La La Land (Film Review)

I saw La La Land just before New Year's with a friend who lives and works in L.A., and she was able to give me some insight into several properties.

Overall, I enjoyed the movie.  It was fun, visually appealing, and a delightful homage to the golden age of movie musicals.  That being said, there's a fair amount constructive criticism to be typed out.  Let's start with what we liked.

Pros:

• Diverse casting:  No, not in the leads; don't be silly.  Hollywood can't seem to handle that.  But in their "chorus," most notably in the opening number taking place during L.A. rush hour traffic, I was pleased to see people of all kinds of colors, ages, shapes, and sizes -- not just "typical musical theatre types" (y'know, lithe, wholesome-looking dancers in their 20s).  So that was nice.
• So many colors!  The (mostly) primary colors of this film just pop all over the place making it visually appealing and sometimes downright stunning.  The color palette is part of what makes it such an homage to the movie musicals of yesterday (primary Singin' in the Rain, which I'll be referring to a lot during this review).  I was also pleased to see that Emma's four friends were all wearing different (though similarly styled) solid-color dresses -- a theatre standby to make it easy to find the characters on stage.  If we had seen them in any other numbers, I would have fully expected them to stay in their same color tones.  But look at this image and tell me you don't see the same?

"A Face in the Crowd," La La Land (2016)

From "Gotta Dance" Montage, Singin' in the Rain (1952)

• The music -- wait, no, the jazz.  The score and orchestrations were lovely.  My date (who is much more versed in such things than I am) pointed out to me that the director of this film, Damien Chazzelle, is a jazz musician himself; the film Whiplash (2013) is his story.  So naturally he's going to pay special attention to the jazz; however, I think that may also be his blindspot, but we'll save that for the cons in a moment.
• I enjoyed the dialogue and chemistry between Gosling and Stone:  "Can I borrow your outfit?  I have an audition later this week for a serious firefighter."
• I particularly enjoyed all of the contemporary "interruptions."  Just when we'd find ourselves falling into "musical theatre territory," Chazzelle gives a delicious (modern) interruption:  car horns honking, a cell phone ringing, movie film breaking, et cetera.  Those touches keep the movie from becoming too saccharine.
• The homages to older films, specifically movie musicals.  Here is another list/article by Aisha Harris at Slate of all of the tributes to those films of yore; I haven't read it yet because I didn't want it coloring my own initial thoughts, but I recommend it (and will be reading it shortly).  For La La Land, it starts with the "expansion" of the screen to the old "Cinemascope" logo (which only some people in the audience will get) and goes from there, including a swing around a lamp post a la Singin' in the Rain to the drive up to the Planetarium a la Rebel Without a Cause.
• Sidenote:  I have seen some people claim the "dancing in the air" sequence was ridiculous/unbelievable/stupid, etc.  First off, if you are looking for reality in a musical -- any musical -- I'm afraid I have bad news for you.  Secondly, that dance sequence is an homage to many, many predecessors, including (but not limited to):
• The "dream ballet" in Rogers & Hammerstein's Oklahoma! (or almost any R&H musical)
• Part of the "Gotta Dance" montage in Singin' in the Rain -- which has a dream sequence within a montage within a "what if" scenario
• Gene Kelly's dance with Jerry the Mouse in Anchors Aweigh (dancing with an animated mouse -- again, not looking for reality here).
• "A Jolly Holiday" from Mary Poppins wherein they jump INTO a sidewalk chalk painting and dance with animated people...and penguins.
• It even happens in non-musicals:  the dream/dance sequence in Susan Slept Here, starring Debbie Reynolds and Dick Powell (1954).

Those were all things I enjoyed.  Now the things I did not:

• The songs.  While the jazz and the score were both good, not one of those songs was memorable.  Not one of them made me want to run out and buy the soundtrack or (better still) buy the sheet music to learn them.  Not. One.
• The singing.  This is caused in part in how it's recorded (and when it's so very obvious the people on screen are not singing there) and partly the lack of the vocal training of the (non-)singers themselves, but everything sounded the same:  the same volume, the tone, the same wimpy, breathy vocalizations that show lack of confidence and lack of breath support.  Songs shouldn't all sound the same, nor should you sing them all the same.  We should hear things like piano, forte, pianissimo, etc.  Unfortunately, all of these songs were done in that "Gosh, I hope I'm not wrong, so I'm going to sing/speak quietly" piano mode.  Listen to Sarah Michelle Gellar on the Buffy:  The Vampire Slayer musical episode, and you'll hear exactly what I'm talking about.  And this is why I think songs versus orchestrations may be Damien Chazzell's downfall; he may be so focused on the latter that he didn't realize how bland and/or poorly recorded the former were.
• Part of the reason for this style of "singing" is that he didn't hire actual singers.  And while Ryan Gosling spent 3 months studying jazz piano (which is awesome!), at least as much time should have been spent on voice lessons.  Same with Emma Stone and, well, nearly everyone in the cast.
• The dancing.  Again, it wasn't bad; much of it was very cute.  But it wasn't great.  And frankly, it wasn't perfect.  I have much higher standards for films than I do for live theatre because in a film you can take as many takes as you want to get it right.  Theatre's a lot harder because you rehearse, but for each audience, you only have that one moment to be right (which is part of the beauty of live theatre, but I digress).
• Again, they didn't hire dancers (not for the leads).  So they could spend months training these talented actors, or they could, y'know, hire actual dancer/singer/actors!!!  It's a novel concept, I know, but I know those triple threats are out there.  In fact, I know some of them.
  

