Saturday, July 31, 2010


Look at pretty Madame Plath. She was hot. I just finished my beloved Bell Jar for the third time, and every time I've read it I've found something new. It feels like Sylvia is speaking from the grave, which I know she is not. If there is any justice in the world that lovely lady is resting in unadulterated peace and calm. Modern research suggests she was bipolar, like Vivien Leigh. Poor, tortured, wonderful women.

Friday, July 30, 2010


I lost the spot again, Mama. This means I get to play this game all the way into October. I think I'll have shot myself before then.

Monday, July 26, 2010


I am tired of inkpop and incredibly bored with it. It's not fun anymore and I want to stop. It doesn't make a difference to me anymore, really. There is nothing good on that website. All I've ever gotten were comments full of people falling all over themselves to generically compliment me, and that doesn't do anybody any good. In fact, it's deeply insulting. I would much rather get a well-written scathing review than a laudatory one written by someone who didn't read past the prologue. I know why my story is struggling. It's because I tell people the truth and don't kiss anybody's mediocre ass, so they don't feel obligated to help me out. That rancid little community is built on lies, flattery, and predictable romance. To be perfectly honest, I don't want to be associated with an organization like that. Maybe my high horse and I will just ride over to a place where honesty is appreciated.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Working Girl

Had a very enjoyable day at the office. Olga from Belarus, Mr. Upper East Side and I sat around sucking Snapple and trying out our nifty new headsets. Makes me feel like I'm in 9 to 5. I had a few interesting calls. One woman said, "WELL, TELL THE CONGRESSMAN HE CAN FUCKING DROP DEAD!" She followed it up with "AND YOU CAN GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU DIRTY LIBERAL WHORE!" (When I told the story to my mother I left that part out.) Fun fun fun. My favorite part is calling married men. Usually the fat sour cat of a wife answers and demands to know why a young girl is calling her husband. Olga from Belarus told one lady she was calling to tell the husband she couldn't meet him at the motel. Christ Jesus. She's gonna get the both of us fired.

Still, Olga from Belarus is marvelous. I came into work today excited to debut my new haircut. The bitch upstaged me. She cut and dyed her hair into what she calls a Rihanna wedge. There was some other story there, but when she talks as fast as she was talking her accent comes back and you can't understand a word she's saying. The other day I told her I liked her purple nail polish, and she started telling me about OPI and shrekollections (?) and donkeys. Oddly enough, a few days later I was checking the Twitter of American Idiot's Aspen Vincent, who apparently paints her nails purple too. It was then that I realized that she had been trying to tell me the color was from the Shrek Collection and was called Funkey Dunkey. Oh. Well in that case, never mind. Can I just digress a second on the subject of Aspen Vincent? She's married to Tony Vincent who plays St. Jimmy, who scares the crap out of me. But her Twitter is basically a pastiche of random anecdotes, pictures of her hairless cat, and TMI updates about cramps and PMS. I appreciate your openness, Mrs. Vincent, but I don't need to know all that. Jesus Christ, I'm an ass-aching Puritan, aren't I? It's a filthy, foul group of people that works on Broadway. Said the dirty liberal whore.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

The End

Taken me a few days to gather my thoughts, but I'll start with what Lenora will expect me to. So Alice skipped us at the stagedoor. There's only one explanation: Alice Ripley HATES us. Waah waah. Sorry, Lenny. It's not like she came out and kicked us in the face. There are worse things than that. Someone behind me at the stagedoor said, "She wouldn't skip all of us. Not our Alice." Ok. Wait, what? You have an Alice? I don't have an Alice. I don't want an Alice. Creepy.

Anyway. Why did I forget how good Brian D'Arcy James was? Idjit me. He's great, but, God help me, all I could see was Shrek. Sorry, man. And Alice. Oh, lovely Alice. She was as wonderful as ever. Here's the thing - Next to Normal doesn't get to me anymore. I have no heart, remember? Wrong. Apparently I do, because So Anyway sawed it open. I mean, really. "So anyway, I'm leaving..." Lenora sat next to me sobbing, but I didn't cry. I just clawed all the skin off my chest. Still have red marks. Alice very nearly cracked on the last lines because she was crying so hard. "I loved you once and though, I love you still I know, it's time for me to go. And so..." BIG PAUSE "goodbye." At that moment I felt my heart crack open and spill its contents. It was one of my favorite theatrical moments, right up there with seeing Angela Lansbury's first entrace in Night Music and dancing onstage at Hair.

I may be the one person who laughs at the end of Next to Normal, but I was so overwhelmed that I was just giggling hysterically. When Kitt and Yorkey made their speeches at the end, Lenora scared the crap out of me. She just grabbed my arm and screamed out, "OH MY GOD, IT'S TOM KITT!!" Good Lord. I never knew she felt that way.

So I met Jessica Phillips and I did not throw my Playbill in her face. I've decided I don't hate her anymore. She went on for Ripley twice, and I was not happy to see her either time. I had to project my rage onto somebody. Sorry, lady. I will concede that your I Miss the Mountains was beautifully sung.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

The Queen Honeybee

Sorry. Reading The Color Purple. Yes, Alice is leaving tonight. It's gonna be a sad day, but I'm all powdered, crimped, cut, lipsticked, heeled, and ready to go. I've learned a lot just by watching her. I don't know when I'll ever use any of it, but I learned it. I love her, but not in a scary way. I'll miss her, but not in a scary way. My cat actually let me pet him today. I think he senses that I'm feeling a little down.

