Virtual Reality, Virtual Amazement

When we moved up here some decades ago, the plan was to go back into New York City—"the city," as we called it, as if there were no other—often. We would go to museums, attend Broadway shows and maybe walk across the Brooklyn Bridge once in a while. Needless to say, that never happened.

First what happened was that ticket prices for Broadway zoomed into a stratosphere that made the idea of taking a train, dinner and a show prohibitively expensive for the many who do not receive $23 million severance packages (like the ex-head of a major company I read about) or the $75 million that Mayor Bloomberg paid out to become a politician. I would settle for a lot less, maybe somewhere in between those two figures, but …

There has been and still is a lot of talk about "virtual reality" and many things virtual; there are even "virtual offices" now. I had this explained to me by a woman who arranged them. Instead of having one's own office lair, employees may find that they share office space only as they really need it. No permanent place to put the photos of those near and dear, no place for awards and other personal trivia—no, you just come in, do whatever few things it is that can be done only in an office, and then waft back out into the world to get on with the real business of your job, like selling something that people may very well not need anyway.

Since I can't afford to actually go to a Broadway show, I thought I would spend some idle time pretending to choose what play I would want to see for maybe $75 to $100 a ticket—a "virtual jaunt," as it were. So I dug out a copy of a publication that lists plays, and—my, my, my—wasn't I surprised!

Now, I could try to see a "classic" like Aida or Les Miz. But it happens that the last play I saw, years ago, was Les Miserables, so I don't need to see it again; I can be miserable enough all on my own. And I know the story of Aida enough to know that what I really like about it is the "Triumphal March," especially if real elephants are involved. Morning's at Seven. Noises Off. No bells ringing, title-wise.

A lot of monosyllables. Rent. Proof. Helen. Then Metamorphoses. Well, I could use one myself, but do I want to watch someone else undergo one? I browse on. Just before I fall into the Off Broadway category, my eyes catch on Urinetown. What? Where? Why? (This is supposed to be a "good" production, all about the perils and pitfalls of finding a rest room in Manhattan.)

Onward. Blue Man Group has persisted for years—even I know that the actors squirt blue paint around in some way that I hope does not get on the audience's clothes. Blue Surge? Does the play on words hint at something light, maybe even humorous? Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged). Though even I enjoyed that recent film based on Will and his behind-the-scenes love story (imaginary though it was), I can't forget that I got my lowest grade in university in a course on the Bard, so he has never been my favorite guy.

Forbidden Broadway hints at what is coming up to meet my wondering eyes—suddenly I notice Menopause—the Musical, Naked Boys Singing, Puppetry of the Penis, Stomp, and then, what has become a classic all its own, The Vagina Monologues. Actresses and other celebrities vie with one another to read this work publicly. And it is a good thing.

Now some of these body parts were scarcely mentioned when I was growing up, and certainly not by my parents. There were vague references to "down there" and a grim acknowledgement that boys were made differently from girls. How "birds and bees" figured into this scenario of unfolding adult development I have never understood. What ardent teen cares about what buzzing and chirping things are up to? When I got up my nerve to have that special talk with my kids, they already knew everything I did and more.

One of the Muslim complaints about us is that we are a decadent society. When I listen to what is acceptable on television, never mind in cinema, I date myself and wonder where all this ribald, possibly salacious behavior—reflected in the very titles of what are recognized dramatic productions—will take us. I have watched some episodes of Sex and the City—or is it Sex IN the City? No matter, I know now that just about any subject and behavior related to anatomy and ramifications thereof is OK—the stamp of approval being continuing media success and many critical kudos for that particular show. The actors on that program are great, and maybe this is what 30-somethings talk about and do—or lament that they want to do it and can't for one reason or another.

When a famous Broadway play called The Moon Is Blue was turned into a film many moons ago, much was made of the burning issue of whether—in the translation from broad-minded Broadway to movie screens, a character was going to be allowed to say "Hell." Go figure.

I never heard my father utter a word of profanity. My mom, when exasperated, would run around saying, "Sugar." So isolated were we when I was an impressionable tot (no TV) that it was years before I realized what she wanted to say but did not out of consideration for my tender years. I remember her washing out my mouth with Ivory soap, even though I cannot remember what I could possibly have said to warrant that punishment. I still hate Ivory soap, especially its scent, because in my mind that equates with how it tastes. Not good. Nasty.

Well, maybe I will not make it to Broadway—or maybe I will, but given these titles, it will have to be "in my wildest imagination."