HOW DO I LOVE THEE?
LET ME COUNT THE MILES

3 December 2001

Today it was back to The Last Session. Are you tired of hearing that yet? Just try doing it! But months ago, when I heard the show would be in San Francisco, my own back yard, I promised myself I would introduce everyone I knew to the show, even if I had to take them there myself. To that end, once I saw how much ticket prices were, I talked with the producer and told him of my plan, and that I couldn't possibly afford to pay to see it every time, so he's been comping me for all the shows I've attended.

Good business for him. I did a quick calculation the other day and figure that I've brought in at least $700 worth of audience who otherwise probably would not have seen the show.

I have to admit that this weekend is one I could have passed up. It's been storming all weekend, and there was great appeal in just hibernating both days.

But last night I took two women from Davis, the woman who was Jeri's piano teacher through all of her school years, and the woman who founded PFLAG in Yolo County. On the surface, it appeared that these were two women from quite different areas of life, but it turned out that they seemed to get along quite well, had a lot of the same friends, both were involved in music, bought bought music from the same warehouse in San Francisco, their kids had the same friends. It was a good pairing.

And the show last night was really right on. Steve's friend Ken, the stage manager, had told me that the cast was really wired about doing the show on World AIDS Day, and there was a certain electricity about it last night, perhaps because of the incredible response from the small audience, which laughed at all the right places, applauded at all the right places (and some places that I'd never seen get applause before), and gave the cast a standing ovation at the end.

So in spite of dragging myself out into the rain to take two people who also probably would rather have stayed home in their jammies snuggled under a nice quilt, in front of a warm TV set, it turned out to be a good evening. Even despite nearly experiencing a very serious accident.

We had just crossed the Carquinez bridge. The rain had stopped and it looked like smooth sailing the rest of the way home when all of a sudden the traffic in front of me came to a dead stop. I had to slam on my brakes and skreetched to a halt not four feet from the car in front of me. It looked like someone about four cars up had slid around on the wet roadway and spun off the freeway, knocking several of those large oil-drum-looking-things that they use for barricades into the oncoming traffic. It was miraculous nobody hit anybody--at least in the period of time it took me to maneuver around the blockade and get on my way again.

But that did wake me up a bit and made it easier to stay awake on the rest of the drive home.

This morning I woke up to a veritable monsoon outside. It was raining so hard you could hardly see the street out the front window. It looked like something out of a movie about wet season in the Rain Forest. Did I really want to drive 80 miles again to see a show I know by heart? No. But I'd promised friends I'd meet them there, and I am a woman of my word. They were already in the Bay Area and I was just meeting them in San Francisco. The person I had planned to transport from here backed out at the last minute. It was I who would be battling the wind and rain and puddles, alone, to get from here to there. I was soooo tempted to just stay home.

The things I do for that Schalchlin guy.

Fortunately, the fates were kind. By the time I left for The City, the rains had blown on over to the Sierras, leaving the skies grey, but not leaking. It was clear sailing into The City, and my Parking Angel even found me a place as close to the front door as you can possibly get. Life was good.

I wish I could report a huge crowd in the theatre, but there was only a handful of us. However, everybody was very vocal and appreciative and though there were not a lot of pairs of hands clapping, those that were were clapping loudly and enthusiastically.

It was again a good performance and I realized, with a pang, that I will only see it one more time. I will kind of miss it--if not the drive down and back.

Following the show, another man from the audience stopped my friend Richard and asked if he'd been as blown away as this man had been by the show. "We just saw Proof," he said, speaking of the Broadway show. "That is two hours of nothing. This is...something!" He gave a cheery wave and climbed into his car. Another satisfied new fan.

Richard and Michèle got into their car to head home, and I took my friend Jeri (daughter Jeri's godmother) with me. We decided to come home over the Golden Gate bridge, to avoid traffic from both the Oakland Raiders' and the SF 49ers which would probably be clogging the other bridge. It was a good decision. We sailed across the bridge encountering almost no traffic--and were rewarded by views of the city shining with splotches of sun--as if some heavenly lighting technician was shining a follow spot on his favorite sections of the city.

We drove past Davis and on to the far edge of Sacramento, where we met Jeri's husband, had a dinner and then they continued on to their home, and I retraced my steps back to Davis.

As I got back on the freeway, the skies opened up again and down came the deluge once more. This is where I came in, I think.

I noticed I'd put 230 miles on the car today, and probably about as much on the car yesterday. It's too bad I don't get frequent flyer miles for all these trips to see Last Session. Surely it's worth a ticket to NY to see The Producers by now!