Hello Bloggities! It's been too long, I know. I blame all of you, of course. (Just a reflex reaction when things are my fault.) The truth is, life has been stressful what with all this apartment hunting nonsense. True, I still have over a month to find a place, but the clock is ticking and it's beginning to scare me a little. Homeless is not a cute color on me. I'm not sure why I haven't had luck yet. All I want is a reasonably adorable second-story walk-up where I can hang my hat. Instead I've been seeing exorbitantly priced horror story walk-outs where I'd rather hang myself. Anyway, keep your fingers crossed and your spare keys under the mat. I might be coming to live with one of you soon. That's what's happening in the world of real estate (or wrong estate, in this case). Now let's go to Randy with the weather. Randy?...
..Thanks, Randy. This weather can drop dead and go to Hell. For those lucky bastards who are joining us from warmer climates, we have been contending with some pretty severe storms here in New York. It's freezing and snowing and raining and grey and hideous. It looks like...New York. It is depressing and I am over it. We now turn to Randy with a segment on Health and Beauty:
To the young man sitting across from me on the train this morning - the blond bombshell sporting the perfect coiffure which even in these harsh and humid conditions looked as though it'd been dipped in bronze and was ready to mount on a wall, and with four inches of Gaybelline Radiant Superstay Medium #3 Foundation caked on his face: You must blend, my darling. Blend, blend, blend. My goodness, by which pack of wild lesbians were you raised?? Do you want everyone to suspect that maybe you weren't born with it after all?? (And there I was, meanwhile, without a stitch of makeup on. How embarrassing? Ya can't keep up with the gays!)
Aaanyway, for my next trick, I shall attempt to tell you about Applause at City Center starring Christine Ebersole, without making a single reference to, or joke about Grey Gardens, or including that hideous picture of me as Little Edie. (Can I get a spot please??! That means a bright pink light above me or a big burly man below me - either will do.) When I saw Christine Ebersole's concert at Birdland this past December, she mentioned her upcoming appearance in the Encores production, and without missing a beat, some alta caca in the back shouted, "Oh, that's a terrible show!". Christine retorted instantly, "Yes, but darling I'll be marvelous IN it." For all intents and purposes, both had valid arguments.
This past Sunday was the final performance of Applause, the musical version of the classic film All About Eve, time-warped into the early Seventies. (Although considering the minimal set of this version, the only thing noticeably early Seventies was the flock of grey-haired City Center season ticket subscribers that surrounded me in the audience.) I was at opening night. Prior to curtain, the audience was greeted with a speech by producer Jack Viertel that began, "Hello and welcome. I have bad news..." Anticipating the very worst (that Ms. Ebersole was out altogether) the audience immediately broke into an hysterical panic; throwing themselves on the ground, sobbing and vomiting and ripping the oxygen tubes out of there noses. (Please keep in mind that half of these people have no idea who Ms. Ebersole is.) He then proceeded to tell us that Ebbs was there after all, but battling a nasty Flu and would "not be anywhere near full force". Essentially, it was an announcement from the pilot alerting his passengers that the wings had not been securely bolted to the plane, but "PLEASE ENJOY THE FLIGHT!"
It was obvious (sometimes painfully) that she was struggling vocally, but Christine at half force is the difference between a tropical storm and a hurricane. She still managed to blow us all away and delivered a beautiful acting job. Michael Park, Mario Cantone, Chip Zien, Kate Burton, and Erin Davie (tipping the scales of melodrama at times) all did nice enough jobs, but the entire production seemed to fall slightly under the weather along with its star. The hand-held scripts, a tradition in the Encores series, seemed more a necessity than a prop to everyone onstage. Not that I can blame them. For a show with subject matter that readily lends itself to such satisfying vulgarity and camp, the book is pretty forgettable. I could count on two fingers how many clever lines it contains (and wind up with spare fingers). The score for the most part is equally bland. To sum up the evening, I felt as though I was watching a pretty good rehearsal of a pretty schmucky show. And that's what I say about that. Da-da-da-DA-Dum. (shit.)
I'm looking forward to a very busy upcoming week of theatre which will kick off next Wednesday with Next to Normal starring Alice Ripley and Brian D'Arcy James, followed by Cat on a Hot Tin Roof with Phylicia Rashad, James Earl Jones, and Anika Noni Rose on Thursday, and then Sunday in the Park with George on Friday, which I hear is disgustingly gorgeous. Look at me! I feel like a Tony voter! Only young and coherent!
That's all for now. Tomorrow's Valentine's Day. I'm gonna go throw up...