Lot's Wife

Do you folks know who Lot's wife is? She got turned to salt because she turned to look back as she was fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah. I am morally inferior to Lot's wife. I am going to see Hair on August 8. That was the big announcement. I did not know that Lenora wasn't coming with me. Of course she had to be on vacation this week. I don't think I've ever felt so guilty in my life. Did I ever show you people what I look like? Yeah, it's something like this.
I'm not even excited. I would say I don't want to go, but the ugly truth is...I do. God, what level of hell is saving a spot for me? I'd show you my favorite Broadway secret for this week, but, like everything else about today, they sucked.

Ain't Got No Glasses

Okay, folks. This is not the announcement I was talking about, that will come later. But it's something just as utterly earth-shattering. In an hour I'll be off to get new glasses. Please hold your applause. Yes, I am proud to count myself among the visually impaired. We're a proud bunch. And I'm not buying into the contact lens fad. I love my freaking glasses. Blanche DuBois wore spectacles for approximately a minute and a half in the movie version of Streetcar. That's reason enough for me.

My current pair is gonna be hard to part with. Because of them I've made it through some wonderful times without bumping into anything or mistaking anybody for someone else. My lovely specs helped me see:

Next to Normal
Spring Awakening
Gypsy
Spring Awakening
In the Heights
Gypsy
In the Heights
August: Osage County
Spring Awakening
Shrek
Guys and Dolls
Phantom
Hair
Next to Normal
August: Osage County

I watched Obama get elected and inaugurated through these glasses. I went to Ocean City and Disney. I had two birthday parties. A good long life for a pair of spectacles, I'd say.

Ain't Got No Patience

Lots to talk about today. First off: 9 to 5 goes down the tubes on September 6. Disappointing, but not altogether unexpected. I've heard the whole score, and the only song I really care for is One of the Boys. Somewhere, somebody is pointing a finger at Dolly Parton and saying, "I told you so." I would also like to take this time to send my very own "I told you so" to anyone who said it didn't matter than they didn't win any Tonys. Anyway. Sorry, ladies. With a score like yours you were doomed from day one. Well, no. I shouldn't say that. I gotta say, I never thought this one would crash and burn. If I had anybody pegged to go down in a blaze of glory, it was Next to Normal. Just goes to show ya, Blanche. Ya never know what's comin'.

Maybe I should mention that I'm really warming up to Sunday in the Park With George. It's rough, though. Definitely wouldn't recommend it for your first Sondheim. My first Sondheim was Sweeney, and I think I turned out okay. The folks who call Sunday in the the Park an acquired taste are absolutely right. It takes a lot of doing to start to appreciate it. Keep at it, though. It's worth it. Come on. It may be a little sluggish, dry as all heaven and hell, and it takes a while to be able to tell the songs apart, but it's still Sondheim. And I am just an absolute fountain of love and appreciation for that man and his shows. Except The Frogs. No love for The Frogs, at least not from this corner. The realization that I don't hate SITPWG led to an epiphany: I don't like Bernadette Peters all that much. And I happen to think that Sondheim/Prince is infinitely better than Sondheim/Lapine. I guess you could say I like the old school Sondheim - Sweeney, Company, Follies, etc. Into the Woods, Sunday, and the ever-tricky Road Show, not so much.

Caroline, or Change - the show that Wicked smothered, and the newest addition to my list of favorites. Look, children! A serious show! Oh, the humanity! Imagine. A serious show. Let's get this straight. There is a difference between "serious" and "depressing." Because I don't go for the fluff does not automatically make me a killjoy, and I don't appreciate that label, thanks. But back to Caroline. It's wonderful. Lot's Wife and I Hate the Bus are beautiful songs. And Tonya Pinkins was robbed by Idina Menzel. Caroline's about racism in the south. It's kinda hardcore Hairspray, but ten million times better. Do I really have to tell you that this one flopped? Unfortunately, it went the way of Grey Gardens, Ragtime, Dessa Rose, and that whole group. Maybe those shows should have their own genre: Lovely History-Based Musicals That Were Steamrolled by Tourists Who Are Afraid of Their Emotions. There's a line in I Hate the Bus that goes something like this: "And Iiiiiiiiiiii ain't waiting no mooooooore."

Bam. Perfect segue into today's next topic. I ain't waiting no more. I'm just not. Big announcement tomorrow that will mean the world to me and absolutely nothing to any of you. Except that if it doesn't go according to plan a few of you might hate me. But that's ok. Jeez, how many of you are actually there? Not that many. Don't think I don't know it. I know there's Lenora and Berri, sometimes Maisie, who doesn't know what I'm talking about anyway, and the odd straggler from Broadwayworld. So can at least one of you please comment me? Just so I don't feel like I'm talking to the walls? You understand. Thanks.

