Ring out the old...

Ring in the new.

I'd rather hurl out the old and pull in the new but whichever works really.

The holidays have been difficult this year.  I don't really know why.  There hasn't been anything especially good or bad about them.  I've just been extremely emotional.  I finished reading Carrie Fisher's "Wishful Drinking" last night and now I'm semi-convinced that I'm bipolar and need electroshock therapy and/or medication.  I'm never really manic though.  Maybe I just need/want to spend some time in a peaceful, pretty mental facility where I can sort out all the crazy thoughts in my head.  It was strange reading about that thought because yesterday I also finished reading the book "Of Lena Geyer."  Towards the end of the novel, Lena collapses onstage from sheer physical and mental exhaustion.  She goes into a coma, briefly, but then takes years to recover.  And I kind of feel sometimes as if I need years to recover.  From what?  I don't know exactly.  All I can say is that life is hard.  Sometimes, most mornings, it takes most of my energy to get out of bed in the morning and come in to the office and get things done.

The blessing and curse of my current situation is that I have nothing work-related to accomplish.  So I've spent the past few weeks finishing grant and fellowship applications.  There's been a lot of essay writing and I feel as if I'm applying for college all over again.  But it's made me really examine my work and life as a director.  I'm certain there's nothing else I should be doing but the question remains: how to do it full time and make a living?

I've also applied to be a New York City Teaching Fellow.  I read the signs in the subway every morning so I figure I might as well give it a shot.  I've been passed on to the interview stage.  So the first weekend in February I have a day-long process to go through.  I need to figure out a five minute lesson plan.  I mentioned it to mom at dinner the other night and she was too excited.  "Your father and I always thought you should go into teaching.  But you had to try this for yourself and it didn't work out..."  Well, it's not that it hasn't worked out, Mom.  It just hasn't really been easy.  But I've been looking for teaching jobs for over a year and that's not easy either.  I want to, ideally, teach on the university level.  But I could deal with high school.  I need to figure out a five minute lesson plan to teach at the interview.  Did I say that already?  Well, I do.

The "ring out the old, ring in the new" always makes me think about "Sunset Boulevard".  That was the first show I took Present-Ex to see.  I call him Present-Ex because even though we've been broken up for some 7 years now we were together almost as long.  After breaking up we made a real effort to stay friends because although we were no longer in love with each other we certainly loved each other and had a profound effect on each other's lives.  Plus we were so intertwined in each other's families it was impossible not to be.

We met in Philly through a mutual friend while I was home from NYU on summer break.  We started dating late in the summer and continued long distance (well, 90 miles away) from there.  

Present-Ex was terrified of my parents because I came out upon meeting him and he was convinced they thought he made me gay.  And he totally did.  So there.  But I decided to take him up to NYC with me for a few days because he had never been and it was the beginning of the semester.  Mom, Dad and I drove to pick him up at his apartment.  It was awkward and forced.  Mom offered him some bagel and OJ but Present-Ex politely declined.  Later on the bus he said it was because he was afraid my mom had poisoned it.  He wasn't kidding.  We exchanged an awkward goodbye with Mom and Dad and hopped on Peter Pan to NYC.

I took Present-Ex to my dorm room.  It was a two-person suite on the penthouse level of the dorm on 10th and Broadway.  I loved this room especially because the old RA had given us a key to the door at the back of the room that opened up to the rooftop.  We spent many nights here on the roof, looking down at the traffic.  The steeple lights for Grace Church were placed on the roof here and I would look up at the steeple and the sky for what seemed like hours.  It was truly a beautiful sight to behold.

Present-Ex and I dropped our bags and headed out to grab some sandwiches at Bagel Bob's on University.  It was a beautiful late summer day and I was thrilled to be back in NYC and in love for the first time with someone who loved me back.  We took our sandwiches and sat in Washington Square Park and watched the people go by.  What did we talk about?  I'm not sure.  I can be really quiet most of the time and I wonder if I was this day.  Or maybe we talked about seeing the show that afternoon.

We hopped on the train to Times Square.  I was already familiar with "Sunset" from the movie and the original London cast recording with La LuPone.  I was excited to see the show and to see Betty Buckley.  I was not disappointed and I don't think I could have picked a better first show for Present-Ex to see.  Talk about spectacle.  First of all, Betty Buckley's voice is a beautiful instrument and as difficult as she is to work with, her performance was commanding.  The diva gets to sing in Sunset and sing she did.  Physically, Sunset was a towering production.  When the mansion set rose in the New Year's Eve scene to reveal the tiny, cramped apartment of Artie Shaw it was sheer theatrical genius and spectacle.  I probably gasped and applauded along with the rest of the audience.  My most vivid memory of the production was the very end.  Norma came down the stairs and spoke her infamous "Mr. DeMille" line and the curtain came down.  But as the curtain came down there was projected upon it the film of a younger, laughing and smiling Norma Desmond in her youth.  Well, it just gave me chills.

