Well, so I left private banking, finally, and got a new job. Surprisingly, I miss my banking job, or really, I miss the people there so much. They were so fun, so great to talk to.
But, I did get a new job, HOORAY! *throws confetti* It only took me *counts on fingers* FIVE months to get a decent job that matched my interests/qualifications. It's funny, I'm absolutely livid that I wasn't able to secure a suitable job before this, and I've already had three people say, "Five months? That's it? Wow, you're lucky! I know someone it took nine months/one year/18 months, etc."
Like everything though, it was probably all for the best. I am now working for a non-profit organization that does work in developing countries ("third world"). It feels good to work for a place that is doing the kinds of things you always want to be a part of. I also get to do administrative work, which I love. It has its tedious parts, but don't all jobs?
But do you really care about that? Probably not. Maybe you'll care a little bit more about my new object of lust -- I call him, for the purposes of this blog, A-MOT. Why? Well, one of the first questions a friend of mine asked was, "Is he a MOT?"
"What's a MOT?" I asked
My friend and roommate laughed. "Where have you been?" he asked.
"MOT. 'Member of the Tribe.' A Jew!" said my friend
(Both my friend and roommate are Jews).
Ohhhhhh, okay. Well, actually, he does happen to be a MOT, after all, or as they used to say about my other ex from Long Island, "He's got the map of Israel on his face."
So, now we have A-MOT. You know what the MOT is, but what's the "A"? I'll let you fill in that one.
Unlike the Hot Mailroom Boy, this guy appears to be somewhere closer to my age, my education, and my height. But unfortunately like the HMB who passed right by me several times a day, A-MOT is hidden in a side room, squeezed in with a half dozen others. We are in different departments, and there's not much of a chance to talk to him.
GRRRR! More scheming and plotting! I hate this!
So, I did what any self-respecting woman would do. I Google'd him. And well, I found a young man, with his same exact name. No photos to confirm it though, so I remain confuzzled. BUT, if if IF the guy I googled is the SAME guy at work...I LOVE HIM! I thought this was a young man in his mid-20's who was relatively intelligent, maybe a degree in Poli Sci or something. Well, the guy online was fantastically intelligent, had traveled around the world doing "good deeds" (and written thoughtful articulate analysis of philanthropy/wealthy people/public service), had gone to great schools (yes, we're talking higher higher education), likes hammocks (I LOVE hammocks) and even dabbled into creative writing. Well, could this be any more perfect? Or pukey?
The only drawback is something that is also one of the few drawbacks at work. I don't know, maybe it's because it's a place of well-intentioned, development workers who are very serious and very sincere about what they do. Maybe it's all the hardship they have to see, how little of it they can actually help, and the sadness it can bring (for instance, we do a lot of work on AIDS in Africa, and it is so much more horrible there than I ever imagined). But my point is, unlike my last job where I laughed and was silly (and still worked hard, of course!), and where on several occasions I hung around hours 'after hours' to talk with co-workers I'd really come to adore in a short time. The people at my new job are all very nice, very hospitable. People talk with me (I just cannot remember their names), and seemed geninely concerned with my happiness at work. I've been told several times just how happy they are that I was finally hired and working there, and that I have been happily expected.
But...(here we go with the glass half-empty crap)...
They are very politically-correct, very serious about their work and working in general. I like a place that likes to work. I get angry and nervous in an environment where work is disrespected. But...I must be in a place that has that release...those moments of hanging around each other for a couple of minutes to laugh. Teasing and joking each other, sometimes crossing that line just enough to be exciting. Always being good to each other, and always honest (and all that comes with that). My new job, everyone is very nice, but no one is particularly fun or funny. I see a few glimmers and I feel embarrassed because I seem to latch onto it, and dive in, with a bit TOO much gusto.
Perhaps it's because I'm too new in a tight-knit group. I've been in atmospheres like that before. You just have to be kind to everyone and wait it out. Sooner or later, they come around. Just ask all of my Scandinavian buddies. Though I was only at the bank for a couple of months and I was close with many by the time I left.
One of my points about this is that my co-workers are not the kind where I can go up to them and whisper, "Hey, that A-MOT guy, how old is he? Does he have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Does he like shiksas? Is he psycho?"
--------
The other day I finally got a chance to be 'alone' with A-MOT (by the fax machine); it was a rare moment. I tried to take advantage of it by talking to him, though we didn't get very far. He was friendly enough, but I wasn't getting any big signals. He did seem to have a sense of humor though! Thank God!
Here's hoping, FOR ONCE, the guy I like moves fast and moves first. I hate always being the one.
-------------
Oooooh! M*A*S*H is on! Hope it's an early one. Gotta go!
