I'm Matt Champagne. Watch me type things at you.
03/21/1994
“The Birthday Party” was as bad as I supposed it was going to be. Pretty badly directed. Paul was good though. I was the first person there and and George was in charge of the box office. Paul was standing there with George when I came in. As I get out my money, George asked Paul: “Does Matt get a comp?” And Paul said: “No! He does not get a comp!” What a bastard. I like him though—just not as a party guest. Then George goes to the bathroom and I make the mistake of going behind the counter to help while he’s gone. Sure enough the minute he leaves, the people come in, and, as I’m trying to take the money and cross off the name, Paul sees me and snatches away the money box like I’m a kid who’s snuck into the Christmas toys and shoos me away like I’m a rat. “George is in charge of the box office! Let George take care of it!” he snapped at me.
This is an excerpt from an old journal that—now that I’ve read it—should probably go unread. You’re welcome. I was leafing through it to see if there were anything in there I wouldn’t mind printing here and this passage was the first thing that didn’t make me barf too much.
The “theatre” this company used to work out of is now a restaurant.
You know what I respond to the most in that passage? The part where I get out my money. Why am I so distracted when reading that? As if the image of my twenty-four-year-old self having his own money is something that I just can’t grasp? Of course, I had money. But it’s years and years later, and now? I can safely say I would not spend my money to see a production of “The Birthday Party” on the Lower Eastside of Manhattan. Nope. I definitely would not.
I remain
Champagne
