Susquehana Mama

As my life has been abundant with travels far and wide, it is only appropriate I chronicle my recent bus trip to Mill Way, PA. Dazed from my recent return and departure from Indiana, reeling from matters of lost luggage (now found) and mixed-up sublets (now straightened out), I made my way to the Port Authority Bus Terminal early Sunday morning, ready to embark on my theatrical journeys. The trip began in tranquil fashion, a grand total of three of us departing from New York (though others would soon join). I adjusted my pillows, spread my legs and blanket, and settled into my seat for the 7+ hour trip, luckily finding sleep as we traveled westward. As the morning gave way to noontime, our bus became more and more populated, weary travelers making their way through New Jersey and Pennsylvania. After about 4 hours on the bus, a toothless wonder I have deemed the Susquehanna Mama, mounted the bus and soon after launched into one of the more impressive monologues I have given witnessed. After approaching the bus driver to ensure that she was indeed in the right place, she made her entrance, clad in tank top, pony tail, bitchin' sunglasses, and even a sweater wrapped around her shoulders (a lady after all). Immediately attaching herself to the young gentleman seated behind her (thank God I was asleep or adequately "disinterested looking"), she began telling him the better part of her life story. Toothless mouth a flapping, she modeled the great finds she had recently purchased at the local CVS, little things to help her kids know they love them. Who knew one's love of the Dollar Store could run so deep? Hey, she may not be perfect, but she does what she can to be a good mom! "You don't got a girlfriend, do you? Mind if I call you sometime? I don't got too many friends, you know, and I get along better with guys. I mean I ain't got no man or anything, I mean my baby-daddy, but he's not really in the picture, so it's not a big deal. Now, here's my married name, but sometimes I go by my maiden name as well. So, if I call you, you aren't gonna pretend you don't know me, right?" It was then that I realized I was coming dangerously close to West Virginia. Toto, we are not in the city anymore. Apparently her ticket was being for via the hospital (???), but my fellow horrified city clicker dramatist and I were not able to accurately piece together that aspect of her story. It was only after our talking traveler left that I dared look at her unlucky victim. A look of relief and wonder spread across his face, indicating that he indeed did not know this woman, nor would he be calling her anytime soon (apparently he gave her a wrong number as well - ballsy). Now, how did he get so instantly friendly with this Appalachian Amazon. Smoking. One shared cigarette led to what would undoubtedly be one of the more terrifying experiences of my life. Remember kids, smoking kills. The rest of the ride was fairly uneventful, our bus making it to the Williamsport station before transferring on to Lock Haven. Along the way, we did pick up a couple of other theatre gypsies, one director, two carpenters, an electrician, and one actor (me) in total. Now, here I am, in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere, energies completely focused on theatre for the first time since school. Strange faces soon becoming familiar, who knows what tales I will have to tell about my new company/family and the show we are contracted to create.

In Defense of "Sex 2"