Journey on, lovely lady. I salute you. God be with you. I will miss you.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Phone Bank Fun

Work just keeps gettin' better. I love working the phones. Mr. Upper East Side and I have a running contest to see who can make the most calls. I'm winning, but only because he spends so much time talking to me, rearranging furniture, and hiding Olga from Belarus's cigarettes. Olga from Belarus paints her nails purple. She's awesome.

You know what else is awesome? The names I come across in my phone bank. So far I've had:

Jon Lennon
Lance Armstrong
Bettie White
my neighbor
Gay Moon
Andrew Dacunto
Mildred Yafuck
Will Ferril
Michael Jackson
Lois Griffen
Mary Gently (she told me to go to hell)
Karen Olivo (I almost died. It wasn't that Karen Olivo.)

Saturday, July 10, 2010


Someone called my book art today. My book is not art. I am not an artist. Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou are artists. Sylvia Plath was an artist. Sondheim's lyrics, Ripley's performances - art. Underwater from Caroline, or Change. That is art. My stupid little book is not. Is it good? Maybe. Hopefully. But art it's not.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Freedom Experts

You know what I love? My job. I sit behind a desk and chat with people and wait for the phone to ring. It's great fun. There's Mr. Upper East Side and The Boss Aged 19 and Olga from Belarus and they are a fun buncha folks. Mr. Upper East Side is exactly my age and talks to me about the city. Today we had an argument about the merits of Bryant Park. (It does SO have a lawn, god damn it.) He is very rich and gets driven around the city in a town car. He offered me a ride home today. Don't mind if I do. Olga from Belarus is marvelous. She can't work the phones because of her accent and she speaks English faster than anyone I've ever met, so she tells me stories about Europe - England, Paris, Czech Republic (she loves Prague) and Amsterdam. I asked her what Amsterdam was like and she gave me a no-holds-barred description. I love Europeans. So here's the PG version:

-lots of pot
-prostitutes in windows
-sex shops

Yum. I felt like I was in Passing Strange. So yeah. That's what I do all day. What's your job? Mine's better.

Monday, July 5, 2010

A Weekend in the Country

Spent a few days at Maisie's country house. There is a reason nobody lives up there. But I got some very bad news about my book. I was furious. I wanted to quit. The line from American Idiot kept pulsing through my head. "Farewell, I'll see you in hell. I hope you rest in pieces - FUCK YOU!" I went to bed fully ready to end this madness in the morning - literary suicide. Something weird happened. I woke up in the middle of the night and my iPod, which I had turned off before I went to bed, was on. I reached for it and listened. Everything's Coming Up Roses was playing. My grandmother was a big Gypsy fan. Before she died I sat and watched the movie with her, and when the song came on she reached for my hand and murmured, "I love this song." She loved the song and she loved me. And I will keep going because she believed I could.

It's not over till you're underground. Nanny is, but guess what. I'm not and neither is this book. I will not move from where I'm standing and this is not over yet.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Little Ears

So. American Idiot. Bright lights, big city. Yes, I did write on the walls. I took out my silver sharpie and wrote STOP TAKING PICTURES. By golly, that's just what I done. But we'll get to that.

First things first. Lenora knows the story. I'm not going into it, but here's the bare bones - Dear guy in the Lincoln Center library - GO TO HELL. I'm not trying to burn the place down. I just want to watch Caroline, or Change. So sue me already, Mr. Crabby Appleton. The guy infront of me got bitched out cause he wanted to watch August: Osage County. Thank God that wasn't me. Deny me my Westons. I dare you.

So on my way to the theatre, I mozied on through Times Square in the crushes of people and distinctly heard some lady behind me say, "I hate when people cross against the light and I hate Times Square. It never woulda happened with Giuliani." Sigh. I was immediately reminded of one of Stewie's best lines - "Is she retarded?" God. I can hear you, folks. And I am making fun of you.

The show. Put it this way - Norma Desmond would have loved it because NOBODY EVER TALKED. Seriously. There were like ten spoken lines. But I did enjoy it when it wasn't trying so hard to be something it wasn't. I mean - when Favorite Son puts on the army garb? Try a little bit harder to be Hair. I dare you. So let's see what we've got. I'll make a checklist.

sex - check
drugs - check
unwanted pregnancy -check
nudity - pretty close. Whatsername I'm looking at you.
bizarre choreography - SON OF A BITCHING CHECK, especially for the girls.

Most of the show consists of them screaming at you while flashing strobes in your face. Fun fun fun and seizure seizure seizure. It just gets tired. Towards the end, when they sing 'somebody get me out of here' I couldn't help thinking, "Take me with you." Also, I'm scared of St. Jimmy.

So. Show ends. Since it was Mummy and me we got to stay as long as we wanted. I love her. There are times when she just astounds me, but not always in a good way. For instance. Rebecca Naomi Jones comes to us.

Me, in some lightning strike moment of non-shyness: I love your hair.
Her: Oh, thanks. There's a lot of it.
Mom: Like Kacie Sheik.

Silence. WHAT?! I hope to God that both of them knew who my mom was talking about. Still, I have no idea how she could have possibly remembered that. Careful the things you say. Mothers will listen.

She was followed by Gerard Canonico, a Spring Awakening alum. Apparently he knew the people next to me, so he stayed and chatted with them for a while. Now, I don't know him. I don't know them. Bet your ass I was listening to every single word they were saying. And let me tell you he was saying some pretty not-nice things about the Spring Awakening replacements.

Unprofessional? Yes.
Immature? Yes.
True? Yes.

On the way back I asked Mom the question I ask after every show - Was it good or did it suck? She loved it, actually. Shocking. I said it was okay, but all Whatsername did was scream. Mom got very quiet. I turned around, and of course Rebecca Naomi Jones was there, about five paces behind me, glaring at me with afro atremble. I fail.