  

  Exhibit A:  look at their hands -- completely different!  INEXCUSABLE!!!

• Some of the transitions felt a little long; overall, the movie itself felt long.  I was surprised when I got out of the theater to see it was under 2 hours.  That's not necessarily a good marker of a film:  that it feels longer than it is.

Overall, I did enjoy it because I enjoyed the movies it made me think of (and made me want to go watch).  I liked the chemistry and banter between the leads.  Now I would just like them to do it better.

P.S.  I couldn't find a way to work it into this (very late) review, but go watch the 1955 movie version of Guys & Dolls (with Marlon Brando and Frank Sinatra).  It's similar in color and style to La La Land as well.

Celluloid to Stage (A Review)

I have long said that most movies don't translate well to the stage.  I've been saying it pretty much ever since I saw/was in the stage version of Victor/Victoria where I discovered right up close that often the things that make the movie the piece of art that it is simply don't work on stage.  Sometimes it's a problem with screenplay to script to songs, but I strongly feel that it's trying to squeeze information from one medium to another.  And I could list several stage musicals that started as movies (musical and non) that are just awful, but I won't.  This post is about the show I saw last night, Finding Neverland.

I knew going in that this stage musical would be a hard sell for me because I absolutely love the film, and I love Johnny Depp in the film.  So I tried very hard to appreciate this stage musical for itself, as its own piece of art, and not judge it solely on "version of the movie."

TL;DR version:  is it a "bad" musical?  No, it is not.  Is it a "great" musical or something I'd want to see staged again?  No, it is not.

Musically, my date for the evening hit the nail on the head:  most of the songs sounded the same.  Some sounded so similar that I couldn't tell if it was a reprise of an earlier song or a new song entirely.  And it wasn't like there was a recurring musical theme woven in and out pieces as happens in some other musicals (Hamilton, Evita to name a couple); they just sounded alike.

She and I also agreed that there were some really compelling visuals happening during the show -- interesting choreography and just a lot of really awesome ensemble work so that no matter where you looked, something fascinating was going on, but it wasn't so predictable that we "knew" hey, people are going to pop out again!  The show made heavy use of projections (some animated/moving) during the performance.  Projections can be an interesting and also compelling visual aid -- the key word being "aid."  They should add to the performance but never take center stage.  At one point, during "Circus of Your Mind," I think, the projections were too forceful, too attention-grabbing, a bit like hitting the audience over the head with the merry-go-round theme of the music and lyrics rather than letting us figure it out (which wasn't hard to do given the above mentioned music and lyrics).

More importantly, all of the characters were....flattened...from their original selves in the film.  I wish I could say they had been distilled instead.  Distillation would mean the purest version of their selves; like cologne instead of eau de cologne, so strong that it can only come in small doses.  Flattened means they were simply made one-dimensional, reduced to the lowest common denominator.  Examples:

• I could tell from her first appearance during the opening number that Barrie's wife, Mary, was a flattened, one-dimensional version of herself.  She's been made into a grasping, materialistic caricature of a villain rather than an early twentieth-century woman struggling to do what society has instructed her to do:  to be a good and proper wife with all of the good and proper trappings of that position.
• She is accompanied by 3 foppish caricatures of servants; more on them later.
• Barrie's producer, Charles Frohman, has also been turned into a blustering, yelling "villain" type, shouting at Barrie about budgets and costs and schedules.  Dustin Hoffman's Frohman had the same worries, but he never lost faith in Barrie (and he certainly didn't yell).  While they did finally allow Frohman to say one of my favorite lines in the film¹, it was far too late for any type of character redemption.
• Speaking of Frohman,....while having him double as Captain Hook (a bit that looks like it may have been taken from the movie's first concept) seems like an ingenious bit of casting, Captain Hook is now Barrie's alter-ego?!?  Wow.  I find that,...let's say "problematic" for a couple of reasons:
• In the film (yes, I know I'm doing it again), the inspiration for Captain Hook comes not from Frohman but from Mrs. Emma du Marier (the Sylvia Llewelyn Davies' mother).  The bit of tech in the stage show that shows the inspiration coming from Frohman is fun visual pun -- don't get me wrong -- but making this change takes away from Mrs. du Marier's agency as a female character.
• It also changes the trajectory/arc of Barrie's character.  In a lot of ways.  He is no longer given inspiration for a children's "villain," but instead is battling his own id/ego/super-ego for recognition as, what?  A man (Hook is certainly masculine in this manifestation, also reinforced by his appearance during the "romantic" scene/love song between Barrie and Sylvia)?  A free agent (now that we've taken it away from Mrs. du Marier)?  In the stage show itself, this number is the Act I finale, and it is something to be seen, indeed.  I'm just don't agree with the character and story line changes it necessitates.
• Barrie himself is a lesser version than he is in the film.  Again, while they did include one of my favorite lines/scenes², its emotional impact was completely lost.  And speaking of his relationship with Sylvia Davies (mentioned above), they made the mistake of making them an overt romance.  One of the things the film does (and however much of it is true, I couldn't say) is that the two of them are never explicitly romantic; that's part of what makes their situation so complicated -- it has no name or definition.

Things we liked:  besides the movement/choreography, there was some gasping during the end sequence.  My date gave a small gasp when the handful of glitter was thrown in the air, and I may  have gobbed (that's a gasp plus a small sob) when they added Mrs. Davies' wrap to the swirling air.
....and then, because my brain is crazy, I immediately start thinking How long do they have to wait?  How long is it supposed to swirl?  Is it supposed to be carried away and disappear entirely?  How long do they wait if that doesn't happen?

Conclusion:  I think the overarching issue with this movie to stage translation is that they attempted to turn Finding Neverland into a musical comedy.  One need to look no further than the caricarature of the servants -- fairly unnecessary characters to be added, let alone to be stealing focus by the continual scenery-chewing.  Even Mrs. Barrie's later intended (Mr. Cannan) is turned into a cheap joke of a character.  Finding Neverland (the film) is not a comedy; it's a drama with some funny (and touching, endearing) moments, and that's what got lost in translation.

¹Frohman: "You know what happened, James, they changed it."
Barrie: "They changed what?"
Frohman: "The critics, they made it important... hm, what's it called? What's it called?"
Barrie: "Play."
Charles Frohman: "Play."

² "What a horrible, candle-snuffing word -- 'just.'"

Hedwig Recap

Lately in my theatre life, I'm on the lookout for things that are new (specifically, new to ME)  -- but more on that later.

Filed in this "new" category was Hedwig and the Angry Inch.  Hedwig is a fantastic show; I've known the soundtrack by heart for years.  The director of this current production wanted the show to be as interactive as possible, including but not limited to:  having the theatre's bar practically on the stage.  Hedwig runs 90+ minutes with no intermission, so there's not a good place for people to get drinks.  Plus, the setting of Hedwig is a dive bar, so the director decided he wanted to have a bartender "in character," so to speak, for the run of the show.  Enter Leonard.

It's been a lot of fun and a lot of work.  My bartending instincts are all about the work:  go, go, go!  Pour those drinks, get that cash, who's next in line? Move along, people, I ain't got all night!  The director said I could be a surly and rude bartender, so basically this was just me.  Bartending.  Exactly how I was when I was a bartender (my Unit can attest).

My actor instincts were at war with the bartending ones:  STFU, people, Hedwig is acting!  Why are you so loud during this intense, quiet part of the show??  Fuck, ice cubes are loud!  Get out of my way, patrons, I have to do acting things right now.

So yeah, a lot of work, especially on sold-out nights.  And trying to explain what I do in this show since I'm not in this show is also a treat.  But one of my favorite things, other than enjoying the rocking performances each night (whilst slinging drinks), has been the random shit people have said or done during this very unique show each night.  So here are The Hedwig Diaries:

The six people each night who ask "Is that supposed to be smoking?"  (The smoke machine is built into the bar; Leonard gets to push the button during "Angry Inch" each night.)  First I tried being polite:  "Yes, but thank you for noticing."
Then I started to get annoyed:  "Yes.  It's fine.  It's supposed to do that."
And finally, sassy:  "Something's smoking?  Oh, it's just me."

Patron (trying to find a seat before the show):  "Has anyone said yet that you're distracting?"
Me (with a shit-eating grin):  "Only in the best possible way."

Patron (after the show):  "You were great!  I could tell you were a woman from the beginning."
Me:  "Thank you...?"