These past few weeks have seen me busily preparing for my current summer stock gig, cramming in voice lessons and plays, finishing out my final shifts at Locale, and spending a much needed week back in the Broad Meadow. During this time of coming and going, I fortunately had the chance to catch this year's edition of Sex and the City. After an early morning audition, my friend Alissa and I snuck over to the Regal Cinema in Times Square to get some opening-day Sex before noon. Now, I must admit, I am a huge Sex fan. I love the TV show, I loved the first movie, and everyday I try to more and more channel my inner Samantha. No doubt my recent transplant to New York was in at least some way prompted by this monumental series. After all, while the series certainly centers on the four ladies' love lives, it also chronicles their love affair with New York (it is indeed called Sex and the City, not Sex in the City). So, I may be the least bit biased to this treasured series. However, since its debut, this desert-clad movie has received nothing but flack, bad reviews, and even some unwanted wrinkle counting. While I am not foolish enough to deem this early summer blockbuster (it has already grossed over $100 million worldwide) a cinematic masterpiece, it is a film that I believe should be watched and celebrated. Not meant as some great dramatic piece, social commentary, or special effects wowzer, the film relies on its fabulous destinations, both exotic and domestic, its star studded cast (not to mention glittery cameos), and witty dialogue (while it may be short on plot, it is stacked with zingers) to capture audiences. Many critics have condemned the film's shameless glam and excess, deeming it inappropriate during our current economic downturn. However, as Samantha says during an opening scene, "This recession has been a bitch, and I'm tired. We're going on a fucking vacation!" And you know what, I couldn't agree more. The film is camp, it is kitsch, it is fun. This sometimes silly ladies run around in pretty clothes, lapping up luxury, and continually getting themselves into the most ridiculous of situations - what's not to love? My friend and I were nothing but laughs for the good part of the film's two hours, our fellow audience members joining us in belly laughs and cat calls. In fact, the lady next to us had snuck away from work in order to catch the flick. Why not join these four ladies on their dessert escape? It should be noted that this is probably one of the strongest casts in the summer blockbuster landscape (because who really goes to the movies to watch Megan Fox act?), each in roles that play to their strengths and make their stars shine brightest (with the exception of Tony winner Cynthia Nixon, most of the cast has struggled to find success post-Sex). While some of the camp does go a bit overboard (group karaoke numbers tend to leave me feeling the slightest bit uneasy), in generally, the shameless, no holds barred comedy is right on (OK, the giant white bulge was perhaps a little too much; well, not for Samantha). If men can get away with ludicrous humor of this year's Hot Tub Time Machine, who's to say the ladies cannot get into the fun as well? Might I add that most film critics, are (straight) men, not the target audience for a film this, per se. Might these sniveling cinephiles be just a bit intimidated by our sexy sirens? Oh, and there is one more big reason to catch summer's flashiest movie. LIZA MINNELLI. My word, I couldn't breathe. I haven't been that excited, since well, I saw her in the hallway at Chelsea! Now, for those who find more enjoyment from say, John Wayne than Judy Garland, this may not be such a strong draw for you. However, if glitter and legs jive your turkey, you are in for a treat. The legs, the hips, the singing, there she is, Ms. Minelli in the flesh and not missing a beat. Looks like there is life after David Guest after all. "Single Ladies" indeed. So, if you dare, ignore the critics, forget what you have heard, and dawn your highest heels and biggest hat (and whatever other gaudy, flamboyant wardrobe you can find), feel a little bit ridiculous, and head over to put the Sex back in your life.

The Tony's Are Coming! The Tony's Are Coming!

