And now what? No eclipse. No Curb. No Masters.
Oh, yes - the Trump trial!
Tomorrow I will be speaking about my memoir with Ann Bocock at the Sun Sentinel’s PRIME Expo. It is a day of talks and seminars for people over the age of 50, which is to say: my typical audience. Even though my book is a coming-of-age story, about a young man’s quest to become a travel writer, most of the people who come to hear me talk about it are Boomers like myself. Even when I attend readings by other, younger writers, the audience is usually made up of seniors. They are, to a large extent, keeping book readings, bookstores, the book business alive.
An article in today’s Miami Herald reports that Madonna stopped her show at the Kaseya Center in protest over the excessive air-conditioning. “At one point…[she] stopped what she was doing to rant at her team.”
The article illustrated, surprisingly, what I have in common with the pop star, and, also, what I don’t. For years I have complained about the cold temperatures in restaurants, theaters, and stores in South Florida. Not only is there no reason for the overchill, it contributes to climate change (the hydrofluorocarbon refrigerants used are potent greenhouse gases). I applaud Madonna for bringing attention to the problem, and I hope perhaps it will result in some change.
I was also struck by the fact that she complained to her “team.” Tennis players do this all the time; they miss a shot and then turn to their box, moaning and screaming as if the lost point were the fault of their coach and physio. I, needless to say, don’t have a team. But I would like to. It would be nice to have someone to berate whenever an editor sends me a rejection.
Now what? No eclipse. No Final Fours. No Curb Your Enthusiasm.
Oh, that’s right – The Masters.
It would have been nice, of course, to have been in the path of the yesterday’s eclipse. In the morning, as I saw people gathering in towns along the way, I thought it would have been even nicer to have the shared experience. That sentiment changed as the eclipse occurred and my TV roared with the shouts and cheers and applause of the observers. Their response seemed inappropriate to the event, which, in my mind at least, called for an awed and reverential hush. In 1969 a magazine, Time perhaps, asked a number of famous writers what the first man on the moon should say. Vladimir Nabokov replied: “I want a lump in his throat to obstruct the wisecrack.”
Friday we drove to West Palm Beach to see Death of a Salesman at the Palm Beach Dramaworks. It was a phenomenal performance by all the actors, while Rob Donohue (Willy Loman), Helena Ruoti (Linda) and Michael Shenefelt (Biff) stood out. I was reintroduced not only to a great work of American literature but to the very visceral experience of live theater. (Our seats were in the second row.) Also, now when Hania complains about me watching sports on television, I will say to her: “Attention must be paid.”