How It Took 3 Taxicabs And 1 Hour of Panic To Get A Moment With John Oliver
by Lee Quick
note: This story is true, but I have included one lie just to make it more interesting.
=========
Monday night, March 9: I am in my tiny room at the Pod Hotel on East 51st Street in Manhattan trying to rest my aching feet after spending 4 hours waiting for and then seeing The Daily Show With Jon Stewart.
The previous week I purchased an online 25-dollar ticket to Rob Kutner's Purim show "He's Just Not That Into Jews" at 92Y Tribeca, partly because he wrote for The Daily Show, mostly because I wanted to see John Oliver, who wrote and appeared on The Daily Show.
I had spent the last 2 months listening to all 60-something episodes of John Oliver's podcast "The Bugle" on long commutes, and had just watched his DVD on Saturday, the day before I flew to New York City. This comedy show was the only ticket I bought for my 5-day Manhattan vacation...every other excursion was free or nearly free.
And I watched his DVD (including the extras) because I had a strange feeling when I bought the ticket...
The Feeling said: You are going to meet John Oliver.
I said: Really? I never meet anyone. How am I going to meet him?
The Feeling said: You are going to meet John Oliver.
While trying to rest my feet, I went online and proceeded to get lost in the mists of e-mail or Twitter or New York Times or whatever distracted me from paying attention to the fact that I needed to leave the hotel around 9:30 to get to the 10:30 Purim show.
The next time I look up: oh crap, it's 9:45. What The Fuck...?
I lost track of time. I've got to throw on some shoes and run.
The Feeling says: Wear The Dress.
I say: Oh god, it's cold, I don't want to change, it will take forever to put tights on, jeans are fine.
The Feeling says: Wear The Dress. And the tall boots.
I say: Oh christ...
The Dress is the only sexy dress I own, which I have had for 2 years and have only worn once before. I packed it specifically to wear to this show.
It is now 10:05 pm.
I rushed out of the hotel, tip-tapping-along in tall black boots, thinking: it's okay, I can get there in 30 minutes.
For every other New York excursion I took the subway on my unlimited pass, but for this show I decided to hail a cab. Simple, quick, effective, right? Plus, my feet hurt. Plus I never got around to figuring out where the place was. My ticket reservation said the 92Y Tribeca is at 200 Hudson Street, so I'll let the cab driver worry about where it is.
I jump in a cab and I give him the address. The cab driver doesn't know where 200 Hudson Street is. He says: No such address. I am surprised. I tell him the name of the venue. He does not know it. I try to describe it: 92Y Tribeca, not on 92nd Street, on Hudson Street, Tribeca, there's a comedy show there. (I did NOT mention that it was a Jewish comedy show about Purim, so his political affiliations could not have influenced his lack of cooperation.) He drives me around the block telling me "no 200 Hudson" a few more times before I designate the ride a Failure, and though there was a 4-dollar-plus charge on the meter we agree I won't pay it.
He drops me at the end of the block, where I get out and jog back to the hotel lobby and ask the desk clerk to please look up the 92Y Tribeca, I was late for a show. So he takes many many many minutes to look it up....
(I could have gone back up to search on my computer but it was on the 14th floor and the elevator was slow and I figured this was faster and it can't be that hard to find...)
...and then the clerk announces the result of his painstakingly slow research: 200 Hudson Street. OH NO. I get a sinking feeling that this evening was not going to pan out like I thought. I ask him for an intersection: he takes many many many more minutes to find it.... Then he says: Canal and 6th Avenue.
It is now 10:15 pm.
So I hail the second cab and tell him -- instead of 200 Hudson Street -- to go to Canal and 6th Avenue, which as it turns out, not surprisingly, is quite a long fucking way away, and involves the horrific FDR expressway, where we fly and bump and jerk our way from East 51st Street to somewhere near the Holland Tunnel. I ask, but he also does not know where 200 Hudson is. We finally arrive at Canal and 6th Ave, I pay the $18 fare -- and tell myself it's okay, it's a luxury, you're on vacation, don't let it burn you up -- and I jump out of the cab.
It is now 10:35 pm.
Surely I can find it now...
Turns out, Canal and 6th Avenue is a six-way intersection, and it is huge. I ask people on the street: no one has ever heard of the 92Y Tribeca, nor could they point me to Hudson Street. I cross one intersection: nothing. I cross another: nothing. No 92Y. No Hudson Street. My sinking feeling is having sinking feelings.
The Feeling says: Keep looking.
I say: I'm alone on a dark street, I'm 10 minutes late already, it is cold, my feet hurt, I don't want to spend any more money or time on this ridiculous Failure!
The Feeling says: Keep looking...it will be worth it.
I see a hotel (Hilton Garden Inn, I think) up the block, so I jog awkwardly (in tall leather boots) up the street, dash into the hotel bar and ask the bartender if he knows the 92Y Tribeca, which is ostensibly a couple of blocks from there. Not surprisingly, he does not. I ask about Hudson Street and a man at the bar was kind enough to look up that address on his iPhone, which was disappointingly slow, and eventually he explains that it was some kind of long, involved 3 and-a-half blocks away, and it was near some college campus, and I should go outside and turn right and go 2 blocks and turn left and turn....