Patron ordering a drink:  "I want a screwdriver.  Don't forget the screw!"
Me (after pouring drink):  "A screwdriver with extra screw," and I flipped him off while handing him his drink.

Patron ordering a drink:  "Do you have any fruit?"
Me:  "There's tons of fruit here.  Look around.  For drinks, though, I only have lime."

Drunk Patron in the lobby (with show still happening): "Oh, Firecrotch¹, you're awesome!"
Me:  "Thank you."
Drunk Patron:  "This is so much fun!  Are you always with them?"
Me;  "I do work often with this theatre, yes."
DP:  "No, but I mean, do you travel around with Hedwig and the band and stuff?"
Me:  (beat)  "They're all local actors who auditioned for this show and were cast."
DP:  "You mean this isn't a traveling show??"
Me:  "No, we're all local."
DP:  "Oh wow!  I'm a bit drunk."
Me:  "I know."
DP:  "And I love you!"  (hugs me and stumbles back to her seat)

It was one for the record books, doing everything from pouring drinks, headbanging to "Angry Inch," catching flying shoes, and trying not to ruin my make-up during "Midnight Radio."
No, YOU'RE crying!

I'm sorry if you missed it.

¹What Hedwig deigned to call me. Yes, really.

NPH as Hedwig performing "Surgar Daddy"
(At the 2014 Tonys, not Leonard's production)

On Words, Racism, and Musical Theatre

Hoagie. Po' boy. Grinder. Muffuletta. BLT. Grilled cheese. Sub. Reuben. Club. PB&J. No matter what you call 'em, sandwiches are delicious, and yet another thing we Yanks stole from the British (tasty, tasty thievery).

What does this have to do with the above-mentioned subjects, Leonard??
I'm getting there!  Patience, reader.

The other night, several of my cast mates from my current show and I went out after rehearsal for drinks and snacks.  We went to a new place, directly across the street from our "old place."  The old place has become rather bitchy, sloppy, and put-upon when we try to spend money there; the new place has been very accommodating to performers wanting a late-night bite.

The new joint was jumping and quite loud.  We got a table and were perusing menus whilst waiting for our poor harried server.  One section of the menu listed, "Sandbos, Wraps, and Hot Dogs."  At least three of the six of us asked each other independently, "What's a 'sandbo'?"  There was no explanation on the menu of what made this particular delicacy different from other sandwich configurations.  Was it a combination of a sandwich and a hot dog?  Maybe a sandwich and a kebab?

When our overworked (but still delightfully sweet) server returned, we asked her, practically in unison, "What's a sandbo?"

"It's a sandwich," she said, somewhat deflated.

Nothing special.  Just a sandwich.

We were also disappointed.  "Oh."
"We're going to change it," she said.  "People have been getting offended."
"Offended??  Why?"

What about a sandwich could offend people?  Are those people also offended by fun and tasty goodness?

"Apparently it means something else in other places.  People have, like, thrown down the menus and left."

That is some serious sandwich offensiveness.  We were still puzzled.  What kind of dirty connotation did "sandbo" have elsewhere?  And then it hit me.

"They're thinking of sambo," I said, trying to enunciate clearly to point out the difference (plus, it was still loud).  I even spelled the two words to make my point (again, still loud).  "As in, 'little black Sambo.'  It's a derogatory term for black people."
The waitress looked amazed and then said, "Some of the people who were offended were African-American!"
"They sound similar, so..."
"I'm telling my manager.  He couldn't figure it out either," and off she went.

Now, I could take this moment to say I made this connection because I have a Master's degree in Literature, because I've spent six years teaching English, but that'd be complete and utter bullshit.  I made the connection because of musical theatre -- the musical Hair, to be exact.  The character Hud (who Wikipedia describes as a "militant African-American") sings a song in which he lists nearly all the derogatory terms for people of color out there (at least that were out there around 1967, when Hair was written).  The song's title is actually one of those terms:  "Colored Spade."  I made the connection because I could hear the song in my head when I heard "sandbo" (or "sambo").

Racism is a cultural thing.  It is a learned behavior.  As such, derogatory terms change depending on one's culture, region, language, and geography.  In Indiana, the word "Hoosier" is a good thing if one is a basketball fan.  When I moved to St. Louis, I found that it also meant "white trash" or "redneck," connotations it didn't have growing up in Nebraska and Iowa.  The parents of a high school friend of mine couldn't believe a local news station used the word "spook" when talking about Halloween and "ghosts and goblins."  They were originally from the Pacific Northwest and knew that "spook" was also a derogatory term for black people; my sixteen-year-old self had no idea.  While "sambo" was still prolific in the 1960s, many people today wouldn't recognize it, like our server and her manager.

