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.

re: the muppets (part four)

Here's the next installment of my lengthy tome. Please click here for Parts One through Three.

~ Part Four~

My "I love you" hung in the air for a few seconds. I didn't regret saying it because, well, she initiated it. I wasn't running the risk that she took when she uttered that staggering phrase first. But I was still petrified. I was normally such an emotional control freak and here I had just surrendered a sizable chunk of my tightly-wound turf.

I sweated it out for a few more moments. And then, finally, she replied. Apparently, she was in shock. A giddy, mind-racing, heart-fluttering good kind of shock, but shock nonetheless.

Her: Oh my God. I'm just... I'm sorry. I'm stunned. Do you know how happy you just made me? Do you have ANY idea?

Me: Wow. I actually said it.

Her: Yes, you did! I'm so proud of you. Oh my God, I'm so happy right now!

Me: Wow. I actually said it.

Her: Are you okay?

Me: Yes. I'm fine. I'm just... Wow. I actually said it. Sorry I'm being so stupid. I do love you too. And I mean it. I do. I'm just sorry I couldn't say it before, you know?

Her: It's okay. You don't have to apologize. I know that was huge for you. You don't need to explain.

But I did try to explain, as best I could, and we ended up talking for several more hours. She admitted that my response had sent her reeling. She said that I had at last given her what she had hoped for but wasn't at all expecting.

Eventually and hesitantly we finally signed off after a busy night of breakthroughs and brand-new connections.

The next day, she sent me a note:

From the very beginning, all I've ever wanted was to be close to you. You have no idea how happy you've made me.

When I read it, my hands turned clammy and cold. I started to shake. I became really uncomfortable. I was suddenly embarrassed by her openness... and my own the night before. I didn't want to be reminded of it the next day.

My response to her was completely dependent on the time of day. A pattern was emerging. At night, I was completely swept up in this relationship that defied all common sense and definition. By day, I wrote it off as foolish drunken behavior. In the harsh daylight, it made no sense. The efficacy of her magic diminished after a good night's sleep.

Each day I tried to be practical and remind myself that even though I spoke to her day in and day out and broke daring new ground, we still had no business talking to each other in this manner. She had a boyfriend, for fuck's sake! And I, with my new-found confidence thanks to her, was still giving it the old college try with the boys, albeit at much better establishments than before.

My friend had just started medical school and was introducing me to eligible soon-to-be doctors left and right. A couple of them had a keen interest in me so I flirted and followed the script but really, I couldn't care less. I was just passing the time until last call. Attention from boys was no longer a measure of success. I didn't need the attention nor did I really want it. In a weird, fucked-up, totally incomprehensible way, I already had someone to come home to at night.

But then again, she was a girl six years younger than me, lived in Oklahoma and uh, hello, we were both straight! Or at least she was. I didn't know what to think about myself at this point. I wasn't having lesbian fantasies about her necessarily but I did want to go to Tulsa and just sweep her off her feet. And, you know, maybe kick her boyfriend's ass.

I'd sometimes catch myself in the middle of this daydream and become instantly appalled. I had no idea where my head was at. I chastised myself repeatedly. Oh the migraines and the maddening debate she caused! My mind fluctuated back and forth between sheer logic and a growing desire that I really didn't understand. It was dizzying.

But all I had to do was just think about her and it calmed me down. And, somehow, I knew that she was out there thinking about me and struggling with the same things.

It was insane and scary and I tried more than once to put the brakes on it but good God, I was drunk on her and how she made me feel. We each tried to get back on the "normal" friendship track but it was really no use. We were out of control and we both knew it.

In our correspondence, we'd nervously laugh (as well as you can through digital communication) and joke about how lovey-dovey and schmoopie we were. We always followed up these conversations with a proclamation of our non-gayness. Regrettably, the discourse was often far from enlightened. Whereas the rejection and vehement denial of homosexual tendencies sometimes takes the form of physical violence, she and I stooped to its equally vile verbal counterpart.

Because we weren't gay, you see. We were just two female friends who thought the world of each other and had an indescribable connection. We chanted this mantra repeatedly in the hopes that maybe we'd actually start to believe it ourselves.

In early 1998 Annie Get Your Gun was preparing for its Broadway run. Being a fellow Bernadette devotee, she wanted to come to New York to see the show. She booked her flight and I got us tickets for the show. I forwarded her the Ticketmaster confirmation and attached the note:

Here's hoping we don't act like retards this time around.