Sunday, May 30, 2004
Monday, May 24, 2004
Exploring New York City, Part XVI
Due to circumstance, I have been spending an inordinate amount of time OUTSIDE of my apartment. The positive side of this is that I am getting a LOT of exercise and finally starting to shed some pounds. Not only have I been a frequent visitor to my expensive, though lovely New York Sports Club, I have also spent a great deal of time walking, walking, walking, which has allowed me to happily explore this city, which sometimes I love, sometimes I hate.
Yesterday I made my way to Central Park, a place that will probably take me years to get to know. I entered at 96th street, on the west side (or "Central Park West" as they like to say), and as you can see from my classy map here, made my way down...down...down. It was quite a walk made a bit harder by the idiot in me that brought a very sizeable backpack along (it had all my workout clothes including my tennis shoes, bottle of water, etc.). By the time I reached Central Park South, I was red-faced, soaked in sweat, and exhausted. (I know, sexy image, eh?). I even considered walking down to the 40's after that, but quickly discovered that was stupid and got on the subway at 57th street.
But let's take a moment to re-visit that journey of mine, since it was so nice, shall we? It was really a beautiful day! A little warm, but the park offers plenty grassy knolls and shady trees. I got off the subway at 96th and had to walk a few avenues east until I reached the park. 96th street was kind of nice, and as I have been prone to lately, my eyes scoured every doorway on the off-chance that there is a sign advertising a vacant apartment (this has actually happened twice now, including one viewing for me). No such luck.
My path through the park
I entered the park and began trying to make my way east. I saw the sign for the giant reservoir and headed toward that. I like large bodies of water. Okay, maybe this wasn't "large," but it sure wasn't a duck pond! I stared at the water for a bit, headphones in, thinking DEEEEEEEP thoughts. I then settled on the grass to read my book, Taking Lives, and take occasional glances at the lake and the hundreds of joggers huffing and puffing by. And when I say hundreds, I do not joke. If I had one of those people clickers that fat guards hold as you enter the museum, I'd be clickety-clacketing away. I was amazed. There were so many I felt some sort of societal pressure to jump up from my sluggish roost and join them with gusto.
Yeah, I just read my book, and ate green grapes, and stared at the water, and felt good. I go to the gym enough.
I also watched or rather, looked at those giant, gloroius apartment buildings that make up the famous "Central Park West" or "Central Park South" where the super rich live. They make such an interesting backdrop to the park, which seems like a bubble world, especially that one with the two towers.
That's not the greatest picture, it kind of takes away from the image I had, but it'll do for now.
This picture's a little bit better:
I want to be rich. I know, it sounds disgusting to say it, and I'm not sure that anyone can be really rich without really hurting others or forcing others into poverty themselves. I guess what I really mean is, I want to not have to struggle so much. Living in Bangkok, for the first time in my life, money wasn't SUCH an issue. When you don't have money, it's like this constant, dark cloud over your head. It affects your happiness, your stress levels. Does it mean you can't be poor and happy? No, of course not, but it sure as hell affects your happiness! And money CAN buy happiness! It can buy enjoyment, ease, comfort, and peace of mind. In Bangkok, if I needed something, or wanted something (within reason), it was possible. It wasn't crazy, but there wasn't this constant denial of oneself. Constant "wait 'til the next check toOnce again I'd like to take this moment to bitch and moan about parents, and the ones in NYC are NO better than the Stepford Wives ones of the suburbs. HEY! You with KIDS! You are no better, no more privileged, no more special, no more deserving than the rest of us non-breeders. Having a child does not entitle you to push people out of the way, take over the entire sidewalk - forcing people into the street, cut in line, demand attention/service, or have the moral high ground in any situation. And if your child is yelling/screaming/throwing a tantrum, LEAVE (this especially applies to movie theaters). PLEASE listen to George Carlin's stand-up about "Children" and gain some perspective. I was a teacher and LOVED my students. Adored them. But I wasn't an idiot about them. Children are not little gods. They are just little people who need to be cared for.
ANYWAY!
I walked on toward Central Park South where the playground is. I had been there before, where I had spent a very nice few minutes on the swings. I'm an adult and still love the swings, though now I have a fear of breaking the whole swingset. The place was filled with kids though, and I do like kids enough to not want to take over a swing when there's plenty of children vying for one. I thought I'd use the bathroom which I had been pleasantly surprised with on my last visit.
YUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!
It was absolutely, totally disgusting. The bathroom was flooded with watery excrement that covered the floor in a vomitous flood. I was very happy to be wearing my 'water'-proof, foot-covering shoes. I found one bathroom that had a) toilet paper, b) a working lock, and c) the least amount of flood waters on the ground. We can stop the story there.
