It's Gonna Be Good

Hi there. So tomorrow's the flea market, and due to the 100% chance of rain that's been predicted for tomorrow, it's been moved to the Roseland Ballroom on 52nd Street. Well, that'll be...crowded. But all the current Broadway greats plus Bernadette Peters under one roof? Epic. Now, as I sit here and drown my sorrows in sweet and sour chicken, and wondering how anyone could possibly find Emilie Autumn entertaining, I'm starting to formulate a plan. I'm feeling some Next to Normal for tomorrow evening, possibly. I think we all know by now that I'm a self, conniving, calculating, horrible person. Maybe this horrible little girl will be able to get herself to the Booth. But we'll cross the bridge when I distract the guy who's guarding it.

Now... on to Emilie Autumn. Most of you probably haven't heard of her. Neither had I, until about an hour ago. She's a singer, but she looks and acts like someone who just strolled out of a mental institution and onto the stage. (There will be no Alice Ripley jokes here, thanks.) Seriously. Look up some Youtube videos of one of her concerts. She's a loon, and she seems to be relying on some kind of bizarre "Victorian asylum for wayward girls" concept. Oh, I get it. You're edgy. You think by glorifying mental illness you can show the general population just how anti-establishment you really are. She also claims to have once been subjected to a mental hospital herself. Somehow I doubt that's true, but what a darling little addition to the facade. Anyway, let's just let sleeping loonies lie, okay?

Okay. Good. Since the flea market has been moved to an indoor location, I'm predicting some type of madhouse, brimming with vicious fangirls and gay men who will simply NOT let you get to that Hello, Dolly RP first! I thinkin' I'm gonna have to strap on my crazy boots for this one, and wear shoulder pads. 'Cause ain't nobody else getting my Sunday in the Park Playbill, and don't care how many bitches I have to cut to get it. Okay, that was a little much. In the event of a death match, I think I'll pack up my apples and go back to the garden. Still, last year I arrived home with my arms laden with trinkets and useless stuff that meant the world to me. I hope this year isn't any different.

So step off, folks. Nobody messes with a short brunette who's armed with a BC/EFA tote bag and fierce determination.