 NYC...What Is It About You? |
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You're big, you're loud, you're tough. NYC ... I go years without you, Then I can't get enough ... Oh, NYC. Too busy, too crazy. Too hot, too cold, Too late, I'm sold Again on NYC. Annie I'm waiting for Shelley with my luggage in tow in her office until she finally escapes the clutches of her twit assistant so we can go to lunch. There's a nineteen-year-old gay boy in a headset answering the phone. There are two people in jeans standing by the elevator discussing the merits of the Dr. Ruth Herbal Essences commercial. This place kind of reminds me of Christine Baranski's office in The Birdcage. Everyone's wearing tennis shoes. The fuck? I'm afraid to ask Headset Boy where the bathroom is. Coolio is the delivery boy, I swear to God. Can they tell I'm a hick just by looking at me? I feel cute, but I'm sure that girl in Son In Law did, too, before the Crawl Makeover. Everyone in here is slim and stylish. I hate them! I hate them even more because I'm accidentally wearing one black shoe and one brown shoe. Shit, I got dressed at three in the morning, when the eyeball cells required to discern color evidently have not kicked in yet. Shelley, where are you? I'm about to wet my Hanes Her Ways! I want to have a cool job wear I can wear shorts and feel hip. I wonder if they can tell that I bought my watch at Walmart. Probably. My ears just perked up when someone flicked his lighter open in the blatant surge of excitement that results when it appears that smoking is allowed! But it's not. Oh my God, Brits in shades carrying enormous black leather portfolios just sashayed by. I am a hick. It's confirmed. It is possible to die of boredom in a waiting room where there are no goddamned magazines? I don't know where I am or what I'm doing. At least I know whom I'm doing. His name is NOBODY! 
I'm sitting in Shelley's loud, hot, completely adorable apartment. We ate monstrous and delicious sandwiches for lunch at Grey Dog's Coffee, where she's seen Janeane Garofolo and Jay Mohr. Mine was green apples thinly sliced with brie and raspberry mustard. It was tastebudly orgasmic.
I'm reclining on the black futon debating whether or not to take a quick nap before I walk to the theater tonight. Have I mentioned that I've been awake since 3 a.m.? Allen drove me to the airport, and through the highway darkness, he played one of his mix c.d.'s -- randomness like Mark Cohn, George Strait, Joseph, and Annie. It was really surprisingly nice of him to drive me, and hearing him sing along to the showtunes convinced me for the eighty millionth time that he belongs on a stage somewhere.
 Isabel and I sat out on the fire escape and smoked Camel Lights after I talked to Annegrrl and arranged a different meeting place for our Survivor gathering tomorrow. I love the fire escape. It makes me feel so New York cool. She decided to walk with me to the Martin Beck Theater. On the way, I made the sign of the cross as we passed St. Patrick's Cathedral and said a silent prayer that Brian Stokes Mitchell and Marin Mazzie would be on stage tonight. We stopped at a bar called Emmett's for a drink. We tried to stop at Starbucks, but it smelled like a dirty diaper, so we quickly fled and opted for alcohol. The bar's stereo was playing The Gambler as we drank Sam Adams and smoked, and it almost felt like home.
It's now midnight, and Shelley and I are lying in her loft. It's sort of like camp -- only we are sharing a bunk. She insisted there were no mosquitoes, but I forced her to close the window when one bit my back five times. I smashed it with Elizabeth Hurley's visage on the cover of Jane and felt a smug satisfaction.
Kiss Me, Kate was so divine. The first thing I did upon entering the theater was make a beeline for the playbill stack. I furiously opened one and held my breath as I examined the inserts -- no notices of any understudies! Joy, joy, joy, peace, and righteousness! My sweet Stokes was in the building, as was the lovely and talented Ms. Mazzie. I settled into my fifth row center seat. There was nary a weak performance to be seen or heard. The dancing was sublime. The voices of the seconds and the chorus members were flawless. The gangsters turned Shakespearean scholars were downright hilarious.
The voices and performances of the two leads surpassed the recordings I hold so dear. I mean, I am in love with Brian Stokes Mitchell. Just in total love. His voice ranks among my absolute top favorite male voices. Aside from perhaps Mandy Patinkin, no voice on the planet resonates in my heart and soul and absolutely sets it aquiver. I think I just made up that word, but it's fitting, and you understand that if you've ever heard this man sing. Marin Mazzie was a formidable match for him, and those two together are just a force to behold. As I watched them take their final bows to a standing, thundering house, I blinked back tears as the bespectacled elderly gentleman beside me cried, "Bravo! Bravo!" I thought to myself, "Bravo, indeed, Coalhouse and Mother and Fred and Lilli and Petruchio and Kate. Bravo."
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