Not Sure What to Think...

It's been a rough week for me, folks. I am still recovering from the twin demons of High School Musical 3 and the closing of my favorite show. (81 days to go, for those of you who care.) To top it all off, poor Clorox got booted off Dancing With the Stars. I don't care what anyone says, she was better than that adorable little Disney robot Cody Linley. So there. But today, I get home, and what to my wondering eye did appear! The cast list for the West Side Story revival! Well, wouldja look at that! Just for fun, let's end one more sentence with an exclamation point! So I, being the West Side Story semi-fan that I am, excitedly scanned the list for familiar names. There were two. One had me bouncing off the walls, the other had me angrier than I've been since Bush got a second term. Okay, let's start with the good.

This, friends, is Karen Olivo. She got cast as Anita. Granted, I saw this coming even more than I foresaw the closing of a certain show which we are no longer going to talk about. Still, I couldn't be happier. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ot7203JISqk That's her singing It Won't Be Long Now, back during her In the Heights days. OMG, taking a cast member from In the Heights and putting her in West Side Story! 'Cause like they're both musicals about Latinos! I totally get that! How original!! Seriously, though, she does have talent. Sitting in the seventh row at the Richard Rodgers and watching her belt, "Somebody better open these goddamn doors!" remains one of the highlights of my summer. No, my summer honestly wasn't THAT boring, but I just wanted to prove a point.

This handsome devil is Mr. Matt Cavenaugh *cringe*. He somehow got cast as Tony, and is the reason why I will be seeing the show on a night his understudy is on. Once again, no personal grudge or anything. But I saw Grey Gardens, folks. I bore witness to the God-awful Joe Kennedy Jr. accent. Since when is an overdone, over-accented caricature good acting? Seriously, casting directors? Matt Cavenaugh *cringe*? Really? No, seriously, really? MATT CAVENAUGH *cringe*? Okay, so I'm being a little pre-judgemental on the poor boy, but I am not having good feelings about this one. This is disappointment enough to rival the day I found out that Peter Griffin existed only within the confines of Seth MacFarlane's mind.

That's all I have to say about that.

Come Look at the Freaks, Part 2

Gosh darn it and golly gee, I've had an interesting weekend so far!! I was loving every minute of it until I let myself be suckered into sitting through the atrocity that was High School Musical 3. But we'll get to that later.

I went to a costume party Friday night. That was rather interesting. There's a basic protocol for that sort of thing: If you see someone you know, you absolutely have to hug them hello and good-bye even if you secretly hate them. You must also compliment their costume, and you DO NOT EVER, EVER, EVER ask them, "But what ARE you?!" Not if you want a spot in their will. Even though it is an insult and a threat to your own personal morality, it is in your best interest to lie when asked if you like someone's costume. "No, you do not look like a slut in your Playboy Bunny costume. No, I swear. It's totally fine. You look cute." Come on, people. Are we really that far gone that we believe such outrageous lies?! I guess we are, since there are people who are actually going to vote for McCain.

Revolutionary that I am, I took the liberty of not dancing at the aforementioned costume party. I don't dance. I just don't. Never have, never will. I hate dancing more than I hate Rent, which you give you an idea of just how very much I loathe dancing. I didn't not rotate my hips one single time at this party, I promise you. I was as stiff as Sarah Palin's beauty queen grin. I think maybe I should change my name to the Immobile Goat. But I digress. Let's backtrack a little. As soon as I walked through the door to this groovy shindig, I certain friend who shall remain nameless practically dove on me and announced, "OH MY GOD, YOU'RE HOT!!" Um, thanks. I guess I am. Thanks for noticing. Two hours later, as I was standing in a crush of people and not even swaying my hips, said friend once again bounded up to me and said, "Don't waste the hotness, shake your ass!" No, that's really okay. I'll just stay right here and watch these Gossip Girl wannabes grind on eachother. I'm fine, I promise. I think maybe I'll keep the hotness to myself for tonight.

And now on to the reason why I actually came here to blog tonight. I can hardly bare to type these words, but I actually saw HSM 3 tonight. While waiting on line amongst ten thousand little girls quickly being roped into the traps of corporate America, I heard someone scream, "HE'S GOT A GUN!" Indeed there was someone a few feet infront of me that was exercising his right to bear arms. My heart started pounding, but our loyal police force was there in seconds to cart this young hooligan away. At that point, wasn't aware of the fact that I would have been better off if he had shot me.

