Monday, August 31, 2009

Hello, World

Not much news today, but I am proud to tell you all that I am now the owner of a giant stuffed Stewie Griffin. I won him at a claw machine, and it only took me about eleven tries. It was a proud day.

So...what to talk about? It has come to my attention that my blog reaches approximately 35 people a day, 31 of which return on a daily basis. So there are 31 of you? Hello, darlings. I love each and every one of you, unless your name happens to be Patti LuPone. Honestly, I never expected to have an audience at all. For the longest time I thought I was just talking to the wall, plus Lenora. It's good to know I reach approximately .000000000000000000000000001% of the population. It gives me some kind of hope.

Thanks to a new application, I can now see how each of you linked yourselves to my blog. I'm sorry if you find that creepy. Today, one of you searched "Karen Ziemba" and found yourself here. Sorry, friend. You will find nothing positive about that woman on my blog. Another lonely cyber-wandered searched "shirtless Aaron Tveit." Why, you sly boots. You won't find that here, either, but we're working on it, my friend.

Knowing exactly how many of you there are makes me kind of nervous. I feel judged. How long have you folks been reading? Do you mind when I get ornery? Am I boring you? I am no performer. I've always been terrified of the spotlight, and my many literary endeavours have gone largely unread, at my own intention. I don't let my own mother read this stuff, folks. To be honest, I was more comfortable talking to the wall than I am talking to all of you.

Oh, well. You're here, and apparently you keep coming back, like a kitten I fed once and can't get rid of. Not that I want any of you to leave. Jesus. There are only 31 of you. How many people can I afford to chase away? No, friends, I'm very grateful that there are people who pretend to care what I am saying. Still, don't flatter yourselves into thinking I'm doing this for all of you. Please, I'm not that nice. I've long suspected that I have some kind of Momma Rose complex. Bottom line - "I guess I did it for myself." Folks, it's been almost a year. Let's not convince ourselves that I'm anything but an insomniac girl who got bored with Broadwayworld.

I am very tempted to share some more of my writing with you folks. I've been rereading my countless unfinished manuscripts from back in the day. Some are mind-bendingly hideous, some are actually pretty damn good. The problem with my main project now is that I know I am capable of doing better, but I'm too lazy to try. This is not my career, this will not be my career. What am I wasting my time on?

Moving on to something completely different - religion. I am Catholic. I have been educated Catholic, and I think I've turned out fine. As for the whole "kill the gays and abortion should be illegal" scene, I'm not sure I buy that crap. Here's what I know - I believe in God. I believe in love. I believe in heaven and hell, and I'd like to think everyone goes to heaven. If that makes me Catholic, then let me be called Catholic. It makes no real difference in the long run. But there are some areas when I deviate from the beaten path - For me, it is easy to feel close to God when I am watching a once-in-a-lifetime performance, or dancing onstage at Hair, or hearing my baby cousin tell me she loves me. When I'm sitting in an over-heated church listening to an Indian pastor drone on, not so much. Which is why I'm not that much of a church-goer. Let me clarify - theatre is not my religion. The Al Hirschfeld Theatre is not my place of worship, and when I pray, I pray to God, not Alice Ripley. (Although I freely admit that I offered up a small prayer to Bea Arthur that Angela Lansbury would win the Tony. I figured if anyone could help out with that, she could. Thanks for that one, Bea.) But there are things that help us to know that God exists, and if you want to say that theatre has taught me that, I guess you can. It brings me happiness, and happiness is the only thing I am looking for in this world.

I have not had a bad life so far, but there have been long stretches of time when I have been unhappy. When you've gone months without happiness, you learn how precious it is. And now, friends, I know more joy than I have ever seen in my life, and I am grateful, happy, peaceful, and enjoying the blue skies.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

The Quote Post

Welcome back, suckers. I'll have you folks know that I have just seen my father poke a hole in the inch-thick lid of a 50-pound trunk, string rope through it, and drag it around the living room. He used a freaking toothpick to drill the hole. And you people wonder why I stay up so late.

Anyway, it's late, it's hot, the Kerrigan and Lowerdmilk is abundant, and the blue Powerade is flowing freely. You know what that means. It's time for...A BLOG POST! I think I need my own theme song. Before I continue, I would like you all to know that I'm watching Two Strangers, and when I toggled between the tabs, Caissie Levy looked for one shining moment like a drugged cow. It was amusing. You're welcome. So...I love quotes. I build my life around them, memorize them, chant them like some kind of ancient Hindu mantra. There are just so many wonderful ones, and whenever the situation warrants I just pluck one from my extensive repertoire and blab it out. It's kinda like the way I can take any situation and liken it to something that happened in a Family Guy episode. Only I'm not so proud of that. But I thought I'd share some of my favorites with you, my very, very tiny audience.

"Bon appetit, douchebag." - Stewie Griffin

"It's much harder to make an audience laugh than it is to make them cry." - Vivien Leigh

"You're an asshole." - Pearl the Landlord

"If God brought you to it, He will bring you through it." - anonymous

"Leastest thing that they could teach you is not to talk on what you're wholly, completely,
abysmally ignorant of." - Caroline, or Change

"Jeez, if you wanted to put on a bad show why didn't we just do Rent?" - Peter Griffin

"You can't sell me, you fat son of a bitch!" - Meg Griffin

"Deliberate cruelty is not forgivable." - Blanche DuBois

"Just goes to show ya, Blanche, ya never know what's comin'." - Stanley Kowalski

"We all gotta keep goin'. No matter what happens, we gotta keep goin'." - Eunice Hubbell

"Are you box outta your mind?" - Harold Mitchell

"You look like a lesbian." - Violet Weston

"You don't wanna break shit with me, muthaf*cka!" - Barbara Fordham

"I'm a tool." - Robert Pattinson

"Some hurts never heal, but the darkest skies will someday see the sun." - adapted from Next to

"You sound like an unbelievable douche." - Brian Griffin

"Son of a bitch, I guess I'm doing something right." - The Last Five Years

"Start by admitting from cradle to tomb, it isn't that long a stay." - Cabaret

"If you're going through hell, keep going." - Winston Churchill

"You're a lot of fun. I hope you don't die." - Edie Beale

"Every day is just another and another and another..." - Next to Normal

Confucius say thanks for reading all those quotes. Before I go, we're gonna talk Ragtime. Full casting was announced today. Two problems. Problem Number One: I've never actually heard of anyone that's been cast. That's pretty rough. I like to know what I'm getting myself into. Problem Number Two: Savannah Wise got Evelyn Nesbit, and she's from Rock of Ages. Damn. I'm not trying to be pre-judgemental, but, well, I guess I kinda am. Oh, well. Guess this means Leigh Ann Larkin got Petra in A Little Night Music, and will be over at the Kerr with Angela Lansbury and Catherine Zeta-Jones. I think Leigh Ann Larkin is great, and this is swaying me a bit. But I am still backing Ragtime 100% for that Tony.

