I suspect I’ll be a bit weird for a few weeks. This time of year, I do tend to slip off the rails, but anytime my age is about to end in a zero I become more circumspect than normal, factor in a global health crisis and sometimes I find myself more grounded than I imagined possible. I picked up this play for a sidelong glance at the Trollope project of what it means to be alive right about now. These Julian Barnes sort of dialogues always reinforce what it is I don’t like about “socializing” as it were. My life appears compact, not dense like the Bard’s lunatics and lovers but I just lack the stamina for ruminating on carbon credits or Lars Von Trier anymore. This strange play concerns three longtime friends. One of them pays a considerable amount for a painting of myriad white stripes on a white background. The notions of fashion, class and expertise are handled and then dropped like Kant and his predecessors. I remained uncomfortable throughout my reading, which is likely the point. I can think of worse ways to spend a humid afternoon.