Into the Woods

Yesterday, I ventured into the woods with my sister, Maisie, Maisie's nice friend, and Maisie's loudmouthed friend. Here's the thing - I'd never been in a forest of any kind. I'm from New York. Bryant Park is forest enough for me. I was excited! It was gonna be an adventure! I was gonna get to sing Sondheim songs! So off we went, without cell phones, food, or flashlights, while my sister worried over the rain and I sang Into the Woods and stopped every two feet to snap a picture.

I felt so earthy and bohemian. Imagine, strolling through the woods around the edge of a lake without a cell phone! It didn't matter that it was a nature trail and there were markings on the trees. I was still having fun. After a while, though, it started drizzling, and we lost sight of the lake. My sister started to cry because she wanted to double back. I, however, insisted that we all soldier bravely on, although my own confidence was starting to waver a little. It was getting dark, and the ground was muddy. The trail was starting to get overgrown with trees and shrubbery, and Maisie fell down a hill and hurt her knee. Suppressing the panic that was quickly welling up in me, I focused my energy on comforting my sister, who was thoroughly displeased with our situation. Nobody had a cell phone. People were gonna start to worry. The dingoes were gonna descend upon us at any given moment.

As we kept going, I nursed the realization that all those shows that use the woods as romantic, exotic symbols are utter bullcrap. Melchior and Wendla were not lying under a tree. Sally and Brian were not discussing the baby. Claude and Jeanie were not smoking pot among the ferns. Nobody was trying to sell a cow for a handful of magic beans. I was emotionally shattered. Really. Just decimated. It was, however, a Flesh Failures moment. "We starve/Look at one another/Short of breath/Walking proudly in our winter coats..." Life was, actually, around us and in us. But I was still scared as hell. It was cold, darkening, and rainy, like at the end of Lord of the Flies. How could we be sure that an angry mob of British boys wasn't gonna ambush us? The possibilities were practically endless.

When we finally made it back, people swarmed us like we had been missing for years. Here's the thing. We'd been gone for all of a half hour, and we were all basically unscathed, aside from Maisie's bleeding knee.

So I've been through the woods. It wasn't fun. It wasn't like the musical. I don't like nature very much. And I guess that's it.

And The People Rejoiced

As of today, it's official. Ragtime is getting revived in August. I am so excited that I forgot how to spell "revived." My God. I can't...no words. Absolutely no words. Just sheer, unadulterated joy. I'm banking on it taking the Neil Simon or the Nederlander. At this point, I wouldn't care if it played in the basement of the McDonald's on 42nd Street. No matter what house it plays, no matter where I sit, no matter when I go, I will be seeing this show. It's Ragtime. It's freaking Ragtime. How could I miss this? I'd never forgive myself. You might consider it a stretch, but I truly consider Ahrens and Flahrety's score to be one of the greatest of all time, certainly the greatest of the decade. I have so much love for this show. I am so excited to see this that I'm practically jumping out of my skin. D'you hear that? It's the music of something beginning, an era exploding, a century spinning, in riches and rags and in rhythm and rhyme. The people called it Ragtime. And it sho is a happy day.

Love love love love love love love so much love for Ragtime. So much love for Broadway. So much love for my family and my friends. So much love for everything. Except Matt Cavenaugh. Matt Cavenaugh gets no love.

The Aftermath

It's been less than 48 hours since the Tonys, and already Guys and Dolls and reasons to be pretty have gone to the chopping block. That oughta show YOU, producers who think you can make a buck tossing a B-list Hollywood actor into a mediocre show! Also, I'd like to point out that Next to Normal sold 99% of its tickets last week. I'd also like to point out that their neighbor Billy only sold 98%. Huh. A small victory, but a victory just the same. Love it love it love it. Maybe Next to Normal won't be a flop after all. I was practically dancing around the living room when they got Best Score. The immature, vindictive part of me was half-hoping that Tom Kitt would get up there, grab the mike, and say, "How about that? You don't wanna break shit with ME, muthaf*cka!" Alas, he and Mr. Yorkey are better than that.