As I anticipate June's coming and my first summer stock gig, another major event is about to commence: The Tony's. Given to Broadway's best each June, I will have actually seen a good chunk of these shows, as opposed to being a clueless spectator in isolated Indiana, all knowledge coming from heresay, blogs, and if you are above the age of 40 (or me), The New York Times. In the musical categories, the current revival of La Cage aux Folles and an original piece Fela! lead the nominations with 11-a-piece. As with the Oscars, I am presented with the monumental and tempting task of attempting to see everything before it closes or I leave for PA. But what to do about all those that have already closed? How could I have missed A View from the Bridge or Time Stands Still (thank God this is one slated to return for a limited run in the fall). And then there's all the shows I'm trying to catch from last year (and the year before and before, etc). I may have made my way to Next to Normal, but what about Billy Elliot? How about those recent big hits Jersey Boys, In the Heights, or Mary Poppins? I know the revivals of Hair, West Side Story, and South Pacific can only run so long. And how about those indomitable titans The Lion King, Mamma Mia!, or The Phantom of the Opera which has made Hal Prince and Andrew Lloyd Webber so much money they'd need to rent out another theater to hold it all? Oi vey! Don't people see I have things to do; I've got to get to the theater!Now being Broadway, we are also presented with the predicament that Broadway shows are much (and usually much, much) more expensive than movie tickets. After freeloading off of as many visitors, relations, and dates as possible, I still find myself with a huge list of "to-see." Now, "You are coming back to New York," you might say, which, as far as I know, is true. But who can foresee the tricky probability that is Broadway openings and closings? Will all the nominees make it to Tony night? And if they are shut out will closing notices immediately follow? Undoubtedly, The Addams Family, which received very few nominations and toilet reviews, will run much longer than even the Toniest of its competition because of its star power and commercial comic-strip appeal. These are the thoughts and decisions mostly running through my head these days. In the past week, I have caught last year's Best Play God of Carnage, Fela!, and Sondheim on Sondheim. Now of course, there are a few things I just have interest in seeing. What is Collected Stories? Why does Sherie Rene Scott have Everyday Rapture (and I'm sorry that's not the feeling her voice usually gives me). While I think a few categories are sure bets (Fela! for Best Musical, La Cage for Best Musical Revival, Fences for Best Play Revival), others are a bit more tricky. My favorite topic of conversation: Best Featured Actress in a Musical. Who will it be? It's a battle of the octogenarians, Lansbury and Cook, two sassy black ladies, one dancing, one singing, and one drunk, who will probably steal the award as she did the show (Promises, Promises). Though, after seeing Sondheim last night, the crowd's love for Barbara Cook, on Broadway for the first time in a long time (her bio reminds you she was a star in the 50's and 60's), may just lift the saggy songstress to Tony-dom. In the Best Actress in Musical category, I'm gunning for Catherine Zeta-Jones from Night Music but perhaps one of the unknown upstarts from Memphis, Finian's Rainbow, or Ragtime will take the Tony. Of course, there's always Sherie Renee . . . Let's just hope I have TV access come June 13, otherwise Millbrook may find they have a slightly grumpy Wilbur on deck. The 2010 Tony Awards will be presented live Sunday, June 13 at 8pm. Only on CBS.

Besides stalking the theatre elite, my life has been busy with work, late night munchies, and planning for my big trip. This week we had an unofficial read through of Hairspray which I am getting more and more excited about. I have been to a few auditions and even mozied over to Uncle Charlie's, singing an array of toons and forgetting my book. Despite an inopportune jackhammer, things have been going pretty well; the sun is (mostly) shining, and I feel I have finally fully shaken off my winter sleepiness and blues. The city, too, seems to be returning to life, our restaurant busier, tourists aplenty, and street fairs popping up on the street. Hungry and confused, I was recently a victim to Colombian street fair food, arriving in Astoria $15 poorer and full of tamales and rice. Let's hope my trip to PA sees me not only embrace my artistic side, but also locate the gym and vegetables, friends I seem to have lost contact along the way. No theatre tonight, as I am off to work, but who knows that next week's excitement may bring.

Bradley in Boston

The rain and gray have returned to New York as our temperature dial keeps frantically switching from HOT to COLD and back and forth. Deciding to once again defy the weather's attempts to keep me in bed, I journeyed to Washington Heights for another lesson with my wonderful and patient vocal coach, Will. This past week has been another busy one, despite my efforts to as little as possible. After two consecutive closing shifts (i.e. lots of quality time with Locale and Stefano), I braved a Mother's Day Double. Running food and coaxing families, I had a hard time getting going, in part because of my late nights, but also due to the nature of Sunday's holiday. My thoughts were on home, on my family (it was 4 months from that fateful day, just in case anyone has forgotten), and of course my mom. I felt guilty for not being home, not calling (my butt just was not ready to be up before church hour), and bitter towards those that got to be spending the day with their loved ones. As soon as I walked in the restaurant it was packed, and I quickly got to work. Luckily, it was very busy that day, so I had little time to sulk over my own thoughts, needing to instead concentrate on toast preferences and egg options, not to mention all those specials (tomato gazpacho, rigatoni with spinach and tomato, apple nutella waffle, steak omelette, crabcake benedict, chicken marsala, hanger steak, shrimp tempura panini, oh yes I am that good). Deciding to release my anger, because no one wants to work with a Grumpy Gus, I plunged into the world of Mother's Day, charming the moms, complimenting their youth, keeping their cup full, etc, etc. I served Asian mommies, Greek mothers, Dominicans, Filipinos, Colombianas, and even a few good old-fashioned Americans. During dinner I became quick friends with a mom after my own heart a.k.a. a Belvedere (classy=pricey) vodka martini, dry with a lemon twist. We talked food and Paula Deen and movies, her recommendation to me being Babette's Feast (to her family: "I know he'll like it, we have a connection!"). As I served all those moms and their (sometimes obnoxious) families, it boosted my spirits to know that I was helping to give a special Mother's Day to these people, even if I couldn't do the same for my mom that day. Though it's been said before, and it's something that I begrudgingly know is true, you really do help yourself when you help others, that by putting yourself in the position of servitude (no, I'm not talking about that), it gives one a sense of peace of pleasure. I find that one of the most satisfying parts of my job (besides getting paid, because that is why I show up everyday), is when I can show people a good time, when they are responsive to my service (as opposed to when they are rude or dismissive). It was a long, somewhat stressful day, but we made it through, and even had enough energy for a drink after work (a dry, vodka martini with a twist of course).