So I soldiered on bravely into the theatre and plunked down in my seat, a tad bewildered as to what I was actually doing there. If there was any justice in the world a meteorite would have hit the building and killed us all in a blinding blaze of glory, but there is no such miracle to speak of. Instead, I sat there and endured two unending hours of my personal circle of hell. It was the longest two hours of my life. And I sat through Legally Blonde, folks. I cannot even begin to list my grievances with this film. Oh wait, yes I can:

1. The whole thing was basically a series of shots of Zac Efron's sweaty face and body, which provoked the animatronic little girls in the theatre to start squealing like pigs. Oh, please. Over the course of the movie, Sir Efron removed an article of clothing exactly four times, and those little darlings just ate it up. (I still haven't forgotten their gasps and shrieks of extreme terror when their Lord and Savior said, "Kiss my ass" in the sad big-screen adaptation of Hairspray. Oh, how I hate that movie. Really, people, was there any real reason for John Travolta to look and sound like he swallowed Carol Channing?)

2. That sweet little tart Gabriella wore either a skirt or dress for approximately 97% of the movie. Whenever the characters came home (and may I point out that everyone in this movie had really nice houses, how convenient), their mother would be in the kitchen, dutifully preparing a meal for her husband and male children. Thank-you, Disney, for setting the American feminist movement back fifty years.

3. I have to point out that the most painful part of the movie was Zac's big angry eleven o'clock number entitled "Scream." Funny, that's what I wanted to do throughout the whole movie, but never more than during this number. I think they were aiming for a sort of no holds barred-screw the world-I'm running things now kinda thing. What they got was a series of shots of Efron running screaming through the halls of East High, including a particular gem where he's climbing all over the production equipment, briefly evoking memories of the stripper scene from Rent. It's this year's Bet On It, and we all know how that ended up.

That's all I dare say right now, lest the billion screaming HSM fans come to give me what I apparently deserve. I don't know. Maybe I just don't "get it." I don't know about you, but I'd take the story of rape, suicide, and abortion that is my poor, fated Spring Awakening over this corporate drivel any day. But that's just me. Oh, well. Until next time, friends. In the meantime, I'll be sitting here waiting for HSM 4: Ryan finally admits he's gay.

There Goes 49th Street...

They say ya either got it or ya ain't. If "it" is Spring Awakening closing night tickets, then I've got it. Every single crazed fan will be there, and now I will be among them. Speaking as someone who's been there, a bunch of Spring fans together can be a bit of a handful. I know. I was there the night the chorus girls got drunk and got their hands on the pretzels, folks. Well, here we go. For one night (one night that is inevitably going to be impossibly, freezingly cold, and most likely snowing), the Guilty Ones will take over 49th Street. Only problem is I'm not sure it's big enough to fit all of 'em. Oh well. We'll worry about that in precisely 86 days. I am still gonna miss the show so much, but being there to say good-bye (and seven rows from the stage, no less), is helping to heal the wound quite a bit. A shallow selfish person I am.

Bad, Bad, Bad News

Spring Awakening is closing January 18. I think my heart is breaking. It's not like I didn't see this coming, but now that the bomb has been dropped I don't know what to do. Words cannot express how very much I am going to miss this show. And, god damn it, I am going to be there on the closing night. Somehow. I'm gonna figure it out. Oh, God. I think I need a hug.So there you have it, folks. The musical that is of the type that comes along "once in a generation", the one that was "haunting and electrifying", the one that made people claim, "Broadway may never be the same!" has met its end. It's been a very awful day indeed. The fact that I just used the word "indeed" should give you all an idea of how incredibly much I will miss this show. I know I'm being a tad overdramatic, but this really is terrible news for me. It's been a year and a half since I discovered the Spring, and arguably the happiest year and a half I've ever had. It's been an hour since I got the news and I'm still shaking. I don't even know what to do with myself except to sit and wait for the closing night tickets to come out. Oh, God, there's gonna be a death match over those damn tickets. Oh, well. Stand back, folks. The feathers are gonna fly. Anyone who thinks I'm exaggerating did not see the people scaling buildings and dangling from scaffolding in order to get to the front of the ticket line. And I'm not kidding about that, either. People are gonna be killing eachother for them. Take this girl for example: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gb389LkiEJQ Poor confused child. I'm really worked up, but at least I'm not as much of an idiot as she is. And, I still know the difference between twelve and seven.