Last issue: Through a strange twist of events, I came into contact with a gallstone the size of a golf ball this afternoon. I understand that if you don't know the back story I'm coming off as completely bonkers, but perhaps you folks are better off not knowing that part. And guess what. It was the most repulsive thing I had ever seen in my life. I want my eyeballs sucked out and my brain dosed with acid now. I'm not even kidding. Following my usual vindictive outlook, my original plan was to share a picture with you fine people, but upon looking up "gallstones" on Google images, I decided I actually don't hate you guys all that much. Look the little bastards up if you dare. But don't say I made you do it.

A Random Checkup

It's one in the morning, and I'm wide awake. Par for the course. Anyway, I'm off to bed in a minute but I thought you might like to know that the birds that live in the tree outside my window are currently chirping. Incessantly. At one a.m. I have no patience for snorers, I'm sure as hell not gonna lie here and listen to the obnoxious twittering of two sparrows with Tourettes. Oh well. Thank the good Lord for earplugs. Off to bed now to dream about cream puffs, Powerade, and the terrible things Patti LuPone will do to you if you take pictures of her.

This Old Gal is One of the Boys

You know, I gotta say - I'm none too fond of the 9 to 5 cast recording as a whole, but you know what's a damn decent song? One of the Boys. Allison Janney isn't that great a singer, but they sure did edit the hell out of her on the CD. Makes no difference to me, though. As long as either Hair or Next to Normal walks away with the Grammy we can all continue to get along. Unless you take my blue Powerade. Then shit's going down.

Anywho, might as well share my favorite Broadway secret from this week. I don't know why I love these stupid things so much. Really, it's pure crap, and most of what's posted is utter fabrication. I mean, I'm fairly certain:

1. Alice Ripley is not pregnant.

2. Adam Pascal is not pregnant.

3. Stephanie J. Block and Sebastian Arcelus don't appreciate secrets betting on how long their marriage will last.

4. Secrets ordering Andy Karl to leave Broadway will not actually make Andy Karl leave Broadway.

But what do I know? Far be it from me to attempt to discern the fake creepy junk from the real creepy junk. But anyway, here you go. Sorry, friends, but I'm inclined to agree with the lad or lassie who made this one. I do think she's talented when she opts not to act with her hands, and I'm no longer of the opinion that her inherent cutesiness in an act, but...it...gets...a little...grating. Not an "oh crap I just licked a cheese grater" grating, more like an "ow I fell and scraped my knee" grating. You know. That kind of grating. Let's all say grating one more time. Grating. See? That was fun.

Well, now, what else is on the docket for this lovely Friday evening? Jesus. I just realized I'm blogging on a Friday night. How sad. Especially since I should technically be at Hair right now. It's a long, heartbreaking story, folks. But I think I had a good day. I got pizza and then sat home with my sister trying to see how many words we could get out of "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." I was able to make "delicious." I felt badass. Really, it was great fun. Ooh, and I also got chewed out for taking a walk after dinner. I didn't take a cell phone and didn't tell anyone where I was going. Mumsy thought I had been kidnapped and was not very happy to see me when I got back, which I find ironic. If you thought your daughter was kidnapped and carted off to white slavery, wouldn't you be just a tad pleased to see her strolling around the corner and twirling her purple flower pendant? Maybe that's just me. Sigh. Kids. They'll break your heart.

Yesterday I took in a mediocre Broadway in Bryant Park concert. Don't get me wrong. The park is beautiful, and I love those freaking concerts. But yesterday I discovered something. If you don't really like any of the shows that are going on, Broadway in Bryant Park can kinda suck. Yesterday's lineup was Vanities, Rock of Ages, Mary Poppins, and Wicked. Mary Poppins was enjoyable. I actually think the show is very good, and Scarlett Strallen has a lovely voice. But, Lord, the rest of the show was not something to write home about. I'd say that Wicked is the blandest show ever, but saying that would be a slap in the face to The First Wives Club. I don't think I've ever been so unenthusiastic about a show in my life.

This little venture into sluggish waters was followed by a trip to Chocolate By the Bald Man down on Fourteenth Street. Here's the thing. Marta of Company has basically ruined the Fourteenth Street experience for me. "That's humanity, Fourteenth Street." So it's kinda got a rep to protect. But I did not see humanity. I saw a lot of hipsters with pink hair. Hear ye, hear ye. Contrary to popular belief, Fourteenth Street is not the center of the universe. But that's beside the point. The point is I really hate Chocolate By the Bald Man. I know Berri and Lenora are gonna read this, and I'm sorry. I really am. I just despise that place. Really. I hate it. I don't know why I dislike the place with such a passion. I think it's because of its obnoxious obsession with chocolate. Leafing through the menu, I discovered that every platter, from the gushing chocolate cakes to the fries dusted with cocoa powder, just screams, "Doesn't this just look SOOOOOOOO good? Isn't Max Brenner Jesus? Aren't we clever?" It's irritating beyond belief. I don't swoon over chocolate. I just don't. Whenever I walk into that stupid place, it's like they just expect you to crumble to the floor and vomit all over yourself at the amazingness of it all.