And Alice. Oh, Ms. Ripley. Your bizarre speech entertained me more than it should have. At first I was a little bewildered by the screaming, but then it made total sense! We all know how god-awful the sound was, so instead of risking another mic incident, such as the one that befell Tituss Burgess, she just decided to get up there and scream. As I previously mentioned, everything has more oomph when you SCREAM IT AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS. I think it was an utterly ingenius decision. I love this picture of her and the Tony which she wholly deserved. It is possible that I love this picture more than the one of pothead Kristen Stewart. May I take a moment to point out that Alice Ripley was one of the night's best dressed? Some people got it, some people don't. (Don't pretend you can't hear me, Patti. I haven't forgotten the dress you wore last year.)

While we're on the subject of fashion, I have to say that I was very excited to see what the Hair tribe would be wearing. Some of it was lovely. Some of it was not. We're gonna start with the good stuff and work our way down. On the far right is the director, Diane Paulus. I must say how much I loved her dress. She would have looked so beautiful up there accepting her Tony. Second from the left is Sasha Allen, looking utterly fierce. Chasten Harmon is next to her. Chasten Harmon forgot to get dressed. "Ain't go no outfit. Burned it burned it burned it." I'm sorry. I just had to.

Here on the right we have the leading ladies, sans Sasha Allen. From left to right it's Megan Lawrence, Caissie Levy, Allison Case, and Kacie Sheik. Okay, I have several issues. Megan Lawrence- it would have worked if you hadn't curled you hair quite so tightly. Kacie Sheik- it's a pretty color, but you ODed on the ruffles. Allison Case- I'm assuming you picked that color to go with your hair. How very original. Caissie Levy- not the color I would have chosen, but you look great. See? Wonderful things happen when you don't straighten your hair.

Here we have Talent, Looks, and Class. And John Stamos. Gavin Creel and Will Swenson: The biggest bromance since Peter and Jesus.

Anyway, I think we can all agree that the audio for Sunday's ceremony was just supercalifragilisticexpialatrocious. It is so a word. If you rewatch that amazing opening on Youtube, listen closely during the beginning of the West Side Story portion. You'll hear Josefina Scaglione, who obviously didn't know her mic was live, trilling backstage.

And, of course, you're nobody till Broadway Abridged makes fun of you. http://www.broadwayabridged.com/scripts/tonys2009.shtml Oh, what that man did with August: Osage County. Anyway, this is my favorite part: "We see the company of HAIR perform the ONLY OTHER DECENT MUSICAL PERFORMANCE TONIGHT. Pay special attention to the redhead giving Uncle Jesse a lapdance!" Oh, Lord. I just rewatched the video, and it's true. Thanks for ruining it for me, Broadway Abridged. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P1GzYCsoVv4

The Queen Has Been Crowned

Ripley got it. Alice Ripley is the 2009 Tony winner for Best Actress in a Musical, as I knew she would be. Lenora and I were screaming for her. Congratulations, Alice. It was certainly a Tony well-deserved. And I could not be one little bit happier that Next to Normal took Best Score. How about that, Elton John? And Hair. Oh, beautiful, brilliant Hair. Congratulations and may it be a long, prosperous run. Love and congratulations to Angela Lansbury and Karen Olivo. These two lovely ladies most certainly deserved their awards.

But other than that, my heart is broken. I've made my mind up, folks. I am never going to see Billy Elliot. Never. Never, never, never. I'll never go see it and I'll never stop saying that the Tony belonged to Will Swenson. One Tony for Hair? Really? And no Tony for Diane Paulus? I've lost faith in the Tonys. As the night wore on, I got increasingly disgruntled. Seriously. Billy Elliot is not the Second Coming, people. Shut the hell up. (I am, though, very happy that Next to Normal was able to hold its own in Score and Orchestrations.) My poor heart just about broke in two when the three little ballerinas robbed Gavin Creel. It was pathetic, really. It was a slap in the face to the other four nominees. "We don't care that you've been working on Broadway for years. We're gonna give it to the three little ballerinas." What ever happened to awarding an actor's 'body of work?' Come on. We all know that's why you tossed a Tony to that oaf Greg Jbara.

