Contact

Just got back from New York City last night. Mum and I had a great trip. The highlight, of course, was seeing my brother Mark in his first New York show, a College of New Rochelle production of "Contact," a very-deserving Tony award winner in 1999. This was Mark's meatiest role, and he just knocked the socks off of it. He danced! My little brother danced! Like, Broadway-choreographed dancing! It was awesome. And moving. And heart-wrenching, because at one point of the show my brother hangs himself.

Now, if you haven't ever seen a member of your family hanging from a noose, I do not recommend it. Mark played a character at the end of life's rope, and he gets one last chance to learn how to dance, love, and live... so this whole second act, you're rooting for him because my brother is an everyman - that will be his star quality - he's just like the rest of us. You feel like you're watching yourself up there. All these people around him are dancing with aplomb, and his character has to learn, has to find it in himself to dance. And then, he gets it, he finally gets it, and then he's back on the noose where he started. Children were crying in the theater as he hung there, lifeless. It was a horrible moment, one that haunted Mom and I for the rest of the weekend.

I was so proud of him. Because, one, I've directed him before, and I know how much he wants to reach the audience. And this was by far his best performance ever. I was in tears by the end of it. (It ends happily). And two, he did it all with such great talent and devotion. I mean, he wasn't even getting paid to be in this show, and here he was, his whole heart and soul on the floor, and it was really, truly beautiful. Bravo, broskie! You will go far.

Mark met us on Friday at Penn Station. As promised, I actually took pictures. Here's Mark and Mom on the subway:



And yours truly urban-ing it up:


Is anyone else reminded of "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" when they ride the New York subway system? These things hurtle through time and space at some strange warp velocity and all I could hear is Gene Wilder saying,

"Is it raining? Is it snowing?
Is a hurricane a-blowing?
Not a speck of light is showing,
So the danger must be growing.
Are the fires of Hell a-glowing?
Is the grisly reaper mowing?
Yes, the danger must be growing,
For the rowers keep on rowing,
And they're certainly not showing,
Any signs that they are slowing!"

Substitute some rhyming version of "wheels" in for "rowers" and subtract the beheaded chickens you have the equivalent of my NYT experience. We had to stand in the back of the E train, headed for Queens, and the door was open in the back of our car, and so each time the car would rock the door would slam open and shut like some possessed house. It felt like we were hitting things, driving over people and small mammals, hurtling through the time-space continuum with lights flashing by, and all the while there is this resigned serenity on people's faces as if this incredible cacophony of light and sound was somehow like buying white bread or picking up the paper in the morning. I was expecting people to be thrown into the windows, bags flying everywhere, the doors all sucked open in the vortex of these black labyrinths through which this death machine hurled itself.

Alas, no. But that was how it felt.

We arrived at Mark's apartment, which is in lower Queens. Here are some pictures of it. He lives with three other people and pays $2000+/mo. for it, and for NY, it is stunning:



His roommates are all great. Mat wasn't kidding when he said Mark's apt. was nicer than mine. The toughest part, I think, was that actually being there made me realize Mark was truly not around anymore. I have a capacity for ignorance, and I think I was avoiding the fact that Mark was gone. Join that with a tinge of jealousy over his artistic success, and it was an emotional weekend. It was great to see him, though. I'm glad he's coming home for Thanksgiving.

always,
m