It is now 10:45 pm.
So I jog outside, and, having no good idea where to go from here, and judging from the creepy streets, my shaky legs, the incomprehensible directions, and the deeply sunken feeling in my gut, I decide that it was my own punishment for being late, for not mapping the address ahead of time, and that it was not meant to be, and made an exhaustedly reasonable decision to --
The Feeling says: You can't meet him if you don't go.
I say: That's true.
So I hail a third cab.
At least this driver knew where Hudson Street was, although the number 200 continued to laugh somewhere behind my back. I frantically look out of the windows, first one side, then the other, and upon spotting 250 Hudson Street I shout: This is fine! I can get out here and walk! But the driver says it would be faster to drive around the block, which only took another 10 minutes of right turns and waiting at endless stop lights and more right turns and more sinking feelings, but when we finally pulled up to a building which actually existed at 200 Hudson Street, and actually said "92Y Tribeca" on the front, I was so relieved that I threw 10 dollars at a $6.50 cab fare and tip-tap-boot-jogged inside the building.
It is now 11 pm.
The lobby was very quiet and empty, except for 2 bored ticket clerks. Now I had the penultimate sinking feeling, the feeling that I was too late. Maybe the show sold out. Maybe I'm so late that they resold my ticket to someone else. And, maybe John Oliver's part has come and gone. I may have just thrown 25+18+10 dollars at 5 minutes of John Oliver stage time which passed in the first 30 minutes of the show, just to follow a "feeling" that I was going to meet John Oliver. So stupid.
I shuffle over and anxiously ask the clerk at the counter: Please don't tell me you gave my ticket away.
He says: We'd never give your ticket away.
Partial success.
I take my free drink ticket and wend my way though two sets of double doors into the actual venue, where there were quite a few empty seats, one of which I gratefully slid into. From my half-obsured view of the stage I could see sketch comedy taking place, in which I did not understand what the hell they were joking about, because I'm not Jewish. And I wondered if I had missed John Oliver.
The Feeling says: Just enjoy the fucking show and don't worry about John Oliver.
I say: Okay. I will. I will be happy.
I laugh at some current pop-culture jokes that I believe I barely get. The room is very warm, so I have to pile up my big coat and scarf and gloves and earmuffs and handbag AND the little black jacket over my dress, which I had not planned to remove because the neckline of my dress was so revealing that it barely covered the subject. Without the jacket I felt overtly... overt.
So the show goes on, and I don't really get it, and a video plays which I had already seen online, and then another video plays in which Wyatt Cenac explains that he can't be there tonight, and I fight one more sinking feeling. The show was billed as Purim Party '09 with Wyatt Cenac and John Oliver: if Wyatt can't be there, maybe John Oliver can't be there. And then, not surprisingly, the lights come up, and... it's John Oliver.
And he speaks, and he tells jokes, and reads material of a humorous nature which evokes laughter and other joyful noises from the audience. And since the material was written and read from the persective of a non-Jewish person, I could understand it. And I laughed. And I enjoyed myself. For about 10 minutes. And then John Oliver left the stage.
And I told myself: There you are. You can be happy with that.
And I was.
Another sketch started, but now I badly needed a restroom. So I collect my big coat and scarf and gloves and earmuffs and handbag and little black jacket and I ask the bartender: ladies room? He says: out that door, go straight, make a right, go to the end of the hall and make a right.
I had another sinking feeling. How long would it take me to find the restroom? Another hour? I can't hold it that long.
I pushed thru the doors into the lobby, turned right, went down a hallway -- no restroom. I go back and ask the ticket people. They said the same thing the bartender said. I go down the hall again. No restroom.
I started to think I was going insane, or was completely losing my sense of direction, or had fallen into a warped direction-location time-space vortex. I decide to go back to the bar and ask again, thinking: if I start over, maybe it will make sense.
I push on the first set of doors to go back to the room and the door was blocked by something. I push again, gently, and squeeze thru the small opening, and I'm standing next to a person holding a camera, which was pointed at 3 people smiling. 2 people are having their photo taken with someone. Not surprisingly, it's John-Fucking-Oliver.
The Feeling says: See, I told you.
I say: Wow. Yes you did. Okay... Now what?
I stood and tried not to stare self-consciously at John Oliver surrounded by adoring fans. 2 adoring fans. 1 on each side. That qualifies as "surrounded." I call them adoring, but I don't know it for a fact, they could have just done it for bragging rights. But I hope they were adoring.
And, not surprisingly, it always takes 9 times longer to take a picture than it should. So I stand there, and John gamely and graciously smiles with arms around shoulders of the 2 adoring fans for much longer than you'd think it should take anyone to take a photo. Then the camera person said: It's too dark here, let's try the lobby.