The role that will be left open when Savannah leaves Rock of Ages will be filled by Kerry Butler. She can do better than that, but I guess the bills still have to be paid. I like to think that's the only reason Brian d'Arcy James and Sutton Foster took the embarrassing pratfall-fest that was Shrek.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Mystery Solved

So, folks, just popping in to answer that burning question: If an epic Hair vs. Family Guy throw-down should ever arise, who would I root for? Well, here we go. Isn't that a lovely little snippet? Personally, I'm a PC. My laptop is a PC, my desktop is a PC. I don't know any of those Mac users who pride themselves on being so edgy. Back to the subject at hand. Yeah, that's Allison Case, but I had to see this commercial twice before I noticed it was her. However, the fact that the guy playing the PC salesman does the voice of Joe on Family Guy had me sqealing like an overexcited little pig on the first shot. So there you have it. I love me some Hair, but I'm a Family Guy fan right up to the bitter end. Plus, the world could use so many more paralyzed cops. Little hippie girls who spend their days waiting for a guy who doesn't remember them, not so much.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009


Sorry, friends, but I have to share this. It's perfect, in its hideous way. It's what Seurat would be painting if he were alive today. There are a great many people that I wish were sitting next to the guy who's hurling his guts up. List time!

1. Sarah Palin

2. Patti LuPone

3. Justin Timberlake

4. Spencer Pratt

5. Demi Lovato

6. Billy Elliot

7. Francesca Zambello

8. Laura Bell Bundy

9. Kristen Stewart

10. Robert Pattinson

11. Matt Cavenaugh

12. Idina Menzel

13. my neighbor who thinks it's okay to break out the chainsaw at eight a.m.

14. George Bush

15. Miley Cyrus

Okay, I'm done. Better stop before "my hate rise up rip my insides out." Caroline, or Change is an unbelievable show. Please, do yourself a favor, and at least look up Lot's Wife on Youtube. If you like that, buy "Caroline and Noah Fight" from iTunes, if for no other reason than to hear Tonya Pinkins sing, in a scary voice that is barely audible, "And hell's where Jews go when they dieeeeeeeeee." It's so hateful and yet such a beautiful arrangement.
While we're talking Broadway, word on the street is that Catherine Zeta-Jones and Angela Lansbury are going into Night Music. I could take or leave that Jones woman, but Angela Lansbury? Back so soon? Back at all? Hold your hats and hallelujah. If this is true, and I think it is, I will absolutely be making a sojourn to what ever theatre they get assigned. I swore I wouldn't miss Angela in Blithe Spirit, and I did it, and I regret it. This time is gonna be different. Plus, it's Sondheim. There is no missing Sondheim. However, the fact that A Little Night Music has Angela Lansbury does not change the fact that I am rooting for Ragtime. Because I love Ragtime. Ragtime is in my heart, mind, soul, and blood. And when a show that makes up that much of your being comes to Broadway, you better pray it gets Best Revival. And it will. Because it's Ragtime.
Did some yoga today. My Wii Fit trainer yelled at me because I hadn't worked out with her in five days. She scares me. Still, love me some Wii Fit. I can do everything but the Dance pose. The one time I tried, I almost went through the TV. Won't be trying that again anytime soon.
Yesterday, while visiting my grandparents in Brick, my brother, sister, and I had a vicious game of hide and seek. I am a hide and seek aficionado, and my grandparents' new house is a prime location - closets in closets, wide space behind couches, big cabinets. That kind of stuff. I hid in a closet in the bedroom that couldn't be seen because it was covered by the open bedroom door. It was an ingenious spot, and I was in there for twenty minutes. I love hiding, which may be why I'm so good at it. I've hidden in hampers, under beds, behind beds, in closets, in showers, and just about any other place you can name. Once, when I was playing with my sister and my cousin, I went behind the dresser and was back there for at least an hour. Hide and seek is just pure fun. I like to pretend I'm hiding from the cops, or a serial killer, or the Nazis, or Cindy McCain. You just never outgrow it, and it's great fun. Anyway, on this particular occasion, I simply could not believe that no one thought the close the bedroom door, thus revealing my closet. My poor siblings rushed around for a while, cursing and saying stuff like, "No, I checked under the car! Besides, her shoes are here! She's gotta be moving around." I am not a ninja. I do not move around. And that's all I have to say about that.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Mine Eyes Have Seen

I have seen the future, friends, and it's terrifying. This evening, during a long road trip homeward, my mother decided to stop at a bar in Belmar to see her favorite band play. It was not so fun. We all stood on a soggy deck outside a busted bar and listened to a bunch of aging cover singers. As a matter of fact, it was awful. Old fat people in tank tops and shorts were guzzling beer out of red plastic cups. I thought only college kids did that. It was the most depressing thing I've seen all summer. All I could think was, "Dear God, don't let me end up like these people."

But really, who am I to judge them? Even though they were chronically middle aged, badly dressed, and listening to an awful band out on a soggy deck that smelled of smoke and rotting fish, they seemed to be having a good time. Still, it was difficult to suppress the urge to shake them and say, "Open your eyes, people! You're not twenty-one! You're in freaking Belmar, for Christ's sake!" My parents kept telling me how much fun these people used to be when they were young. I simply could not imagine any of those folks ever being fun or young. While we're on the subject, I'm gonna bash Jersey. There is nothing there. Literally. Nothing. I don't care how much fun "going down the shore" is. It's not fun for me. Renting a house in Belmar and sleeping somewhere else may be where it's been but it's not where it's at. I have no interest in any of that. Why would anybody want to lay on the beach for hours, slowly subjecting themselves to skin cancer, and then going out clubbing with a bunch of guidos you could find anywhere else in the tristate area? The fact that a bunch of middle-aged folks still think that this is fun, and have conditioned their children to believe that it's fun, depresses me. Really. It's sad, kinda like drinking alone in an apartment out in Queens. Apparently, it doesn't matter where you are as long as your with your friends. Is it so terribly awful of me to say that I don't believe that's true at all? Because really, I'd much rather be sitting with my enemies and watching some indie band play Joe's Pub than be out out in Belmar, Seaside, or anywhere else on the Jersey Shore doing shots with my friends. It's okay if you want to call me a bad person. My own mother tells me that every day.

