Due to the misfortune of a stranger (an ill-timed bout with a flu bug) and the kindness of friends (who know my husband and I are Seinfeld afficionados) we were able to join them at a sold out performance by Jerry Seinfeld at the Kennedy Center Friday evening.
It was fun and it was funny. Some of his bits were clearly extensions of material from his classic show. Some were insights into his family life.
Some reminded me that you don’t have to go far to find material to write about. He had a wonderful piece about a bag of cookies, each delectable delight lined up in the plastic tray like army soldiers. And thank goodness they’re in rows, because in a feeding frenzy you can devour a row before you become conscious of what you’ve consumed, but hopefully you’ll pause before you start in on the second row. (Okay, there’s a reason he was up there and not me. Trust me, it was witty.)
Because there was a second showing after the one we attended, when the performance was over the ushers shooed everyone out the back exit to make room for the new arrivals. That, combined with the fact that we weren’t particularly paying attention when we arrived, meant our friendly foursome found ourselves dumped in the parking garage unable to find the car.
If you know the Seinfeld shows, you know immediately what I thought of. Instead of Elaine, Jerry, George, and Kramer wandering around with a dying gold-fish and a television in tow, it was Patty, Richard, Gary and me wandering around and wishing we hadn’t left our coats in the car as it was getting really chilly. Life imitates art comedy.