So thanks, musical theatre and Hair, for the history and language lesson!  By the way, "Colored Spade" is also on my list of "Songs You Can't Sing in Public."  Several songs from Hair are ("Black Boys," "Sodomy") as well as "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist" and "My Girlfriend Who Lives in Canada" from Avenue Q.  You can find the full lyrics (and learn more racist terms and several Southern delicacies) for the song here.

Wondering why I don't use the term "African-American" myself?  Read this post.

Chicago Sucked

In May of 2000, I took a last minute road trip to Chicago.  It did not go well.

"Oh yeah, this just keeps gettin' better and better."
--Rick O'Connell (Brendan Frasier), The Mummy, 1999

That's what I was saying by my last night there. Yep, the Windy City sucked donkey butt. In fact, it started out bad before I was even in my car. I didn't have a hotel room until ten minutes before I left home. Granted, I shouldn't complain, because I neither made the reservation nor paid for the room, but I really was stressed and nervous anyway.

"Behave yourselves while I'm gone!"

I drove to Chicago for an audition. There was a full-page ad in a local newspaper about auditions for the Royal Carribean Cruiselines for professional singers, dancers, and male acrobats (yes, male acrobats). This was primarily for their newest ship, The Explorer, which was supposedly the most technically advanced to date. But they were also casting for their other ten or twelve ships, all of which put on full-blown musical and theatre productions.  I had been fired from a job almost a month earlier, so I thought, Hey, I'm unemployed and have nowhere to be! Let's go to Chicago!!"  I packed a bag, kissed the cats goodbye, and was on my way.

I was half an hour into the trip when I realized that I had left the clothes I wanted to wear to my audition hanging in my closet. I hadn't packed them in my bag because I didn't want them to wrinkle. Shit. So I drove another half hour back to my apartment, wasting one full hour of drive time, to grab those clothes, and by the time I left again I hit rush hour traffic leaving town.  I think I should have realized then that the Universe was telling me not to go.
Oh well. I'm stubborn.

So I drove.
And drove and drove and drove and drove. Speeding the whole way, in typical Leonard fashion.
I'd never driven to Chicago before, so I had clutched in one hand the directions I got from MapQuest.com.  (This is 2000, people.  GPS systems are nigh unheard of.) 255 miles of pure interstate.

I took a couple of wrong turns once into Chicago, because I didn't write down whether to go north or south or east or west on a couple of exits, et cetera. However, I did write down the mileage of each length of road, so if I went over that and wasn't at my next turn, I turned around.  Apparently the trip odometer in the car does serve a purpose!

Finally, I made it to my hotel, and in pretty good time, all things considered. I checked in, got my key, went out to my car to haul all my crap (one duffel bag, one purse, two hangers of clothes, a jacket, and sheet music) upstairs to my room. I got there, and the key wouldn't open the door. I tried several times, and no go. So I picked up one duffel bag, one purse, two hangers of clothes, one jacket, and two books of sheet music again, went downstairs to the lobby.

Only, I couldn't find the lobby.

The hotel I was staying in was set up in a circle with a courtyard and terrace in the middle. I wandered around that whole damn thing (carrying one duffel bag, one purse, two hangers of clothes, one jacket, and two books of sheet music) until I found the lobby again. (Apparently all I had needed to do was go the other direction, and the lobby was all of fifteen feet from my room.)

I got to the front desk and told the kid at the counter, who looked like he was all of 12, rather indignantly that my key didn't work. He said, "Did you leave it in the door, and then turn the handle?"
"Umm, no."
"Why don't you try that?"
"Okay."
And then he looked at me funny as I had come from the opposite direction of my room, and I kind of mumbled, "I got lost on the way here."

Once more I headed to my room with one duffel bag, one purse, two hangers of clothes, one jacket, dance shoes, and two books of sheet music in tow. The key still didn't work.  I even "left it in the door and then turned the handle" like he had said, but nothing.  After two or three more attempts and much swearing, I dropped my shit in front of the door, and went back to the lobby (the right way, this time).
Again I said, "The key won't work."
"Did you --"
"YES, I put it in the lock and then turned the handle.  Multiple times.  It still didn't work."
So the kid grabs the other keys and follows me back upstairs.

And the door opened smoothly and silently for him on the first try. He must have thought I was moron, the little punk. Oh hell, even I thought I was a moron.

I got inside and discovered that I didn't have a room; I had a suite. I didn't have a bathtub; I had a whirlpool.  I think those two factors were the only saving grace of this entire trip.
So I unpacked my duffel bag, purse, hangers of clothes, jacket, dance shoes, and  sheet music and swam in the tub before going to bed.