And that's all I have to say about that.

The Happiest Place on Earth

Welcome back, suckers. As of one o'clock this morning, I am officially back home. I didn't realize how much I had missed it until I was standing in a crush of people at a bus stop in Newark at 12:30 am. I was wielding a cheesecake and wearing a giant floppy hat. No bones about it, I was a force to be reckoned with. But how did we get there? Well, friends, perhaps I shall begin at the beginning. This might take a while. Hope none of you has a roast in the oven.

We left in a flurry of anger and excitement at five in the morning last Monday and caught the nine o'clock flight out to Orlando. I was none too happy to be up that early, and I had no problem displaying that. But I love to fly, and once we took our seats on the plane I was happy as a Patti LuPone fan when she posts one of her stupid Ramblings from the Road. The flight took two and a half hours. My neighbor Maisie and I entertained ourselves. I listened to my iPod. Imagine, Next to Normal and Hair at 34,000 feet! We watched The Golden Girls and Cash Cab. I'd never seen Cash Cab before, and was amazed at the stupidity of some of my fellow New Yorkers. At this time, I feel the need to apologize for myself. I realize that I am incurably selfish and have an insufferable sense of superiority. I'm the oldest of three children, I'm from New York, and at school they tell me I am "smart." Is it any wonder I turned out this way? Don't take me that seriously. I don't even take me that seriously. But we'll get to all that later.

Once we landed, we trekked over to the Port Orleans French Quarter Resort. It was so incredibly Streetcar. But picture if you will my horror at discovering that no one in my party of five, except myself, had ever seen it! My dad at least, asked if it was the one with "Sdelluh." Okay, that makes it a little better. But still. It's a classic, and it's freaking brilliant. You people are cheating yourselves. Maybe this is a good time to mention that I've never seen Casablanca, Citizen Kane, or It Happened One Night. My judgement ends here.

But it was a wonderful vacation. Maisie was my roommate, and I cannot tell you all how overjoyed I was to find out that she makes absolutely no noise when she sleeps. I don't know if I've told you folks about my severe allergy to snorers. It's really bad, and may very well ruin my marriage some day. But Maisie, in all her noiseless glory, was the best roommate I've ever had in my life. I mean, this girl makes absolutely NO NOISE AT ALL. I couldn't have been happier with this. It was kinda like Cabaret. "Now I've this perfectly marvelous girl in my perfectly beautiful room and we're living together and having a marvelous time." Okay, that sounded less creepy in my head. Maisie's been my neighbor for the past twelve years. Ever since our first through-the-backyard-fence conversation, Maisie and me was like peas and carrots. Having her on this trip with me was just a joy.

So what did I actually DO, you ask? Lots of things. The trip was my birthday present, so they gave me a button that said "Happy Birthday Kerry." Here's the thing. My name is not Kerry, but I thought it was funny. I kept the button anyway, even after they gave me a new one. Apparently, that makes me weird. Come on, does no one else find that funny? I mean, especially those of you who know what my name actually is? All right then, guess it's just me. After we got over that little bump in the road, I had an absolutely marvelous week. I met Mickey, Lilo, Stitch, Eeyore, Pooh, and Tigger. I've always had a soft spot for Eeyore. He and I share the same sunny outlook on life. Hmm...what else? I rode Tower of Terror, Expedition Everest, Rockin' Roller Coaster, Jaws, Soarin', The Simpsons Ride, Splash Mountain, The Haunted Mansion, the ever-terrifying It's a Small World, and lots of others. It's a Small World actually broke down while Maisie and I were on it. Don't make fun of me for this, but I was genuinely scared. That ride strikes fear in me like no other can. Picture if you will, my extreme horror upon finding out that we were stuck in there, among the creepy ethnic dolls with their wide-open methamphetamine eyes and painted smiles. I swear, getting stuck in there was traumatizing enough to land me in therapy. Maybe I should sue Disney. Then again, you might as well sue God.

What else? I ate snails, bought $75 Dior perfume, had Happy Birthday sung to me by a bunch of Brazilian kids and a group of French waiters, had a half-in-Spanish conversation with a little Mexican kid, got lost a lot, got groped by Tigger, bought an obnoxious floppy tourist hat, saw Tinkerbell fly for the very first time, randomly met a bunch of my cousins in the Magic Kingdom, and walked around in a Marge Simpson wig for a while. That last one prompted one of the tourists who gaped at me as I sashayed through the lobby to point and remark, "She's a wild one." I don't think I've ever received such a nice compliment in my entire life. You hear that, folks? I, [insert my name here], am a wild one. Come up and see me sometime. We'll watch The Golden Girls, eat mint ice cream, and drink blue Powerade. But really, there is something incredibly freeing about walking around in a Marge Simpson wig. I would definitely recommend trying it. Lots of people pointed and stared. My family felt the need to point out every single gawking tourist. I felt kinda like Joanne from Company. "Are they staring at me? Let 'em, those broads! What else do they have to look at?"