Sunset played in the barn that is the Minskoff Theatre.  Our seats were way up in the mezzanine, which has no center aisle it just goes straight across and our seats were way house right.  But I was leaning so far forward I might as well have been onstage.  I miss that excitement.  

These days I feel as if I'm trapped on an island of my own and even though I can see everyone else I can't make passage to them and they can't make passage to me.  And in my head the image of the curtain going down on a laughing, smiling, younger version of myself plays over and over again, haunting me.

Back in NYC

Driving through the Holland Tunnel today, in the back seat of my parents SUV I couldn't help but think of the past.

My first semester at NYU I went home almost every weekend, no matter the situation.  College of Arts and Sciences had no classes on Fridays so I would either hop on the bus Thursday evening or first thing Friday morning.  Please keep in mind, I was 17 years old.  I had absolutely no friends here.  I had a large extended family and circle of friends still in Philadelphia.

Those Peter Pan buses were horrible.  They smelled of piss and dirt.  The Philadelphia crowd was a mixed lot, but most of them seemed angry.  Perhaps it was the piss and dirt scent.  The best thing about each bus was that they were each named for something from Peter Pan: Tinkerbell, The Ticking Clock, Neverland, etc.  I thought that was pretty cool.

I wouldn't do much at home.  Hang with my friends, see my parents and grandparents.  My mom's parents were always a second set of parents to me.  And they lived right around the corner from the street I grew up on.  So I was always over there.  It was just about the time that I went away to NYU that I realized they were mortal.  Every time I would say goodbye to them and then go to the bus station I would do so with tears in my eyes, certain I would never see them again.  Well, Gram lived 'til I was well into grad school and Pop is still around, although minus a voice box and he's 94.

In my second semester at NYU I found a theatre troupe: The Washington Square Players.  They gave me a purpose.  Suddenly, there was a community again.  One I had been lacking.  So I started to find myself, as it were.  I started venturing out to Broadway shows.  I started to make friends with my roommates and people in the dorm.  I started to grow up.  Soon, I dreaded going home.  I was having too much fun being this stronger, thinner, independent young man I was becoming.  I was afraid going home would cause a relapse.  It didn't.  It strengthened me in many ways and in other ways it strengthened the pull in me that exists today between seeking security and independence.  That's a battle, I fear, that will never find peace.

However traveling back from Philly on the Peter Pan bus I would look for the sign that I was back.  About halfway through the Lincoln Tunnel you pass a tile marker that says: New Jersey/New York.  As soon as we passed that line, I breathed again.  Then I waited for the bus to round that long curve in New Jersey and show me the island with the Empire State Building lit up and welcoming me; a beacon like the green light across the water in "The Great Gatsby."

Now, I don't feel at home in New Jersey or in New York.  I don't feel completely at home anywhere.

I couldn't shake off an undefinable sadness this Christmas season.  I found myself on the verge of tears a lot but for no apparent reason.  I wanted the holiday to be over but I wanted the days off to extend but I didn't want to be at my parents or in NYC.  I'm restless.  A change is needed and a change is coming.  Something's going to break soon.  But when?  And what will appear when the pieces get swept away? 

Will this island that seems both too big and too small still be able to hold me?

Merry Merry

Watching CNN while Mom and Dad cook in the kitchen.

The dog is perched on the couch behind my head.

There's so much I want.

Merry Christmas.

Christmas Time

Thinking about my first Christmas season in NYC as an NYU student.

My friend Daria and I had dinner at her dorm on 5th Ave and 10th Street.  I call her Daria because she is very much like that MTV cartoon character.  She is smart, dry and often dressed in the same type of clothes, down to the thick, heavy, chunky black boots.  Daria's voice never modulated much and unless she was anxious or scared and she made me laugh to no end.  We were both misfits.  Her roommates hated her and I, for the most part, didn't want to socialize much with mine.  But, then again, I always have had a way with picking the misfits to hang with.  Daria, born and raised in North New Jersey of mixed race parents, has an open face covered in freckles and a smile that lights her face and subsequently mine.  She also has a devious sense of humor.