Changing directions and locations, I travelled to Boston on Monday to visit my good friends Aaron and Chrstina. After a near miss, I made it onto the Megabus Monday morning, settling into my seat and cranking my iPod. Though it certainly was not the warmest day of this spring, the brisk weather was cut by some nice sunshine and the excitement of being in a new city (not too mention the new sweater I just got a deal on at the Gap - 45% off, how could I not?). After snaking through South Station's many levels of stairs, we jetted onto the T, Boston's (wannabe) subway system and descended into Harvard Square, the site of Aaron's even-higher education. Once I dropped off my two old lady bags in his dorm room (dorms! what a flashback!), we headed over to a neighborhood pub for lunch and beer. We decided the pub was the right decision, because one doesn't want to start the day with hard liquor, and we intended to have a long day of drinking ahead of us; furthermore, while Indian food is delicious, Bradley does not get much mileage out of coma-inducing curried fare. Buzzed and full (jalapeño poppers and jambalaya, yum!), we took to Harvard Square to see the shops and sights, acclimating me to the Ivy League environment. Making a pit stop for coffee, we then subbed it over to Boston Commons, Boston's (wannabe) version of Central Park. After judging people and their dogs, we met up with my Christina, another IU alum. Fresh from a meeting with her lawyer, we decided to immediately begin Happy Hour (though they have no such thing in Boston - damn Puritans!). Three flowery martinis later (it was love at St. Germain, my new favorite liqueur), we were feeling quite good and even soaking up a little sun on the patio. While the sun did not last very long, our buzzes did, especially after Christina and I went for a round sangria, peachy and delicious. Defying the wind with our newfound blood alcohol content, we stopped in at H&M and immediately decided to but matching yellow sunglasses. Now, if I were a smart person or a good tourist, I would have remembered my camera and taken a picture and put it at the top of this blog, but alas. Two drunk purchases later, Christina left us to study, and we walked over for a quick sushi dinner. The food was good, but I must say that it did not hold a candle to Japanee. Oh, Japanee, my heart, my Bloomington. Full, but not too full, of rice and raw fish, we took the train back to Harvard and regrouped before the evening's events. One of Aaron's Harvard buds was celebrating the end of his exams, and so we decided to perform our friendly duties (even though he was a stranger to me) and join him in his libations. It was a bit of an Academy rewind, as our group consisted nerdy, smart boys (Harvard remember), a nice changeup to the hooligans I usually hang out with. I survived the witty and political banter, glad I had decided not to smoke marijuana in college, and felt thoroughly refreshed that I, indeed, do have a brain. After the smart bar, we again mounted the train to Boston, taking a chance on Boston's version of Musical Mondays. The videos were there, the drinks were there, but where were all the people. Though some might think it strange or even ludicrous, New Yorkers see no problem partying their asses off on a Monday night. What a great way to start the week! Apparently, Bostonians have real jobs and do not see things as such. After hitting up another equally sleepy bar, we surrendered to IHOP, stuffing our faces with mozzarella sticks and pancakes before bed. In all, I really enjoyed my getaway to Boston and am planning as many such getaways as time and funds will allow. Being in New York (the center of the world if you have forgotten), I am train or bus trip away from a while myriad of East Coast destinations. Where will I show up next?

