theater – Mitchell's thoughts, photos, etc.

I Can’t Sing. I Will Never Pretend I Can

Years ago, I was in Durham and on the phone with my dad. I let him know I landed and was at my hotel. Even at my age, I have to let my parents know where I am. Sadly, my dad’s been gone for over a decade. Maybe he knows.

Anyway, I said, “You know I used to sound like John Lennon. Now I sound like Paul McCartney.” He retorted, “You make all the young girls cry.” He didn’t mean I sing like Barry Manilow. He meant my voice would make anyone cry. He’s right.

Sure, I wish I had the voice of Bono, Ian Curtis, David Gahan, Peter Murphy, Robert Smith, or the Moz. Oh, and the two Beatles I mentioned. They were gifted. There are many others in my boat. Far too many. But sadly, some of them think they can sing. I attend many events where we sing by the campfire or as part of our religious services. There was a guy there who used to like to sing and dance. He often said he was shocked that people didn’t recruit him from Lincoln Center to sing at the opera house or in the other theaters.

What do I do? I sing along or use their time up there as the time for a bathroom break. Some of them sing fast. Some drag it out. What should take 3-5 minutes turns into 45 minutes. That’s a lot of time in the bathroom. But it also gives you time to run over to the kitchen and get tea.

But then there are the personalities. The opera star had none. Some of the others are wonderful people. Some retired. Some working. They mean well. They want to sing. I still want to pitch for the Yankees. I blame my mother for never signing with the Bronx Bombers. That’s really a joke. Steinbrenner would have never signed me. Rightfully so. But these days, I might play and be better than whom Hal and Cash have signed.

How do I pick which “concert” I attend? There are places I go where those leading can carry a tune. But they are not friendly. In some cases, they are downright nasty and mean. I used to alternate. I recently decided I’d rather let my ears suffer with poor singing, as opposed to suffering unfriendliness.

Wednesday Matinees

Who are Better Theater Goers – Seniors or Young Adults?

By Mitchell Slepian

A week ago on a Wednesday, I saw the Don Quixote ballet as part of the American Ballet, performed at the Metropolitan Opera House. Mom and I had orchestra seats. I have seen many operas and love this theater. This was the first time I had orchestra seats.

The theater was loaded with senior citizens. Some came with their respective senior and religious organizations. Wednesdays are typical days for both seniors and young adults to attend matinees or visit museums. Countless times, I have walked through the Guggenheim, the Whitney, and other venues and noticed this occurrence.

Who acts more mature? Who is more respectful? Well, when the kids walk in, their eyes often light up. For many, it might be the first time they’ve been to the theater or the Guggenheim. Yes, they are on their phones taking tons of pictures of each other. Some get a little more dressed up than today’s teen apparel. Some don’t.

As for the seniors, they are on their phones, too. They snap a few shots. They complain about the security and how this theater does it differently from the other one. I am a regular at all of Lincoln Center’s theaters. The complaints I heard while waiting to go through security were off base. Although each of the Center’s theaters is independent of the others, the security is pretty much the same. The kids just dealt with it and took more images.

Eventually, everyone got to their seats. Everyone sat and waited for the curtain to rise. It did. Who was quieter and stuffed their phones into their pockets? The kids. Who didn’t stop talking? The seniors. Why? Who knows?

During the performance, many of us had to get up to use the restrooms, and the line was long. Who was more respectful while walking down the aisles? Guess. At the end of the show, I noticed empty candy wrappers and water bottles on the theater floor. Several rows looked like a garbage dump. The kids were not seated in those. Their rows were clean.

Does Constantly Checking Your Email Give You Peace of Mind?

Or Does it Drive You Crazy?

By Mitchell Slepian

I remember back in the day, when you couldn’t check your email on your phone or by logging in on another computer. You had to check it on the computer you normally used. Years ago, my sister and I shared an email address. I figured out how to check it from other computers. I would log on and email her. She got a little nervous and scared. She had no idea how I was doing this. Of course, I explained everything. But I had fun for a day or two.

I remember when I was at a PR firm and on a Friday, booked the CEO (Scott D. Cook) of the company I was representing (Intuit) onto CNBC. He was supposed to be on the following Monday. I was in NYC, and Cook was in Mountain View, Calif. The producers were working out the final details. They, a coworker, and I left each other voicemails all weekend. We were checking nonstop. Monday came around, and we worked everything out with Cook’s executive assistant and he did a great interview.

These days, all we would have to do is send a few emails or texts, and everything would be set. In some jobs, you need to constantly check your email. But the question I would like to raise is: how much checking is too much? Do you check immediately before going to bed and as soon as you wake up? Does it kill when you need to turn your phone off during Broadway shows, the New York Philharmonic, and operas? When is checking excessive? Can you sit through dinner with family and friends without logging on?

The best part is that most of the time, all your emails come from your project management applications, such as Basecamp or monday.com, letting you know the web update is live or that edits have been made to a document. Oh, and there are sales pitches for things your company will never need. Or people reaching out to you to forward their resumes to HR. These people are not people you know. They are just spamming everyone they can secure an email address for.

For the record, before I sat down to write this, I was at the gym. My workday was over. I was doing some core work and checked my email. On the super-long train ride into work that morning (due to a stalled train at a major station), I held back from checking and kept reading “Remain in Light” by Chris Frantz. I tried my best to stick with the book on my Kindle and not try to live that wildlife by checking my office’s email. I even skipped checking my personal email accounts. I have too many of those.

Bottom line, I think it’s fine to check it in moderation. But I always remember that the email you’re waiting for, or think is coming will probably come in due time.

Marc and Alana at Times Square

While Kari was weeping on a bench at Hudson River Park, Marc and Alana emerged from Times Square Station. Marc got Alana front one orchestra seats for Sweeney Todd. The two weren’t sure where they’d go for dinner after. They weren’t sure if they would go anywhere.

They probably had the relationship Kari dreamed of. They treated each other to things. They liked the same music. Marc was obsessed with the Yankees. Alana could care less about sports. She did favor the Yankees and occasionally accompanied Marc to the Stadium. Of course, they stopped in Stan’s pregame for a couple of Yankee Pilsners and excellent company and music.

Jay was still sitting there. Kari decided she had enough and got up and walked back toward Times Square. Kari knew she would probably meet Jay for another exciting date in a day or so. She wondered which bench he would choose to meet her at. Oh well.

Marc and Alana went into the theater and began the show. The curtain closed, and happy theatergoers exited. Alana and Marc headed toward the east side to a bar for beer. As they walked, they noticed a group of people hanging around. They looked distressed. Marc and Alana looked at each other. They decided they would see what was happening and if they could help.

They saw a crazy lady screaming and throwing things. The two looked at each other. They whispered this is sadly part of the norm in NYC now. They assessed the situation. Marc and Alana didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Of course, they also wanted their Sierra Nevada Pale Ale or Stella Artois. They decided to handle this quickly. Alana shot some apples from a slight distance out of her eyes while Marc set a few pomegranates in flight. All were a direct hit at the woman, causing the ruckus. She went down. The crowd drifted away, and the two lovebirds continued to the bar and got their beer.