Yesterday’s bonsai exhibit that Leesa and I visited was dazzling, but apparently you’re not meant to munch on the ancient little branches, even ones that look exactly like broccoli or have delicious red berries and museum people get real mad when you do. Before heading to the theater for an afternoon performance of What the Constitution Means to Me, we first stopped for a drink at an old Albany bar, the kind I delivered beer to as a young man. Strolling into the place, I got the gift of time travel - the musty smell was exactly that of the gin mills I recall from my youth. It was sublime and I didn’t have to hump 260 pound kegs of cheap lager over four foot snow banks. The play, full of solid information and insight from a well-educated woman’s point of view, was a pastiche and could have been more cohesive. But that doesn’t explain what happened at a matinee performance last week.
© 2024 John Oliver
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