Depressing factor aside, going to that bar today was actually a pretty educational anthropological study. There was this one woman there, with sun-mottled skin, sagging boobs, platinum hair, and a skintight red dress, who was just sitting at the bar doing shot after shot. She was by herself and looked to be about fifty. It was so sad, but then I realized that looking at her was like looking through a time portal. She was some kind of Little Edie Beale, a relic left over from the past. This woman could remember a time when it was alright to wear red dresses after age 25 and people actually went to Belmar bars on purpose. The saddest part was that she wasn't the only poor unfortunate soul out there. Really, was there anybody there who didn't witness the Kennedy assassination? I have my doubts.

Friday, August 21, 2009

I Regret Nothing

As Brian once said to Stewie in an epic Family Guy episode, "You friggin' psychopath." I now am wondering if he was referring to me. Last night, I was artistically inspired and stayed up till four working on my novel. Translation: The insomniac bitch drank too much Powerade and was up for hours scribbling away in her crappy little book. And I went to bed. I woke up at two today. I am not proud of that. So I checked my phone, and there was a call from Daddy. He wanted to know if I wanted to go to the Hair CD signing today. Well, I did what anyone would have done. I dropped everything. And I went running out to this CD signing, along with Berri and Lenora. And guess what. We went to see Hair. I am not proud of that either. But I did it, and I had a wonderful time, and it was the best rash decision I made all summer.

On the way there, I decided that I was going to see Hair, and ain't nobody was gonna be stoppin' me. So I risked dealing with the droney Telecharge lady, and I got tickets for the eight o'clock show. It was a bad decision. It was reckless. I loved it. We went to the CD signing, and it was great. I had fun. I love having fun. Fun is what I live for. So after that, we had dinner at Sweet Caroline's. Poor folks, there was nobody in there. Literally. Nobody was in there. We were all decked out in true hippie fashion. I had pirated Lenora's peacock earrings and flower headband, so the waitress asked us if we were going to see Billy Elliot. At the end of the meal, she drew a hippie on our check. New favorite restaurant.

I ran up to our seats first, and Berri and Lenora went to the bathroom. This is gonna sound really weird, but I like a few moments alone to take in the atmosphere, especially at this show. I love to just sit there and raise my face to the ceiling and wrap my mind around where I am, and what I am about to do. It's a whole detox process. This time, however, I didn't do any of that. I just shut my eyes and marveled at the fact that such a welcome surprise had landed in my lap. I was there, and I was happy. And happiness is not something I take lightly. Before the curtain went up, I just leaned over and hugged Lenora, giddy and so incredibly happy to be where I was. The show was, as always, wonderful. We had fantastic understudies for Claude and Crissy. Poor Berri can't catch a break when it comes to Claudes. I can honestly say that I loved every minute of it. Some highlights were watching Lenora get pulled up to dance during Electric Blues, Will Swenson's outrageous ad-libbing, including a LuPwning of The Latecomers, and all those little nuances and moments that make this show so damn brilliant. For instance, I love when Woof turns to the audience and simply says, "And I love you." It's a beautiful moment that nobody else seems to like. Everybody always makes fun of me because my very favorite scene is the one where Sheila and Berger fight. Really, people. Berger's an immature douchebag. He just is. Oh, dear. Now I've forever ruined that scene for myself. I'm never gonna be able to watch it again without thinking of the song Stewie writes - "And then Brian comes in and I change up the tempo. Brian comes in and he changes the song. Lookin' at me like he thinks I'm a douchebag..." Oh well. Anyway, if I haven't said it before, here it is: I love this show. During Aquarius, I just remember thinking, "There is no place on this earth that I would rather be right now." It's my laughing place. Everybody needs a laughing place, kinda like every Republican needs something to lie about.
After the show, we went down on the stage to dance. I was temporarily separated from my friends, but I caught up with them after worrying that I would look like some lonely idiot dancing around by herself. I have never seen so many happy people in one place before. Everyone just looked so unabashedly joyful. I turned to my right, and saw an old lady bouncing around and laughing hysterically. She proceeded to grab her husband and make out with him. I don't think I've ever believed in love as much as I did right then. Dancing on the stage is such a love fest. I found myself just grabbing Berri and Lenora and hugging them as tight as I could. There was a girl standing to my left, and she found herself randomly snatched up, hugged, and kissed by Will Swenson. As the scary Russian girl in my ballet class once said to me after I had answered the teacher's question: "That could have been me." So the show ends, and we shuffle off stage, receiving hugs from Will Swenson and Kacie Sheik, who, aside from being hugely pregnant at the time, is tiny tiny tiny. It felt kinda like hugging an ironing board.
We shuffled on down to the stage door. It was hot. It was sickeningly hot. I could seriously feel my makeup melting off my face, but it was worth it. Caissie Levy and her weave came out first. The first thing she said was, "Wow, my Sharpies suck tonight." I was horrified. Doesn't she know not to talk that way in front of the children? She smiled at Lenora and said, "Well, it's good to see you again," in a way that suggested it really wasn't that great to see her again. Bryce Ryness suckered Lenora into buying his band's album. It was so awkward. One of the tribe members, whose name is escaping me, complimented my headband. I told her that I had pirated it off Lenora. (While we're on the subject, Lenora ended up giving me that headband at the end of the night. I love Lenora and I love her headwear.) I have come to the conclusion that everything worth talking about happens to Lenora. Except I am the owner of the arm that got scribbled on by Will Swenson. He said sorry. The first thing that came to my head was "Thank-you." And I said it. Because I'm clearly not very smart at all. Really, I don't enjoy getting written on by strangers, thanks.
After it got too hot to hang around any longer, we made our way to Colony. I love it there. It is my second home. My hot, crowded, overpriced second home. I was hunting for the Caroline, or Change CD. The guy who worked there told me they didn't have it, and he said it was a shame that they never made a songbook, since it was such a beautiful score. We commiserated for a while. He said it was a shame that Tonya Pinkins lost the Tony. I love you, Colony Man.
I got myself a Blue Powerade at the EZ Deli, which once sold my dad poisonous cheese. Change your name all you want, deli people. You don't fool me. Strolling through the streets, I entered into that dizzy post-show phase where I just say whatever pops into my head. I can remember saying, "If somebody had told me last night that at this time tomorrow I would be here, I never woulda believed 'em. I'm still having trouble believing that this happened." (I'm actually still having some trouble believing it now. But there is still ink on my arm, and an autographed CD and Playbill on my dresser, and Lenora's headband on my kitchen table. It happened. Just goes to show ya, Blanche, ya REALLY never know what's comin'.) Lenora giggled that she felt high. It was at that point that I realized I had forgotten to warn her about the Hair High. "Yeah," I mumbled. "That happens a lot. You'll probably still be on it when you wake up tomorrow." As for me, I'm starting to crash a bit now.
Well, there it is. Perhaps from now on, I will expect the unexpected. No, I'm no one's wife, but, oh, I love my life. Hair is the type of show that I could see over and over and over and never get tired of it. And, as the ladies of the soon-to-be-ass-out 9 to 5 say, "I just might."

