Anger

One of my Facebook "friends" posted this on their wall: "Some people are meant to stay on their medication." She got 7 likes. Oh, okay. I guess some people are meant to get AIDS. Some people are meant to be terrorists. Some people are meant to be in the mob.


I'm over reacting a little. I know. But I also know from experience that it is just not okay to say shit like that, and I am massively offended. I am not perfect. I admit that in the past I've been a nasty. But still, Miss Facebook friend. You go to college. Leastest thing that they could teach you is not to talk on what you're wholly, completely, abysmally ignorant of. And I will fire back, thanks. I was not nasty. I was very civil. I borrowed from Night Music. "Not trying to nasty, and you're free to say whatever you want, but as someone affected by depression I'm not sure I appreciate that comment." I was told "with all due respect shut the hell up." Ok. I guess I'll just leave it at that. Sometimes I wish people would realize that Facebook is a public forum.

Wheel of Disappointment

Flea Market today. I saw/met:

Alice Ripley
Jerry Mitchell
Susan Blackwell
Jason Daniely
Marin Mazzie
Robin De Jesus
Mandy Gonzalez
Donna McKechnie
Orfeh
Elizabeth Stanley
Wilson Jermaine Heredia
Andrea McArdle
Julie White
whoever the new Diana understudy is
Levi Kreis (TONY THIEF!)

I'll have you know that Julie White likes my headband, and I did not choke or say something stupid when conversing with the talented Ms. Ripley. I just didn't say anything at all. Really. Mime status. But I got a very nice picture. Claude started licking the camera when I showed him. Creepy.

I also bid $125 on Daisy and Violet Siamese twin bears autographed by Ripley and Skinner, but I think I got outbid by someone named "Nora Z." Suck my dick, Mother Theresa. I also found out that Billie Joe Armstrong is gonna be playing St. Jimmy for a week. I SMELL SOME AMERICAN IDIOT DESPERATION!!!

Angels in America

So I just finished reading both Millenium Approaches and Perestroika. I haven't seen the play yet, but I watched the movie. And Mary Louise Parker as Harper Pitt was the best part. Meryl and Al can suck on that. I haven't seen the current productions yet, but I know where I'll be this Friday. Even if Zoe Kazan's eyes do scare me a bit.

Anyway. Brilliant, brilliant play that has affected me like no other. Let's be clear: I love the Westons more. Joe and Harper are not in it nearly enough. At times it can be pretentious. But it is woooonderfully powerful. The scene that opens the second act, with Prior lying on the floor and Louis screaming, "Oh God, I can't. I can't." Neither can I, apparently. I burst into tears.

I am gonna go see the play. Of course. Not gonna miss out on this one. Not gonna miss out on hearing my new favorite line in theatre history. "Suck my dick, Mother Theresa! This is life and death!" You can't really top that. Not even with "You don't wanna break shit with me, muthafucka!"

So if you got six hours to burn, go check out Angels in America. It's on Youtube.

Anecdote for the day: word on BWW is that Kacie Sheik is the Hair tour's Jeanie. Halle-sonofabitching-llujah. Look, folks! Incentive! Unfortunately, I'm in Paris the week they're at the Colonial up in Boston. Maybe I'll see if there's a stop in Philly. But they kept the best part of the production. Good call.

Flea Market tomorrow. My very favorite event of the year. Stand aside, my fellow Shubert-Alleyans. I've fifteen pounds heavier and I'm on the hunt for a Millenium Approaches Playbill.

Being Alive

Make me alive. Make me alive. Somebody love me too deep. Know me too well. Pull me up short and put me through hell. Make me aware of being alive.

And nobody does it better than Norm Lewis.

Counting the Minutes

Got the most astonishing inkpop message.

"ok I get that ur desprate but I DON'T CARE! be considerat and read my profiel!"

Somehow I'm the inconsiderate one. Oh, well. Welcome to the publishing industry, folks. Get yourself a hard hat and a therapist and you should be good to go. I swear to God once I get out of that stupid site and I am NEVER going back. Or maybe I will. I'll write the most predictable fantasy-infused romantic teen fodder I can think of and have it all over with within two months. Won't that be a kick in the ass.

Anyway, the poor dear who sent me the message must still be new enough to labor under the impression that people on that site care about each other. We don't. Nobody's going to take the time to read all your stupid swapping rules. They'll find somebody else to swap with and leave you in the dust. It's an utterly dehumanizing way of running things, but that's the only way to get it right on that stupid website. You have to climb that ladder to the roof, and if anyone comes near you you kick them in the face. How awful is that? Sweeney Todd designed the site, I swear. Machiavelli may have collaborated.


Oh. Look. A new message.

"Sorry, I don't swap but thank you for the kind offer."

Wow. Politeness and class. Revolutionary. I could learn a thing or two from this one. Hope springs eternal, but it's still the City of the Damned. Maybe I should just be a mime. Or maybe not. I'm terrified of those freaking things.

Dedication

Smashed briefly fell to fifth this afternoon. I did not take it very well. If you can picture Barbara Fordham going toe to toe with Nurse Ratched, that's probably as close as you'll get to it. But now I'm back and I am fighting like a bitch to stay. One of the Inkpop Idiots recently pointed out to me that my book has no dedication. I happen to think that dedications are pretentious, but then I started wondering what I would put if I had one. These are a few of my ideas. (And before I forget, let it be known that I am applying to Smith College strictly For the Hell of It. Sylvia Plath went there. Reason enough for me to at least try.) So here I go. Testing the waters.

To Mom, who helped me live it. To Lenora, who helped me not. To Nan, who believed I could.

For my teachers - Toni Morrison, Sylvia Plath, Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, and Margaret Mitchell, who helped me get it right.