Okay, so the shock is starting to wear off. Confession: I'm crying. Judge me all you want. Just don't come crying to me when High School Musical 3 bitterly disappoints you becoz Troy and Gabriella totez only kissed lyke twice omg omg omg lol. You folks can't imagine the magic that was tied in with this show. I mean, look at this! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wS7q1T36t6w I was there that night. Hear all the screams? One of them is mine. That song got a five-minute standing ovation, and stands alone as the single greatest theatrical experience of my life. How soul-crushingly ironic will it be if my posting it here will cause it to get deleted.

I honestly don't know what to think right now. Joke's over, guys, and it sure as hell ain't funny. I guess I'll just sit here and wait for Ashton to come running out with the camera crew.

I Haz A Angree

Sorry 'bout the title. Only LOLCatspeak could convey my not-happiness at the moment. My dearest darlingest bestest friends in the whole entire world have bailed on plans that we've had for weeks. Oh, well. To quote my favorite angst-ridden German teen (doesn't everyone have one of those?): "Just f-ck it, right?" As a matter of fact, let's see how far we can run with this... Okay, here we go: Momma Rose, Gypsy: "Let 'em walk. Let 'em ALL walk. I don't need 'em. They need me." Okay, so that's not really true at all, but the temptation to quote Gypsy was too great. Well, it doesn't matter. I'm freakin' Cinderella, and I'm still gonna go to the goddamn ball. So there.

Reason #2 why I haz a angree: That dumb-ass McCain and his adorable little marionette Sarah Palin. Everytime either of them uses the word "maverick", "drill", or "troops" I die a little inside. I have tried very hard to discern who's stupider, and I've come to the conclusion that it's Palin. If the right-wing freakos get elected and Old Man McSame puts her in charge of energy, well, to quote a very wise friend, "Say good-bye to Alaska." Yeah, it's true that nobody lives there, but the moose are just screwed. Poor chaps.

Reason # 3 why I haz a angree: Lifetime. Does anyone who's not a very lonely forty-year-old woman watch this channel? If you've never endured this abomination of a channel, let me ruin it for you: Someone gets raped in every single movie. There is always a dominating male character. The aforementioned dominating man will, inevitably, be killed by the victimized woman to avenge her rape/kidnapping/spousal abuse. At night. In the rain. In an environment that is mysterioulsy devoid of all other human beings.

Reason #4 why I haz a angree: The literary state of our nation is pitiful. Let's have a show of hands. Who out there has read a book in the last five years that was not written by Stephenie Meyer, J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown, Danielle Steel, or Mitch Albom? In the last five years, who's read a classic without being forced to do so? Huh. That's what I thought. Okay, folks. Put down the Tiger Beat and go out and read Gone With the Wind. We will all be better for it.

Hopefully the next time I drop in here I will not haz a angree.