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Julie and Julia

I just got back from seeing Julie and Julia, and it was lovely. Really, that's the best word I can think of to describe it. Utterly lovely. If not long. If not very long. Before I saw read the book, I was never really familiar with Julia Child. She was a bit before my time. My mother, however, tells me that she was "crazy" and "drunk" and "looked like a man." After watching a few Youtube videos of her cooking show, I'm gonna have to disagree. Sure, she's a bit mismatched-looking, and she seemed to be a bit overly fond of that damn sherry, but let me say it now: Julia Child is awesome.

Look at that loony mallet-wielding lady. One look at her and you just know she could gut you and bake you into a Lindzor Torte as soon as look at you. I don't care what all ye olde Rachael Ray fans say, Julia Child is great. And when was the last time you saw Rachael Ray bone a duck from six feet in the air? Never, I'll venture. Big declaration coming up. Proceed with caution. I love Julia Child, and everything she stands for. She is the ultimate anti-stereotype, and she took a lot of crap for that. (While typing that sentence, I accidentally typed "crap" as "carp." Irony.) She was a real chef, ya know? The kind that wasn't afraid to plunge her hand into a pot of boiling water. I can't imagine Giada or any other of the glossy-haired Food Network vixens doing that. This old gal was one of the boys.

But the movie was just soooo long, and I happen to think that Meryl Streep, while being ridiculously talented, is also getting ridiculously played out. I'd bet any amount of money that she'll be Violet in the August: Osage County movie. And that would be fine with me, so long as Laura Linney is Barbara and Elizabeth Ashley is Mattie Fae. As for Amy Adams, I think she's bland. Blander than Karen Ziemba, which is saying something. And, I was pleasantly surprised to see another familiar face on the oversized screen in the undercrowded theatre. Kacie Sheik was in it. For a whole two seconds. She said one word. Two syllables. And then I blinked. And it was over. Really, I don't know why I even bothered to tell you that. The time it took to tell you about it was longer than she was on the screen.

So, thanks to the occasional wonders of Facebook, I recently saw some pictures of the most obnoxious, glitzy, and downright hideous sweet sixteen I have ever seen in my life. I did not go to this party. I was not invited, and I am actually proud of that. The pictures were the most fun I've had all day. I saw strippers, a sedan chair, an anorexic girl, scary wide-eyed blonde matrons, parental-approved teen drinking, slutty pictures that I assume were a result of the aforementioned drinking, and a birthday girl who honestly looked like a drag queen. I'm not trying to be mean here, folks. But I'm a people observer, and a labeler. It's a habit I have yet to kick. But I've observed and I've labeled, and here's my take on the situation: Dear Girl In Pictures, and The Parents Who Let Her Dress Like RuPaul: Happy birthday. You're an asshole. There. Now I feel better. And before I get tagged as some sick psychopath who judges books by their cover, let me tell you all that I've known the girl in question all my life. I regret nothing. Jeez. It's girls like this that make me afraid for the future of this country. Just being around them makes me feel like I'm at least successful in not ending up like them. Okay, I'm getting the feeling that I'm being too hard on them here. So I'm shutting up.

Now for something completely different: Pot. Legalize it. Now. Alright, that sounded suspicious. Let me rephrase it. I'm a Democrat, so much so that sometimes I feel ashamed to be writing with my right hand. But I am, indeed, a Democrat. (The only one in the family, actually. Thanksgiving is a time for turkey eating and health care debate. Obama's not a socialist, people. Don't go for the scare tactics.) Back to pot. Personally, I'm not a fan. I've never smoked it. I don't plan on it. Maybe I've been brainwashed just as much as everyone else. But I do know the facts, and here they are: Marijuana is less harmful than alcohol and cigarettes. See for yourself. As Seth MacFarlane says, "Everything is better with a bag of weed." That may be true, but as for me, I like to keep it straight and narrow. Just my opinion. However, that does not mean that I am going to take away other people's right to smoke. Two reasons for that: If the government could just legalize pot, and then slam it with a heavy tax, then they could be making so much more money, since everyone just does it anyway. Also, legalizing it would get rid of all the back-alley deals that are so dangerous, and it would also cut down on the use of heavy, dangerous drugs. Dealers are in it for the money, first they give you the pot, then they give you the hard stuff. That's why so many people say marijuana is a gateway drug. And, of course, since when is it the government's business what consenting adults do in the privacy of their own home? While they're at it, they might as well make being gay illegal, and and then abolish abortions. Free speech and freedom of choice for all, and for God's sake, a woman has the right to decide what she wants to do with her own body.

Monday, August 17, 2009

It's a Good Life

My incredible winnning streak is still going strong, friends. Really, I don't know why I'm so blindly, blissfully joyful these days, but I'm gonna enjoy it while it lasts. As Jason Robert Brown said, "Son of a bitch, I guess I'm doing something right!" I'm just a fountain of joy and pep. It's scary. I'm in such a good mood, in fact, that I made a playlist of the happies songs on my iPod and am now sampling it. It consisted of:

One of the Boys - 9 to 5
I Got Life - Hair
Morning Person - Shrek
White Boys - Hair
Perfectly Marvelous - Cabaret
It's Gonna be Good - Next to Normal
Schadenfreude - Avenue Q
Sit Down You're Rockin' the Boat - Guys and Dolls
This is Not Over Yet - Parade
A Little Priest - Sweeney Todd
The Five-Fifteen - Grey Gardens

"I'm wallowing in it. I love every minute. So up I may never come down." I guess I'm just attempting to spread the happiness around a bit. It's not working, is it? So last night I found out that absolutely nobody else in my family likes any of the names I have picked out for any children I might have. Really, people, they're my kids. My family does not get to name them. I feel another list coming on.


Gabriel. I am not budging here. My son is going to be named Gabriel.