I managed to get to sleep in the giant bed, even though I was very nervous for the audition the next morning.  My first professional audition.  What the hell was I doing??  But I slept.  And while I slept, my body decided to tell me exactly what it thought of this spontaneous road trip.

I woke up at 7:30 that morning to the left half of my face completely swollen.  While I was sleeping one upper wisdom tooth (one of two that I still had at the time) decided this would be the perfect time "erupt," to cut through my gums, not to mention the flesh of my cheek.  I could barely creak open my jaw to brush my teeth. How on earth would I be able to open my mouth to sing?!  Well fuck.

But I didn't drive all this way for nothin'.  I got dressed (in the clothes that I had to make a return trip for), tossed my music and dance shoes into my bag, ran downstairs to steal a pancake from the free buffet breakfast, and left.

I drove in rush hour Chicago traffic, another sheet of paper clutched desperately in one hand with directions to the Lou Conte Dance Studio. On the way to the studio, there was a tollway that I was not aware was on my route:  40 cents for a car.

I had no change.  MapQuest had said nothing about tollbooths, phantom or not.

And these aren't small tollbooths with people inside. They're big city tollways, automated where you just throw in your "exact change." Panicking and starting to hyperventilate, I pulled up to the gate thingie, and there was a man at the gate thingie next to me, apparently working there, I guess?  I waved him over and said, "Excuse me? I don't have any change."
He kind of blinked at me. "You don't have any change?"  And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, a person stared at me like a moron.
"No, I'm sorry. I'm....I'm....from out of town," I stuttered.  "I have a dollar. I don't need any change back, but I didn't know..."

He smiled and unlocked the gate and let me pass through anyway, not even taking my wrinkled dollar bill. I breathed a sigh of relief.  I was also grateful I put on make-up that morning for the audition and was looking sufficiently "cute."  Sexist or not, sometimes it pays to be a girl.

I found the studio, and a parking lot nearby. Turns out I couldn't park in that lot -- thanks a lot, Fannie May chocolates! -- so I went back to my car and found a spot on the street.  I still had no change for the meter, so I hoped I wouldn't get a ticket and went inside.

Before our individual auditions, the people in charge talked a lot about the "types" they were looking for and even showed us some clips from other cruise ship productions.  And right then and there, I changed my audition songs.  They weren't looking for pretty sopranos who sang pretty songs.  The clips of the production numbers were from things like Chicago and Cabaret.  They wanted sex and grit.  So instead of singing something from The Music Man, I made the executive decision to open with "Dance Ten, Looks Three" from A Chorus Line.

Choosing songs is always a gamble.  If they like what they hear, they ask you to sing again.  So do you open with your best number and then hope?  Or do you hope they ask you to sing again, and then end with your best number so that's the last thing in their heads?  I opted for the first.  My new song wasn't marked, though, and I did not have a writing utensil on me.  So I did the next best thing.  I marked my chosen sixteen measures with what I did have:  brown eyebrow pencil.  Brown eyebrow pencil, by the way, does not erase, so it's still on those pages now, fourteen years later.

My last minute changes worked to my benefit; they asked me to sing a second song.  So I sang my "pretty," non-sexy song.  Overall, I thought it went well.  Oh yeah, except for the fact that they said, "Thank you, Leonard, for coming today."  That's audition-speak for "You're not what we want and we don't care how far you came for us to turn you down."  They did not ask me to stay for the dance audition.  So all that for ten minutes of nothin'.  Oh well.

    But you see if it wasn't for bad luck,
    Trying to tell you son if it wasn't for bad luck, now now
    Oh, oh, I wouldn't have no luck at all
    --Ray Charles, "If It Wasn't for Bad Luck"

I headed back to the hotel, my ego bruised.   I had to stop halfway there at a gas station so I could get change for the tollway.  I didn't think what little luck I had would keep going. I also had to slam on my brakes once, thanks to a car in front of me, and thereby spilling the Pepsi I had purchased at that gas station (in order to get change for the tollway) all over my car. I got back to the hotel, and dug around my bag for my room key. Couldn't find it. I could have sworn I put it in my bag that morning, but it must have been in my room. So I went to the front desk, and the same twelve-year-old guy from the night before was there, and he said, "Checking out?"
And I said, "No, I'm staying another night."
And he said, "No, you're not. The reservation was only for one night."
And I said, "No, the reservation was to be for TWO nights."

He checked his paperwork and said, "No, only one night."
So I swore a bit and I glared at him, and he gave me the extra key (I never did find the first key, by the way), and I went upstairs -- hot, sweaty, hungry, disappointed, and thoroughly pissed off.