Come Look at the Freaks

Hello, there. I don't think I've told you all yet how very much I love Halloween. It's my second favorite holiday - after Arbor Day, of course. I love absolutely every aspect of it: the costumes, the candy, the special rush you get from terrifying unsuspecting five-year-olds dressed up as Hannah Montana. Anyway, it's never officially Halloween until I visit a haunted house. The location du jour this year was a three-hundred-year old church that apparently is truly haunted. A few friends and I waited in line for two hours in the freezing cold while hearing people scream in terror from the graveyard across the street. In the time it took for our group to get to the front of the line, we amused ourselves. We practiced walking like Siamese twins, though I'm not sure what we'll ever need that for. We reminisced about the fabled sleepovers of yore where we would paint each other's faces and sing Cher songs. (As much as I hate to admit it, I did, in fact, go through a Cher phase. Trust me, though, that was very long ago.) I entertained and annoyed with my excessive giggling and near-bipolar hyperactivity. After a half hour on that damn line, a woman walked by with her son, who was wearing a costume that completely eliminated his head. So I, with my ever-ready wit and razor-sharp tongue, quipped, "That's not the way to get ahead in life!" Neither the woman nor her decapitated son thought it was funny. When finally it was our turn to go in, we all linked ourselves into a superhumanly close pretzel-like formation. There were four of us, and it was pretty much impossible to move without causing someone else severe physical pain. So we soldiered on into the graveyard. As we made our way up to the church, with people with nothing better to do dressed as ghosts drifting around us, a hideous swamp thing came out of the trees. Our little human pretzel was no more as we all screamed and jumped back from the thing that was coming at us with ridiculous slowness. I would like to say that I planted my fists on my hips and laughed bravely in the face of danger, but, unfortunately, friends, I have no such yarn to weave. No, the grim reality is that I was nearly in tears at this point, and my high-pitched, never-ending shriek was the loudest. We trekked on through the graveyard, through a pet cemetary, and up to the door of the church. By now I was shaking uncontrollably, and it didn't help that it was negative ten degrees out there. My friends and I chatted with a very bored-looking volunteer ghost, who, ironically, asked us how school was. That was awkward. So after this darling little exchange we stumbled down into the catacombs where we passed through a room where a surgeon was sawing off the leg of a kid with an unusual affinity for 1960's ethnic music, a courtroom with a judge that would put the one from Sweeney Todd to shame, a jail with a very lonely prisoner and her disembowled husband, and a torture chamber where we got the dubious honor of witnessing the torture and subsequent burning of a witch. Fun. I may point out that my dearest darlingest friends, who had promised to be my loyal defenders on this trek through hell, scattered like scared chickens as soon as we entered the graveyard, claiming that they were "in pain" and could I "please stop choking them?". Selfish, selfish, selfish. I was left to scream and clutch blindly at anything that seemed vaguely human. When it was over, I discovered, with a little jolt of further horror, that I had been clutching the arm of complete stranger.

Before I wrap this up, I feel compelled to point out that tonight marks the closing of Legally Blonde on Broadway. OMG you guys, I totez didn't see that coming. I, for one, am not at all sorry to see it go. I am also not sorry that this means Laura Bell Bundy, everyone's favorite little homewrecker, is out of a job. So Legally Blonde is soon to be gone. Ding dong, the witch is dead, though I suppose that the witch won't truly be dead until Wicked breathes its last sugar-coated breath. Unfortunately, I doubt any of us here will live to see that day.

Keepin' It Fresh

The observant may notice that I have changed my blog template. I'm very sorry to disappoint and disenhearten you all, but if I had to look at that blinding pink for one more minute I was going to scream. So now that we've established that, I've got the green light to go right on blogging.

Well, I've been getting some constructive criticism on my blog! Let's see, there have been some real helpful gems, such as: "It's a little much" and "You might want to tone it down." Well, I have asked my good friend Mr. LOLCat to help me respond to this indescribably helpful barrage of comments.

So there. For those of you who had previously never heard of an LOLCat, you just don't know what you're missing. Here, I'll fix it: http://www.icanhascheezburger.com/ There. All better. Nothin' like a bunch of gramatically incorrect felines to turn that frown upside down.

Now that that's covered, I just don't know what else I can think of to entertain you all! Oh, that reminds me. It has come to my attention that my blog is read by approximately than .00000000000000000001% of the world population. WOWEE! I never expected to get that many readers so shockingly soon! Gee, I didn't prepare a speech or anything! This is just so unexpected! You guys all see where I'm going with this? Or should I say, "The ten of you who read this blog all see where I'm going with this?"

Well, let's see. I've already talked about Broadway enough for one week, the fact that I run on two hours of sleep, my severe allergy towards Sarah Palin, my favorite Youtube videos (my apologies if any of you still need morphine to dull the pain), and my deep dark hatred of Rent. Oh, wait, I know!! I have to tell you guys about the most brilliant show ever!!!

Behold! The Griffin family. You may also see it spelled Griffen, but the people who spell it that way are wrong. It is Griffin. My greatest regret in life is that I am not one of them. They are, in my opinion, the greatest family in the history of everything. Who doesn't wish that they had a talking dog and a sadistic baby running around the house? I don't care if you think it is stupid, Family Guy is a fantabulous show. You may argue, "But I don't get it!" That's just the point. You're not supposed to get it. There is nothing to "get." It is funny. Accept it. In the words of the pill-popping mother from August: Osage County, "The world is round. Get over it."