Look, folks. It's not like I want to name my kids Cordelia and Aloysius. Are ALL the names I picked out truly THAT unbearable? Oh, well. We'll worry about that in ten years or so.

This, ladies and gents, is Allison Guinn. Kinda looks like Natalie Wood, don'tcha think? She's a tribe member in Hair, and I honestly think she may be the most talented person in the company. Her Crazy Horse voice scarred me for life. It was the second-scariest thing I have ever seen onstage. The first was Temper, Temper from Mary Poppins. I heard they might be cutting it, and I pray to God that's not true. It was awe-inspiringly frightening, and it was also the one time in my life that I have seen a theatre full of children be completely still and silent. That's the way. Let them sit there and fidget and whine through half the first act and then BAM! Now that the little darlings have seen what Mary can do, there'll be guaranteed silence for the remainder of the show. Back to Miss Guinn. She's awesome. And awesomely underrated. During Three-Five-Zero-Zero (which is, as I have just realized, a much better song than most people give it credit for being), I was mesmerized by her. She twisted her face into an awful grimace and was repeatedly slamming herself in the collarbone, while screeching out the lyrics. It was at once the ugliest and most beautiful thing I've seen in a while. I remember leaning over to Berri and whispering, "Holy crap, what is she doing?" Berri didn't see her. It was really sad.

Thought I'd share my favorite shot from today's selection of Awkward Family Photos. This one's a real diamond in the rough, like Jed Clampett striking oil. I think we all know who my favorite person in this picture is. Nothing like a fat white guy in a Speedo. I like to imagine that this is what happened to the Hair tribe as time went on. Wonderful, isn't it. Now, since there's a lot of space here that will look awkward if I leave it, maybe I'll just make a passing mention that if one just happened to type "lot's wife" into Youtube, one just might come upon a video that's epic in every sense of the word. But, hey, this might not happen at all. I'm just guessing here. If it were to happen, though, know that I think the woman in the hypothetical video had her hypothetical Tony award stolen by a certain shrieky green girl. Hypothetically. Ever wish you could just kick back and bake brownies with Will Swenson? Yeah, me neither. But here you go, anyway. "Looove himmmmmm. Can't get enough of him."

And we'll finish off with a picture from Woodstock. As Baby Bop said to Barney and the aptly named BJ in the episoder where she was pretending to be a cowgirl, "I'm off to tumble me some tumbleweeds. See ya'll later."

Friday, August 14, 2009

Freedom and Happiness

This one's gonna get philosophical and sentimental, folks. If you don't like it, well, just leave. Get out and stay out. No, wait, come back! I didn't mean it! Stay with me! I need more readers! I can change, I promise. (Before I continue on, I have to tell you folks that I'm really scared I'm gonna regret it if I don't get myself to 9 to 5 before it breathes its last. I know it's not that good. But I don't want it to be another show I hate myself for missing. Although I'll admit, the only reason I want to see it is because I love One of the Boys so much.)
So here it is, friends. I'm tired. I'm aching. I'm overfed and disappointed. But I am happy. Today was a great day, and I did absolutely nothing that was special, unless you count going to Hoboken. And really, folks, is there anywhere more average on the planet Earth than Hoboken? Still, I am happier than I have been in a while. I'm not trying to rub it in, I promise. And I'm not gonna pretend that I've had a hardscrabble, terrible life. Because I haven't. Far from it. But there have been rough patches. We're talking "lie down on a bed of nails rough." Trust me, folks, that's pretty damn rough. I'm not here for a pity party, and I'm not looking for anybody's sympathy. I'm only here to tell you what I know. There's joy and there's sorrow, and neither can exist without the other. Supressing sorrow does not make it go away, and embracing joy does not make it stay forever. (I'm almost done, I promise.) Bottom line: As Kitt and Yorkey say, "Some hurts never heal." Okay, that's true. No matter how hard we try, there are some things we'll never get over, and I think that's a good thing. There's no triumph without the fight. And all I really wanted to say today is that I'm here, I'm alive, and I'm happy, and, son of a bitch, I am damn proud of that. Remember, folks, Kitt and Yorkey also say that the darkest skies will someday see the sun. Okay, folks. The elitist bitch is stepping off her soapbox now.

And now on to my trip to Hoboken. Do any of you watch Cake Boss on TLC? If you don't, it's a show about a family that owns a bakery in Hoboken, and the cakes are freaking amazing. Seriously, folks. Look them up. They're works of art. Anyway, my mom and my sister have gotten addicted to this show, so tonight we all trekked out to Hoboken to sample the desserts. In order to get there, we had to drive through Jersey City, which had everyone in the car gaping in awe. Oh, Jersey City! Horror of horrors! When my brother had the absolute unmitigated gall to roll down his window, Mummy blew a gasket. My poor mother. She brings her own sheets to hotels. I'm not allowed to go any further west than the Hirschfeld, at least not when she's around. Clearly, friends, going anywhere near the West Side Highway will cause a hideous sea creature to rise up out of the river and swallow me whole. But anyway. We went to the bakery, and it was not so perfectly marvelous. I got a few cream puffs and an eclair. They were overrated. I'm gonna turn my back on my heritage for a second here. I'm Italian, friends. Love me some pasta and ricotta and basil and meat balls the size of soft balls. But when it comes to desserts, I'm all about the French. Sorry, folks. They just do it better. I'm not French at all. But I am French Canadian. And that totally counts.

Driving home in the dark offered a stunning view of lower Manhattan, all lit up across the river. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life. The countryside holds absolutely no charm for me. The city, however, suits me just fine. I love the intense vitality of it, and the spectrum of people. Take, for example, the subway. Now, someone who shall remain nameless absolutely loathes the subway. "It smells like piss and there are rats and homeless people." Wow. Just wow. With the risk of sounding like Edie Beale, I am gonna tell you all that the subway is possibly the most human place on the planet. Seriously. I love to just observe all the people that come and go, doing their people-ish things. It's fascinating. And there is nowhere else in the world where doing that wouldn't be considered weird. I love New York, and, like Joanne from Company, I have no intention of ever leaving it. Now that I've lived here for so long, and know what it's like, anywhere else would pale in comparison. So lots of love to this beautiful city.

Before I finish up, I'd like to point out that this week's batch of Broadway secrets were the best we've had in a while, aside from one tiny fact: Most of this week's secrets were submitted by either Kacie Sheik or someone who loves her very much. See?