Prior to this trip, she and I had spent about 60 minutes together total. Somewhere in between the "You're beautiful" and the "I love you too" stages, she came to New York for a quick visit.

Some of the details surrounding her first trip are kind of fuzzy. I view this as a bit of a victory because there was a time when I remembered everything in excruciating detail and tortured myself with it. I couldn't let it go. Obviously, my recollection is still intact but I'm grateful that my memory of her is no longer photographic. I have to work harder to patch together the timeline and specifics.

As I recall, I was so scared of meeting her face-to-face that I did everything in my power to make myself almost unavailable. She aimed rather high when trying to claim some of my time but I somehow talked her down to a mid-week lunch hour. I blamed it on being busy but really, I wanted and needed a time limit and an escape route.

As much as I wanted to see her, I felt weird. This person, who up until then only existed in a still photo and Times New Roman font, was about to become real. VERY real. And in addition to feeling, I dunno, funny about her, I also felt self-conscious about our age difference. I was a vain 24 year old and I thought I was far too grown up to be hanging out with a high school kid. Even if that high school kid was her, my beautiful little girl. At the time, I either couldn't or simply refused to reconcile the two.

The plan was that she'd call me when she arrived in New York and we'd finalize our plans. I came home one night and the light on my answering machine was flashing. While I watched it blink, I considered what her voice might sound like. This would be my first exposure to it, after all. Would she sound all twangy like Garth Brooks? He was the only other Oklahoman I knew. Oh my God, would she call me m'am? I ran through a gallery of famous Southern drawls in my head. I had manufactured a short list of good and bad Southern accents. I said a quick prayer that she wouldn't fall into the latter category.

Let's take a time out for a second, shall we, to consider the gall on this girl from Jersey -- of all places -- being disdainful of and overly concerned about an annoying-sounding regional dialect. What balls! Or, more accurately, what bawwwwwls!

I hit the playback button and I immediately smiled. She didn't sound at all like the cartoonish hillbilly I had imagined. On the contrary, her voice was lovely. She was a trained singer so it was rich and resonant with only a subtle shade of Okie to it. Her accent warmed her voice. It felt cozy and familiar, like my security blanket.

We played phone tag a bit but by her second night in town, we managed to track each other down. We blabbed and blabbed and blabbed and eight hours later, we finally hung up. I could have spoken to her for another eight easily.

I already regretted only allotting one hour of my time during her stay.

She met me outside of my office the next day. My heart was in my throat as I scanned the crowds looking for her. I stole nervous-yet-reassuring glances at my shoes. Monitoring my fidgeting legs and tapping feet was my only coping mechanism.

I looked up just as she turned the corner. She immediately caught my eye and we both smiled and inched closer to each other.

After the long phone call and the countless hours spent writing to each other, you would think that we would instantly embrace in a warm, friendly hug. I'm pretty sure she was game for one but for reasons I can't explain, I thrust out my hand and said, "It's nice to finally meet you."

I shook her hand? What?!?!

She looked a little surprised as she accepted my handshake and said, "Oh! Um, it's nice to meet you too."

I was a total tool. But she was by no means cool and collected either. She was visibly nervous and looking to me for cues. I, being the social retard that I am, was of no help or comfort. I could barely look her in the eyes. I assumed a maddeningly business-like attitude and played tour guide as we walked to the restaurant.

We were both confused by our own discomfort. She and I had really charted a lot of intense territory and here I was, in person, incapable of anything more personal than, "Whatever you do, don't eat at the All-Star Cafe. That place sucks. I mean, I haven't actually eaten there myself but just trust me. Don't bother."

We eventually managed to calm down a bit as the hour progressed. We chatted and giggled. Over those 60 minutes, we were very much the two female friends we often offered up as evidence in support of the argument that ours was a unique but strictly hetero relationship.

Our time was up. As we said our goodbyes, I was actually able to initiate a hug. It was a small step towards bridging the gap between our written connection and our face-to-face one. I wanted more time with her so that in person, we could achieve a consistent level of comfort. But my lunch hour was over and she had Broadway shows to watch, museums to visit and souvenirs to buy.

My being over-protective and stingy with my time had come back to bite me in the ass. We lingered for a second and I said, "Okay, I really have to go." She cocked her head to the side and her mouth formed just the hint of a pout as she said, "Aw." That small gesture caused an eruption of butterflies in my stomach.

I gave her another hug -- this one with an extra squeeze at the end -- and ducked into my office building, a little sad, a bit relieved and beyond baffled.