The People Called It...

So I bought a new cast album today, folks. Not really a big event. I buy albums almost every other week. The choice for today was a show that I didn't really know that much about, but, sweet God, I know a lot about it now. Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, I give you...Ragtime. Yes, it is really good enough to require my complete dramatic vaudevillian introduction. Apparently, it was playing around the same time as my precious SIDE SHOW. Neither did very well: SIDE SHOW because it was about Siamese twins, and who wants to see a show about that, Ragtime because it's producers were corrupt, and who wants to sit through a show while worrying that at any minute Tony Soprano could burst into the theatre and pump your sorry carcass full of lead? So I listened to the album, and, children, mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. Glory, glory, halle-freaking-lujah.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7esLjR_O3SI Here's a clip of their Tony performance, the night they were robbed by the piece of corporate crap that is The Lion King. I still say that the Tony that year belonged to SIDE SHOW, but this comes in as a close second. Listen to the lyrics. "Beggar and millionaire/everyone everywhere/moving to the Ragtime." That is pure genius! You can't top that, unless your name is Stephen Sondheim.

Hmm, let's see what other gems I can dredge up for you to sample....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFVWA6dNMHk "Our Children", one of the best songs in the show, hold the cheesy, gold-tinted video of two young whippersnappers frolicking in the sand.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBQNed6Zdmk "New Music." Yet another example of brilliant lyrics. "Just like that tune/simple and clear/I've come to hear/new music." Not as good as the lyrics in the first video, but still pretty damn good.

Just a warning if you watched the video: You have willingly subjected yourself to one of the catchiest tunes in the history of catchy tunes. You are now doomed to spend the next three weeks walking around humming "da da da da da Ragtime." Perhaps I should have warned you beforehand.

A Late Night Blogging Attempt

It's 12:28 A.M, and I am blogging. I am not drunk. I am not high. I have not taken any unnecessary cough medicine. And yet I am blogging. How very very sad. It's been like two hours since my last blog. Maybe I shall save this one as a draft and post it tomorrow so I don't look like such a loser. But then I will have to delete this paragraph, and I worked so very hard on it. So this entry stays, a tribute to my night-owlry.

I am no stranger to the night. Seriously, I'm like a freaking vampire. Or a werewolf, though I like to think of myself as considerably less hairy than that. Ever since I was a teeny tiny baby and my parents would sit up and stare at my wide-open eyes, I have needed very little sleep. It's a proven fact, along with my hatred of Rent and my love of high heels. (My very favorite pair of shoes are red polka dot heels that are too high for any human being to ever actually wear. Try navigating Times Sqaure in them. My legs ached for weeks.)

So I guess you're wondering what I actually DO while I stay up and wait for the sun to rise so I can return to my coffin and wait it out till sunset. Well, that's easy! I read. I write. I surf the net. And, obviously, I blog. I never actually get tired, I just go to sleep when I run out of things to do. I drink massive amounts of blue Powerade. (And if you've never had blue Powerade get up and get some RIGHT NOW.) Come to think of it, the sugar in those bad boys might be the reason I don't fall asleep till five in the morning. Trust me, I think of plenty of things to do in the middle of the night. It's like I'm teetering on the edge of being bipolar, except I've never passed out on the floor in Costco or called someone in the middle of the night. Since someone out there is bound to take that the wrong way, let me point out that I was KIDDING about the bipolar thing. No need to call Bellevue just yet.

Well, I've run out of things to talk about. I think now I'm gonna go watch Gypsy. The original one, aka the better one. (And Rosalind Russell was SO a good Rose!)

What Really Grinds My Gears

If any of you are still alive after that Youtube escapade, I am here to provide further insight into my life. I assume by now you have all picked up on the fact that I am a rather negative person. If you haven't, well, then you're just an idiot. Anyway, rather then sit here and prattle about what I like, I thought it would be more fun to tell you what I hate (or, to put it in the words of my idol Peter Griffin: "what really grinds my gears".) You're gonna wanna strap in for this one, folks. I have a lot of pent-up anger and bitterness.