And there's plenty more insanity where that came from. Find it here, along with a bunch of secrets that question Alice Ripley's sanity, and one in which someone finally has the guts to say that Allison Case acts like a child.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Overhaul/Stewie Comes Out

I thought we needed some new material around here. So, instead of talking about stuff people actually care about, I simply decided to change my template. Like?

So are you folks ready for the earth-shattering news of the day? Seth MacFarlane announced today that Stewie Griffin is, indeed of the homosexual persuasion. Hear that, folks? Stewie's gay! Did anyone not see this coming? Really, is there some poor bewildered soul who turned a blind eye to the signs? More importantly, does anyone actually care? So he's gay. So what? So are most Republicans. (Wow. What a pathetic attempt at being clever. Still, as Mr. Griffin himself once said, "Ooh! BUH-ZING!") Still, the facts remain: I love this freaking sadistic baby. It doesn't matter if he's gay, because he's still way cooler than this guy. This here gem comes to us courtesy of J'adore that website. Ever wonder where bad pictures go to die? Yeah, well, here it is. It's all there - 80's prom pictures, painfully staged JC Penney's portraits, those adorable wedding pictures that your unfortunate-looking cousin and her overweight hubby sent you. I am not above admitting that most pictures that feature yours truly are worthy of being submitted to this site. As a matter of fact, there are a lot of things that I'm not above doing, but we don't need to discuss my moral corruption right now.

This one is my very favorite Awkward Family Photo. There are just so many bizarre elements to caption. The first and most obvious is the fact that the guy in the front row is getting choked to death. Maybe the chokee convinced the choker to go on the ride, and is now paying for the evil he has wrought. Maisie put me in a similar situation when we were in Disney. During the forty minutes we stood on line for Rockin' Roller Coaster, I must have asked her about twenty times if it went upside down. (I'm a pretty big coaster fan, but I'm a firm believer that if God wanted human beings to go upside down he would have given us flat heads.) She reassured me that it did not. Guess what. It did. Twice. Maisie claims to have heard nothing during the entire ride than, "...HATE...LIED TO ME...KILL YOU!!!" Anyway, my second-favorite part of this picture is the guy sitting next to the chokee. Clearly, the poor man is about to throw up into his hand. And it's freaking hilarious. But my favorite, my very very favorite part of this picture, is the two kids in the back row. The kid in the yellow, the one that looks like Haley Joel Osment, looks like he was snapped in that awkward, nauseating moment before you hurl your guts up. The skinny kid next to him...well, I'm not exactly sure I can tell you guys what's happening to him. But it looks painful.

I'm also pretty damn fond of this one. It's just so wonderfully creepy. When I was little I used to be afraid of Santa. Thanks for setting me back about fifteen years, folks. I don't know about you guys, but this picture really speaks to me. It says, "He sees you when you're sleeping."

Monday, August 10, 2009


Perfectly marvelous news today. Guess what's been slapped with a big fat FAIL. Spiderman: THE MUSICAL. Rumor has it that the producers are throwing in the towel early on this 35 million dollar monstrosity. Cutting their losses. Jumping ship. Making a damn smart move. Whose brilliant idea was it to run the budget up this high? Did anyone involved actually expect to live to see the day this one recouped? Would ANY of us have actually lived that long? I think not, folks, and that's why it's better not to light the match on this powder keg. We're going on rumors here, but this is the happiest news I've heard in a while. Of course, it means that Alan Cumming will not be walking the boards again soon, and I'm none too thrilled about that. But still. Never will I have to cringe at the sight of a big obnoxious Spiderman marquee glowing and sparking at the Hilton. I think pulling the plug here would preserve some of the last shreds of dignity Broadway has left. Julie Taymor, didn't your mother teach you not to kick people when they're down? Well, my mother didn't teach me that either, which means I am going to be very mean and point and laugh while this show spirals downward into a fiery inferno. I'm sorry, darling, but attempt to do a show about a superhero and you bring it on yourself.

And now for some more good news: Brian d'Arcy James has been cast in a new play and will therefore soon be free of Shrek. For those of you not familiar with this technique, it's known as "getting the hell out while you still can." Now, please, will some kind soul please cast company members Foster, Sieber, Tartaglia, and Burton in something that is new and exciting and doesn't suck?

Well, that's just jim dandy, I suppose. On to my new obsession: yoga. Courtesy of my sister's new Wii Fit, I am a newly inducted yoga enthusiast. It's so relaxing and earthy. I am neither relaxed nor earthy, but I dream of the day when I am. I guess Wii Fit as a whole is pretty damn fun, but I love yoga the best. I love Half Moons and Trees and Palm Trees and all those other poses that have nature-related names. But my favorite, my very favorite, is the Sun Salutation. It reminds me of Hair, because really, what else would you have me think about when I've just come home from seeing the show and I'm bending over backwards in a cotton print dress and peace sign earrings and the infuriatingly calm virtual trainer girl is reminding me to keep breathing? It may seem a little stupid that I have to be reminded to breathe, but trust me - snapping your spine in half and attempting to visualize the recommended oceans and lakes has a way of making you forget.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

And We're Having a Marvelous Time

Hello, darlings! I love you. Yes, I do. I love everyone right now. Seeing Hair again filled me up with love, and I have decided that from here on out I will try not to be such a terrible person. Case in point: I saw a fat guy fall today, and I did not even want to laugh. I think that speaks volumes about how far I've come.

I was up at five in the morning today, and I had a hard time convincing myself to go back to sleep. I remember thinking, "What do I care? I'll sleep when I'm dead." Alas, I was able to doze off again, and woke up at precisely 10:04 a.m. I took a shower with my sister's peach body wash, and put on my cotton print dress that I showed you all, purple flower pendant, and purple peace sign earrings. I topped it all off my spritzing myself with my $75 dollar perfume. Hypocrite. By the time Berri arrived and found me screaming after poking myself in the eye with a mascara wand, I smelled like a peach. An expensive French peach.

So when we got to the theatuh, it turned out we had understudies for Claude, Berger, Crissy, and Hud. Berri was shattered. I thought she was going to cry. I stemmed her tears with my words of wisdom: "Son of a bitch, you get what you get." So we picked up our tickets and twirled on over to a new restaurant called Sweet Caroline's. It was not so very nice. They have yet to get their liquor licence, and my chicken fingers were so greasy that I couldn't stand holding them. There were two guys having lunch at a table near ours, and one of them looked vaguely familiar. So whatever. Let me sip my Coke and munch my greased up fries in peace. All through lunch I giggled like a drugged idiot and gushed about how excited I was to see Hair. When the familiar looking guy got up he said to his companion, "See you when I'm a hippie." Son of a bitch. I felt supremely stalkerish, and vowed not to talk quite so loud again.