Margaritas, Margaret, Musical Mondays, and . . . oh shit it's May!

April has come and gone and May is quickly upon us. How the time does fly! Since my Elaine adventure, I have been busy with work, planning my June adventures, and even some auditioning. Spilling over with excitement from Elaine sighting, I neglected to mention in my last blog that I recently made my "television debut" with a bit of extra work on Law and Order: Criminal Intent. Depending on how editing goes, you can find me on Episode 12: "True Legacies" walking down the sidewalk, waiting in line for the falaffel cart, and doing my best version of a New York City pedestrian. This was my first assignment through Central Casting and proved both a fun and learning experience, not to mention I actually got paid to act. In fact, though my paycheck was a mere $$, it currently holds the record as my biggest acting check yet (take that "If This Ain't It"). While on set, I observed the camera people and production assistants, and for one shot I was within arm's distance of Jeff Goldblum. Yes, he is that tall and quirky and just a bit creepy (celebrities should not have that much access to self tanners and hair coloring, no matter how much money they have). Between takes, I got to gorge on the treasures at the Craft food table, yogurts, Gushers, nuts, doughnuts, cold coffee, oh my! The glamour truly never ceases. After what seems endless bouts of rain and grey, we finally sun again in New York, and I am loving it. Of course, I am not actually venturing outdoors to enjoy it, but rather soaking up the fresh breeze from my bed/desk, sunning myself at my Happy Hour perch, enjoying wearing even less clothing when I go out at night, or running away from Stefano to the outside section. My room is all but settled, and should I get the hooks I bought for my closet hung up, it will be a real accomplishment and my first real effort in interior decorating. Things with Liz are going swimmingly, in part because we are never home at the same time, causing any meeting a chance to chat and catch up and limiting any competition over bathroom time. I have been zipping through a selection of movies and books, maxing out my Queens Library card. After an affair with contemporary essay/humor writers David Sedaris, Chelsea Handler, and Nora Ephron (love, love, and love), I have returned to my quest for the classics with Love in the Time of Cholera. Let us hope the book leads me closer to love and far, far away from cholera. It seems I have been running more errands than usual, but what I am getting accomplished don't ask me. I've mailed post cards and greeting cards, packages and presents, ordered new checks and updated my address, and taken advantage of some great spring shopping while I have been at it. I grow more and more excited for my upcoming show as well as my upcoming trip back home. I keep thinking of "A Weekend in the Country," from A Little Night Music, though I suppose my sabbatical from the city will last a little longer and hopefully not involve any duels (but then, again . . . ). Last week saw me on a mad hunt for my phone, as we unfortunately were separated from each other during my first visit to Musical Mondays at Splash. Held at the beginning of each week, this bar night celebrates the musical theatre with some of the rarest and most entertaining stage clips around, not to mention 2-for-1 drinks before 9. Arriving at 8, Quinto and I enjoyed a mini-IU reunion and somehow found ourselves at the bottom of about 6 rounds by 10 o'clock (my parents always taught me to be frugal and take advantage of a good deal after all). To the boon of all those in attendance, I was quite loosened up by then, just in time for viewings of clips from Chicago and Promises, Promises. After showing off my Fosse style and best Donna McKechnie (not too mention a whole host of other musical theatre icons), I discovered I was both phoneless and shameless. Searching the dance floor and my empty pockets, I set forth to inquire whether the bartenders or coat room had seen my precious phone. Defeated, I decided to call it a night and hide my sorrows in late night McDonald's and a quick nap on the N-train (how did I miss my stop again?). If I had a dollar for every time I woke up confused at the Astoria-Ditmars stop. The next day, after punishing myself at the gym, I braved the city, a phoneless American, and decided to show my face once again at Splash. There again was the same shirtless bartender from the night before, and yes, there was my beloved phone, contacts and pics intact (though I did have to face quite the interrogation before reclaiming my ENV3). In summation, all I can do is quote that Gaga/Beyoncé classic "I should've left my phone at home 'cause this is a disaster."

