tails [sic] from the weekend

Sorry I've been so quiet lately. This whole working thing is really cramping my style. Here's a quick update on things:

On Saturday, I met up with Byrne, of Crash and Byrne fame, and we took in a matinee of Spring Awakening. LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVED it. And I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE the fact that my blog has exposed me to fellow theater geeks who will go to shows with me and even organize the outings! Thanks again, Byrne! Can't wait for the next one!!!

Glamour Puss continues to rock my world (sorry, watching a bit too much Rock of Love lately). Thanks to everyone who wished her a Happy Birthday last week. 'Twas appreciated. GP and I had a private birthday party this weekend. On the agenda, a modified (read: dirty) version of Pin the Tail on the Donkey, flowers and a loot bag filled with quite possibly the most random assortment of crap ever assembled. GP was treated to, among other things, Swedish Fish, stickers, ponytail holders, tissues, chocolate, pirate tattoos and the piece de resistance… Parfums De Coeur Sexy Thang Body Spray. Nothing says "I dig you" quite like a knock-off of Baby Phat Goddess perfume, no?

Here are some photos from our little private party:

I'm on vacation next week. After sleeping for a few days straight, I'll hopefully be refreshed and recharged and will stop treating my blog like an unwanted bastard child.

broadway barks

In the market for a new cat or dog? Consider adopting one while hobknobbing with the likes of Mary Tyler Moore and :: all bow :: Bernadette Peters. I loves me some Bernadette, see.

Here are the details:

BROADWAY BARKS 9 will take place on Saturday, July 14th in Shubert Alley (located between 44th and 45th Streets, between Broadway and Eighth Avenue). The festivities begin at 3:30 p.m.; celebrity presentations of pets from citywide animal shelters will take place between 5:30 and 6:30 p.m. (In the event of rain, BROADWAY BARKS 9! will be rescheduled for Saturday, July 28 from 3:30p.m. - 6:30p.m.)

Celebrities scheduled to join Peters and Moore for this special benefit, presenting the animals for adoption include: Angela Lansbury (Deuce); Audra McDonald (110 in the Shade); Harry Hamlin and Lisa Rinna (Chicago); David Hyde Pierce, Edward Hibbert, Jason Danieley, Michael McCormick, Debra Monk, and Karen Ziemba (Curtains); Jerry Mathers and Paul Vogt (Hairspray), Priscilla Lopez and Mandy Gonzalez (In the Heights); Christine, Ebersole, Mary Louise Wilson, John McMartin and Maureen Moore (Grey Gardens); Cheyenne Jackson, Kerry Butler and Mary Testa (Xanadu); Michael Cerveris (LoveMusik); Jo Anne Worley, Beth Leavel, John Glover, Gerry Vichi and Patrick Wetzel (The Drowsy Chaperone); Ashley Brown, Jane Carr, Daniel Jenkins, and Gavin Lee (Mary Poppins); Marin Mazzie, Jonathan Hadary, David Hibbard and Martin Moran (Spamalot); Xanthe Elbrick (Coram Boy); Charlotte D'Amboise and Michael Berresse (A Chorus Line); John Earl Jelks (Radio Golf); Michael Mulheren (Deuce); Christian Hoff, J. Robert Spencer and John Lloyd Young (Jersey Boys); Judy McLane (Mamma Mia); Laura Belle Bundy, Orfeh and Andy Karl (Legally Blonde); Lea Michele (Spring Awakening); Sebastian Arcelus, Jayne Houdyshell, and Kendra Kassebaum (Wicked); Stephanie J. Block (The Pirate Queen); among others.

If you can't attend the event, please visit BroadwayBarks.com for more information on pet adoption. Thank you.

acting? thank you! part deux

It's been a while since I posted about my acting class, hasn't it? Fear not, I did not drop out. I'm still enrolled and going strong... save for the occasional absence to attend highfalutin fancy pants fashion shows.

Even though the class scares the bejesus out of me, I'm really loving it. I feel invigorated after I leave each week, similar to an endorphin rush after a good workout or something. I only have a few more classes to go, which is hard to believe. Not sure that I'll be running out on auditions or anything afterwards but still, I'm grateful for the experience and proud of myself for doing what was once the unthinkable. Perhaps my inner ham will once again cry out for some training and refinement. We'll see.

Over the past two months, I've been working on various exercises from Uta Hagen's A Challenge for the Actor. There are 10 exercises total and I've completed three of them so far.