And I say: Well, I was looking for the ladies room, but I think I'd rather follow John Oliver around. (Yes, I actually said that out loud. But quietly.)
So we all move into the lobby, where the photo is taken of John and the adoring fans and/or opportunists. And they thank him. And John Oliver turns to leave.
And I have to ask: May I have one?
I have never, ever, in my life, asked for a photo of myself with someone famous. Probably because I absolutely hate to intrude, invade and bother people I don't know, especially someone who obviously wants to exit the building. And because I never meet anyone I give a shit about.
So John Oliver halts in his tracks, freezing for just a moment, and I immediately add: No? (To give him an easy out. To say: No? Oh that's okay, I understand, you don't have to.)
But, frozen in space, John Oliver decides he is too nice to give me a good excuse why not, even tho he probably had one. And so he turns back around, and very kindly and graciously acquiesces, and one of the adoring fans offers to snap the photo.
I then proceed to take an inordinate amount of time to retrieve my camera phone because I was telling John that I had just watched his DVD, and it was great, and I really liked the DVD extras, and that was great, and I listened to The Bugle on long drives, and that was great. And John says the other guy on The Bugle was the same guy in his special, and I say I know. And I say I loved that part on the DVD where he talks about his father, and he says thank you. And finally one of the adoring fans rightly points out that no photo was currently being taken. I apologize, finally give him the phone, and stand next to John Oliver.
Now this is the good part.
I don't know standard procedure for photos-with-famous-people, and I honestly don't remember who put arm around back first (probably me) but John Oliver very graciously put his arm around my waist. I really hope it was not an "Oh Jesus, I hate to fucking touch fucking strangers posing for fucking photos" arm around my waist. To me, it was an exceptionally pleasant arm-around-my-waist, and an exceptionally pleasant my-arm-around-his-waist. And we stood in that slightly awkward, slightly-too-close-for-people-who-just-met each-other's personal space, and we smiled for the camera.
Interestingly, our hands-around-waists were not equitable: my hand was on his jacket, and his hand was on my thin, clingy, knit dress. The Dress. The Dress I had the Feeling to wear tonight, in a place that was too warm for the little black jacket. Nice.
And, not surprisingly, it always takes 9 times longer to take a picture than it should. So we stand there, and John Oliver gamely and graciously smiles for much longer than you'd think it should take anyone to take a photo. And when a photo was finally taken, the adoring fan handed back my phone -- but there was no photo on the screen, so the fan must have pressed the wrong buttons, so we had to try again. Oh well... more time standing next to John Oliver... Nice.
Once again, John very graciously put a (hopefully) friendly and gracious arm around my waist, again very gently touching The Dress, and again graciously smiled for MUCH longer than you'd think it should take anyone to take a photo.
The photo-taker apologizes for how long it's taking. And I say to the photo-taker: That's okay, I could stand here for quite a while. (And I meant it.)
And when another photo was finally taken, I graciously thanked John for his time and hoped I didn't keep him from anything. But I did: I kept him from not-taking-a-photo-with-a-stranger and exiting-the-building-he-could-have-left-10-minutes-ago. And I had a feeling I did keep him from something. Or someone.
And then John Oliver finally, graciously, left the building, and the lobby was quiet again. And I looked into my phone to make sure the photo was there. And it was. John looked great. I looked HORRIBLE... in the worst possible light God could have created on Earth to make me look bad. My eyes were closed, my face looked three feet wide and my nose looked like a UFO had just landed on it.
And I was happy.
And now I REALLY needed to use the restroom, which was successfully found after I realized I had to walk PAST the ticket counter before turning right and going down the hallway and turning right again. What with juggling all of my winter crap, and navigating complicated removal of undies, I almost didn't make it in time. Almost.
Then I watched the rest of the show while sipping a free glass of red wine, which was entirely worth its free-ness. Upon exiting the show and following the rest of the crowd, I found a handy subway station nearby (which had probably been there the whole time), and took the 1 train uptown. It took me two subways rides and a fourth cab to get back to my hotel because I missed my stop while talking to a nice man who had also been at the show and telling him that I met John Oliver. The fourth cab cost me 9 dollars and 43 cents.
And, all the way back to my hotel, I thought of all the strange, stressful, stupid things that had happened, and that they all added up to meeting John Oliver in that particular place, at that particular moment. And I wondered: without all of the intuitions, unprepared-ness, incompetence, and serendipitous-ness, would I have NOT met him?
What do you think?
And the next day, looking thru photos in my phone, I found the first photo -- the one I thought had not been saved. I still looked lame, but better than the second pic. John still looked great.
Overall, I prefer the moment to the photo.
[it's in My Pics]
========
If you want to know what the lie was, it was that I included a lie in this story to make it more interesting. This story is completely true, and it is NOT more interesting.
fun with John Oliver:
The Bugle podcasts
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/thebugle
The Daily Show
http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videoId=218390&title=81st-Academy-Awards