Our seats were great, and as soon as I plunked down next to Berri I noticed that a man in the first row of the mezzanine had his nine-year-old daughter with him. I could tell right away that it was gonna be great fun, like the kind of fun I used to have watching old people walk out of Spring Awakening. The young girl was also sitting on the aisle. She was screwed from the beginning. So the lights go down, the show starts, and I take a deep breath and let it be. That's the most wonderful way to do it. You let go, let the show take you where it may, and clear you mind of absolutely everything else. It takes practice, but eventually you get it. Raise your hand if you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about.

During the show, all I did was smile, laugh, and cry a bit. I think my favorite part was the protest during Ain't Got No Grass. That was the only one where I allowed myself to sing along. I don't think anybody cared so terribly much. Besides. I wasn't the only loony up in the mezzanine stomping and screaming, "PEACE NOW FREEDOM NOW!" The burning of the draft cards incited a panic attack, and I loved every minute of it. It's so deliciously intense. "BURN IT BURN IT BURN IT!" Love it. The nude scene that closes the act was a bit more...graphic than I remembered. The first time I saw the show, I remember thinking, "Holy crap, what do I do? They're disrobing right before my very eyes! Oh, the humanity!" This time, I just sat there and wondered if the baby bump Kacie Sheik has to wear is so terribly heavy. Oh, God. Oh, crap, folks. What does it say about me that I no longer consider public nudity to be an issue? Well, after the lights went up for intermission, it was a thrill like no other to see the faces of the little girl and her father. Okay, people. The father was basically an asshole. The poor kid had a look of inexpressible horror on her face, and she was crying. The father was laughing and attempting to talk his way out of the hole he had dug himself into. Listen, pal. Far be it from me to judge someone else's parenting skills, but anybody who cared about the mental and sexual development of their child would have carted the kid out of there way before intermission. I mean, those are some pretty scarring things to be showing to a child. And they came back for the second act. Not judging here, people. We're moving on.

I love the second act, even the notoriously dragging trip. During Electric Blues, one of the hippies charged up into the mezzanine and pulled a little girl out of her seat. They began to dance together. Awkwardly. So we continue on to White Boys and Black Boys, and I was having the time of my life. We entered into the slow, lagging world of the trip sequence. Although I will say, Allison Guinn's "I'm an Indian and I'll rip your guts out" voice was utterly terrifying. Seriously. She sounded positively possessed. It was something like I imagine this little fella would sound. Will you people think less of me if I admit that I used to think this frightening, hideous things was coming for me in my sleep? Yeah, well, it's true. I slept with my legs and hands tucked under me for months.

When the show ended, I couldn't walk. I'm not making that up. I couldn't walk. My legs felt like jelly. Berri and I jetted down to the stage to dance. I almost fell out of the mezzanine, and Berri fell down the stairs. But we made it. Paris Remillard patted my back as I went up the stairs. (Jesus, why did I feel the need to share that? And worse, why do I remember such creepy-ass details?) Dancing on the stage was joyful, tearful, and hot. Very hot. Baking under the lights and being crushed by a throng of people sort of detracted from the experience. But I just raised my arms and lifted my face to the ceiling and enjoyed the warmth of the lights and the crash of the band behind me. I was happy. I once read that happiness is a state of mind, not a gift to be treasured. I'm gonna go out on a limb and disagree. I believe that happiness is a blessing, and not everyone gets to experience it in their lifetime. And I think that makes it more precious, and makes us appreciate it more.

But no more philosophizing. I have people to talk about and embarrassing stories to tell. I fell on the way out to the stage door. My shoe came off. I half-crumpled to the ground. People laughed at me. I said son of a bitch. But I lived. The stage door was a bland, nervous blur. I do remember some things, like the jokes Andrew Kober and Lauren Elder told. Lauren's went like this: "Why did the monkey fall out of the tree? It was dead." Andrew's was: "Why did the boy fall of his bicycle? Someone threw a refrigerator at him." *crickets* I don't get it. Oh, and I think our encounter with Kacie Sheik went something like this:

Me: "Thanks."
Berri: "I love your hat."
Kacie: "Mmm-hmm."

I don't get it.

Okay, and here's the kicker. Not really, but I like referring to things as "the kicker." Out of my pathological guilt, I promised Lenora I would let her talk to Allison Case today. Yeah, so that wasn't gonna happen. Her second choice was Will Swenson. That one wasn't gonna happen either. So Caissie Levy was her third choice, and I pray to God she didn't tell her that. I don't think I've ever been quite so embarrassed in my life. It went something like this:

Berri: "Hey, um, would you mind talking to my friend? She's a big fan."
Me: "Jesus."
Caissie: "Is she on the phone now?"
Berri: "Yeah."
Caissie: "Yeah, sure. Hi, friend. This is Caissie Levy, who's this? Aww, you're so sweet..."
Me, in my head: "Please, God, don't let her say something creepy."
Caissie: "Oh, well I'm sorry you're not here. Hope you can come see the show soon. Bye."

It was torturously awkward, for me at least. The whole time I stood there trying my very hardest not to think about the stupid porkchop video, because I knew I would laugh in her face if I did. Thankfully, I was able to contain myself and walk away from the theatre with the last remaining shreds of my dignity. It was, however, very mean of me to worry that Lenora would say something creepy. She usually plays it close to the chest. Berri, however, does not hesitate to chase someone down the block. We're working on it, and I'll break her of it eventually.
I topped off the day with strawberry shortcake cheesecake and a stroll through Times Square. A bunch of activists were handing out Obama condoms. I was very tempted to take one, but I figured it would just about break my poor mother's heart, in more ways than one. I've suspected for a while that she's a Republican, but I don't think she'll ever admit it. She watches Fox News and reads the Post and the Daily News. All the signs are there. Oh, well. Perhaps we may never know the truth.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Son of a Bitch

Son of a bitch, folks. Seriously. Son of a bitch. I don't know why, but this lovely phrase is my main curse lately. Maybe it's because of that Family Guy epsiode. You know: "Eighteen year old Lois. Son of a bitch." This one just rolls off the tongue, really. Lately I've been employing it to express my frustration in every possible situation. I used it when I saw what I had missed by not staying at the Boardwalk. I shrieked it this afternoon when my cousin's Dora the Explorer ball went careening down the beach. A chase ensued, and when I returned I was greeted by a smiling two year old who gleefully informed me that she "didn't like Dora anymore."