Oh man, I just got a nervous twinge in my belly inspired in part by guilt for using this free time to blog instead of preparing the fourth exercise for tomorrow's class. The rest of the nervous flutter comes courtesy of my deeply-entrenched fear of performing in front of people. Yup, that's still intact. I don't know that I'll ever conquer it but I have been kicking its ass and then some in the past few attempts.

In addition to performing these exercises, I've been doing a bit of improv in the class, which seems to be my real strength. The practiced exercises make me nervous because I have too much time to think and worry about what I'm doing, whereas the whole fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants element of improvisation doesn't give me time to freak out in advance. And bonus! Improvisation really complements my disdain for preparation.

Preparing and practicing my exercises and arranging for props ahead of time is like homework and it totally bums me out. I used to be really conscientious about school stuff but I've found that I've regressed as I've gotten older. I'm all unmotivated, resentful of authority and I automatically lose interest in stuff whenever it becomes mandatory.

Oh sweet Jesus, it would appear that I've turned into a Eddie Haskell/Mallory Keaton/Willie Oleson/John Bender/The Gooch from Diff'rent Strokes hybrid. Now that's attractive.

Anyhoo, the improv exercises in class are my real bread and butter. We've recently begun doing études, in which two class members are called up on stage and each given a very short script. The actors quickly look over the text and decide who will be Part A and who will be Part B. Once the roles are decided, bam! Off they go right into a cold reading.

At first the lines make no sense as the actors are basically reciting words off a piece of paper to each other. But after repeated readings, the lines start taking shape. The approach, emphasis and inflection are varied each time. Eventually, there's a noticeable change in body language, posture and stance. A relationship develops and becomes apparent to the actors and audience. The lines are delivered with new purpose and meaning again and again until an improv naturally springs forth from the last delivered line.

It's exhilarating and frightening because you have no idea where you're going with it. You can only hope that the actor opposite you won't choke or lead you down a dead end scrambling for a way to salvage the exercise.

In my last class, I had a very spirited back-and-forth with a nice fella named Abe. I can't quite tell how old he is. At first glance, I thought he was about 24. I sized him up as a cocky and only in the class to meet girls. I won't say that I instantly disliked him but my impression of him was flagged for further review. Upon closer inspection, I decided it was wise to abandon any attempt to guess his age. He has no visible wrinkles or lines but there was something about his face that said "older than you think." And I realized that when he chats up the ladies (myself included), it seems to be coming from a genuinely social and well-meaning place. I am happy to retract my earlier notion that he was there to scam on chicks.

Abe's also a fun scene partner. Our exercise ran the gamut from a quiet, painful discussion between two people clearly in love to me being a knocked-up 18-year-old spouting off about my freedom of choice and accusing him of slipping me a roofie in order to get me pregnant. He disputed the paternity and suggested we take our case to Jerry Springer. I retaliated with an insult about his prowess (or lack of) in the sack, among other things.

The air crackled with energy. We never broke character but I could tell he was enjoying it as much as I was. The rest of the class just ate it up, giggling and sucking air through their teeth as Abe and I dealt each other low blow after low blow. I was pretty much called a whore without a discernable baby daddy and it.was.awesome. Even better was when the knock-down-drag-out scene ended, Abe and I shook hands and congratulated each other with warm words of praise and big smiles.

"Sorry I suggested that you have to spike drinks in order to get women."

"Hey, don't be sorry. I go with what works, you know?" Abe quickly countered.

Ooooh... cocky AND self-deprecating. It's official: I love Abe.

On a related theatrical note, I went to see The Little Dog Laughed today. I loved it. Wonderfully written, imaginatively staged and brilliantly performed. Oh, and I want to marry Julie White. She was phenomenal. If that high praise is not incentive enough, you get to see Johnny (David from Roseanne) Galecki's weiner and Tom Everett Scott's bum. I know I'm a lesbian and stuff but still, I was impressed. Good work, Johnny and Tom. Good work.

The show is closing on February 18 so if you're in the NYC area and in need of a play recommendation, consider this one. Enjoy!

favorite faces

I got this idea from Sheila. I present to you some famous mugs I, Curly McDimple, adore...

Sheila's got two great batches of photos. Check them out here and here.