She emailed me when she got back to Oklahoma a few days later. After the discussion of musicals and museums, we turned to the topic of our shared case of nerves. We were able to laugh it off and chalk it up to, as weird as it seemed, stranger anxiety. We assured each other that next time it would be different since we got the awkward first meeting out of the way.

I wasn't sure if our real-life weirdness would seep in and distance our written selves at all. When she signed off with, "I wish I could see you all the time. You give the best hugs," I knew there was no need to worry.

The Annie Get Your Gun trip was about nine months later. By that time, we had really stepped up the schmoop factor and our concurrent denials of lesbianism became more fervent. I mean, we hadn't actually kissed or anything so we weren't, you know, gay for each other or anything like that. But even without kissing or sex, our relationship was gayer than Billie Jean King, Melissa Etheridge and the entire Michigan Womyn's Music Festival combined.

Gifts of free-form poetry, incense and mix tapes containing inordinate amounts of Sarah McLachlan and, God help me, Jewel were shipped back and forth. Necklaces, bracelets and rings were exchanged. She sent me a silver band while she sported a Claddagh I sent her. It mattered not that it was a fucking Irish wedding ring because she was "just my friend."

The Annie Get Your Gun outing was nigh. At long last, she was back in town and we were going to spend longer than one hour together.

I stood in front of the Marriot Marquis with my friend waiting for her to arrive. As the meeting time approached, I felt increasingly light-headed and sick. I honestly thought I was going to have a big honking barf right there on Broadway.

"Are you okay? You don't look so good, Curly," my friend asked.

She knew of our somewhat unique friendship but she didn't know the extent of it at all. No one in my life did.

"I'm fine. It's just been a busy day and I haven't eaten a lot."

We moved out of the line of fire of the crowds and the Black Israelites (apparently she and I are both the Devil. Pass it on!) and I leaned up against a pole for support. Mercifully, the moment passed without so much as a dry heave.

She arrived with her father about 10 minutes late apologizing up and down for being tardy. A few months later, she would reveal that it wasn't subway problems that caused her delay but rather, because she was holed up in her hotel room dealing with a nervous stomach inspired by lil' ol' me. A ha! I was not alone in my bout of nausea.

My friend and her father bookended us inside the theater. We sat side by side. Even though we were in the presence of the performer who ultimately brought us together, neither of us could fully concentrate on Bernadette. We were acutely aware of each other during the entire show. Don't ask me the details about this musical. I can't recall any.

Instead, I noticed that she crossed her right leg over her left while she sat. Her right hand rested on top of her left in her lap. She was prone to barely audible squeals and gasps when the action on stage delighted her. She used Pantene shampoo. And she wore my ring.

Afterwards we went out for dinner. She sat diagonally from me across the table. And we exchanged nervous looks. Once again, we lacked a physical ease with each other but the presence of her father and my friend tempered our nerves. Slightly.

Occasionally I'd catch her eye and we'd share a moment. There was a palpable crackle of energy between us. She felt it too because we both blushed and looked away and then looked at each other again... about 20 or 30 times at least.

After dinner we said our good nights on Eighth Avenue. But unlike the last trip, we had more than just a drive-by planned. We refused to settle for just a couple of hours. We planned a night out, just the two of us. But that made the ending to our first night out no less bittersweet.

I shook her father's hand, she shook my friend's and then we turned to each other. We engaged in a tremendous lingering hug. I remember how her hand reached up and touched the back of my hair. She said, "Oh, I don't want you to leave yet." I could have lived in that moment forever.

We begrudgingly released the embrace and I reached out and softly cupped her cheeks with my one hand, gave a gentle squeeze and said, "Oh, what a face!" She became visbily flustered by my touch and stammered a little bit. It was beyond adorable.

I gave her a smile and said, "I'll see you on Monday."

>> Go to Part Five

-- Part One
-- Part Two
-- Part Three

re: the muppets (part two)

I'm in the middle of telling a story. And it's a long one so I'm chopping it up and publishing it over the next few weeks. It's a bit confessional (and like I said, long!) so I thank you in advance for indulging me. Please click here for Part One.

~ Part Two ~

I debated whether I should respond to the email beyond a polite, "You're welcome." At the risk of seeming immodest, I had developed a wee following among theater-mad teenagers who envied my proximity to NYC, my then job in the entertainment industry (however sucky and lacking in prestige it was) and my ability to turn a quick, witty phrase in chat rooms and on Instant Messenger. Frankly, I was feeling a bit burdened by my teenage fanclub (totally intentional reference) and wasn't sure I wanted to expand its membership.

