It was wonderful to see Bello Coffee booming post-pandemic, and to see it where it is, Glen Park, San Francisco. And to see Jane sitting opposite me for once. She isn’t too much for going out these days, our Jane. When she isn’t boosting her biome, she is blasting away at things carbohydrate in an effort to stave off pre-diabetes. The latter being so utterly absurd as to force me into eye-rolling mode, even now, hours later. 

Jane is as skinny as a rail, and a narrow gauge railway rail at that. Whereas I am currently planning a late afternoon snack, consisting of five, or maybe 10, cashews, depending on whom you ask. And fortunately at this stage of couplehood, we seem to have battled through enough battles to actually enjoy each other’s company. Which explains Bello and our midday caffeination, but does not explain the aftermath.

Because I am in one of those transitional moments of life, perhaps transitioning from old age into very-old old age? Hard to say. But what is easy to say was that having gotten a few things off my chest over coffees, such as an enduring sense of failure, the certainty that I am a writer manqué and so on…damned if I didn’t make it outside just in time to have something of a personal crisis. Panic attack. Things closing in on me. So there we were, hard by the espresso place and our branch library…and there was nothing for it but to tilt back in my wheelchair and, as the young people say, chill.

While trying to act as natural as I could. With my marvelous wheelchair angling me backward, and my eyes resting comfortably on the great turbulence overhead…a storm was moving in or maybe moving out…Jane stated the obvious. Or understated it, being British…that this wasn’t the best place to be taking a supine break. Not with San Franciscans on their lunch hours cautiously making their way around us on the sidewalk. Man in wheelchair having a crisis? Woman with him. Whatever. I quickly recovered. We went grocery shopping.

I can’t tell if Carlos at Canyon Market really wants to see a concierto with the San Francisco Symphony, because it could just be me. I do get substantial pleasure buying employees there symphony tickets…a sort of pass-it-along thing going on. The wealth gap in San Francisco is a source of constant discomfort for me. And here’s one thing I can do. Helping to fill the seats at Davies Symphony Hall when they need filling. And expanding the demographic of who is in those seats, to include, say, grocery store workers.

Call me Johnny Appleseat.

I can recall going to see the Los Angeles Philharmonic, my first orchestra concert ever, at the Palm Springs polo grounds. I was seven, maybe eight years old. Someone had made a valiant effort to create a canvas shell in one corner of the horsey turf. And God only knows what time of year it was. Because I do recall a certain amount of wind. What the LA Phiharmonic played, I have no idea. Probably something wisely chosen for its loudness. But I was brought there. I got the idea. And passing out a few tickets gets across much the same idea. Music is for everyone. Even San Francisco is for everyone. The Berkeley Rep, one of this country’s best provincial theater companies, has special deals for patrons under 35. Same thing for the National Theatre in London. It’s a great idea.

An even better idea would be to be in London right now. My God, look at the theater season. Why am I sitting in California? When was just a little simple time/space travel, I could be bopping in and out of West End theaters. But it’s going to be many months, May, 2024, before this wonderful thing is possible. Meanwhile, there’s no place like home. Honestly. Working backwards from late spring, 2024, note that the Lehman Trilogy is coming to San Francisco. So is A Strange Loop. Girl from the North Country, also.

Let’s work backwards over those too. The north country refers to the iron range, Minnesota. It’s where Bob Dylan was born. And this is a play with music, technically not a musical. It is a straight play, set in a boarding house in 1930s Minnesota. The Deression. A time just before Dylan was born. And the narrative stops to make room for a small ensemble playing his songs. And Gentle Reader, just in case you are skeptical, note that this show was written by Conor McPherson, the great Irish playwright. That it opened at the Old Vic, burst into international fame, headed for the West End…just in time to collide with COVID-19. Anyway, it’s finally coming to San Francisco. And unfortunately to the cavernous, acoustically disastrous Golden Gate Theater. And I’m very sorry about the latter. But just in case the show is back in London, we will see it there.

A Strange Loop is coming to A.C.T., San Francisco, around the same time. And what could be better than a show written by a guy who is ushering for The Lion King and is gay and black and fat and going crazy, trying to be a writer. Who writes (and stars) in a musical about an usher who is gay and black and fat and trying to be a writer. It’s a big hit.

And if I hadn’t committed to renting an enormous place in Dorset next year, for family and friends, I would almost stay home. No, I wouldn’t.