Photo Credits:
Harrison Ford: Lucasfilm Ltd.; Bernadette Peters: Judy Katz Public Relations; Fred Flintstone: Hanna-Barbera Productions; Robert Smith: thecure.com; Jack Kerouac: AP; Molly Ringwald: Universal Pictures; Lou Gehrig: ALS Foundation; Stevie Nicks: answers.com; George Harrison: beatlesagain.com; Donna Reed: Unknown; Shannyn Sossamon: chaba.boom.ge; Paul Newman: Leo Fuchs

on waving my private parts at your aunties and the birth of a drama dork

I just saw Monthy Python's Spamalot with my father. It was his first Broadway show ever. I don't know what I enjoyed more -- the musical itself or his reaction to it. (For the record, I ADORED the show. I urge you all to grab your coconuts and go!)

If you don't understand the magic of live theater, go see a Broadway show with a first-timer. Your enjoyment will increase exponentially. I got such a kick out of my Dad. He laughed so hard he cried. I inherited his loud, wheezy laugh so the two of us put on quite the show for our neighbors. It sounded like we were engaged in a bout of dueling harmonicas with our chesty chuckles.

I watched my father excitedly flip through his Playbill during intermission. I noticed that he paid extra attention to the "How Many Have You Seen?" section. Methinks a new theater geek was born tonight! He'll soon be drinking his decaf out of a Phantom mug and adorning the fridge with Miss Saigon magnets. He'll no longer host barbecues but rather Jellicle Balls instead. But through my snobby guidance, he'll eventually learn to scoff at Andrew Lloyd Webber (wanker!) and before long, he'll be tsking over the Tony nominations and second-guessing the selections of the Drama Desk.

I cannot wait. Ooh and now I know what to get him for Father's Day! However, I think it wise to maybe break him in a bit more with the big-budget musicals before dragging him off to see, say, Naked Boys Singing, n'est ce pas?

P.S. Part Ten is coming soon. I promise.

someone is on your side

I am heartbroken over the news that Bernadette Peters' husband, Michael Wittenberg, was killed in a helicopter crash earlier this week. In a way, I take her loss personally.

I'm going to ramble a bit so please bear with me...

I know it sounds funny to some but I adore Bernadette Peters. In fact, my blog name, Curly McDimple, is lifted from a short-lived off-Broadway show Peters starred in many years ago. I take some ribbing about her sometimes but I'm unapologetic and devout in my belief that this woman is a brilliant force of nature.

I cannot even begin to adequately describe how much I idolized her when I was younger. She first knocked my socks off when I saw Into the Woods in high school. A few years later, she was back on Broadway in The Goodbye Girl and that's when my fascination with this woman really kicked in.

My appetite for information about her was voracious. But she was reticent to talk about herself. She spoke about her work but not herself necessarily. Her life was spent on the stage and that was the only part of herself she was really willing and prepared to share. Personal details were not easy to come by. I wanted to know everything about her but at the time, my resources were limited to scouring the pages of the Daily News and the New York Post every day trying to find her name in bold-faced print. Sometimes I got a tidbit but mostly I was left cursing the fact that I wasn't obsessed with someone a bit more palatable to the gossip pages. It was a tough fascination to foster.

I didn't have much to go on so I treasured my Into the Woods and Sunday in the Park with George cast albums. I listened to them daily and was continually floored by the nuance in her voice combined with the sheer brilliance of Stephen Sondheim's music and lyrics. Peters and Sondheim formed quite a formidable duo. There was a spell in the 1990s when you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a Sondheim tribute. I relished that because I knew Bernadette would be in attendance and PBS would be there capturing it for broadcast during annual pledge drives.

My favorite was Sondheim: A Celebration at Carnegie Hall. I sat impatiently through all the appeals for money and performances by Patti LuPone, Glenn Close, Daisy Egan, Karen Ziemba and scores of others. Bernadette didn't appear until the final hour of the broadcast but it was worth the wait. She stood on a darkened stage with that unmistakable hour-glass figure and those teeming curls in silhouette. The lights came up and the image was striking. She looked like she was poured into her long, black gown. Her pale skin practically glowed white in contrast to her scarlet lips and hair.

I held my breath. And then the camera moved in close and just stayed there throughout her interpretation of "Not a Day Goes By" from Merrily We Roll Along. The director rightfully called for a mix of close-ups, slow pans and dramatic fades to punctuate the magic on stage. She finished on a long, cascading note and was met with thunderous applause in Carnegie Hall and goose bumps in my bedroom.

