Monday, March 18, 2019

Bitch Kitty says good night!

She also says KEEP YOUR BITCH ASS DOWNSTAIRS OR I SWEAR ON ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY I WILL TEAR OPEN YOUR CAROTID. But for now let’s just focus on good night.

It’s All of you are Really in My way Day

(often shortened to ARM Day) at the gym, and it’s so bottlenecked at the first- and second-tier equipment that if I want to get in any type of workout I’m relegated to third-tier equipment like that stupid triceps-extension contraption where you put your upper arms on that little shelf and push the uncomfortable handles forward and get more of a wrist sprain than a triceps pump.

Fun fact: That little shelf makes a great place to rest your arms for a stealthfie.

Today marks three months without Diet Coke for me! And there’s only one way to celebrate!

#SparksOfJoy: A weekly post about something that makes me happy

Felix Mendelssohn: Violin Concerto in E minor, Opus 64: A concerto is a musical structure dating to the Baroque period (roughly 1600-1750) that features a solo instrument backed by a full orchestra. It’s traditionally composed in three movements with a fast-slow-fast structure. Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto (composed in 1844, which puts it squarely in the Romantic period) is a lighthearted delight that explores a range of happy, inarguably beautiful and requisitely contemplative musical voices in its first two movements. But its third movement--a bouncy, exuberant celebration of musical virtuosity titled Allegretto non troppo – Allegro molto vivace (starting at 22:06 in this recording)--is completely joyful and captivating and downright triumphant for any violinist who masters it. Part of its joy stems from Mendelssohn’s placement of the violin solo mere moments after the downbeat of the movement instead of letting the orchestra introduce the solo, as had been the convention for 200 years. Romantic music is about emotion--often extreme emotion--and the joyful emotions of this third movement leap at you with no room for impatience or distraction.

Good morning!

Sunday, March 17, 2019

I often write little notes to both friends and total strangers on Instagram when I have something (hopefully) interesting to say ...

all with no expectation that they’ll ever write me back, which is good because they never do. EXCEPT I SENT A NOTE TO DREAMY BROADWAY STAR JASON DANIELEY TODAY TO CONGRATULATE HIM ON A HALF-MARATHON PR AND HE JUST RESPONDED AND BASICALLY I JUST TALKED SHOP WITH JASON DANIELEY ABOUT RUNNING THE NEW YORK MARATHON AND HOLY SHIT SOMEONE FETCH ME MY SMELLING SALTS AND HEART MEDICATION.

I’m all stocked up on whisper-of-fruit-burp-flavored not-pop for the week!

But why don’t you have an easy-to-dispense pull-off corner of your box like all other canned beverages in the universe, La Croix? It’s not like you’re spending all your packaging money on flavoring.

I’m at the gym minding my own business

and desperately trying to reclaim even the tiniest shadow of my former (relatively) youthful (relative) pulchritude but there’s a glaring specimen of Unfair Physical Perfection wandering all over the gym as if to ensure that everyone notices his hyper-Adonic contours and perfectly polished cheekbones and covet his genetics and his ... um ... other things. And here I am in my Shakespeare T-shirt that says “This shit writes itself” and he inevitably has a B.A in Bard and a PhD in Pentameter and is mortally offended by my literary flippancy EVEN THOUGH THIS VERY MORNING I MADE A BURNHAM-WOOD-TO-DUNSINANE REFERENCE as we moved a bunch of fake potted trees at our 9 to 5 strike but he seems to have left the gym while I just had my caps lock on and he’s probably going to go pull some kind of manufactured-drama Ophelia stunt to express his disdain and disgust with me but in the mean time since he’s gone some sense of non-outlier self-esteem equilibrium has been restored among the mere mortals and steel plates and cable machines and relentlessly forgettable ‘90s B-side grunge-wannabe noise on the loudspeakers and I’m returning to my regularly scheduled Back And Shoulders Day programming. With 20 more lbs on my shoulder presses!
Oh—and not only did Ophelia Guy have the well-honed genetics of a You’re Never Gonna Have This Physique Model but he also had really cool shoes. He’s such a Portia.

The 9 to 5 set, props, costumes, lights and fucking miles of spike tape are struck

And I’m already forgetting my lines. I can’t tag our resident dead guy in this commemorative selfie because he doesn’t have a name in the show. Let’s just call him Brian. Brian Tofive.

