The festival jubilations of Brexit 1776 are nigh upon us ...

Graphic designers + the Internet give me hope for the future of humanity

Fashion PS to Melanie: Love the illusion neckline, hate the oven mitts.

BEHOLD THE REMORSELESS SCOFFLAWS!

So the trail was *technically* closed this morning, which means we were *probably*, *legally*, *morally*, *common-sensically* not supposed to run on it.

But we were RUNNING! So no dirty rotten coppers could even CATCH US! And we blazed blithely past the ROAD CLOSED sign all cavalier in our law-unabidingness and everything was fine ... until that everything that was moments-ago fine was suddenly covered in mucky, goopy, silty, sticky, and also slippery, splashy, every-other-kind-of-bad-stuff-adjective-that-ends-in-y-y mud. Which we macholy slogged through instead of common-sensoly turning around. Because we ain’t afraid of no mud; we’re MEN. Who just correctly used a SEMICOLON. And we have BAD JUDGMENT. With only ONE E. Because spelling it JUDGEMENT is WRONG AND DUMB AND WRONG SO STOP SPELLING IT THAT WAY, PEOPLE!

Anyway, once we (but not our formerly pretty shoes) survived the Half Mile Of Bad Decisions And Prolonged Regret And There’s No Reason To Turn Back Now Because Our Shoes Are Ruined Anyway, the trail was actually fine. We saw some people walking some totally tummy-rubbable dogs, but encountered no dumbass runners or bikers who were so dumbass that they’d slog through mud when the were clearly told not to. I was technically planning to run 6 miles this morning but was secretly hoping I’d feel up for 7 or 8, but I knew at the 3-mile mark I needed to turn around and head back ... and of course re-traverse all the mucky, goopy, silty, sticky, and also slippery, splashy, every-other-kind-of-bad-stuff-adjective-that-ends-in-y-y mud.

But we did it and my knee hurts only about 1% and I got to hang out with the fucking awesome Rob and not that potty-mouth Scott and even though my awesome-o newish running shoes are caked in mucky, goopy, silty, sticky, and also slippery, splashy, every-other-kind-of-bad-stuff-adjective-that-ends-in-y-y mud, I’m chalking it up as a great morning.

Except my texting thumb is STILL cold and creaky and I swear that’s why I’m writing and posting this three hours after we started running and not because I’ve gotten so slow that I’m mathematically running slower that someone who died in the Middle Ages and is now just dust with maybe a tiny bit of recognizable bone fragments. Because not only would that be a weirdly out of left field, but it would also be somewhere in Medieval England. And that would just be weird.

Live blogging again from backstage at My Fair Lady Act II Scene mcmlxxiv!

I’ve known these dear ladies since before you—or even we—were born. Because THAT is the magic of good theater lighting. We’ve been through rich and poor together, happy times and sad ... all depending on whatever the show we’re all doing says about us. We’re currently in Edwardian England, which is DEFINITELY before we were born. Well, allegedly. And it’s just loverly.

NINE HOURS OF COSTUME/TECH BEGINS!

Well, most of us are in costume. Sage is still just in his skimpy, vacuum-tight microphone-pocket undergarments. Because he is the black hole of emotional need. The rest of us are dressed as the Tottenham Court paupers and roustabouts we truly are. But with a foundation of skimpy, vacuum-tight microphone-pocket undergarments.

Wandelprobe is over—and without a single inappropriate giggle from anyone who said it out loud. So we count that as a win.

Oh—and our orchestra is freaking AWESOME. This show is an absolute vocal-gymnastics pleasure to sing, especially now that we’ve finally layered in our small army of instrumentalists.

And thanks to the geographic witchcraftery of the theater, I just took a selfie that’s simultaneously in the Tottenham Court tenement AND Henry Higggins’ study at wherever the hell 27-A Wimpole Street is. Life upon the wicked stage is NOT for the logical.

Tomorrow is our billion-hour tech rehearsal. And then the full-time magic begins. Just you wait ...

Charcuterie couture!

Captain America socks vs Union Jack shoes. Who would win?