I was on vacation in Florida about 11 or so years ago. I turned on the television in my hotel room to find this Sondheim tribute underway. I was happy to be on holiday but slightly homesick for New York and my beloved theater scene. So I plopped down on my bed and started watching. I changed the channel during one of the pledge breaks and when I flipped back a few minutes later, I was horrified to discover that the local PBS affiliate decided to yank the show in favor of Yanni: Live at the Acropolis. I think the switch was due to lack of interest or something but I can't be sure because my ranting speech about the "uncultured morons in Orlando" totally drowned out the station manager's explanation. Um, no offense, Orlando. It's just that Yanni and his puffy blouses tend to set me off, you see.

I was mostly pissed because they cut away right before Peters' performance. I wanted to see it again. She gets emotional every time she sings but when she tucks into a Sondheim song, she brings it to a whole new level. She contorts her face, throws her head back and rolls it from side to side, clenches her fists and swings her arms far and wide. Her entire body gets in on the act. Her curls rattle and often fall in her face. She sweeps them away but they inexplicably end up there again. She bellows and snarls one minute and then sweetly coos the next. More often than not, she tears up. The whole thing is most definitely theatric. Some think she overdoes it and I agree that it can seem over-the-top, but I don't think her performance is ever fake. She believes what she's singing and she feels it deeply each time.

The quality of her voice is debatable to some. I know several professionally-trained singers who complain that she sings "wrong." They prattle on about her breathing technique and how she loses her voice frequently. But I like that her voice can be hoarse and husky. I think the imperfections make it all the more interesting. I love that her voice gets ragged and coarse in between the soaring high notes. It adds texture.

At the risk of sounding like a total drama queen, Bernadette changed the course of my life. In a roundabout sort of way, she's the reason why I'm here working and writing on the internet. Back when I was foaming at the mouth for Bernadette-related info, I signed up for AOL so that I could access Playbill Online. I saw an ad in Playbill magazine promising active message boards, news, archives, and all the information a theater lover starved for information could possibly want. I can safely say that I was on that site every day chatting with people and exchanging information. I learned a lot about Bernadette -- her background, ex-boyfriends, rumors of ex-girlfriends (gasp!), lesser-known projects, pet causes and all that other fun stuff. I also gained knowledge of an array of plays, musicals, performers, composers, lyricists and playwrights. I was always well-versed in pop culture but through my exposure to Bernadette, I became more well-rounded. Theater was a gateway to dance, opera, avant-garde performance art, etc.

For a time, I was an education major in college. After I did some student teaching, I realized the mistake I was making. I was bored and disenchanted. It was a far cry from the passion I felt when discussing theater, movies, award shows, et al. I knew I could write and make a living at it so I changed my major to Communications/Journalism. As I filled out the necessary paperwork, I totally fancied myself an entertainment reporter specializing in the Broadway scene. Um, that's so NOT what I do now but I did actually work for an industry publication for a few years. However, I soon discovered that I enjoyed theater more as a fan rather than an industry insider so I quit. I bounced around in print for a bit before finding my way into the world of interactive media where I eventually met The Lovely Jess who encouraged me to start this blog. And there you have it.

Life-Changing Issue #2: While I can't attribute my being gay to Bernadette, I can say with confidence that she's somewhat responsible for my finally acknowledging it. I met THE EX through a shared love of her work. What started out as two straight girls with a mutual appreciation for Bernadette, eventually evolved into a passionate and intense romance. The relationship may have ended but that's where my new life began in a sense. I came out to people. I stopped hiding. I'm still secretive in many respects but I don't lie anymore. I reached a new level of understanding and connection with people, in particular the gay boys I had befriended through our mutual Broadway diva adoration. I would have accepted this truth about myself eventually but it was far more entertaining to get here via Bernadette.

Even though I don't technically know her, I'm still saddened by her loss. She gave me so much without realizing it. I've seen her numerous times in person but I can't adequately thank her... and I don't even try because, well, that would be weird and scary. The best I can do is wish her the strength and inspiration she helped me discover.

an ode to my crappy movie collection

Since the parents had the garage sale, a lot of hidden boxes and other items have been unearthed in their basement. I found a box full of movies I had taped off of HBO and The Movie Channel when I was in high school. Truth be told, we weren't actually paying for those channels but we still got reception free of charge. Naturally, I recorded things like the wind. I showed no discretion. I just pressed the record button all willy-nilly like. As a result, I am in possession of some shitty movies in VHS format because I was forever fearful that the freebie channels would be cruelly taken from me. And eventually, my good fortune dried up. It was a sad and dark day when I turned on the telly to see scrambled HBO and static on TMC.