But I reread the email. And I couldn't help but reply. Its friendly, innocent, sweet and sincere tone dissolved my skepticism. So I responded with a brief biographical sketch and then some additional info about my family, my job and my desire to be a Tony-winning playwright.

Given her musical theater aspirations and her desire to be NYC-bound after college, she found me instantly cool. She had a ton of questions about me. She had endless enthusiasm for me and all details about my life. Yet she wasn't invasive or annoying. I answered them with uncharacteristic candor and ease.

She wrote to me every day, several times a day. She pinged me whenever I signed on to AOL and we chatted for hours. I was charmed and disarmed by this little girl. She was my polar opposite -- emotionally open, demonstrative and completely trusting of me, someone she barely knew. Despite our apparent differences and the short time we'd been talking, I felt so comfortable with her.

So I began to let her in.

At last, I wasn't invisible. I mattered to someone. My appearance on her Buddy List made her day. She told me as much. I wasn't used to someone being so carefree with such personal admissions. She wasn't self-aware in the slightest. If she felt something, she said it. Without a hint of hesitation, embarrassment or apology. Again, totally unlike me.

I grew to look forward to my chats with my adoring Okie girl. I knew part of my appeal lay in things I couldn't really take credit for -- location and age (I was six years older). I was aware of the pedestal she put me on but never let it go to my head. I was honored to be elevated to that status and I cherished it. And what's more, I reached out my hand and hoisted her right up there with me. I was equally taken with her. Sight unseen and from across the miles.

"What's your address? I have some goofy pictures I want to send you of me and Bernadette. She looks scared of me in some of them, I think. It's hilarious. Plus you get to see what I look like..."

Uh oh. If she sent me pictures, she'd want photos of me in return. What if she thought I was ugly? For the first time in her "presence," I felt self-conscious. Up until this point, I felt like a fucking rock star, a far cry from the unattractive, invisible loser I considered myself in my "other" life.

Mind you, there was nothing romantic or sexual about any of this. She wasn't a boy in a bar I was trying to impress. We were pen pals, plain and simple. But still, she had a high opinion of me so far and I didn't want to disappoint her.

I was totally nervous but I obliged. She was my warm, open and caring little girl, after all. If nothing else, she'd at least be polite if she thought I was gross. So I gave her my address. I was scared but at the same time, I was eager to put a face with her amazing personality.

As expected, she asked if I wouldn't mind sending a photo as well. She was chomping at the bit to see her "cool grown-up friend in Jersey." My heart was racing but I agreed. Once I got her address, I took out some stationery and wrote a funny letter and included a wallet-sized college yearbook photo. I actually gulped and silently said, "Well, here goes" when I dropped the letter in the mailbox the next day.

Her letter arrived a day or two later while mine was still en route to Oklahoma.

The envelope was purple and youthful-looking and the handwriting was large and a bit bombastic with its loops and slants. I immediately ran my fingers over the lettering.

I found myself staring at the envelope for a few minutes, almost scared to open it. I couldn't quite understand my fascination with this little girl or the effect she had on me. It was like I knew I would be opening up much more than a letter in that moment.

I felt it in my hands. The middle of the envelope was a bit stiff confirming that I now had photographic evidence of this wonderful soul I had so fortunately stumbled upon.

I took a deep breath and gingerly opened the envelope.

>> Go to Part Three

-- Part One

re: the muppets (part one)

I have a story to tell. And it's a long one. It most definitely can't fit into one post so I'm going to chop it up and publish it over the next few weeks. It's a bit confessional (and like I said, long!) so I thank you in advance for indulging me.

~ Part One ~

"... So where do you live? What do you? ... I live in Oklahoma (yes, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!). Write back and tell me about yourself. If you want..."

Little didn't I realize what a whirlwind that innocuous invitation would unleash.

This was late 1997. I was living in New Jersey in the basement of my parents' house while commuting to my job in New York City. My life in the city was fun, engaging and for the most part, fulfilling. At home, I was quiet, bored and disenchanted.

I was juggling dual versions of myself. I had a fresh start in the city and I took advantage of it. However, back in Jersey, I was completely pigeon-holed. But I didn't have the means to move out so I continued to live a life of staggering contrasts. On one side of the Hudson, I was vibrant and energized. On the other, I was barely breathing.