First off: I am a theatre-going creature, and over the years I have picked up numerous pet-peeves. The number one thing that really grinds my gears is screaming fangirls. (This may be a good time to point out that I am a rabid Spring Awakening fangirl, but I play it close to the chest. You will never catch me standing up in the middle of an incredibly sad scene screaming, "MELCHIOR, YOUR ASS IS HOT!!") Don't laugh. I have personally witnessed such atrocities, though it was at the abomination that is Wicked. If there is any fangroup that makes me less ashamed to be a Spring Awakening fan, it's the Wicked fangirls.

Pet peeve number two: Being the impeccably seasoned theatre-goer that I am, I generally avoid matinees. Why, you ask? THE FREAKING HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD LADIES!! Seriously, the next matinee you go to, look around. I guarantee you that at least 60% of the audience will be females over fifty. I wouldn't mind these geriatric lassies if they didn't think they owned the theatre. Sorry, ma'am, but just because you are old enough to have seen Merman in Gypsy does not give you the right to look down on the rest of us. To be fair, I must state that I am spewing residual anger from a previous argument with a loaded matron at a show. This little darling accused me, in a voice that could deafen a dog, of : cracking my water bottle, kicking her seat, singing along, and, in a stunning crescendo, claimed that I was eating my Junior Mints too loudly. Of course, the comedic element in this little tussle was that it took place at In the Heights. IN THE GODDAMN HEIGHTS, one of the most contemporary shows around right now. This woman was like seventy. Shouldn't she have been over at Phantom shrieking in fear as a completely harmless chandelier passed twenty feet overhead? Now you folks know why I stick to night shows, when most people are under the age of ninety and we can all eat our Junior Mints as loud as the hell we want.

This is Patti LuPone, and she is Pet Peeve No. Three. Now, there are those who will decapitate me, stick my head on a pike and parade it around 46th Street for daring to say a negative word about Madame LuPone. Let me just say this: I have no personal grudge against her. I am not some obese forty-yeard old sitting at home crying because she did not sign my Playbill after I chased her through Shubert Alley. I promise. I am not one of the devout Patti haters. I do, however, fault her for the fact that she has a voice like a snarling dog, and that her performance in Gypsy did not have me on the floor hyperventilating. (It was supposed to, as I'm told.) It was just...okay. It wasn't the best performance I've ever seen, that honor goes to Sarah Steele in Speech and Debate. I guess the thing that really bothers me is her fans. They are worse, if possible, than the Wicked freaks. If I mysteriously disappear after daring to speak out against Their Lord and Savior Patti LuPone, I can assure you that the blame lies with them.

Four: The Spring Awakening cast album. It sucks. It seriously, seriously, seriously sucks. I think the reason for it's major suckage is that it was recorded in some kind of bizarre limbo between Off-Broadway and their Broadway transfer. The result is a jumble of off-tempo songs that have alternate lyrics and none of the indescribably wonderful harmonies that we all know and love. Seriously, if any of you have it and haven't seen the show, this is the way Song of Purple Summer is SUPPOSED to sound: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CMh3HKnRyg&feature=related. It's such a shame that this god-awful album is gonna be all that's left over from a truly glorious show.

Five: Rent. Oh, Lord. Rent. How can I put into words my hatred for this show? Okay, let me try to give you all a feel for what it's like. Find a friend. A very close friend. Now have said friend hit you very, very, very hard over the head with a sledgehammer. Do it again. And again. No, that's not really what the show is like, I just wanted to see if any of you were actually stupid enough to try it. But I digress. Rent is not revolutionary. It is not the best musical ever, that honor belongs to Sweeney Todd. (There, I said it.) In actuality, it is a mindless mishmash of occasionally vaguely catchy, occasionally wrist-slittingly sad songs, threaded through with cursing and nudity for shock value. The same could be said for Spring Awakening, but this is MY blog, dammit, and I'll say what I want. So there. It's not like I said, "I hate Zac Efron and the Jonas Brothers and Republicans" because, well, you just don't say those things.

The Wonderful World of Youtube!

As previously promised, I am going to treat you all to a never-ending buffet of my most favoritest Youtube videos in the whole entire world!!! If you don't have at least a half hour to burn then stop reading now, 'cause this is gonna get real rocky. So here goes!