And, of course, we all know that Best Musical went to Billy Elliot. God damn it. God DAMN it! (Sorry. I love saying it like that.) I'll admit it. I was hoping against hope that Next to Normal would get it. I was on my knees for them, praying for a miracle. And the miracle did not come. Screw you, Billy Elliot. You're Broadway's next punch line.

Before I go, here's my lists for Best and Worst Dressed.

Best Dressed:
Jennifer Damiano
Karen Olivo
Angela Lansbury
Alice Ripley
Marcia Gay Harden

Worst Dressed:
Liza
Jane Fonda
Will Swenson
Gavin Creel
Piper Perabo

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.

Gimme a Head With Hair

I'm feeling very hippie-ish tonight. Note to self: Taking Benadryl and listening to the Hair cast album is probably not a good idea. I feel like this is an appropriate time to mention something I overheard while strolling in the city a while ago. I was minding my own business, trying to make my way to Colony, when I overheard an elderly couple in front of me talking. The wife said, and I quote, "I really wanna get stoned and go see Hair." Good for you, ye olde hedonist. Stick it to The Man. But I'm digressing. Yes, I feel positively tribal. I braided my hair. I haven't braided my hair since I was five. I also drew a flower on my hand and put on my most outrageously long earrings. (This led to the realization that my left earlobe is ridiculously longer than my right. It comes from years of absentmindedly tugging on my left ear while writing with my right hand. I don't even realize I'm doing it anymore. Don't judge me. We all have our vices.) Should I be ashamed of the fact that my earlobes are not the same size? I have bad news, friends. My right eyebrow has a little bit more of an arch than my left. Oh, the humanity. Obviously, I'm hideous. I think I accepted this a few weeks ago when a certain person who shall remain nameless leaned uncomfortably close to my face and gasped, "Where's the makeup?" How endearingly shallow. I should have responded with one of my favorite Golden Girls quotes: "Why don't I just wear a sign that says, 'Too ugly too live'?" I've come to the conclusion that I am decidedly average-looking.

I have to say, though. I really hate my hair. I used to have beautiful hair. That sounds incredibly shallow and stupid. (It's 'cause it is.) But I cut it. And dyed it. And it was the worst decision I ever made, aside from chosing to see Legally Blonde over Grey Gardens. Alas, the hair I loved so much took a year to grow back, and still it was never the same again. My therapist has been telling me I need to accept my loss and move on, but I'm struggling. (I'm kidding. My therapist and I never talk about my hair.) Maybe I'll get a bob over the summer, or perhaps a perm. Over lunch yesterday, Lenora and I discussed how I would look with an afro. "You wouldn't look good," she said decidedly. "You're not black." Oh. Oh, okay. Nevermind. As long as we're not being racist.

Don't get me wrong, folks. I don't actually care about my hair that much. Most days I just twist it up and clip it. It's fun. When I was younger, I always lamented over the fact that my hair wasn't curly. Not even a little. Not even wavy. Unfortunately, I am one of those people. You know, the ones who have painfully straight hair. (Side note: The phrase "those people" can also refer to Rock of Ages fans. As in, "No, I will NOT go see Rock of Ages with you. I never knew you were one of those people." Oh, Lord save us. I love the elitist bitches that theatre produces.) By now, I have finally accepted the fact that the only way I will ever get my hair to curl is by subjecting myself to forty minutes staring at myself in the mirror while holding a blazing hot curling iron within inches of my face. Good times. I have grappled many years with my good friends Self Loathing and Hair Envy. (Except not really.) I have mostly gotten over that, but I still readily admit that I am monumentally jealous of Kacie Sheik's hair. Except she looks like a beaver. So nevermind.

