One reason to watch Project Runway Season Five: Kieth. Sweet Mary mother of the Gods he's cute.
Also: I know that I/we owe you updates and pictures. I have about 37 gazillion to share from Minneapolis, California, the r family vacations cruise last week, and this crazy weekend last month when I volunteered to help at the registration desk for the Chelsea Challenge hockey tournament and ended up getting roped into playing for the Purple Rain team. No, I had never before played hockey and Yes, I sucked very badly. It wasn't pretty, folks.
Have a great weekend!
Last night Josh and I saw the new Broadway musical [title of show], now in previews at the Lyceum Theater and opening this Friday, and we fell completely in love. Not just any kind of love, mind you, but head-over-heels, laugh-out-loud, wanna-cry, punch-drunk love.
[title of show] is the story of two best friends, Hunter and Jeff, living in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood and working dead-end jobs while trying to write a musical that means something, and all in less than three weeks, before the submission deadline for a theater festival. The musical itself becomes the writing of the musical (yes, it’s all very meta) as Hunter and Jeff reel in two lovely lady actress friends, Susan and Heidi—and voila!— everybody is gathered around in a cramped Manhattan living room. All that’s left to do is to write the damn show.
What follows over the next ninety minutes is the hilarious, thoughtful, pee-your-pants, creative, funny, brave, irreverent, touching, honest, guts-on-the-table, thoroughly amusing story of the creation of their musical, the ensuing festival performances, then the off-Broadway run, the effects of their new-found success on the show and their friendships and, finally, the move of the little show that could to Broadway. (And thank god it did. If one more damn juke box musical opens on the Great White Way—but then, [title of show] covers that, too, and is much funnier about it.)
In the last minutes of the show, after going on the whole roller coaster adventure with Hunter, Jeff, Heidi and Susan (and really, you do feel like you personally have gone along with them on the whole journey), and after laughing more than we had in ages, a perfect, final moment comes together which, holding us firmly in its grip, had us crying. We got up on our feet with the rest of the sold-out crowd and the applause and whistling continued until long after the curtain came down.
The bottom line, folks? [title of show] is a must-see, destination, cannot-miss Broadway experience. Check it out. The only question left is what the cast will wear to the Tonys.
On Friday morning, while bustling down the street on my way to work and listening to my iPod, the song “Apologize” by One Republic came on as I passed Bryant Park. Something was odd, though—I was hearing the song in my headphones, but there was some sort of weird reverberation. I popped one of my earbuds out and it seemed that somebody in the park was playing the song on a stereo.
But, oh wait, no—it was actually just One Republic performing the song live on Good Morning America. Live. In the park. (Anybody want to do the math for me on the statistical chances of something like that happening? Because, I mean, really.) I pulled over, watched the rest of the performance, and then popped my earbuds back in, listening to the song finish a second time as I headed into a deli for a breakfast sandwich.
That evening, after a street-side dinner with my friend Matthew at Coffee Shop on Union Square West, we meandered through the farmer’s market in Union Square, passing carrels of merchants and customers pawing through fresh flowers, bread, fish, and mounds of fruits and vegetables. Later that night, sprawled out on my big blue couch in Brooklyn, I flipped open the book I’ve been reading, The Whole World Over by Julia Glass (her second novel after the brilliant Three Junes, which is a must-read pick). The next scene described was the market I’d just left in Union Square.
“It was Friday, so the farmers’ market was in full autumnal swing, a sea of potted chrysanthemums and bushel after bushel of apples, pears, Fauvist gourds, and pumpkins with erotically fanciful stems. On one table stood galvanized buckets of the year’s final roses; on another, skeins of yarn in muted, soulful purples and reds. Walter loved this part of the season . . .” (42).
It’s interesting sometimes how life in this city is lived in stereo—firsthand, and then, almost as if it can’t help itself, again in the books, movies, songs, and art that surround us.
And, really, none of it worked as well as they were supposed to.
Once or twice a day I reached the holy grail of over-the-counter self-medication: those few precious moments before the pills, sprays, and lozenges wear off when you find yourself thinking oh, this isn't so bad! But then I would take a bite of a muffin or a sip of water and I'd be wincing in pain and wishing for death.
This solidifies my belief that there is a cosmic law that says you must get sick at the precise moment you find yourself enjoying a long-awaited, much-deserved relaxing three-day holiday weekend.