Coming home was an utter ordeal. Our flight was delayed, and that made me a very unhappy camper. So I did what anyone would do when stranded for four hours in an Orlando airport. Maisie and I rode on the moving walkways for a while. When we got bored with that, I went into a Borders and bought Julie and Julia. It's pretty good, and it's about a blogger. Yay for topics I can relate to. When our flight finally came in, I found out I was gonna have to sit next to a stranger. I am not proud of what I did. But I was running on empty, had just had my luggage ripped apart by a bunch of bumbling security jackasses, and I was sick of hearing Julie Powell talk about hunting for the hip of a cow. So I maybe kinda dropped my luggage and said in a semi-loud voice, "No, no, no! I'm not sitting next to some f*cking hick from Texas!" Nobody even turned around, thank the Lord. I still kinda can't believe I said that.

The flight home was turbulent and boring. I watched Thirty Rock, and was pleasantly surprised to find myself oggling the episode that featured Phoebe Strole, former Spring Awakened cast member extraordinaire. Oddly enough, last night was the one-year anniversary of her departure from the show. Four others went with her, and I have no problem saying that poor Spring Awakening kinda sucked after that. Getting off the flight and down to the baggage claim took more out of me than I had left, and waiting for a bus to take us to the parking lot required more patience than I had. I am ashamed to admit that I was exceedingly hard to deal with during the half hour we waited for that bus. The cheesecake I was carrying was heavy. I just snapped. "That's it," I muttered, and started heading for the nearest trash can. My dad whipped around as if to say, "Not...the CHEESECAKE!" and chased me down, thereby preventing me from doing anything I would have regretted.

But it was a wonderful trip, even if I almost drowned in the wave pool at Blizzard Beach. Oh, no, Mr. Lifeguard, it's cool. Just keep pretending not to see me crying and flailing. I gotta die some time. Before we get off the subject of Disney, let me take a moment to point out that The Happiest Place on Earth had the highest concentration of screaming, crying, miserable children that I've ever seen in my life. One of the highlights of my trip was watching the insane, no-holds-barred freakout of a little British boy. It was scary and enthralling all at the same time. Ironically, Disneyworld was home to the biggest meltdown I've ever had. My spoiled five-year-old self wanted that Cruella de Vil doll, and I wasn't taking no for an answer.

Before I close up shop for today, here's my favorite Broadwaysecret from this week.

Little Women. Saw it five times, and I still love it. It's the reason I'm a theatre fan, even though everything Sutton Foster has done since has been a a tremendous disappointment to me. It's hardly my place to say, but I wish she hadn't taken Princess Fiona. It would have saved me the trouble of sitting through Shrek.

And, of course, it's not a good week on Broadwaysecrets without the token outrageous, intrusive, creepy, possibly but probably not true secret! I see it now. The "Kacie Sheik is a lesbian" secrets are gonna become more numerous than the "Alice Ripley is on crack" and "Kerry Ellis is overrated" ones combined. God, Broadwaysecrets is like a freaking snake pit. The queens and fangirls will rip your guts out.

Bon Voyage

Hello, darlings! Good-bye, darlings! Tomorrow I'm off to Disney for the week. Since getting my mother to agree to bring my laptop is a struggle I have yet to win, I think I will be bidding farewell to ye olde blog for now. I'll miss you all terribly, but not in a creepy Norma Desmond-y way. But we still have one night left, so let's make it count, shall we? I still have to find my sleep mask, ear plugs, and iPod, pack a carry-on, and take a shower, but my convenient three a.m. bedtime provides plenty of time for all that.

I got my nails done today for the trip. I chose to paint them purple, inciting several stares and giggles from the trophy wives and ladies who lunch (from the looks of them, they lunched a lot) that populated the salon. It was a modified Sally Bowles moment. "For instance, if I should paint my fingernails purple, and it just so happens I do paint them purple, well, if anyone should ask me why I say, 'I think it's pretty.'" The French-manicured lassies that stared at me as I walked out the door can suck it.

So that's about all I have to say for now. Can someone please watch the Hair tribe on Conan tomorrow night for me? If Caissie Levy gets shrieky, Allison Case acts with her hands, or they do something other than Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In, I demand to be notified immediately.

I think that about covers it. Well, I just don't know how to bid you adieu. There are so many ways, and I intended on ditching you all Broadway-style. Except I couldn't pick just one. So why don't we use ALL OF THEM!!