Cinco de Mayo proved equally as amusing, as I made my way to the Crescent Lounge to meet a friend following disgustingly slow evening at Locale (what part of expensive Italian food does not spell Cinco de Mayo - By the way, we have a new menu and wine list and Stefano wants everyone to know). As soon I entered the bar, I saw my friend and before I could get a proper "Hello" out, I was accosted by who was to become our new friend, Margaret. Somewhat of a real-life Carol Channing, at least in age and timbre, she quickly said, "Well, who are you? Have we met" She then went on to inform me just who she was, telling me about the Sheet Music Society ("I call it the Sheet Metal Society") and her (obvious) evening at Hurley's beforehand. She applauded Kelsey Grammer and his current performance in La Cage aux Folles, relating that her friend, who hates everything ("This woman, she hates her name, she hates her kids, she hates her cat, and let me tell you, the husband's no bargain"), even celebrated his now Tony-nominated performance. She asked me if I had any available, heterosexually uncles, and luckily was able to respond, "No." Then came the songs. This woman probably sang "Gary, Indiana" to me about 15 times that evenings (I think we met about 5 times). Other favorites include, "What'll I do?" "My Indiana Home," "Friendship," and a personal favorite, "Bosom Buddies" - i just couldn't resist. I did manage to spend a little time with the friends I came there to see, but not of course without some interruptions from good old Margaret. Apparently, she is a regular there and lives across the street. Apparently.

So, now it is May and I am writing my first blog of the month. As I see the dwindling number of blog entries each month, I feel ashamed and sad. What kind of a blogger am I? What kind of abusive give-and-take relationship am I putting my readers through? What about their wants and needs? I promise to write soon, or at least soonish. Well, "Promises, Promises."

