Karen's hand cream
the iced tea pitcher
Bev's book of poetry
Bev's rum bottle and tumbler
Violet's pill bottles
the frying pan that Johnna clocks Steve with
the ash tray
Basically, if turned loose on stage at the Music Box, I'd probably hook everything I could get my paws on. Can't wait for the tour, even if I happen to think that Phylicia Rashad was a better Violet than Estelle Parsons.Anyway, perhaps I shall tell the story from the beginning, including all the gory details, including the pigeon I failed to scare as we were walking up 45th. I swear to God, New York pigeons are the most brazen things on the planet. The feathery sons of bitches just stare at you like they own the damn sidewalk. (Oh, Lord. Will you folks protect me if the PETA people come for me? Thanks. I just don't want the tree-huggers to come and get me.) Anywho, once upon a lookin'-for-Donna time, Berri, my daddy, and I made the trek up to the citay to see the final performance of August: Osage County. We hung out in front of the Hirschfeld for a while, since I've pretty much locked in my status as a Hair fan. Berri and I snapped pictures of all the wonderful posters, including the one that says, "I DARE YOU TO TAKE YOUR EYES OFF DARIUS NICHOLS!" Don't kill me for this, friends, but I barely paid him any attention during my time inside the Hirsch. Sorry. Anyway, we all know that I have a bit of a problem when it comes to seeing Broadway people. I clam up like you wouldn't believe. It's a problem. So imagine my horror when one of the tribe members came strolling past us. I also do this really weird thing where I attempt to hide behind the person I'm with. Maybe some day I'll fix that. My paranoid self turned away, whispering, "Holy crap, holy crap, no, shut up! Yeah, no, SHUT UP! I don't remember his name, okay?" Except I did remember his name. His name was John Moaru. I don't know why I remembered that, but I did. But I knew if I dared say it, Berri would attempt to flag him down. And when you're with me, there will be no flagging down of actors or actresses. To quote the dearly departed Barbara Fordham, "That doesn't cut any f*cking ice with me."
After I recovered from my mini-freakout, who should stroll down the street but Miss Kacie Sheik. Okay, let's get this straight. Even though you'd probably never know it, I'm actually a pretty big fan. And now here she was, her hair tucked up under a hat, wearing glasses, an ugly dress, and sipping a coffee. Perhaps she was trying to protect herself from the rabid paparazzi. No danger there, sorry to say.
We hurried on to Shubert Alley, where I pretended not to see Jennifer Damiano, Adam Chanler-Berat, Stephanie J. Block, and her dog. It was fun.
The show, of course, was marvelous, and I will miss it tremendously. I truly consider myself lucky to have been able to see Rondi Reed come back for one last day, even though I was looking forward to seeing Elizabeth Ashley. It amazes me that she could return to a role over a year later without missing a beat. Well, God rest ye merry Westons.