Back in those days, larger-than-life giants roamed The Street, with names like Simon, Nichols and Merrick. The latter dual remained commanding to their final days. Even when scorched by illness, they were still commanding; if we happened to see possibly during a theatre–both continued attending shows, as that’s what they loved–you knew they were there. Fans and friends would rally around Nichols, or cringe divided from Merrick, though they were never shunted into a dilemma neglected and ignored. Which left me dumbfounded that night during a Rodgers, home of Simon’s Pulitzer-winner Lost in Yonkers (along with a integrate of other Simon plays). The playwright, while impending eighty-five during a time, still looked like Neil Simon, with a balmy open face and a ever-present glasses; though nobody during all beheld him station there, only Manny and me.
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