I made attempts to reconcile the two but reputations are quite sticky. The quiet label followed me up and down the Turnpike. Not much else was expected of me... nor was it permitted to develop. I viewed each dismissal as a permanent indictment. I gave up trying to sway opinion. Unless you were a member of my tight inner circle, you didn't really know ME. Only my close friends were privy to the chatty, laid-back, mischief-loving, funny version of myself. The person not stricken with a debilitating bout of shyness and the shadow it cast.

Outside the tightly-guarded bubble, I seemed uptight, anti-social, dull. I was less than memorable. People didn't remember my name or my face. Some would say, "It's nice to meet you," while shaking my hand... the very same hand they shook on previous occasions.

I hardly stood out to strangers and I was all but invisible to boys. It wasn't for lack of trying though. I'd pretty myself up and give myself a pep talk before going out with my friends. I'd always swear "This time will be different." But the combination of my shyness and my best friends' lack of always meant that the boys talked to them. I just didn't seem to register. I would sometimes even poke myself just to make sure I wasn't really invisible.

But I was there, in the flesh, shuttled off to the side, alone, bored and hating life.

In truth, I loathed going to bars but I was merely doing what was expected of me. As a young, "straight" woman, I was supposed to go out and fetch me a boyfriend. This was an exercise in frustration and futility because I found that I didn't really want to talk to boys. My experience thus far had been with total boneheads. Well, except for Dreamy Brian who was an artist and had tattoos and listened to Ministry. He caught my attention at The Loop Lounge and we had a wee fling but then I quickly felt smothered and gave him the boot (with a bitchin' pair of oiled leather Doc Martens, if you must know).

The interesting likes of Brian were few and far between at the establishments my friends frequented. I met him on the rare occasion when I was allowed to choose the location. Sadly, that rarely happened and I was forever trapped in bars and clubs packed with the biggest ass munches going.

The conversations were always marked by banal, pedestrian banter. I had zero interest. What was most appalling though was that my friends acted like total tools whenever a guy approached. They laughed at jokes that weren't funny, discussed dead-end topics at mind-numbing length and acted completely different. Yet, this behavior made them more palatable to the boys so they partook. I HATED what happened to my friends in the presence of males and I wanted no part of that stupidity.

And it showed on my face, in my body language and overall demeanor. Hmmm... and I wondered why boys weren't buzzing around. In retrospect, yes, I was emitting a serious "fuck off" vibe but at the time, I chalked it up to me just being not hot enough. I just assumed that glances in our direction were meant for my friends, not me. I had just come to accept that I'd be the outcast of the group. I had a mass of curls, fair skin incapable of holding a tan (which, stupidly, did not stop me from trying to keep up with all of my bronzed Italian friends. Hello, sun damage!) and a beanpole figure. I didn't wear "Yeah boobs!" shirts (as The Younger Sister dubbed them). I had no boobs to cheer for whatsoever. Meanwhile, the Best Friend Since Kindergarten had a set of knockers that could stop traffic. Guess who the boys made a beeline for?

Furthermore, the boys at the bars didn't quite care for my sense of humor... or my perceived lack thereof. I would inevitably bruise their fragile egos when I didn't laugh at their piss poor imitation of Fire Marshall Bill. Oh and my lack of enthusiasm for their mastery of ice block shots and the ability to funnel gallons of Natural Ice didn't go over so well either.

The worst was the dance floor. The music selection at most bars just didn't jibe with my fussy tastes. I knew dancing had a rather high success rate when it came to hooking up, however, I could just not bring myself to shake my thang to K.C. and the Sunshine Band and other disco hits of the 70s. Unfortunately for me, my formative years were smack dab in the middle of a wave of 70s nostalgia. I hated disco then and I still do. If I feel nostalgic for the decade of my birth, I reach for Dark Side of the Moon, not Gloria Gaynor, thank you very much.

So I stood off to the side doing my best to look like I wasn't miserable. In between glances at my watch, I'd hope that the D.J. would rescue me from my boredom and play some 80s music. Seriously, it's a sad state of affairs when one's most fervent wish is for some Dexey's Midnight Runners.

I tried my best to look breezy and carefree even though I was feeling anything but. I discovered that it was imperative for me to act like I was just taking a breather from all the fun otherwise I'd encounter that guy, the one who feels it's his job to point out the sour pusses in the crowd and rehabilitate them. (No doubt, he's now employed as a motivator at Club Med or is handing out inflatable guitars and saxophones on the wedding and bar mitzvah circuit.) More than once, a moron like this got in my face and exclaimed, "Hey! Who died? Aren't you having any fun?" and then tried to yank me onto the dance floor.