So Daria and I finished dinner and decided to walk around and take in some of the holiday spirit.  Window shopping was one of our favorite past times.  We would often meet for lunch in the dining hall across from Washington Square Park (The Jumping Dorm since so many committed suicide by jumping there) and after lunch we would stop and watch the dogs play in the dog run and then decide to skip class in order to walk around the city.

So on this cold, wintery December evening we decided to see what NYC had to offer us in regards to Xmas shopping.  We walked around the Village a bit and, uninspired, decided to head back to her room to watch a movie or something.  Standing on the southwest corner of 5th Ave and 10th Street, we were about to cross and go into the dorm when suddenly there was a crash and a flaming mattress came hurtling out of a third floor window of the dorm.  There wasn't nearly as much chaos as one would have suspected. for a flaming mattress coming from a window and landing in the middle of 5th Ave.  Luckily there were no cars coming at the time.  We stood, transfixed.  Some students trickled out of the dorm to see what was happening.  A security guard came out, talking frantically on his walkie-talkie.  The sound of fire engines echoed in the distance.  A pair of student came over and stood next to us.  "Do you know what happened?" I asked.  "Some kid dropped his menorah on the bed.  The mattress caught fire and, well..." and she gestured to the bed sitting sadly with a burned black spot in the middle.  The pair wandered off and we stood watching the firemen race down the street and hop out of their engines to see the effects of Hanukkah in a private university.

"What happened?" a voice behind us asked.  I turned and there, walking their cute little dog, were Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker.  I had been told they lived in the area but had never seen them.  I gasped a little bit and then quickly recovered, pointed at the mattress and caught them up on the story.  I don't think I possessed the ability to look them in the face when talking to them.  They laughed, wished us a happy holiday and walked on.

Daria and I decided that these were signs that the night held something special in store for us and could not be wasted hanging around in the dorm.  So we ventured uptown and caught all the holiday decorations in midtown.  Nothing beat a flaming mattress in the middle of 5th Ave.  It was it's own little island out there in the storm.

Pal Joey

Saw "Pal Joey" on Broadway yesterday afternoon.

It was interesting being in a theatre again after having started this blog.  My instincts seem to be heightened.  It amazes me that going to a see a show has now become old hat.  There's rarely a sense of anticipation anymore.  Mostly because when you see so much, so little of it is actually as good as you want it to be.  I remember when I first started going to see shows, I would be sick to my stomach for the half hour before the show started.  What if the actors messed something up?  What if they forgot their lines or missed a dance step?  What if they weren't as good as they should be?  It was a generalized anxiety with no real root in reality, which is symptomatic of many issues in my life.

However, as a youth, these performers always pulled through and surpassed my expectations.  For two hours or so I was utterly transported and I despised the 15 minute intermission.  i wanted them to just keep going.

I was thinking about this yesterday afternoon waiting for the curtain to rise at "Pal Joey."  I looked around the audience, one of the biggest blue-haired crowds I've ever seen.  Were they excited to be here or was it work for them too?  There was no buzz that awaits an eagerly anticipated production.  There was no hostility either.  It seemed as if people were just idling away a snowy Sunday in December.

There were certainly magical moments in this production.  I loved the set.  I hate that to be the first thing I say about a show but when the lights came up on it, I was impressed.  The El tracks rushing out at us from the back of the stage were a powerful image, although too similar to the design of Mantello's "Assassins" in the same theatre just a few years ago.  That was a roller coaster, I believe.  

Martha Plimpton was simply fantastic.  She takes the stage, unafraid to act, and is having the time of her life up there.  Stockard Channing plays the world-weariness of her character just right.  And you understand why she needs to fall for someone like Joey.  It provides her with an escape from the unhappy routine of her daily life.  

The costumes were almost cookie cut-outs of the costumes for "Cabaret" and I found that disappointing.

When intermission came, I wasn't disappointed.  The first act stalled in regard to dramatic action about a third of the way through and I thought, "Are they presenting this without an intermission?"  Then the lights came up and I looked at my watch, barely an hour and fifteen minutes had passed.  Not a good sign.  I did not feel the desire to leave.  I wanted to see more of Martha and Stockard.  But I wanted the show to be better all around.  Even the script itself.  It's just not very compelling.  Of course I thought, "Well, if they'd asked me to direct it I would have to say 'yes' too."  But, in my case, beggars can't be choosers.