"So anyway, I'm leaving." - Next to Normal
"Good-byeeeeeeeeee to blueberry pie." - Gypsy
"Good-bye, we will miss you." - SIDE SHOW
"So long, farewell, auf wiederhosen, goodnight." - The Sound of Music
"Guess I'm leaving. I'm gone." (I said I didn't like Rent. I didn't say I'm not familiar with it.)

The Broadway.Com Awards!

Remember how bonkers I went for the Tonys, friends? Remember? I called Greg Jbara an oaf, said I was too smart to be a Stephanie J. Block fan, hoped Aaron Tveit would punch David Bologna in the face, jumped up and screamed when Next to Normal won Best Score, and referred to Alice Ripley winning the Tony as the queen being crowned. Well, I'm sorry for all of that. Guess I got a little carried away. Reading over posts I made around Tony time, I can't believe how overzealous I was. I also got really, really mean about it. God, I was like Arthur Laurents. So yeah, I'm sorry. However, I do NOT take back what I said about Billy Elliot being a "big, obnoxious, twirling monstrosity." All disparaging remarks made about Rent and Wicked also still stand.

But now that that's all out of the way, I give you The Broadway.com Audience Awards! Hooray.

http://www.broadway.com/broadway_information_html/5020821 I love this wonderful video. And, of course, as with all other things, I have several comments. Sorry. I'm a nitpicker by nature. So maybe I'll just list my comments and concerns in bullet form. Ready? Saddle up, folks, and awaaaaaay we go.

-I find it rather alarming that you can hear a small child screaming in terror during Patrick Wilson's segment.

-Perhaps Sutton Foster should have moved the bra hanging on the back wall before she accepted the award.

-Daniel Radcliffe's eyebrows are really bothering me.


-Alice Ripley's glasses make her look like she's auditioning for The Marvelous Wonderettes.


-Jane Fonda seems none too excited to be getting the award.


-I realize now that I've never really heard Karen Olivo's actual speaking voice. I've also got a newfound respect for her, since a few nights ago I had a dream that she was sitting on my living room floor making a scrapbook. It was bizarre.


-Talk a little faster, Will Swenson. Personally, I like the Vengeful Acceptance Speech. My favorite part of the entire video is "Suck on that, Colby!"


-Aww, Dolly Parton seems really honored that she won. I'm happy for her, and I don't even like Get Out and Stay out that much. I do a good Stephanie J. Block impression, though. "GEEEEEET OUT AND UHSHTAAAAAAAAY OUT!'

-Tutus, Billy Elliot folk? Really?

And that's about all I have to say about that.

Facebook, Bunnies, and Porkchops

I want a bunny. I want a bunny real bad. I want a black bunny. I would name him Frank Mills so if he ever got lost I could tell people I'm trying to find Frank Mills. (Yes, I know you don't get it.) I would brush his fur and take him for hops and make him do Patti LuPone impressions. When he was bad I would call him a fuzzy son of a bitch, but then I would feel bad about it and give him a carrot. Life with Frank Mills would be freaking awesome. So, yeah. I just felt like that had to be said. There's a point to this, I promise. My grandparents moved last week. Apparently, the people who moved in own three bunnies that just hop all over the place whenever they want. Irony. Crushing irony. I was at that house every single day of my life, and the day after I pay my final visit a bunch of bunny-owning yuppies move in. None of those bunnies better be named Frank Mills.



Well, you may be asking yourselves, "Gee, I wonder how Facebook is going for her." You're probably not, but you may be. So I'll tell you. It's pretty boring. I have 63 friends. I only actually like about 35 of them. Alice Ripley and Allison Case were both gracious enough to accept my friend requests, but so far I haven't said a single cyber-word to either of them. I don't plan on it, either. Guess I'm not very friendly. Or maybe I'm just not a stalker. Either way, I'm not having that much fun in the screeching hell of pedophiles and teenage girls that is Facebook.



So...I'm pretty much even boring myself. How long has it been since these posts actually ceased to be funny? How long has it been since I've actually attempted to make them funny? Most of the stuff I say, not just here but out in the real world, sounds funnier in my head. Okay, friends. I'm gonna make an honest-to-God attempt to show you folks something worth laughing about. Fail. Might as well pack it in and join the ranks of the chronically unfunny. Move over, Regis.



The main reason I came here was to chat about this video. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eOD0pe75JTc You're not gonna like it all that much. I however, find it so perfectly marvelous that watching it fills me up with joy until I am nearly overflowing. Coming from me and my not-so-sunny disposition, that's a big deal. Thanks to this video and Caissie Levy's random comment about porkchops (in a BRITISH ACCENT, no less), I will never look at another porkchop without thinking, "I don't sing about pawkchups. They're nut koshah." It's kinda like how Next to Normal ruined the whole Costco experience for me. I simply CANNOT set foot in Costco without revving my foot and careening down the aisles on a shopping cart. I'm so immature it's not even funny. But really. I think my life's aspiration is to end up lying on the floor unconscious in Costco, surrounded by boxes and curious passerby. Not really, though. God, don't you people pay attention? I've already told you that my real life's aspiration is to go see Hair and then go lie in the grass in Bryant Park for the rest of forever.

