It was a cold day in New York City, at least for a shivering Sonoran Desert couple who traipsed up Broadway to a cold marquee on West 54th Street.
Past the Naked Cowboy on Times Square (why I didn't think to stop and get a photo with him is a huge regret).
Kathy booked us for a play called "The Lifespan of A Fact," which I knew zero about.
Turns out, the play is about a proposed magazine article, written by a creative, but touchy writer (think The Top Secret Writer) who insists it's not an article but an "essay," and his put upon editor, and a millennial—and a rabidly-over-zealous—fact checker assigned the task of finding errors and false statements in the proposed article and correcting them. This may sound thin, but it is a brilliant, and, by turns, hilarious take down of art vs. commerce, small facts being subverted to tell a bigger truth, or whether that is even legit. I felt like my entire professional life was laid bare, and I felt like someone was reading my mail and I openly wept more than once.
But, full disclosure, I laughed more than I cried.
It is a three person play and all three leads were just dead-on excellent.
"A movie is never any better than the stupidest man connected with it."
—Ben Hecht
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