I compiled quite the library of movies during my free cable run. Well, when I say quite the library, I'm referring to quantity, not exactly the quality of the films. I was the curator of crap. Even if the films in my collection opened to dismal box office returns and scathing reviews, I took enough care to carefully label each tape with a number and store them in an orderly fashion in the TV cabinet. To quickly access the movie of choice, I had only to look in my corresponding handmade catalog which was protected in a see-through report cover with yellow plastic binding.

I didn't apply the same cataloguing system to my audio cassettes, but they too were neatly labeled. No tape case was without a jacket. I always made sure the Maxell/Memorex/Fuji/Scotch card was filled out. If I made a mistake that couldn't be saved by White Out, I painstakingly cut a piece of paper from my sketch book to the appropriate dimensions and started fresh. I was quite neurotic about it. Is it any wonder I'm on an anti-anxiety drug today?

But back to the movies... While I'd like to boast a film library with tons of black-and-white Oscar-winning classics, my collection was a bit heavy on the cheese. Think TNT instead of Turner Movie Classics, perhaps. And I am not ashamed. My Christmas collection was rather superior but the rest was just a dumping ground for mostly-forgettable 80s and early 90s films. I had a lot of the classics but when relying on the whim of premium cable programming directors, one just has to make do. Casablanca? No. The Lost Boys? Absolutely. Gone with the Wind? Uh, nope. Baby Boom? But of course. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington? Get the fuck outta here. Pink Cadillac? Now you're talking.

My collection was largely shaped by my various celebrity obsessions. They were few and somewhat far between but they were serious business. Beginning at a young age, I religiously scoured the TV listings that came in the Sunday Daily News. I became quite adept at spotting Harrison Ford's name in mere seconds. Oh how I ached for knowledge of that man. He was so mysterious to me. Everyone else my age was foaming at the mouth over Luke Skywalker but I knew that Han Solo was the sexy one.

As I grew older and I started getting "funny feelings" about women, I became TRANSFIXED by Kim Cattrall after seeing her in Mannequin. Shut up. Oh but such unwavering devotion to this woman lent for some really shitty viewing on my end. My patience was tested time and time again. Midnight Crossing? Oh Kim, Kim, Kim...

And then I discovered Michelle Pfeiffer and the three of us became entangled in a bizarre love triangle (New Order, represent!) It was bizarre in the sense that Michelle and Kim had NO idea they were even involved, of course. I have to say that following Michelle around like a puppy wasn't a bad thing. The Fabulous Baker Boys, Dangerous Liaisons, Married to the Mob = good. Although, One Fine Day and Dangerous Minds = very bad.

After seeing Basic Instinct, Sharon Stone was in the running for my affections but she quickly became annoying and was given the boot but good. I had a very quick dalliance with Jennifer Runyon of Charles in Charge and The In-Crowd, but that too was a passing fancy. In addition to poor career choices, she also had a weird mouth. I regret this crush.

Kim and Michelle were really holding steady throughout high school. Then I rented Adventures in Babysitting and developed a third-string crush on Elisabeth Shue. My heart didn't exactly race at the thought of her but I liked her enough to plunk down my money to see Cocktail in the theater. I'm not going to lie to you... I liked it! Yes, it was ghastly in many ways but I have no regrets. In fact, I think I even remember most of the poem Tom Cruise recites while standing on the bar at the jail-themed club: "The Sex on the Beach! The Schnapps made from peach! The Velvet Hammer! The ALABAMA SLAMMER!" So on and so forth.

You know, when Elisabeth later regained some cred with Soapdish and the Oscar nod for Leaving Las Vegas, I felt vindicated for liking her all along. Same thing when Kim hit it big with Sex and the City. [insert Arsenio-like hooting here]

When I was a senior in high school, an English teacher brought in a videotape of Into the Woods. As the opening credits of Great Performances rolled, so did my eyes. Despite my love of musicals now, I hated them back then with the exception of maybe Annie and Grease. As a 17-year-old brimming with 'tude, I did not want to see people prancing around the stage bursting into song every few minutes. But I found myself warming up to it. The story was interesting. The songs didn't suck. Most importantly, Bernadette Peters shed her old crone costume at the end of Act 1 to reveal a smokin' bod with boobies OUT TO HERE. She struck quite the memorable pose in my heart and mind with those pursed, juicy lips and those cascading curls. In that moment, my heart was in my throat and still pounding. I didn't know what to make of it because I was totally unawares of my future tendencies, you see. I just chalked it up to admiration, as I was prone to do when a lovely lady made me feel all tingly inside.

