Macbeth and me: a tragedy of errors

Okay, so maybe tragedy is too strong a word, but I’m still damn disappointed.

It got mixed reviews, but I dearly wanted to go see the Public Theater’s production of Macbeth, and I tried three times to get the free tickets. The first time, it poured all weekend, drowning out my chances of attending Shakespeare in the Park. The second time, it turned out to be the official gala premiere, and no tickets were being distributed. (The Web site had neglected to mention that.) The third time, my last chance, was yesterday. I had been out late the night before and slept later than I intended to and then managed to get myself royally lost in Central Park (I don’t usually enter that far uptown), so by the time I finally found the line, it was nearly two miles long, according to a cop I overheard. I didn’t even bother trying to find the end of the seemingly endless queue. It was hopeless, and I knew it.

Sean says that it just wasn’t going to work out this season — we had too much going on — but that next year, we’ll get up at dawn and spend the morning in the park and get tickets. And we will. Tomorrow is another day and all that. But today, I’m wallowing in the tragedy of it all. (I knew I should have set the alarm clark to ring earlier.)