Let's Be Pretentious

Once again, it's 12:48 a.m., and I am wide awake, sipping Powerade and listening to some Kerrigan and Lowdermilk. Make no mistake, friends, there's a reason I stay up this late. I'm a writer. Not a good one, and not a very prolific one. Not at all. In seven years I've managed to finish one story, and once I read it through I decided I hated it and ripped it up. I guess you could call it a hobby. But night time is the best time to work. It's quiet, and I just stay up for hours and write whatever I feel like writing. Ever tried it? It's fun. But tonight, I thought I'd try something a little different. I don't do this very often, as a matter of fact, I don't do this at all. So it's kind of a big deal to me, though certainly not to any of you, and it damn well shouldn't be. I am intensely private about what I write. You'd never know it, not from my blogs, but I am. There's something about sharing what I've written that dulls the immediacy of it, and I'm sure that makes absolutely no sense. It's like giving away a fragment of a whole, a chip off the block, and that detracts from the whole itself. Wow. I don't think I've ever said something quite so pretentious in my entire life. Sorry. But tonight I thought I'd try it. Here's a sample of one of my stories. Leave all the comments you want. Rip it to shreds. I'm not too fond of it myself. It needs work that I'll probably never get around to doing, and I don't intend to take it any farther than a hobby. Trust me. A negative review will not cause me to go spiraling down a path of page-burning and self-loathing. So here we go.

"Honestly, honey, it's not that bad," twitters my future mother-in-law nervously, fluttering around me and poking at each singed little curl, attempting to get me to calm down.
"Yes, it IS!" I sob. I hate my hair. Gabe and I fought for months over where to have the wedding, and he finally convinced me to do it in Hawaii, where he grew up. I knew I shouldn't have listened. Right now I should be in my favorite hair salon back east, spinning myself around in the chair and marveling at my perfect updo. Instead, I'm flopped face-down on the hide-a-bed in Gabe's living room, lamenting over the fried mass of curls.
"You look lovely, Alex," Mom assures me. Lie.
"I want it redone. I'm not getting married if my hair looks like this!" I wail.
"Alex, there's nothing we can do-"
"Let Beatrice do it," suggest Annie, who has been sitting in the kitchen, quietly observing my meltdown.
"Who?" I sit up.
"Shut up, Annie," Gabe's mother Alice snaps.
"No, seriously. Let Beatrice do her hair."
"Who?" I persist.
"No."
"Mom, it's fine! I'll call Beatrice and she'll do Alex's hair," pushes Annie.
"Will somebody please tell me who Beatrice is?!" I screech, silencing the room.
Alice glares at Annie, looks helplessly at my mother, who shrugs, and finally turns her pitying eyes on me. "She's one of Gabe's old girlfriends. If you want...I mean, she's a hairdresser."
"Fine," I bark. "Call Beatrice. Invite her to the wedding. I don't care. If I don't get my hair redone I'm not getting married."
"Bea's great! You'll love her!" Annie calls as she dials her phone.
"Annie, use your brain," snaps Alice. "The girl doesn't need to know about how 'great' Bea is!"
Megan and Sarah barge down the stairs. Both are calling my name. "Alex, I have a ques-" Sarah stops when she sees my hair. "You look..."
"Don't say it."
"Yeah, but Alex-"
"You wanna talk about what you did to your hair in L.A.?" I challenge.
Sarah shuts her mouth. Two years have not completely erased the memories of Sarah's quick spiral out of control, which included blue hair and a whole lot of Paxil. Now, her hair has been restored to its natural blonde. Her psyche has not made such a perfect recovery. It's like she told me in one of our many late-night conversations- no medicine can change the fact that you're going to die some day.
"One of Gabe's old girlfriends is gonna fix it," I grumble. Sarah raises an eyebrow but doesn't respond.
"So, are you excited?" giggles Megan.
"No."
She sits down on the bed. "Oh, come on. Married life is fun! I don't know where I'd be without Steve. And Gabe is just crazy for you, you know. I can tell."
"I'm scared," I admit.
"Jesus, Alex, don't be," sighs Alice. "If I know Gabe, you'll never want another thing for the rest of your life. I've never seen him so happy."
"Beatrice is on her way!" announces Annie, bouncing into the living room. "She said to wash your hair." I wearily pulls myself off the bed and start upstairs, taking orders.