The smitten feeling soon passed because it was towards the end of senior year and my thoughts and focus were taken over with graduation, parties and getting ready for college. Two years later, I saw Bernadette on Broadway and the latent crush resurfaced BIG TIME. I went back to see The Goodbye Girl three or four times even though it kinda sucked. But Martin Short was in it too and well, he just kicks my ass. To be in the same room with my idol and Ed Grimley was a monumental moment for me. I got Bernadette's autograph afterwards and proceeded to stalk her for several years. It was serious. I dragged a friend to TropWorld Casino in Atlantic City to see Bernadette's concert. We were the only two who didn't smell like Ben-Gay and have balled-up tissues in our sleeves. It was worth it though as she's a lovely woman and very gracious... even in the face of a bumbling, crazed fan.

My wayward point is, for each obsession, I quickly gained the ability to spot their names in the TV Guide with the speed and precision once reserved only for Harrison. Now Kim, Michelle and Bernadette had equal face-time in my anal-retentive movie archive. In retrospect, they should really thank me for sitting through some of that crap. Hello, Heartbeeps, Bernadette? What the HELL were you thinking? Hanover Street, Harrison? I mean REALLY. I can still conjure up the stank of that piece o' shit. Grease 2, Michelle? I realize this has kitsch value for some and others downright like it but I think it's rotten. P.U.

I used to be concerned mostly with Kim because she made the worst choices of all. But then I saw Lifetime's Intimate Portrait where she explained that she made the likes of Masquerade and Honeymoon Academy in order to finance her real love -- the thee-A-tuh. I had a new-found respect for her after that. Hell, if someone wanted to pay me good money to phone in a performance in a crappy Robert Hayes movie, I wouldn't say no either. Screw the Academy and the critics -- just give me the check. By the way, I also learned from Intimate Portrait that Kim is Canadian. Who knew?

By now the crushes all have waned. Instead, they're more like fond memories. I still love movies but I barely own any. Based on my obsessive behavior as a teen and my more-refined tastes as an adult, it would logically follow that I'd have an enviable collection of top-of-the-line films. On the contrary, I have a few VHS tapes and one DVD to my name. Which movies you ask? Lawrence of Arabia? No way. Working Girl? Naturally. From Here to Eternity? Surely you jest. Sixteen Candles? Like you had to ask. On the Waterfront? Hell no. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer? Fo shizzle.

And long may my crappy collection reign!

sing out, louise!

It's been awhile since I've seen legitimate theater so I hightailed it over to the TKTS booth after work to get a ticket for Gypsy. It's closing at the end of the month and there was NO way I was going to miss out on the chance to see the divine Bernadette Peters (all bow) playing the mother of all stage mothers. Oh my God, she did not disappoint.

I scored an orchestra seat and was so close, I saw spit fly out of her mouth. In case there's any confusion, that's a good thing. Well, no, not always... I saw Tommy about 10 years ago and the gentleman playing Tommy sprayed so much when he sang that the theater management really should have issued tarpaulins along with the Playbills. With all that moisture hitting the front rows, I felt like I was at a Gallagher show.

Interesting Gallagher aside: I attended a press event sponsored by Black and Decker last year and Gallagher was the "entertainment." He wasn't even playing with the power tools -- he just walked around and said, "Hi, I'm Gallagher." I found myself face-to-face with him at one point and he shook my hand and gave me a piece of watermelon taffy (which I didn't eat because it was rather soggy thanks to his sweaty palms). It was one of the weirdest moments of my life. I'm guessing it wasn't all that great for Gallagher either. He should take a sledge hammer to his booking agent.

But back to Gypsy... it was thrilling. I don't know if I've ever seen someone pour so much of themselves into a performance. I was exhausted for Peters by the time the show was done. It's even more mind-blowing to think that she does it eight times a week. Shee-it. I'm not an emotional person AT ALL but I felt weak in the knees during "Rose's Turn." She tore through that song with such ferocity and her voice was totally raw by the end. I could actually feel the anticipation in the theater build as the audience waited to applaud. As much as I dig film, it's just not the same. Not that I ever fell out of love with the theater, but I rediscovered my passion for it tonight. Good stuff.