Give My Regards to Broadway

Remember me to Herald Square--which, come to think, have been the two spots in New York City that Astro-Girl and I have occupied since the cab from La Guardia dropped us off at the 53rd Street and Sixth Avenue Hilton in Midtown. In, as they say, the heart of Broadway.

Let me be clear: I am starting to get a little bit fed up with the notorious waste of money associated with these college conferences. The leading higher education luminaries schedule these blessed things in the most expensive hotels in the country, confident in their ability to hector their institutions into subsidizing travel and accomodations. Last year's conference was at the Palmer House, in Chicago; this year's conference is at the Hilton, located halfway between Times Square and Central Park, ran hotel bills into four figures for each of the participants, a figure they would never pay if forced to pay themselves. There is very little we could accomplish here that we could not accomplish at the best Embassy Suites in Springfield, Illinois or DeMoines, Iowa; it is the confidence that people have in reimbursement--reimbursement from money that comes from tuition fees and state aid--that allows them to hold these events in Chicago last year, New York City this year, and San Francisco two years from now. (Next year was scheduled to be Orlando, but was switched to New Orleans--a bad idea for an entirely different reason.)

But? But here we are.

I have turned this into my all-cliche tour. Thursday afternoon, I treated Astro-girl and I to hotdogs from a street vendor. Thursday night, I treated myself to a slice of pizza, past midnight, at La Famigla 24-hour takeout on 52nd and Broadway. Yesterday was coffee and bagels for breakfast, followed by my presentation, followed by sinner at the Havana Club, hosted by Longman Publishers. Today, down to Macy's with Astro-Grirl (she complained of motion sickness on the subway), and a shopping spree covering seven floors. Then, tonight, a walk to Rockefeller Center and dinner at the Sea Grill, with a table looking onto the skating rink. Then a walk to Ambassador Theatre on 49th, for sixth-row seats to Chicago, featuring Bebe Neuwirth--only this time as Roxy instead of Velma.

(Digression. Most people remember Neuwirth as the frigid psychiatrist Lilith, first on Cheers, then as a recurring guest on Frasier, a show whose re-runs Astro-Girl and I have turned into our end-of-the-night ritual. Neuwirth is one of those performers--Jerry Orbach is another--so entrenched in non-singing and non-dancing roles, usually on TV, that it becomes a shock to people to discover they can sing and dance. Velma was the part Neuwirth brought to life in the Chicago revival in the 1990s, and should have been the role Neuwirth rode to a Best Supporting Actress Oscar when the musical was made into a movie in 2002, but Neuwirth was passed over for Catherine Zeta-Jones, who can neither sing nor dance, a problem for a role that is ninety percent singing and dancing. It is one thing to dub another's singing voice in a movie; it is quite another to hire someone who can't dance, and try to cover up her deficiencies by way of quick cuts and reaction shots, a strategy Chicago attempted, and which fooled a sufficient number of Academy voters.)

Anyway, Neuwirth was sufficiently wonderful as Roxy, as I thought she would be.

And I had the added bonus, when I bought the tickets this afternoon. See, the door to backstage at the Ambassador is hard by the stage door, so as I emerged from the box office onto 49th Street, I passed by a door, and a voice that was unmistakable.

The voice sang the seven-note warm-up known to seven year-olds: "La-la-la-LA-la-la-la." Up and down the scale.

Throught the stage door, the voice was Neuwirth's.

A good moment. A New York moment.