It’s not a visit from Miss Bridget until she sneezes on you then completely fails at taking a decent selfie

WTF, Mother Nature?

9 to 5 has gone the way of the steno pool and the perma-press shirt

We had an intense rehearsal process and we more than met the challenges of this intensely challenging show. I’m sorry we had just three performances—especially given the rockstar performances of our leads—but I think we’re all proud of what we did and thrilled to have gotten to do it. Now all that’s left is to boil my sopping wet show shirts and scrape the last stubborn chunks of dried spirit gum out of my skin and hair. And—duh—to post all of my photos.
My selfie arm wasn’t long enough to capture this, but we’re all posing on the bed that makes multiple appearances under multiple people in the show. Our cast was ... um ... very close.

Here’s a list of every set piece I moved and every prop I needed and every location I needed to be in every scene and for every song in the show. I made it as a cheat sheet during rehearsals, but the show had an insane amount of stuff to remember and the list became an oft-consulted security blanket and even though it got sweaty and smudged to the point of unreadableness it never left my person for the run of the show.

RANDOM PIX ONSTAGE AND OFF:

The good thing about doing a show set in an office is you have tons of prop pencils you can use to erase all your markings in your libretto when you’re done. The official count: I wrote 2.5 erasers of notes.

It's not a 1979 musical without a '70s-themed closing-night party. That I totally forgot to dress for.

Saturday, March 16, 2019

When it’s your first day back at the gym in literally a week

because you’ve been working 24/7 on 9 to 5 and you didn’t even think about the fact that you’re still sporting last night’s wig-cap hair and sideburn glue before you left the house so you look either like a crazy person or a workout beast but there’s hardly anyone at the gym to notice you so you can safely take a number of selfies to choose from and yes this wrinkly one is the best of the batch but it’s not like I’m gonna land a boyfriend or even a date here today especially not with the cute guy I’ve been introduced to twice but who otherwise pretends not to see me even though he totally can’t pull off that attitude because one this isn’t a stand-and-model gay gym and two gurl you’re not THAT cute but anyway even though taking a whole week off literally made me feel fat and sluggish and old I clearly didn’t lose strength because I’m still lifting the same weights today and dare I say it I even feel like I could actually go up in weight and wow I’ve sure switched pronouns and cases here with wild abandon and is this what you call a run-on sentence?

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Here’s a photo of me (far right) waiting in line to be coiffed in the 9 to 5 wig room

As you can see, I got here a hair early.

Throwing cheese at baby rapers

R. Kelly first appeared on my radar in the early 2000s as the world was first finding out about his proclivity for videotaping himself having sex with--and peeing on--young girls. I belonged to Crunch Gym in the basement of my Chicago office building at Grand and State (coincidentally across the street from the back entrance to Nordstrom). The Crunch chain of gyms was relatively new and extremely trendy and often populated with celebrities, and R. Kelly and his posse worked out at my Crunch location every day at the same time I did: noon. And by "worked out" I mean "showed up, sat around doing nothing on all the benches in the locker room, sat around doing nothing on all the equipment in the gym, mumbled things to each other that constantly ended with 'You know what I'm sayin'?' and generally pissed (ahem) off everyone at the gym."

But there's more!

The gym was in the basement of the building, spread out below a tiny lobby facing the sidewalk. The neighborhood was the newly booming River North, just (as you might imagine) north of the river and just west of the Mag Mile, which is the high-end-retail section of North Michigan Avenue. Street parking was restricted and very rare. But R. Kelly was above the laws of street parking, and he parked his massive Hummer on the street right in front of the lobby door ... and he parked one poor schmuck from his posse in the lonely little lobby presumably to keep an eye on the Hummer and fend off anyone who might stop to ticket or tow it as R. and the rest of his posse "worked out" in the basement below.

So let's review all the reasons from this story alone that R. Kelly is an entitled piece of shit: Having sex with little girls. Peeing on little girls. Videotaping it. Spreading out all over the gym and preventing people from working out on their lunch hours. Parking his Hummer on a street with no parking. Owning a Hummer. Making one of his posse sit and watch the Hummer to potentially bribe any authorities who might ticket or tow it.

Oh yeah: And everyone who witnessed all of this universally agreed that his Hummer was literally the color of ... wait for it ... pee.