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.