I called my friend who had kindly arranged this hotel room. He then called the online company through which he made the reservation. They insisted that it was only made for one night, and that was that.

Now I could have feasibly left then and there. It was only about 12:30 in the afternoon; I could have driven home. But I was tired, upset, hot, sweaty, hungry, and dammit I wanted to swim in that tub again! So I gave in, and told the front desk to charge the second night to my credit card.  Hotel suites with whirlpools for tubs are NOT cheap, my friends.  Just FYI.

I soaked in the tub to ease my muscles and my half-swollen face and my fragile ego.  I napped.  I got up in time for the hotel's free "happy hour" thingie. I dressed up, put on some make-up (again), and decided I was going to have a good time tonight.  I would pretend it was a vacation or something. There was an Italian restaurant across the street that looked good, plus they advertised a piano bar. So I thought I'd go there for dinner, have some drinks, and soothe my ego by singing a few songs with the pianist.  Fourteen years ago, I had no qualms about randomly singing in public.

I grabbed my purse, headed for the door, went to grab my car keys -- and they weren't there. No car keys.  I dug around in my purse to make sure they weren't lying on the bottom beneath everything else.  I looked in my duffel bag, around bras and underwear and various shoes. I gave the room a once-over.  No keys.  Finally I went downstairs, looked in my car (locked, as always), and there they were, lying on the front seat. Shit.

That's right about when I said, "Oh yeah, this trip just keeps gettin' better and better."  Now I was going to have to pay to have my car unlocked, in addition to paying for the second  night at the hotel.

The Italian Restaurant was across the street from the hotel, so I decided I would walk.  I would call AAA in the morning because I really didn't want to deal with it right hten.

I had a nice dinner, albeit alone. The waiters, all with thick accents, doted on me and shamelessly tried to flirt while I enjoyed my salad and lasagna and bread and wine. And there was a table across from me with what appeared to be a gentleman, his wife, and son. And this guy (probably 38 or 40, dressed in a nice suit) kept looking at me! Like unabashedly staring at me.
And I thought, Shame on you! Oggling me while out with your wife and child.  Oh well.

I finished my lasagna  and went to the bar. Only to be "accosted" by more older men in nice suits   Remember how I said sometimes it pays to be a girl?  This was not one of those times.  The pianist was very nice, though, and let me do a few numbers.  And now, fourteen years later, while I can picture that bar and restaurant, I cannot, for the life of me, remember what I had the balls to sing.

Unfortunately, sitting a seat away from me was a drunk Welsh man who would not shut up. Between his accent and the fact that he was three sheets to the wind, I couldn't understand a word he said.
There was another businessman a table over, watching the Knicks games, as he apparently had money riding on it. And finally, a bartender from Lithuania named Kestas who was more than happy to bum me a cigarette.

After an hour or so, the drunk Welsh guy finally left. The three other people in the bar and I were all incredibly grateful. Apparently he's been there before, and I'm not the only person he was annoying.
Plus, this now gave the second businessman a chance to talk to me and say things like, "You're kidding! You've never been to New York?? Surely as pretty as you are you have a nice boyfriend who takes you places."
"No, I'm single."
"Single?? A pretty girl like you? How come?"
"I'm pretty, but slightly psychotic."
That shut him up for a bit.

But only for a bit:  "Wish you lived in Chicago. I come here every week for business. I could take you to New York and show you around.  San Francisco? Yeah, I bought a condo there, but only stay there two weekends out of the month. Do you need a place to stay in San Francisco?"


I managed to close down the bar (at 11 p.m., party animal). And I went back to the hotel, alone, rather tipsy myself, and passed out in that giant bed.  I woke up with a terrible hangover, called AAA, packed, and checked out at the front desk.  The twelve-year-old desk clerk was, thankfully, not there.

AAA, miraculously, was on time.  They got my car opened, and I was on my way.  I was headed home -- home to my kitties, computer, and closet full of shoes. It's not a terribly long drive, about five hours (or four and a half if you drive like me). You'd think my trials and tribulations would be over, right?
Wrong.

An hour or so into my drive there was this black BMW in the lane to my left. I had some truck going slowly in front of me, and this BMW needed to either speed up so I could get behind him, or slow down so I could pass him. I was starting to get pissed off, so I looked over at this car, and the guy's got his window rolled down and he's shouting at me!  And he's honking and everything!

We're doing 75 mph into the wind, so I couldn't hear a word he said. But he starts motioning for me to follow him and pull over.

I'm trying to figure out what's going on.  Do I have a flat tire?  Is my trunk open?  Did something fall out of my car??

So we turn off at the next exit, and I get out of my car, and he gets out of his shiny black BMW.
He says, "I saw you last night. At the restaurant."