Two days to the Tonys, and I am going off the wall planning for my Tony party. I love parties. Sometimes. This is the reason why I am getting up at eight tomorrow to go into the city and get party favors for Berri and Lenora. (If you two read this, don't flatter yourselves. You know I wouldn't pass up and opportunity to go into the city.) We're gonna have a trivia contest. They have sworn to study all weekend and "take me down" , as they put it. I can't wait to get taken down by two girls who didn't know that The Sound of Music and Fiorello! tied in 1959.

My Conviction

I done a bad thing, folks. We're not talking about the time I threw a pitcher of milk at my elderly aunt, though that actually did happen in my younger and more vulnerable years. Touch the cream puffs again, bitch. I dare you. Anyway, back to my great sin. In my last post, I had the absolute unmitigated gall to call the current production of West Side Story mediocre. Of course, Lenora wasted no time in berating me for this incredible crime against humanity. Trust me, folks. She pulls no punches when it comes to unrealistic musicals about Latinos living in the inner city. (Surprisingly, there are more than one.) I was accused of calling it "my most hated play of the year." Oh, dear. I obviously have not told you guys about American Buffalo. I was also flamed for hating Matt Cavenaugh. Now, look here, folks...actually, nevermind. But here's the thing. I see Lenora almost every day, and she seems to have it in for me now. Which is why I have invested in one of these bad boys. Of course, footing the bill for this sucker means I'm not going to eat for the rest of my life.

Anyway, Happy Tony Week, everyone! It's the second most holy week of the year. It's true. I checked. I'm so excited I could just asplode. I'm also nurturing this fanciful dream that Next to Normal will take Best Musical. Never gonna happen. That said, these are my picks for the winners' circle:

Best Musical:
Billy Elliot

Best Play:
God of Carnage

Best Revival of a Musical:
Hair

Best Revival of a Play:
The Norman Conquests

Best Leading Actor in a Musical:
Gavin Creel - Hair

Best Supporting Actor in a Musical:
Will Swenson- Hair

Best Actress in a Musical:
Alice Ripley - Next to Normal

Best Supporting Actress in a Musical:
Karen Olivo - West Side Story

Best Director of a Musical
Diane Paulus - Hair

Best Choreography
Billy Elliot

Best Lighting Design of a Musical
Hair

Best Scenic Design of a Musical
Billy Elliot

Best Original Score
Next to Normal (If it's Billy Elliot, you'll never hear the end of it.)


I am fully prepared for a Billy Elliot sweep. However, I have but one request. Please, God, don't let it get any acting Tonys. Carole Shelley and David Bologna don't have a prayer, and if Greg Jbara got it, I might have to cut a bitch. The only ones who might actually bring home the award are the three Billys. They don't deserve it, not in my opinion. They're dancers, people. Come on. Give it to Gavin Creel, who's giving a stellar performance in Hair. J. Robert Spencer isn't exactly undeserving, either. If Brian D'Arcy James managed to win, I wouldn't be too heartbroken. I will not even credit that other loser with a mention. But, please, folks, don't give it to the Billys. So there you have it. Let the bloodlust being. P.S.IneverlikedWestSideStory.

Edit:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKY3_HqZOBo Here's the new commercial for Hair. I happen to think it's stupid. And cheesy. Yeah, I'm talking to you, guy who thought it would be a good idea to have Case kiss the cop. At the right is my interpretation of what that moment would look like in LOLCatReality. Also, the roof? Really? No, really? (I'm using my Stewie voice. I talk like that now.) Something about this commercial brings to mind the Even Stevens episode where they start a band on the roof of the school and the young man has his head in a bird cage. Yes, I did watch Even Stevens. I also loved and continue to love Arthur. Yellow sweaters are where it's at.