Oh, What a Beautiful Morning

Welcome back, suckers. I had a wonderful time shopping in the theatre district this morning. I saw the Naked Cowboy. Dude needs to put some freaking pants on. I also saw a homeless guy screaming at a pigeon. I believe he said something along the lines of, "It's your fault, Kennedy!" Of course, this guy had the right idea. As we all know, everything is more effective if you SCREAM IT AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS!!

I hit about five stores in an hour, and managed to pick up presents for Berri and Lenora, posters from August: Osage County, Next to Normal, and Cabaret, magnets from August and Ragtime, and the Hair sheet music. Donna is one hard song. I am moderately let down that the Cabaret poster is from Molly Ringwald's time as Sally. I put that one of the back of my door so I won't have to see her scowling at me all the time. The Next to Normal one went above my bed, and the August one on the opposite wall. Now the first thing I see every morning will be Violet Weston clawing at me. That's what I call starting the day off right.

For the record, I wholeheartedly disapprove of the fact that Times Square has been turned into a pedestrian walkway. It's not a theme park, people. I mean, I know it's basically the tackiest, glitziest place on earth, but some of its charm is diminished when I can cross the street without nearly getting mowed down by a taxi. It's just not the same. People were sunning themselves in lawn chairs in the middle of the street. As Leslie Kritzer would say, "This is unacceptable." Indeed it is. I don't want to see some fat white guy from Indiana laying out in front of the Palace. If that's not a slap in the face to the theatre community, I don't know what is. I can't believe this is what it's come to. Leonard Bernstein is rolling in his grave. If I ever feel the urge to sun myself in New York, I'll go to Bryant Park, thanks.

Well, tomorrow's the day, folks. Excited? I am. Tomorrow we'll discover what our God in heaven has in store. Lots of love and luck to Hair and Next to Normal, and, dear God, don't let those ballerinas get Best Actor.