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."