Elaine and I

Last night, I met one of my all-time theatre idols, Elaine Stritch. Ok, I hate to use the word idol, because that makes me think of a Golden Calf in the desert, but let's just say I really, really like and admire her. Currently doing an encore performance of a cabaret show she did earlier this year, Elaine Stritch: Singin' Sondheim . . . One Song at a Time, I sat at the bar of the beautiful Cafe Carlyle, in awe, tears, and bliss. Located in the iconic Carlyle Hotel, an epitome of Upper East Side grandeur, its cabaret dining space holds nightly performances by icons of the American theatre, folk, and cabaret traditions (coming up at the Carlyle, Woody Allen, Judy Collins, and Sutton Foster). Coincidentally, this is also the hotel where Ms. Stritch lives, interestingly enough, in the same apartment she and her late husband once occupied. After a long day of work (more on that later), I snazzed myself up and gussied myself over to the Carlyle Hotel, hoping to get a seat for the night's performance. Finding a seat at the bar, I surrendered my credit card as a security, hoping that one of the reserved seats would bail. The Cafe is really a large dining room that only holds about 90 people; starting price to sit at a table $125 a person (depending on the show). I opted for the more economical bar seats, a mere $75 (or was it 85?) a pop, available on a first come, first served basis (unless you are a VIP of course). Oh boy, oh boy, did I feel out of place. Oh boy, oh boy am I glad I called ahead to see if they had a dress code. Outfitted in my best (only) suit, I attempted to fit in to this mix of the ultra rich, or at least, much richer than I. With the exception of one or two other stray 20-somethings, I had a good 10 - 20 years of youth on the rest of the room. And while I am sure everyone knew at least something of Ms. Stritch, I think I am the only one you could qualify as a "fan" (attempting to keep my cool, and not appear a "fanatic" - hard work after 1 or 3 martinis). Interestingly enough, one of the other stray youngsters actually knew me, identifying me from Locale fame. He was sitting at a table, with only a sense of the coming show, I was at the bar, cycling this woman's entire career in my head. I was just a little bitter. Patiently reading my book (currently Chelsea Handler's Are You There Vodka?), I sipped my martini and counted the minutes. Sighting my literary choice, the gentleman at the bar next to me and I struck up a conversation. Come to find out he is Elaine's press agent. Thank you Richie, I owe you everything. As the show approached, the room soon filled with UES luminaries, I settled into my staked out position, determined to Stritch or Bust. My bar pal Richie, busy with the evening's events and VIP audience, was replaced by another older gentleman, guzzling vodka martinis and looking disgruntled (he called out during the show and was almost escorted out; I about died, and would have - for Elaine). As the hour approached, my seat secure, the lights dimmed, and out she came, all bones and wrinkles and black. Her loose fitting skirt and blouse looked much the same as what she wore to the 1985 Follies concert, only with shorter heals and a little less leg (maybe it was the same outfit). She opened the show with a gruff "I Feel Pretty," all irony and camp, eyes rolling and arms waving. As soon as I saw her, I though wow she is really is old, but still kicking (in my mind I imagined a younger - ha, who is younger at 85? - Granny Boiles standing onstage in a room full of people). Though she doesn't have the fire and vim you hear on the Company soundtrack (or better yet, her rare 60's album Stritch, why did not I think to pack that??), a stage pro she is, and a master of song interpretation at that, milking every line for what's it worth. From there she went to praise her pal Stephen Sondheim, noting his genius and vast contributions to the musical theatre ("musical comedies are what they called them in my day, it's what we should call them now!"). After "Pretty," she surprised the audience with "Rose's Turn" the finale from Gypsy (my favorite musical). Being an intensely character/plot driven song, one would generally steer away from such heavy fare in a cabaret, or at least save it until the end. That is, unless you are Elaine Stritch. Claiming she unfortunately never got a chance to tackle what is arguably the musical theatre's greatest female role (a real pity), she launched into the number, doing a bit of the preceding dialogue. While she may no longer have the pipes for the song (typically demanding the big pipes of a Merman or Patti Lupone), she made the song her own, the look in her eyes revealing Rose's desperation and sorrow. Though she has aged, she still drips confidence and command of the stage like no other. From there, she went on to do numbers from Company, Anyone Can Whistle, Follies, A Little Night Music, and others. A truly touching moment was her rendition of "Send in the Clowns," spoke-sung (as it's meant to be, fuck you Barbra Streisand) and interlaced with a story about her husband John Bay. Funny, I had never really pictured Stritch as the wife type, but there singing that song, talking about her husband, one got the sense that she still loves him, considers herself his wife. The portrait she painted of Stritch the wife and widow was in sharp contrast to her usual Stritch the Ball Buster, the Drunk, the Invincible, the Bitch, etc, her acid tongue put aside for a sweeter sound. The whole show seemed to have a more sentimental and softer energy, Stritch no longer the reeling alcoholic, her old anger seemingly displaced, a soft candlelight instead of all fire and vim. Referencing a show currently in revival on Broadway, she performed an eery, truthful rendition of "Everyday a Little Death" as a monologue. Later on, she pulled out signatures "Broadway Baby" and "The Ladies Who Lunch," still claiming ownership of two of Sondheim's greatest songs. I was hoping for "I'm Still Here," but perhaps by show's end that choice seemed beside the point (or maybe she was tired, or decided we didn't deserve an encore number). By show's end (I ran out during one of last numbers because my bladder simply could not hold out), I was astounded and believe it or not, I got to meet her. She was tired and wanted to go upstairs to bed, but I wrangled an autograph and photo out of her, thanks to bar friend Richie and some Indiana charm (I told her she helped me move to New York: true). Leaving the Carlyle, I immediately burst into tears, a dream of mine realized. Now today, I am asking, was it all just a dream?