When I come back downstairs, there's a woman with wild blonde hair and the elongated face of a horse sitting on the couch. She smiles at me, baring large front teeth. Neigh.
"You're Alex?"
"Yes-"
"Huh. Gabe's done pretty well for himself!" She laughs. Everyone else is silent. "Sit down. Don't worry, Alex. I'll be able to fix it. You can even take a nap if you want!" She laughs again and stands up. She's taller than I am - much taller, and thinner, too. I follow her to the kitchen and perch uneasily in one of the chairs. Annie sits across from me and smiles while Beatrice starts working on my hair. "I didn't know Gabe was getting married," Beatrice comments, slipping pins into my wet hair. "I didn't think he'd ever get married."
"He's just crazy about Alex," Annie responds. There is a note of pride in her voice.
"Are you excited to be a wife?" Beatrice asks.
No. "Uh-huh."
She giggles. To Annie she says, "Where's the groom? He's not too busy to come say hello to me, is he?"
Annie shifts uncomfortably and looks at me for an answer. I cast my eyes down at the table. "Well, he really isn't s'posed to see Alex until-"
"That's an outdated notion. Annie, go tell your brother that I'm here and I'm not taking no for an answer! Don't get jealous, Alex. I'll be good." She laughs once again and Annie reluctantly goes to the bottom of the stairs and calls for Gabe.
He descends, wearing boxers and a t-shirt. My heart skips a beat. Ten hours to go. He smiles at me. "Alex, you're gonna be perfect. Not that you haven't always-" He stops.
"What, no hug for me?" Beatrice pushes.
"What are you doing here, Bea? I thought you were in Miami," he cries, surprised.
"Miami? God, no. Are you gonna hug me or not?" she laughs. He rushes to embrace her. She kisses him square on the mouth. Annie stiffens. I grip the edge of the table. Gabe pulls back, looking down at me.
"Bea," he mumbles.
Beatrice resumes curling my hair. "Oh, you're such a prude, Gabe. Go upstairs before we give poor Alex a heart attack." Gabe shuffles off, stunned. Annie follows him up the stairs, clearly grateful to be free of the scene.
Beatrice laughs to herself. "You're a lucky girl, Alex. I tell you, I always thought I'd be the one to marry Gabe. He just broke my heart. But that was a long time ago. Ten years, almost. You know how we heal. And I'm happy for you. I swear to God. When Annie called me, I said, 'Oh, my God, well, I don't think I've ever been so happy in my entire life!' Oh, I want a wedding so bad. Mine's not for another six months. Did you know I was getting married? Well, I am. But you're gonna look so beautiful tonight. I'm so jealous of you. Really. Sooooooooo jealous."
I nod and shut my eyes. I could have figured that out by now.


Wow. I forced a lot on you there. Sorry, guys. That was almost like literary rape. Props to you if you actually read all of that.

Bring on the Summer

I've been gone for two days at most, and we have loads to talk about. First: Rest in peace, Karl Malden. This wonderful man starred in two movies that are very dear to me - he was Mitch in A Streetcar Named Desire, and Herbie in the Gypsy that didn't suck. We're gonna miss you, Mr. Malden.

Second - As predicted, Ragtime's taking the Neil Simon. Previews start October 23. I couldn't be happier, and I'll be god damned if I miss this one. Also, I would just be pleased as punch if Leigh Ann Larkin played Evelyn Nesbit again. Evelyn's a character that I don't think gets enough love, even though there's quite a lot to her. She gets to sing The Crime of the Century and gets an Atlantic City solo. Plus, like most of characters, she actually existed. Here she is on the left. Isn't her hair fantastic? Some people think she's the most beautiful woman who ever lived, yet nobody really knows who she is. Evelyn was a young artist's model whose husband, the psychopath Harry K. Thaw, was tried and acquitted of killing her lover, architect Stanford White. Scintillating. Anyway, Leigh Ann Larkin, who played June to Laura's Benanti's wonderful Louise in the latest, most unfortunate revival of Gypsy, is a perfectly marvelous actress, but she's up for Petra in the A Little Night Music Revival. Let's get this straight. I am a Sondheim fan. A Little Night Music is a lovely show. I want Ragtime to win Best Revival. But getting back to the subject at hand - Last night I had a dream that Kristin Chenoweth played Evelyn Nesbit. It was a bad dream. It was a real bad dream. Before we get off the subject of Ragtime, let me say that my poor little heart will just be shattered if neither Emily Skinner nor Mary Testa gets Emma Goldman. (And I don't care what you think, The Night That Goldman Spoke at Union Square is one of the best songs in the show.)

