 Let's talk turkey.
It's the Monday after Thanksgiving, and we have survived. We do feel fat, let down, and guilty that we ate so much and have done so little to get ready for Christmas, which is Coming Soon to a life near ours. So what should we do to cheer ourselves up? Maybe a fun Broadway play?
H'mm, there's Finian's Rainbow (weirdly wonderful) or The Royal Family (dysfunctional, sure, but in a good way). Or we could see a real turkey, the revival of Bye, Bye Birdie at the Arthur Miller Theatre.
Ouch.
Pat, you always write reviews about plays you like! What's happened? What has John Stamos ever done to you? Well, nothing, but maybe if he had . . .
Hey, there's a first time for everything, and this is my first negative play review.
Sorry, folks, but the show deserves it, and while I hate to be The Grinch Who Panned Birdie, you need to be warned. For starters, There is no — absolutely no — chemistry between the two main characters, Albert (Stamos) and Rose, his voluptuous, marriage minded secretary, played by Gina Gershon.
Separately they're knockouts, but in Bye Bye Birdie, they just don't look good together. Stamos is slight — good looking as all hell, but not big -— so with Gerson in big skirts and really big hair, it feels like one of those cartoons where one character is purposely drawn bigger than the other: Think Natasha and Boris in The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle. . . .
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No, not a gun. A suitcase.
It's a big suitcase, but there's a bigger pile of things. How can I know what to bring? How can I make all the right decisions? I can't, and I wont.
Instead, I will experience the The Eleven Stages of Packing.
Yes, I know, grieving has only seven stages, but this is more complicated.
Stage 1: Regret: Why Am I Taking This Trip? Why? Because it's a cruise on the Queen Mary 2, that's why, and it leaves from Brooklyn, a mere cab ride away. No plane! No expensive tickets! No security lines! No being trapped in a flying sardine can with people who mess up the bathroom in unspeakable ways!
Just sailing to the Caribbean, with all the comforts of home, a home I can only imagine, not being to the manner (or is it "manor?") born. You get my drift.
In view of all this luxury, it does seem pretty petty to complain about having to pack. But for me, packing has always been traumatic . . .
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Why do these tiny Turkish bowls remind me of the Italian superstar Sophia Loren?
 It's this: I love these bowls, even though I really and truly believe the great Sophia's wise words, "Never love anything that can't love you back."
She gave this advice when interviewed about a high-class heist that relieved her of many valuable "things" — like furs and jewels. And yes, those things surely couldn't have loved her back. But I have always felt, deep in my heart, that this sentiment could also apply to certain boyfriends and other assorted louses who shall remain nameless. You know what I mean.
Be that as it may, you must be wondering why I am so attached to these colorful little two-inch ceramic bowls. Well, I can give you some very practical reasons, and I can rationalize as usual from here to Sunday (it's now Monday), but the honest answer is "I don't know."
Why do we love anything? Anybody?
The heart, as Woody Allen once famously said, has its reasons. Athough one reporter rather sagely suggested that the particular organ in question, in regard to Woody's relationship with Soon Yi, was something other than the heart.
Let's not go there . . .
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 Not for nothing, but I really enjoyed God of Carnage even though I had to pay full price and ended up sitting in the back of the mezzanine. Hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. And these tickets are hot!
As you probably know, one of the characters is played by Tony Soprano. I mean, James Gandolfini. Oh, get real. It is impossible to look at that man in this role and not see him as the "family guy" on The Sopranos, the wildly popular HBO show that has created many a tense moment for Italian-Americans across the land. See Bada Bing! Bada Boom!
But talk about tense moments! God of Carnage is about two couples, four "civilized" people who get together to discuss a problem between their two sons: the kids had a fight in the schoolyard. Back before the rise of Helicopter Parents, the children might have settled this themselves. These days, adults feel they must get involved. And involved they get, in a big way.
Okay, one kid did get hurt (he lost a few teeth) and the other kid was wielding a stick, so no one's saying that the parents shouldn't have been concerned. But this incident escalates into World War III, not to mention a lawsuit (so what else is new?) looming in the background. One of the parents is a lawyer who, in a rare moment when he isn't on his cell phone obviously wishing he was anywhere else than here, objects to the term "armed with" a stick as used by the mother of the victim. She gives in on that point. Sort of.
Let's face it, this "discussion" is all about the parents, not their kids — and that's not a pretty sight.
Funny, though . . .
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I hate to tell you this, but Fall sucks. Yeah, yeah, the leaves are pretty. That's because they're dead. You want foliage, you like the falling leaves of red and orange? Fine. Makes a nice song. But dead leaves are not a good sign. Trust me.
And yes, the days are not as hot as the stifling days of summer. That's because winter is coming, when days will be cold. Icy, bone-chilling, flu-catching cold. The days will be also short. Daylight Savings Time short, here in the Northeast, and by midwinter, shorter than the nights, involving entirely too much darkness. A revolting development unless you're a Vampire.
 On the other hand: I LOVE Halloween.
Especially at the National Arts Club this year, where the theme was Woodstock. Kind of an "Autumn of Love "Event.
Yeah, man, Halloween is cool.
You can dress up any way you want. Or not. You can put together a great costume, wing it and make a fool of yourself, or just take pictures of everyone else.
All of these options are good. And if you actually like dead stuff, you can ghoulish, with fake blood and fangs and black painted nails. It's the holiday where the dead (and the undead) are celebrated, and Vampires have nothing to apologise for.
And neither do naughty nurses or sexy flight attendants from space. On the other hand, if it's a Woodstock party, then it's always nice to come as a Flower Child or Andy Warhol, don't you think?
  
 
Meanwhile back in the real world (do we hafta?), what the hell do you wear in the Fall . . . . .
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