The first time I left a show at intermission I felt an incredible sense of guilt.  Would the actors notice?  What if the show suddenly became fantastic in Act Two?  Well, I soon learned time was precious and show's that were bad in Act One rarely got better in the second act.  And now I feel no guilt.  In fact, I sometimes find myself looking forward to it.  Isn't that sad.  Instead of theatre now being an escape, it's become something I wish to escape from.  That's the problem when you your dream becomes a reality.

The Gypsy in Me

These yearly trips to NYC continued.  We saw "Me and My Girl", "Sweet Charity", "Anything Goes" and "Gypsy" on the bus.  My parents also started taking me up the week between Christmas and New Year's for a matinee.  I planned my life around these trips because it was the only time I felt like I was actually living.  Everything else was just biding time.

On the "Gypsy" trip we took my cousin, The Actress.  The Actress and I have always been close and our relationship probably blossomed around the time of this trip.  If I was 13 or so at the time so was about 11.

"Gypsy" took my breath away.  Tyne Daly gave one of the most amazing performances I've seen (I stand by that today) in a musical or a play.  I remember getting chills during her Rose's Turn and I still do when I listen to it today.  Plus, there is no better recording of the Overture.  The trumpets just go wild in the 'strip' section.

After the performance at the St. James Theatre I remember getting on the bus and waiting for The Actress to join me so that we could commiserate about the show.  There was a buzz amongst the family.  The Actress had disappeared.  Where was she?  Should we be worried?  What do we do?  Then her mother calmed everyone's nerves with a "Don't worry.  She went backstage."  I almost threw up.  She went backstage?  How did she do that?  Where did she go?  Was she talking to Tyne Daly right now?  Was Gypsy Rose Lee showing her how to strip?  I wanted to run off the bus but my mother held me back and gave me a look that said, "We don't do that.  We weren't invited."  So I bit my lip and sat down.

After what seemed like an eternity, the Actress came strolling out of the Stage Door with a shit-eating grin on her face.  She had walked across the stage.  She had run into members of the band and the cast.  She had done it.  She had gotten on Broadway.  I could have killed her.  Of course now I didn't want to hear anything she had to say but I had to hear all of it.  All of the family were commenting on how brave she was and how clever.  Cousin Vinnie got on the mic at the front of the bus to announce that the Actress had made it to the Broadway stage.  As the bus broke into a chorus of "The Best of Times is Now", I crossed my arms over my chest, thrust out my lower lip, sank deep into my seat and pouted.  The Actress had bested me.

Thus began the Actress's own infatuation with the Island at the End of the World.  Her path, like mine, has been a bumpy one.  But we've both done it.  We've both worked on Broadway.

But more on that later.

Snow Fall

As snow falls on this chilly, grey Friday morning I think about my first year at New York University.  At the merest hint of any sort of precipitation my mother would get on the phone, from Philadelphia, and call my dorm room at around 7am to tell me to bring an umbrella because it was raining/snowing/sleeting there.

My brother attended college but he lived at home while doing so.  My mother did not quite understand what dorm life was like and how, in a suite of 5 people, a 7am phone call is not appreciated by anyone -- especially 5 young men smart enough to get into NYU and who can look out the window before leaving and notice the weather.  Well, that's an overstatement.  Not all of us who lived in that room had the awareness to look out a window.  I have a feeling some still haven't really looked out.

The Texan who was a close friend for many years, and who I have now fallen out of contact with, had many odd proclivities.  When I would go home or away for a weekend, I would come back to the dorm room to find all my movies posters turned around and re-pinned to the walls.  Posters included: Slaves of New York, True Romance and Interview With the Vampire.  I would also find my bed unmade.  Turns out the Texan liked to bunker down in my camp while I was gone too.  Odd.

The strangest thing he ever did was spend a weekend homeless.  I'm still not sure why.  He did grow up in the rich city of Austin.  His parents seemed very hands-on but I could tell from overhearing phone calls that he very much wanted to please them.  He was a film major and I'm sure there are reels and reels of me acting out scripts in our dorm room and around the city somewhere out there...

Anyway, he spent a weekend homeless, wandering the streets of NYC.  He slept in Grand Central.  He would occasionally make phone calls to the room to his other friends to keep them aware of his status.  The Texan very much wanted to be noticed and wanted.  He wanted to incite concern and hysteria and have people beg him to come back to the safe confines of our little concrete rooms on 10th and Broadway.  I don't remember when he actually relented but he did come home smelly, dirty and exhausted eventually.

He had his own relationship with the Island to work out.

Snowy days make remind me of those crazy, innocent years we lived shielded in our dorm rooms downtown.  And of my mother at home worrying that I'd go out and get cold and wet; become a victim to the elements.