I'm not sure if one must serve whacky noodles on whacky dates, or partake of whacky dust, but here is one that involves none of the above.
Back when I lived in an apartment by the train station in the Stead of Hemp, on the Island of Long, a former student of mine who was in NYU Law School moved into my spare bedroom temporarily when he burned down his parents' house--accidentally, of course.
This young man, now a successful attorney, had a gorgeous girlfriend--my often mentioned dear friend Debby--but had a tendency to, as they say, jump on anything that moved, which was not pleasing to her in the least. They are now, by the way, both married quite happily to other people, and their children attend the same school.
So Debby leapt at the chance to take the train into the city with me to see the original production of Nine in previews. It was quite exciting, especially when the show was over, because, instead of dashing on their respective ways, the audience for the most part stayed mingling about on the sidewalk buzz-buzz-buzzing about the show. The sign of an incipient hit for sure.
Debby and I chatted with Karen Akers, whom we had met on previous occasions, and she introduced us to a tall, fey gentleman whose name I didn't catch. Yeah. You can probably guess--but I was clueless.
We then repaired to a local cabaret to see a performance by a singer who had included one or two of my songs in her act, after which we were invited by the singer to join her entourage at that restaurant near Lincoln Center with the roller-skating waiters.
All and sun-dried repaired to the West Side apartment of the singer and her husband for yet more festivities. By this time it was quite late, so Debby and I were invited by the accompanist/arranger to sleep on a large air mattress on his living room floor down the hall.
Walking back to Penn Station late the next morning, we could not help but pass the TKTS booth. Well, one cannot simply pass the TKTS booth on a lovely Saturday morning, now can one? And this is where I made my fatal mistake.
I wanted to see Jane LaPotair in Piaf. Debby said, "There's a gay play in the Village I read about." I should have listened to Debby. Piaf was a bit of a disappointment, even with pee on the stage.
The gay play, it later turned out, was the original off-Broadway Torch Song Trilogy. Worse yet, I learned later, it starred my friend Joel Crothers, along with Harvey and the then unknown Matthew Broderick. Had we gone, we probably would have ended up dining with Joel and certainly have met Harvey and Matthew. Ah well!
When we arrived back in Hempstead in early evening, Debby's philandering boyfriend was beside himself: "Where the hell have you been?" Quite to her delight.