Making a House a Home

Or at least making a room, a room. A large percentage of my early April efforts have been devoted to moving into, organizing, and decorating my new apartment. After a determined march up and down Steinway this Tuesday, Katrina and I secured both a bed and some Popeye's Chicken, the one bringing hope of a comfortable night's sleep, the other inducing an unplanned siesta. Yesterday, my bed finally arrived, along with its own crew of moving men to carry it up the stairs and even assemble it for me (the bookshelf was enough of a challenge, for the bed I kindly swallowed my pride). After giving him my thanks and scurrying off to work, I returned home last night to a bed and a room full of cardboard. Kicking the cardboard into the hall (good thing no one lives above me), I removed my full size sheets from their cozy home in the closet, finally restoring them to proper use and the promise of a good night's sleep. My bed made, I set forth to shuffle and scoot and rearrange my room as I saw fit, spinning the jigsaw puzzle until all was in place (or at least kind of). The combination of my white bedspread alongside my new white bed frame and bookshelf give my room a look of cleanliness and light, something an air mattress just cannot give a room. With all that white, one would think I am a super-clean person. We shall see how my room is doing once a week's worth of subway dust has wafted in to dim my domicile. I have purchased the flour and sugar for our anticipated kitchen canisters and our wine rack has been stocked. The spice rack is spinning and filled with seasonings. Tomorrow, Time Warner will arrive to once again grant me the powers of home Internet, freeing me from my Panera Purgatory. Our table is set, and I have successfully cooked a few meals at home. Our drains have been snaked, the clinging remnants of the former tenant finally removed from the apartment. We have cleaned and wiped and shined and swept. We are already making good use of our dishwasher and EZ tie trashbags. Instead of packed away in boxes or piled in stacks on the floor, my books are properly displayed and picture frames in safe view. Jessica's angel sits on my bookshelf, looking down on me as I sleep. This new apartment already feels more homey, more promising, and distinctly more me. Liz and I are getting along just great. For a moment, I saw cause for alarm in the constant presence of a shot glass in the sink. While my wandering mind imagined some late-night shot guzzling Liz, she in fact has been doing nothing more than measuring Oxy Clean with my Daiquiri Deck steal. I am considering starting a club for the growing society of single women that have lived with me. The tally stands at 8, but I suspect there will be new members before long. Just imagine the stories that sorority would have to talk about.

So, what makes a house a home? Is it the stuff? The considerable portion of one's income forked over every month? The comfort gathered from the peace of mind associated with being able to walk around naked, nap on a whim, or enjoy an uninterrupted number 2? Perhaps it is a familiarity with the neighborhood, a friendly acquaintance with the people who dry clean my clothes, pour me drinks, or rent me movies. Unlike when I first moved here, NYC feels much more my home, my one year lease guaranteeing my residence here for at least another year. As opposed to my college apartments, my bed is new, my bookshelf is new, I even have a little bedside lamp, all of my choosing. Midway through writing this blog (yes, sometimes it does take a couple of days), I witnessed the miracle that is home Internet. Instead of looking like a crazy person in the Panera, I am free to be a crazed recluse in the privacy of my own home. This week has partially been spent waiting on strange men to install, fix, and assemble. Unlike the usual crowd of strange men that enters my apartment, these all were carrying tools. For now, all that remains is some essential poster and hook hanging and a proper house warming party. This latest project completed and my camp at least somewhat established, I set my eyes towards the task at hand and the future. Who knows what this next chapter will tell, what this new apartment will witness. I am anxious for the warm weather to return (it has been quite gray the past few weeks) and my next artistic endeavors to begin. Let us hope that the rest of April and May are more than a waiting game, that I may find something meaningful before my planned escape from New York.