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kjHzYAv4XCw
For anyone out there who has hope in the future of musical theatre, prepare to have it shattered by these guys.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3J4Rdltp11k
I am strangely addicted to this ridiculously catchy song about electroshock therapy. Huh. Who'da thunk it?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5h2p3IrrJn8
The fabulously fabulous song A Little Fall of Rain from the fabulous Les Miz sung by two of the most fabulous actors I have ever witnessed. Pure fabulousness.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xEYV5bNMZVo
The video that sparked a year-long obssession. I haven't watched this one in a while, but I'm watching it now. Oh, God. Nostalgia. Tears. Magic. Ridiculously censored lyrics. Example: Instead of saying "breast" they had to say "chest." Why weren't they allowed to say breast? KFC says it all the time. Oh, and the legendary changing of "Totally F*cked" to "Totally Hmphed." That's really hmphed up! That's right, I said it! Hmph you! Hmph you ALL!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FAYWPV3F41Y
Ask kicking. Not a crime in all fifty states.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ppg6RuCtJmw
And you all thought I was kidding about the drunken chorus girls armed with pretzels.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6BXZYaqt5U
The single funniest thing I have ever seen in my life. Warning: Language!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kcjXJpOSE8E
The lovely Phoebe Strole sings what may be my least favorite song ever. Yet another one of the videos I watch on a daily basis.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OBlgSz8sSM&feature=related
God damn you, Charlie!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLSyoXw0I5E
Edward should have listened to his British father. British people know everything. Duh.

So do you guys give up? Have you had enough pain? Okay, okay. I give up. It's been fun. Until next time, folks.

Woooaaaahhhh....

Oh, sweet Jesus! I just read something online that is too freaking good not to share with you guys! Guess what! No, seriously, guess. Think of the most ridiculous thing that could ever happen, and I guarantee my news will be ridiculous-er. Okay. You folks ready? Jamie Lynn Spears is pregnant AGAIN. Isn't one screaming brat enough for her and her hillbilly boyfriend? Did these people sleep through health class? Or what about Juno? Didn't they see Juno? I liked Juno. For the skeptics among us, take a look. http://www.imdb.com/news/ni0580248/ Sure, it's IMDB, which is about as reliable as Wikipedia, but still. I love that article too much to express in words. The economy is collapsing, Osama bin Laden is still on the loose, and yet some hick from Lousiana is stupid enough to get pregnant a second time and it's national news. Oh, that article slays me. My favorite part is the part where they say the boyfriend doesn't know yet. Well, I'll venture to guess that he knows now. Poor chap. Just leave Little Sally the Super-Fertile now and get on with your life. Seriously, though, I think I am being a tad hard on poor little Jamie Lynn. The blame really belongs with her parents. Did they not slap her hard enough the first time? Or were they too busy wig shopping with Britney?

Not to veer to far away from the main idea of this whole blog, though, this would totally make a great musical. Let's see: We've got teen pregnancy, which is totally Spring Awakening, a mentally unstable person, which is straight out of Next to Normal, and this whole situation just screams "freak show", which is rather Side Show-esque. I see it now: Coming to Broadway in 2011, a saga of a family torn apart by stupidity: NEXT TO AWAKENING THE SIDE SHOW! Featuring such hits as the opening number "Fall From Grace", the show-stopping "Pillbox Tango", the powerful ballad "What's the Worst That Could Happen?" sung on the night Jamie Lynn gets pregnant, and the powerful act one closer "Leave Britney Alone!" It'll run forever.

Well, it's been fun, chickadees (I cannot believe I just used that word), but I am rapidly running out of things to blog about. I suppose it won't be long until this whole thing goes down in a blaze of glory.

My Lucky Day

Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome. For the musically-deprived among us, that's from Cabaret, the second-greatest Kander and Ebb musical in the history of everything. In case you were wondering, top honors goes to Chicago. But anyway. For those of you who sit up at night torturing yourselves with the question, "Who IS the Incendiary Goat? Is she anything more than a few smart-aleck quips and a boiling pot of resentment toward Sarah Palin?" The answer, my friends, is yes, I am. I live. I breathe. I have friends (most days). I worry about the economy. I am voting for Barack. I am a loving, kind, friendly person. Okay, scratch that last one. Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, folks. I am not, nor do I suffer any delusions that I am, friendly. I am about 76.83946537865398% that I am not a people person. But that's just a ballpark figure.

