, to end up with Australian surfwear!) I headed to The Pink Pony, a quiet bohemian respite in the East Village from the noisy clubs nearby that I neglected to patronise… After some time spent doing my best to bewilder the bar staff with spelling questions; Cacophonous? Salacious? I made my way back to the apartment.