Jesus friggin' Christ! I shit you not, it's the same guy from the Italian restaurant who kept staring at me while out with his family.

Me, stunned:  "Yeah, I was there."
"Wow, what are the odds? It must be fate!"
"Yeah, must be..."   sadistic bitch that she is.
"I saw you having dinner alone, and I wanted to talked to you, but I didn't want to be rude, y'know," he says.
Doesn't seem to be stopping you now.
Then he just blurts out, "You're gorgeous!!"
"Umm, thanks?"

He kept talking, wanting to know where I was going, why I couldn't stay in Chicago another night.
Turns out he was divorced and his son was having trouble in school, so he and the boy's mother went out to discuss things, or so he claims.  I lost interest in his story almost the moment he started speaking.  I have other things on my mind, like how to escape.

"What do you mean you can't stay in Chicago??" he asks.  "Why not?"
"Because I'm going home."  I'm look around at this exit where we've pulled over.  There's not another car or soul in sight, not even a building or a gas station.  My mind is trying to calculate how fast I can get back into my car and end this nightmare.

"Well, when do you have to be back?"
"Oh, in three hours."  Big fat lie.
"So you can't have a beer with me?"
"Nope."
"Gosh, you smell great!"  king of the non-sequitor says.
Thanks, I remembered to shower today, ya pervert.

Then he looks at my car, which is a bit beat up because two weeks earlier my mother backed into it.  While it was parked.
But that's another story.
And there are CD's and snacks and soda cans all scattered about -- y'know, all the roadtripping basics, and he says, "You look like you need some money."

Who fucking says that?

"Goin' around in a broken down car..." he trails off.
"Oh my poor car," I laugh nervously.  "It'll be fixed soon," which was not a lie, for once.

But that money comment, while not entirely incorrect, irked me to no end. What does he think I am?  A prostitute??
 
But before I can contemplate the implied insult any longer, he says this:  "So ya wanna kiss a little bit?"
What?!?  "No thanks."
"Not even a little kiss?"
"No thank you," I say even firmer.
"Why not?"
"Oh, I never kiss on the first drive-by."  Sorry, I get flippant when I'm nervous!  Alright, fine, I'm flippant all the time.

"You're going to let a handsome, young guy like me just get away?"
Young my ass! my inner monologue snickers.  The rest of my brain is trying to figure out how I can quickly ditch this guy and get back into the safety of my sad, broken down car.
The best I can come up with is "Yeah, but if you have an e-mail address, maybe I'll mail you." E-mail's safe, right?  No commitment there.
"Yeah, e-mail me. I go to [your city] all the time for business. I can take you out to dinner."
"Yeah, sure."  Lies, lies, lies, all lies!


He scribbles something on a piece of paper.  I take it and practically jump back into my car.  I'm sure my tires were squealing as I drove like a bat out of hell to get back onto the highway and away from Mr. Creepy Pants.


From then on, the drive was pretty uneventful. But the whole trip was just bizarre and strange and bad and weird. So much so, that I haven't been to Chicago since.

Only now do I realize how much potential that last situation had to go terribly terribly wrong. I could have been molested, raped, maimed, killed, kidnapped, any number of horrible things. I'm so lucky that none of that happened. Only now am I far enough away that I can laugh about the whole thing.  Well, sometimes I laugh.  And sometimes I just drink and think about how young and stupid I was.

After this road trip, I also decided that I don't care if my car's on fucking fire!  I'm not stopping or pulling over for anyone who isn't a cop in a marked car.

Also, I kept his e-mail address.  It was an AOL account.  Even in 2000 that was laughable.  I do believe I used it to sign him up for lots and lots and lots of free porn.

Inappropriate Eva

Twice in the past 48 hours, I have had thoughts that have come out as lyrics from Andrew Lloyd Weber's Evita.

First, I was making and then eating a steak.  Leonard loves steak.  It wasn't a great steak; meaning, we usually buy delicious, flavorful grassfed beef, and this was plain ol' Angus beef.  But I was desperate for red meat and iron, so I ate it anyway because you're flesh, you are meat, you shall have every breath in my body.

What the -- ???

Then I was explaining to a friend that he could call rather than text, but when it comes to unknown numbers showing up we don't always answer the phone.

It may not seem like a big deal to you, but

1. These were full-on sung lyrics, complete with Mandy Patinkin styling in my head
2. The second bit is from "Goodnight and Thank You" which chronicles young Eva Duarte's string of lovers as she sleeps her way to and through success.

I haven't listened to Evita (or any show tunes) in months, but apparently it's in my head anyway, waiting, watching, ever vigilant, striking when I least expect it.

Tiny Evita is mocking me.