In an impetuous splurge, my wife and I decided to buy tickets for “Who’s Afraid of Virgina Woolf?” starring Bill Irwin and Kathleen Turner, which is beginning its run downtown. I bought the tickets online through Ticketmaster, so after service charges and “convenience fees” that totaled ALMOST 23% OF THE TICKET PRICE **ahem** sorry for that, so,… I printed up the order so I would have a record of this marvelous extortion to write off on my taxes.
And at the bottom of the order page, an ad asked me, in ever so spritely terms and big blue letters,
“Do you like Jerky?”
“Do you have friends who like Jerky?”
“Do you like to make Money?”
Go to profit dot jerky direct dot com.
Which I found pretty funny. Who could say No to any of those questions? Not only is Jerky now a proper noun like Xerox and Kleenex, but also, apparently it’s a big treat for Mr. and Mrs. First-Nighter. You can see them now in their top hat and furs, looking ever so urbane, offering each other a stick of dried flesh in the lobby. Maybe in one of those new flavors, like Teriyaki and Cajun-style. Maybe it’s from an exotic animal, like Buffalo or Ostrich or Alligator. But whatever the taste, the elegance comes through.
Maybe I’ll bring one of those huge bags of jerky that they sell in duty-free shops to Japanese travelers and bring it down to the former Shubert Theater when we go. I’m sure they’ll let me bring it in. Carried with enough aplomb, how could I be refused?