I walked to the main sidewalk where all the horse, or is it 'hansom' cabs were. The smell of horse manure was a bit overwhelming. I don’t mind the smell so much, since I was around horses occasionally as a kid (especially with those memorable trips to “Rawhide!” out in the desert, but it was pretty pungent stuff.
I passed by all the vendors with their touristy stuff. When I have lived abroad (particulary in Europe, since this is rather hard in Bangkok), I would make some effort to blend in. Wearing black shoes, my hair up, not bouncing too much when I walked or not smiling too easily. Sheesh, it makes Europe sound depressing, doesn't it?
I never wanted to be seen as a tourist and always felt a little embarrassed by others, especially the American (or other nationalities) who were obnoxious, loud, and totally out of touch with their surroundings and the people in it, or worse, the hippies who thought they really WERE. Yet, my one weakness was tourist crap. I love it. I loved my Eiffel Tower keychain (now gone, *sniff*), my Gothenberg sweatshirt, my Kiwi necklace, etc. I totally go for that stuff. I love postcards (and sending them), and find great joy in taking many photos of something that everyone else has seen a thousand times on other postcards or books or tv or movies. The NYC stuff is of course, a bit less interesting, but I still slow down a bit when passing.
How do you blend in in NYC? You wear dark colors, you dress relatively well (not in the Midwestern sweatpant/big t-shirt uniform I'm used to), if you're a girl, you don't wear masculine shoes (I like to wear fake doc martens, stomp stomp, oh well), you walk very fast, you look pissed off, you have little patience, and you don't look up. Ever.
Yesterday I made my way to Central Park, a place that will probably take me years to get to know. I entered at 96th street, on the west side (or "Central Park West" as they like to say), and as you can see from my classy map here, made my way down...down...down. It was quite a walk made a bit harder by the idiot in me that brought a very sizeable backpack along (it had all my workout clothes including my tennis shoes, bottle of water, etc.). By the time I reached Central Park South, I was red-faced, soaked in sweat, and exhausted. (I know, sexy image, eh?). I even considered walking down to the 40's after that, but quickly discovered that was stupid and got on the subway at 57th street.
But let's take a moment to re-visit that journey of mine, since it was so nice, shall we? It was really a beautiful day! A little warm, but the park offers plenty grassy knolls and shady trees. I got off the subway at 96th and had to walk a few avenues east until I reached the park. 96th street was kind of nice, and as I have been prone to lately, my eyes scoured every doorway on the off-chance that there is a sign advertising a vacant apartment (this has actually happened twice now, including one viewing for me). No such luck.
My path through the park
I entered the park and began trying to make my way east. I saw the sign for the giant reservoir and headed toward that. I like large bodies of water. Okay, maybe this wasn't "large," but it sure wasn't a duck pond! I stared at the water for a bit, headphones in, thinking DEEEEEEEP thoughts. I then settled on the grass to read my book, Taking Lives, and take occasional glances at the lake and the hundreds of joggers huffing and puffing by. And when I say hundreds, I do not joke. If I had one of those people clickers that fat guards hold as you enter the museum, I'd be clickety-clacketing away. I was amazed. There were so many I felt some sort of societal pressure to jump up from my sluggish roost and join them with gusto.
Yeah, I just read my book, and ate green grapes, and stared at the water, and felt good. I go to the gym enough.
I also watched or rather, looked at those giant, gloroius apartment buildings that make up the famous "Central Park West" or "Central Park South" where the super rich live. They make such an interesting backdrop to the park, which seems like a bubble world, especially that one with the two towers.
That's not the greatest picture, it kind of takes away from the image I had, but it'll do for now.
This picture's a little bit better:
I want to be rich. I know, it sounds disgusting to say it, and I'm not sure that anyone can be really rich without really hurting others or forcing others into poverty themselves. I guess what I really mean is, I want to not have to struggle so much. Living in Bangkok, for the first time in my life, money wasn't SUCH an issue. When you don't have money, it's like this constant, dark cloud over your head. It affects your happiness, your stress levels. Does it mean you can't be poor and happy? No, of course not, but it sure as hell affects your happiness! And money CAN buy happiness! It can buy enjoyment, ease, comfort, and peace of mind. In Bangkok, if I needed something, or wanted something (within reason), it was possible. It wasn't crazy, but there wasn't this constant denial of oneself. Constant "wait 'til the next check to
ANYWAY!
I walked on toward Central Park South where the playground is. I had been there before, where I had spent a very nice few minutes on the swings. I'm an adult and still love the swings, though now I have a fear of breaking the whole swingset. The place was filled with kids though, and I do like kids enough to not want to take over a swing when there's plenty of children vying for one. I thought I'd use the bathroom which I had been pleasantly surprised with on my last visit.
YUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!
