Look, I made a run-on sentence

When you’re taking a rehearsal break and your Hello, Dolly! rehearsal hat that totally doesn’t fit ESPECIALLY totally doesn’t fit when you’re lying on the floor but it’s on the same blue-tone colorway spectrum as your shirt and it’s sitting on your head like you’re a Fosse Pilgrim and that’s coincidentally your band name and you need a photo for your eponymous album cover anyway so here we are.

'Till my garters break

When your pain meds have worn off and for some reason FX disappeared from your channel lineup with last week’s ImOn system upgrade and you’ve thought Fosse/Verdon has been getting draggy and dull anyway and you decide to give up trying to watch it and just go to bed. But gently. Because going to bed using Fosse moves would make your head explode.

What’s gayer:

that tonight I folded all my hoodies in (generally) the same size and stacked them to be put away for summer in the order of the rainbow, that I actually own hoodies in every color of the rainbow, or that I did it all while watching Fosse/Verdon?

Number 17: The Spread Eagle

In honor of the Fosse/Verdon premiere this evening, I found this photo of some hearty ladies from the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus re-creating the Chicago movie's vigorous "Cell Block Tango" way back in 2007. (Oh, dear. I just did the math. Was that really 12 years ago?) If you'd have been there, you would have seen me dancing bravely in an XXL leotard and size 13 clearance-rack heels with a bevy of similarly brave, wobbly-ankled souls.

God, I hope you get these

Bendy people try to stand out so they can dance like clones.

The way you do your hair is a metaphor for the idea that it doesn't matter what you look like.

A group of women with 50 years of age differences who've never worked together and who've probably never even met somehow simultaneously remember the choreography and staging to a generations-old song. Oh, and something about a coffee cup.

All the neighbors' cats disappeared so ...

Dude can't commit.

Mom makes too many sandwiches and moves out.

Dude dots Dot, dies.

Cats with stupid names pretty much do nothing.

Pray for a tech malfunction if you want to see some dicks at the end.

Six boobs and a garage-door opener.

Tons and tons of plotlines about French people--half of whom are poor and uneducated--who for some reason all sing in perfect English.

Dancing guys in tight jeans take a stab at cultural harmony.

Slinky Fosse choreography makes the plot irrelevant.

Drag queens overcome adversity and teach everyone a valuable lesson about discrimination and tolerance.

Then, 40 years later, the exact same plot happens again.

VACCINES KILL

It’s true because it’s on a T-shirt worn by a completely-trustworthy-looking dude wandering Terminal E of Charlotte Douglas International Airport. The shirt is scarlet. As in fever.

Also: Charlotte Douglas International Airport is the size and shape of a charming-Belgian-hamlet-size spider squashed by Bob Fosse.

Also: I’m in the mood for a totally-not-abs-friendly snack, but I’ve trekked the full extent of Charlotte Douglas International Airport’s splayed-and-Fosse-angled spider legs and I haven’t seen a single damn gooeyfrostedcinnamonrollerie.

Also: I just followed a distractingly-latted-and-boyfriend-age-appropriate man in a contour-hugging gray T-shirt all the way from Terminal E to Terminal C on the far end of the Fosse-squashed charming-Belgian-hamlet-size Charlotte Douglas International Airport, but he stopped at Terminal C2 and I depart from Terminal C8.

Also: Stupid Terminal C8.

Also: My supposedly-auto-time-zone-synching running watch is refusing to auto-time-zone synch.

Also: Stupid supposedly-auto-time-zone-synching running watch.

Also: The cashier at Sbarro keeps aggressively demanding that every customer have a great day.

Also: DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO MY WATCH WON’T AUTOMATICALLY CHANGE TIME ZONES AND I ACTUALLY WANTED A GOOEY FROSTED CINNAMON ROLL INSTEAD OF YOUR SUSPICIOUSLY SUSPICIOUS PIZZA AND I JUST HAD TO SIT POINTLESSLY ON A TARMAC FOR 15 MINUTES AND GRAY SHIRT GUY IS FLYING TO DALLAS FORT WORTH YES I LOOKED IT’S TOTALLY NOT CREEPY SHUT UP AND MY PARENTS ARE TRYING TO VACCINATE ME TO DEATH SO IT’S WAAAAY BEYOND POSSIBLE FOR MEET YOUR AGGRESSIVE AND FRANKLY CRUEL GREAT-DAY DEMANDS.

Today's moment of pure, ridiculous joy: Liza Minnelli sings "Ring Them Bells"

I don't know why I love this song so much. It's not technically from a show. I've never been a huuuuuuuuuge fan of Liza. In fact, most of her Liza with a Z concert makes me bleed from my nipples. Bob Fosse's choreography to the song -- and to the entire concert -- is clownish, poorly rehearsed and alarmingly sloppy. And oh, dear. That dress.

But "Ring Them Bells" is Kander and Ebb at their collaborative finest: simple melodic lines with enormous hook and impact, broad storytelling through seemingly offhand details, a seamless fusion of pathos and humor, an underscoring of inspired silliness, and a big belty chorus that throws me against the farthest wall in a puddle of goosebumps every time I hear it. I can't find a YouTube video of it with terribly amazing sound, but it doesn't even matter how watery the sound is when you see Liza finally marching downstage flopping her knees and hyperextended elbows between the rows of sloppy clown dancers as she belts to the rafters for the umpteenth time that ya gotta Ring! Them! Bells!

Even in that jailbait babydoll dress.