Next, and most horrifying, is the fact that some joker thought it would be a good idea to turn The Nutty Professor into a musical. I have to say, that is the most appalling thing I have ever heard. Make a musical out of The Nutty Professor? Why don't we lick the floor of a Coney Island bathroom while we're at it? Or maybe we could slap Patti LuPone in the face and see how she reacts. Actually, no. I'm not that crazy. But really, this is one big epic FAIL. It's utterly un-American. It just defaces all our good ole American morals. As Barbara Fordham says, "We f*cked the Indians for THIS?" (Oh, and by the way. I was moderately disappointed in Amy Morton's delivery of my favorite line. You folks don't understand. I was waiting the entire show to hear her say it. And apparently, Ms. Morton doesn't love that line half as much as I do. She didn't scream it. She didn't throw her head back or spread her arms. She kind of just pointed a finger at Ivy and said quickly, "You don't wanna break shit with me, motherf*cker." As a matter of fact, her whole "Eat the fish, bitch" scene was heartbreakingly un-terrifying.) This news is breaking my heart, chums. However, nothing could possibly hurt more than the fact that we're supposed to be welcoming Spider Man: THE MUSICAL! with open arms. Folks, I think we know by now that my arms are hardly ever open, and certainly not for this tourist trap. It's like the ultimate degradation, and coupled with the fact that they've somehow roped Alan Cumming into it, it's only getting worse. I know I'm a snob, but so help me, I'm not setting foot inside the Hilton while this one's playing. So...so there. That oughta show 'em.

Item number four - The Little Mermaid and Avenue Q have posted closing notices. I don't care very much either way about Avenue Q, but as for The Little Mermaid, and God forgive me for saying this, good freaking riddance. And STAY out. Okay, so I'm being harsh. This one gave Norm Lewis a job for almost two years. Oh, Norm Lewis. I liked you better in your SIDE SHOW days.

Five - two of my favorite Broadwaysecrets from this week:Dear Andrew Kober: I'm sorry for thinking you were arrogant. Just ignore me. I'm like that to everyone. Carry on with your "fierceness."

No, good sir or madam, as a matter, of fact, you are not. But, hey, I'm not sayin' nothin'. (Which is not to imply that I have any inside dope on the situation. Heh heh. "Inside dope." Okay, you know what? Forgive me for the fact that I'm ODing on the A:OC quotes. I cannot help my love for the Westons and their dysfunction.) In regard to this picture, I highly doubt it's true, but it makes no difference either way. I still think they're both wonderful, even though Allison Case sometimes acts like a two-year-old and Kacie Sheik has the most distracting hair I've ever seen in my life. Also, I think the "totally doing it" secrets that these people come up with, while wildly inappropriate and creepy, can sometimes be really damn entertaining. But moving on.

Fangirling for a small moment. (Hey, it's a Friday night and I'm not feeling well, which is why I'm sitting here in the first place. I deserve it.) Okay, my vote for Hottest Guy on Broadway will always, always, always go to Will Swenson, but this picture makes me hate Matt Cavenaugh a little bit less. Really, not THAT much less. I'm sorry, but I cannot forgive him his blandness, or his affection for dramatic pauses, or that goddamn Kennedy accent. Come to think of it, the Jerry drawl was pretty bad, too. Watch it, man. Jerry Torre's still alive. Let's not be a caricature. Since there's an ocean of space here on the right that will look awkward if I don't fill it up, why don't we all observe a picture of Gavin Creel? There. That's better. Hi, there, Mr. Creel. Hi there, puppy. The dog's name is Wally, but it would be creepy if I admitted I knew that. On some level, this picture makes me wish I were a gay man. (We're talking about the guy, not the dog, you perverts.)

I've been putting this part off for the entire post. I joined Facebook. Yes, the rumors are true. Like it or not, they got me. I don't know why I did it, but I'm slightly enjoying it. I guess you could liken the feeling to the one I had when I left Guys and Dolls. "Hey, that wasn't as bad as I though it would be." Maybe you could say I'm pleasantly surprised. I have 39 friends so far. Since I've joined Facebook, I think my self-esteem has gotten a major boost. Getting friend requests from people you've met but never talk to makes you think you're a lot more popular than you really are. Yes, I did friend Alice Ripley, for old times' sake. "Old times' sake" was a month ago, but it doesn't matter. I said I would friend her if I ever joined Facebook, and I did. See? I keep my word. I said I would never set foot at the Nederlander stage door and so far I haven't done that, either.

Sarah Palin announced today that she's resigning. I smell a scandal. Ooh, I have to talk to Lenora. Making fun of Sarah Palin is one of the rocks upon which our friendship is built. Good strong foundation there. Everybody knows she's gonna run in 2012, which is gonna be freakin' hilarious. Come on, Palin. Make my day.

I'm sorry, I had to show you folks this: Allison Case doing charity work with little children. I don't think I've seen anything quite so proverbial in my entire life.

Alas, tomorrow is the Fourth of July. Happy birthday, Abie Baby. Yes, of course I know Abe Lincoln wasn't born on the Fourth. I'm ignorant, not dumb. There's a difference. It just seemed like a good thing to say.