To Lenora, who put up with every Idiot-induced nervous breakdown.

To the Idiots. Go fuck yourselves.


I think in the end, if in fact we ever GET there, I am remaining dedication-less. The people who I have to thank know how grateful I am. You know who you are. Every tear, curse, and snapped nerve have hopefully not been for nothing. Toni Morrison says that if you wanna fly you gotta give up the shit that weighs you down. I think I can honestly say that inkpop has been weighing me down for a long, long time. How nice it will be to finally be free of it all. I am going to enjoy life again. No matter how bad the HC review comes back, it won't matter. I tried, didn't I? God damn it, at least I did that.

Edjumucation

I've taken it upon myself to teach myself absolutely everything I need to know in order to be a good writer. So that means I spent the afternoon playing with the dogs in Washington Square Park and browsing Shakespeare and Co. (Which is only the best bookstore EVER.) I picked up The Journals of Sylvia Plath and Angels in America, which I have surprisingly never read. So far it's evident to me that the only two writers in history who really knew what they were doing were Sylvia Plath and Toni Morrison. I read their work and I think to myself, "How could you possibly have known that about me?" That constitutes getting it right in my book. But hope springs eternal. I have high hopes for Nabokov. Lolita's up next after I finish Perestroika. Of course, first I have to finish Jazz, Manic, The Color Purple, and the journals. I am thinking I may have overestimated my abilities a little bit.

I almost forgot. Today in September the 12. Happy Frank Mills day!

Captain Passive-Agressive

Today I was told, "Of course you don't have to worry about auditions. You're just a professional audience member." Oh. Wow. Is it me or was that dangerously close to being a resounding "fuck you!"? If it was, then right back atcha. This professional audience member is writing your review.

Inkpop Idiots also blabbing about me on the forums. Let them. I LOVE that, really and truly. They think I'm a bitch. Means I'm doing this right. My law teacher told me what it's like to get someone on the witness stand. "You be their buddy. Sweet talk 'em. Lead 'em down that road and then BAM! You cut their throat." That's marvelous, but that's not how I inkpoperate. (I know, right?) I'm not St. Jimmy. This isn't shut your mouth before I shoot you down. I'll let you talk, but I'll silently think to myself that you're an idiot. Moderately kidding. I'm not cutting any throats here. I just can't help it if your stupidity gets in the way of your day to day functioning.

Can you tell I'm in one of my bitchy moods? Sorry. Claude came to lay on my feet and help me with the story I was working. Little did I know that he had just wolfed down my dinner. He threw up on my feet. I hate everything. I'm also pissed that I have to miss Broadway on Broadway. I love that freaking thing. And the tickets for Cabaret are sold out the weekend I'm in Boston. And I'm gaining weight like a bitch. And and and and and and and.

Oh, how loverly. Pretty sure my neighbor's garage just exploded. Well, that certainly invalidates everything in this post, doesn't it. Gonna go check it out.

Fall Docket

Inkpop is as soul-grinding as ever, but with any luck it'll all be over soon. I have to admit there is some kind of elation in seeing someone try to pass you and repeatedly fail, God help me. There's a Churchill quote that I like that says something like, "In life there is nothing so exhilirating as to be shot at without result."

Well, since school's back in session and I'm about to cut summer's ripcord and slip on into fall, I think it's time to set a fall docket, don't you? I have this theory, see: seasons that start on odd numbered years suck, and the ones that start on even-numbered years are much better. This year doesn't look like it's going to break tradition, thank the Lord. Aside from the perfection of Ragtime, last season was a total snore. Oh, well. Leave it be and let it end. This fall and winter I think I'll have a go at:






Mrs. Warren's Profession
Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown
La Bete
Elf
Pee-Wee's Playhouse (I was a big fan as a kid.)
Driving Miss Daisy
Bloody Blood Andrew Jackson (My bet for Best Musical.)



Not too shabby. So Yank got pushed off a year, so what? Priscilla's coming in in time for the Tony's. That's gonna be another fun one. Lately I've been realizing that theatre in fact can be fun without having to account for itself. I look at all the new shows coming in and all the new blood that we're getting and I am excited. And, for the record, I freaking love the artwork for Mrs. Warren's Profession.

The Best of Times

is now. What's left of summer but a faded rose? The best of times is now. As for tomorrow, well, who knows?

Sorry. I've yet to stop singing that song since I soft-shoed my way out of the balcony at the Longacre last night after an impromptu visit to my favorite gay cabaret. The show is fun. Glitzy, glittering fun. I'm sorry I didn't have Lenora with me, but I still enjoyed myself. It's a great show. Better than Ragtime? No. Nothing I've ever seen has been better than Ragtime. But still good. Douglas Hodge is wonderful. VEANNE COX. Yay Caroline, or Change. I stood up for her at curtain call and I am not ashamed to admit that. And I sang along and danced and twirled. I was not ashamed. I was happy and sorry for everyone that was not. Every Republican needs to see La Cage. Albin summed it up for me, "Be NICE." What a hypocrite I am.

I've never heard an audience laugh quite so hard. Lots of screams and shrieks of surprise of surprise that made me wonder if Karen Weston was sitting in the mezzanine. I think I'll always remember when Georges and Albin kissed at the end and the audience went crazy for them. I thought that was really something special. Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, Fred Phelps, Pat Robertson - drop what you are doing and go see La Cage. Learn something. Laugh at yourselves at little. Everyone else is.

I also saw American Idiot yesterday afternoon. I am terrified of St. Jimmy. I will never not be terrified of St. Jimmy.

At last.

Success. Hold your hats and hallelujah, tonight is celebration. More tomorrow. There is at long son of a bitching last something to smile and laugh about. I've never been so happy to see September in my life.