But screw all that. I said it then and I am saying it now, because things are simply not going my way. I feel like a bride on the night before her wedding. Everything's supposed to go absolutely out of control, right? Please say yes. It would make me feel so much better. So my dress makes me look like a pirate. All of my makeup has mysteriously disappeared. The perfume I was planning on wearing fell from the table and smashed. My throat and ears hurt. And apparently, the understudies are running rampant at Hair. I already knew Allison Case had something wrong with her hip and wasn't gonna be there, but now apparently Gavin Creel is sick, and Will Swenson's skipping the show tonight. Son of a bitch. Pray for me, friends. If not, oh well. You get what you get.

That Was Fast

Hair recouped its entire investment. From here on out, it's gonna be considered a critical as well as a financial success. Lots of love and celebration, and I couldn't be happier to be seeing the show tomorrow.

Now, if we could just get Next to Normal to recoup before the end of the summer...

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Fallen Heroes

Just got back from getting my hair highlighted, and, if I may say so myself, it looks rather good. But that's enough about my hair, no matter how sparkling and lovely it may be. No, folks, the reason I am here is simply because I have no idea where else to go. Just watch one video, and you'll see why I'm so semi-distraught this evening. What the hell? Was she kidding? Is she just loony? Were the cocaine rumors true? Why is it that I care? Now, normally I'm of the type that leaves well enough alone and keeps the hell out of other people's personal lives. (Or at least I like to think I'm of that type.) So if Audra McDonald is dating Will Swenson or Liza is a drunk, I shrug and I say, "So what?" But for some reason, I'm inclined to care whether or not Alice Ripley is as bonkers as everyone seems to think she is. I never really thought she was. I used to think she was just hilarious and unique. These videos, however, scared me just a tad. But I am not judging her, and this is the last you will ever hear of it. It still stands that her performance in Next to Normal was the best I've ever seen, and, after all, ain't nothin' mah business but what happens on the stage.

Apparently, Brynn O'Malley's playing the Baker's Wife this summer. She recently said she's been "date-raped" by Into the Woods. Judging by these pictures, she wasn't the only thing that got raped.

Holy crap. What the hell did you people do to Milky White? Why is he so freaking HUGE? Did you jump Dainty June and steal the cow while she was down? I'm not the biggest fan of Into the Woods as a whole, but this doesn't exactly look like a gem of a production. I love that Hunter Foster is The Baker. Classic theatrical move: When you can't afford the Broadway starlet, go for her less popular, less talented brother. The poor rubes in the audience'll never catch wise.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Gimme a Dress for Hair

It's late, it's hot, I'm adjusting to my new glasses, and, judging by the screaming, somebody within a five-block radius is having his intestines fed to him. But I figure this is as good a time as any for a spot of blogging. (Okay, so it's really not THAT hot. I just enjoy spewing Sondheim lyrics. "How still it is. How odd it is. And, God, it is so hot." Ten imaginary dollars if you can name the song and the show.)

So, friends, I am once again perfectly contented. Lenora, that bottomless pit of understanding and acceptance, does not hate me for going to see Hair without her. She has but one request - she would like to talk to Allison Case on my phone. Normally I don't go for stuff like that, but I did practically rip Lenora's theatrical guts out. It's the least I can do. Still though, I know I'm gonna clam up and/or be so wound up I forget to ask, so I think that honor will fall to Berri. Because I just don't do very well at stage doors.

I'm currently in makeover mode. Today I got new glasses, tomorrow I am getting my hair dyed blonde. It's part of this whole "I'm reinventing myself thing." Hey, don't forget. Some tourist from Indiana thinks I'm a wild one. I have a reputation to protect. So tomorrow after my hair appointment I'm off to the mall to pick up the dress I picked out for Saturday's venture to the mezzanine of the Hirschfeld Theatre.

I'd ask if you like it, but I'm gonna get it and wear it regardless, so there is really no point. No offense. I hated this dress when I first saw it. But it is an acquired taste, much like escargot and Sunday in the Park With George. Nevertheless, purchase it I will and wear it I will. And that's all I have to say about that.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Ode to a Cream Puff

Welcome back, suckers. It's Saturday night. I'm sitting here, on my kitchen counter. Alone. Sitting on the counters is not something I would generally do, kinda like sliding down the banister or swinging from the chandelier. But I'm here all by myself, so I figured now's as good a time as any. It's nice and roomy up here. Can't believe I never thought to do this before. So guess what, folks. I'm not going out tonight. At all. My entire family is gone for the rest of the night, and I am taking the opportunity to have the entire blessed house to myself. I was supposed to go to a block party. I don't like block parties very much. Two hours ago I plucked up the nerve to beg pardon from the party.

Me: "I hate these stupid block parties. I don't know anybody."
Mom: "Stop. You know everyone."
Me: "Yeah, but I don't like any of them."

So it was a bit harsh. But not entirely untrue, and it worked. Now, friends, I have the luxury of six blessed hours with the house all to myself. What to do, what to do. Cream puffs. I want cream puffs. And cheesecake. As boring as that sounds, I want to sit on my living room floor and do nothing all night but eat cream puffs and cheesecake. And the cheesecake better be from the French Boulangerie in Epcot. 'Cause that was the best freaking cheesecake I ever ate in my life. Oddly enough, my favorite cream puffs are the cheap little frozen ones in the tub from Costco. Every Christmas of my life has been punctuated by my sitting down and eating frozen cream puff after frozen freaking cream puff. It's delightful.

Holy crap, look at that. Just look at that. This picture is the most beautiful thing I've seen all day. I wonder what they would think of me if I just went to Shoprite right now and walked out with five boxes of cream puffs. No, that wouldn't do. I'd probably have to go to some place where they don't know me. It would probably be like Maisie said, as we waited in line at our hotel gift shop, her holding Cool Ranch Doritos and cheese puffs, and me with a box of cheesecake and chocolate doughnuts to stock the room with: "I feel like a fatso." God, I miss Disney. The hotel. The late nights. The rides. The anonymity. Come on. Where else on the planet would I be able to walk around in a Marge Simpson wig? Did you actually think I'm that cracked? Of course not. The only reason I did it was I knew I would never see any of those people again. The marvelous anonymity Disney offered also prompted me to do a few other things I'm not exactly proud of, such as wearing no makeup, wearing an obnoxious giant tourist hat, going to see Finding Nemo: The Musical, and allowing a bunch of Brazilian kids to sing me Happy Birthday. In Spanish. Twice.