But there are, in fact, things that make me happy. I'm a kick-ass Scopa player (and if you've never played/heard of Scopa then we are not friends) and I'm just tickled pink by a good episode of Arthur. I have a thing for really obscure, offbeat musicals about things nobody talks about and/or cares about. I'm totally serious about that. Really, I kid you not. My favorite musicals feature teen pregnancy, mental illness, Siamese twins, insane barbers, and crazy cat ladies living in dilapidated old mansions. And you thought you were weird just because you enjoyed "From Justin to Kelly."

Sweet Besty from Pike, look at the time! I inteded for this to be a long, soul-crushingly interesting peek into my interests, but, in the interests of watching Barack Obama rip Old Man McCain's political guts out in tonight's debate, I bid you all adieu.

Bloggin' Like It's October 1, 2008

Well, hello, there. Fancy meeting you here. I have some hard-hitting stuff to dish about in the this entry, but before we get to that, I have one point I need to make. You may ask yourself, "Has everyone and their mother and their mother's younger brother who married a girl that the rest of the family hates read 'Twilight'?" The answer is an unfortunate yes. If you haven't, don't bother. I'm gonna tell you everything you need to know about the book and its sequels right now: He's a vampire. They get married. She gets pregnant. She becomes a vampire at the end of the last book. There. I just saved you over two thousand pages of hell. Now moving on to things that nobody but me cares about.

Drumroll, please. Thank-you. A friend of mine is currently going through a mini-obsession with a show called In the Heights. Speaking as someone who knows, obsessions are painful, pathetic, and dizzyingly fun. It starts off innocently enough. A Google session here. A few Youtube videos there. It ends eleven months later with you standing in a crush of people on 49th Street while two drunken chorus girls throw pretzels at you. Sure, you're loving every minute of it while it's going on, but sooner or later you begin to feel guilty that they had to re-wallpaper the theatre because you chipped paint off the back wall while sitting in the last row. But, said friend may already be too far gone for me to save, so for now I'll fuel the fire and indulge her. She requested that I chat about In the Heights on my blog. I thought, "Why the hell not?" It's certainly better than the list of Sarah Palin jokes I had planned for today. So here we go.

In the Heights is a rap musical about the Upper Manhattan community of Washington Heights. It's half in Spanish and there are no white cast members, so Republicans need not attend. If the thought of an incredibly one-sided musical that screams, "Move to Washington Heights! We've got piragua and wise old ladies who feed birds and sing songs about their long ardurous journies from Cuba!" offends you, keep on walking. If not, stay right here with me. It really is a good show, though, if you're not looking for anything too deep. Oh, and, while nestled comfortably in my seat at the beautiful Richard Rodgers theatre, a thought popped into my head. Where are the crack dealers? Where are the muggers? I though this was about Washington Heights!! The fact of the matter is that if people randomly started dancing and singing in the streets of Washington Heights (or anywhere in New York, for that matter) they'd all get shot. Don't look at me, folks. I didn't write the show. If you want the REAL Washington Heights, get ye to the A train and get off at 181st. Just don't be too surprised when there are no people twirling eachother around in the streets and the guy selling the piragua isn't a baritone belter.






And now on to my abosolute favorite play of all time: Speech and Debate. Trust me, friends, it's not about speeching and debating. Thirty people that make up the audience sit in a room three levels underground and watch three teenagers scream at eachother and argue over whether their teacher is gay or not. (I just spent the last twenty minutes sitting here trying to make that not sound creepy.) It's long, intermission-less, music-less, and hysterically funny. Too bad it closed, cause it was, and I'm quoting here "a miracle that must be seen to be believed." And the lead actress was "magic every time she is on stage!" So while all the serious theatre freaks were trembling in awe of Patti LuPone's so-so performance in Gypsy, the new-age theatre freaks like myself were sitting in a small, stuffy, dark room on 44th Street. Good times. Good times. Now see, isn't this better than Wicked? Why go see a light fluffy musical about the witches of Oz when you can watch someone shoot themselves on stage, or have a nervous breakdown because their stripper daughter has rejected them after years of ruthless stage-parenting, or watch a demon barber slit people's throats, or watch a fifteen-year-old boy scream and sob because the girl he got pregnant died of an abortion? I leave you with that.