Heads up, boys: Certain girls will kick you square in the nuts if you try this.

And I am one of them. Don't try to motivate me. Your sperm count will plunge drastically, I assure you. As an aside, I'm also fond of administering a good knee to the groin. Case in point... I was at a New Year's Eve party back in the early 90s and I was wearing a pair of wide-legged hounds tooth pants with suspenders. I wouldn't be caught dead in them now, mind you, but they were all the rage in 1993.

Anyhoo, some guy thought it was hilarious to snap my suspenders whenever he walked past me on the dance floor. I was inclined to disagree. So after the third or fourth snap, I spun around, placed my hands on his shoulders (for leverage, you see) and slammed my bent knee right into his crotch. And then I spun back around and continued dancing, seamlessly integrating the maneuver into my choreography. It was beautiful, if I do say so myself. Let's see you do that, Twyla Tharp!

Needless to say, NO ONE touched my suspenders the rest of the night. Oh and I was high-fived by just about every woman in the bar. One even said I was her hero. Well, I do try...

But as I was saying, the bar scene (with the exception of Aldo's and The Loop Lounge) did not do it for me. Yet I went back for more. I still hadn't connected the dots. I felt it was still my obligation and duty to meet a boy. So I'd go out, be ignored, mope and slouch my way through the evening and then come home sad, embittered and scarred. [Cue "How Soon Is Now" by The Smiths.]

But I never let on. I didn't tell anyone how miserable I was. While my friends knew me well, I never fully opened up to them. Yes, they saw the mostly unguarded version of myself but at the same time, they didn't really know what raged within. I put on a game face meanwhile I was filled with self-loathing and saddled by an inability to trust anyone.

I'd collapse in bed and replay the night's events in my head. And then I'd tack on a compilation of my many "failed" nights. I subjected myself to a film festival of humbling experiences, embarrassing incidents and painful memories. And then the fists would clench, the bile would erupt and the angry tears flowed.

I wanted so badly to be "normal" and have a boyfriend but at the same time, men just weren't doing it for me. And I'd keep myself up trying to figure it out. Why did I view them so negatively? Why the "us versus them" mentality? What was wrong with me?

The term "lesbian" floated in and out of my mind more than once. But I'd quickly rationalize it away. "Helloooooooo? Remember how you lost your shit over Han Solo? You're not gay!"

I couldn't be gay. I wasn't gay. I just hadn't met the right boy yet.

I told no one about my internal debate. I swallowed it and let it fester. But secrecy, self-doubt and low self-esteem proceeded to ravage me internally the same way an eating disorder or cutting destroyed the bodies of the protagonists on the many after-school specials I had seen.

But I didn't puke up my dinner nor did I hack away at my skin. But I was no less battered and worn. My self-mutilation of choice was completely emotional. Teasing and taunting from years prior played in a constant loop in my head. My mind was like a steel trap when it came to criticism. I had a mental catalogue of insults paid to me. They were so well-organized and easily accessible whenever my self-doubt needed to do some research to effectively kick my ass.

My life at the time pretty much sucked. I was so unhappy. As much as I loved my friends, I felt increasingly alienated from them. They were off chasing boys while I hungered for something else. I wasn't quite sure what it was but I did know that I wouldn't find it at some dopey Jersey Shore bar. So I broke with the pack and focused my attention on more artistic and cultural pursuits.

I turned on my computer, created an AOL account and quickly found a thriving online community devoted to theater (as described here). We critiqued and praised our favorite performers, exchanged information, swapped bootlegs, photos, etc. I got my hands on an audio file of "Just One Person," a song Bernadette Peters sang to Robin the Frog on an episode of The Muppet Show and immediately posted a message on the Bernadette board offering to email the file to anyone who wanted it.

I received a lot of requests which I happily filled. One of my "customers" was having trouble downloading the attachment so we exchanged a few emails trying to figure out her technical glitch.

A few days later, I received another email from her.

Subject: Re: The Muppets
Thank you so much for sending me the file. Sorry I had to keep bugging you for help. My brother figured out what was wrong with my email. Computers suck!

So where do you live? What do you? I'm a senior in high school. I'm studying performing arts and want to move to New York one day. I live in Oklahoma (yes, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!) Write back and tell me about yourself. If you want...

I thought her email was sweet and it stood out because she was the only person who thought enough to send a thank-you note. But I debated. Did I really want a pen pal? Especially with such a young girl? What on earth would we ever talk about?

>> Go to Part Two

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.