It was absolutely, totally disgusting. The bathroom was flooded with watery excrement that covered the floor in a vomitous flood. I was very happy to be wearing my 'water'-proof, foot-covering shoes. I found one bathroom that had a) toilet paper, b) a working lock, and c) the least amount of flood waters on the ground. We can stop the story there.
I walked to the main sidewalk where all the horse, or is it 'hansom' cabs were. The smell of horse manure was a bit overwhelming. I don’t mind the smell so much, since I was around horses occasionally as a kid (especially with those memorable trips to “Rawhide!” out in the desert, but it was pretty pungent stuff.
I passed by all the vendors with their touristy stuff. When I have lived abroad (particulary in Europe, since this is rather hard in Bangkok), I would make some effort to blend in. Wearing black shoes, my hair up, not bouncing too much when I walked or not smiling too easily. Sheesh, it makes Europe sound depressing, doesn't it?
I never wanted to be seen as a tourist and always felt a little embarrassed by others, especially the American (or other nationalities) who were obnoxious, loud, and totally out of touch with their surroundings and the people in it, or worse, the hippies who thought they really WERE. Yet, my one weakness was tourist crap. I love it. I loved my Eiffel Tower keychain (now gone, *sniff*), my Gothenberg sweatshirt, my Kiwi necklace, etc. I totally go for that stuff. I love postcards (and sending them), and find great joy in taking many photos of something that everyone else has seen a thousand times on other postcards or books or tv or movies. The NYC stuff is of course, a bit less interesting, but I still slow down a bit when passing.
How do you blend in in NYC? You wear dark colors, you dress relatively well (not in the Midwestern sweatpant/big t-shirt uniform I'm used to), if you're a girl, you don't wear masculine shoes (I like to wear fake doc martens, stomp stomp, oh well), you walk very fast, you look pissed off, you have little patience, and you don't look up. Ever.
Geocities Boo!
Okay, I just figured out why I've been having all this trouble posting pictures DESPITE the fact that I thought I was following all instructions carefully...
It seems that Geocities where I have happily kept my webpage for YEARS does not allow you to link a photo from there onto your blogger. Well, isn't that sweet? GODDAMNIT! What the fuck? I can't use my own website in conjunction with my own blog????? It's not like I'm using my website to store information for evil terrorists. I'm just linking a photo from one to the other!
The only other option is the "Hello" or Picassa that I have been using, which is fine, except that it doesn't allow for much manipulation.
Boooo fucking boooo to you Geocities.
It seems that Geocities where I have happily kept my webpage for YEARS does not allow you to link a photo from there onto your blogger. Well, isn't that sweet? GODDAMNIT! What the fuck? I can't use my own website in conjunction with my own blog????? It's not like I'm using my website to store information for evil terrorists. I'm just linking a photo from one to the other!
The only other option is the "Hello" or Picassa that I have been using, which is fine, except that it doesn't allow for much manipulation.
Boooo fucking boooo to you Geocities.
Shrek 2
Okay, I saw Shrek 2 this weekend and enjoyed it. Though I didn't have HUGE expectations for the film, it was nice to NOT be disappointed at the movies for once. The movie was funny, and touching, and has a good underlying message about racism and our obsession with a certain kind of beauty (very white, very thin, very big, blue eyes). Don't worry, I'm not going to turn Shrek 2 into something it's not, but that message is there.
And the big scene stealer was by far, Antonio Banderas as Puss in Boots, who turned Eddie Murphy's babbling donkey into an annoyance. Puss stole every scene and got the biggest theater "AWwwwww!" I've ever heard with this <
Awwww!
And the big scene stealer was by far, Antonio Banderas as Puss in Boots, who turned Eddie Murphy's babbling donkey into an annoyance. Puss stole every scene and got the biggest theater "AWwwwww!" I've ever heard with this <
Awwww!
Saturday, May 22, 2004
Blip on American Idol
Yes, I watch it. I love it. Though I'm still pissed about the whole Jasmine thing.
Chain chain chainnnnnnnn.....
Fantasia, you kick some serious ass! If you don't win this thing, I will have lost all faith in the show. I came pretty close when weepy-eyed, "Vote for me Hawaii!" Jasmine SOMEHOW ousted LaToya, whom I thought would win the whole thing.
I still miss George Huff though! He just made me smile everytime he was on. George you were great and the only one with a personality besides Fantasia! I hope you get something worthwhile out of this besides face recognition on the street.
Style, personality, walk, personality, talk...
Chain chain chainnnnnnnn.....
Fantasia, you kick some serious ass! If you don't win this thing, I will have lost all faith in the show. I came pretty close when weepy-eyed, "Vote for me Hawaii!" Jasmine SOMEHOW ousted LaToya, whom I thought would win the whole thing.
I still miss George Huff though! He just made me smile everytime he was on. George you were great and the only one with a personality besides Fantasia! I hope you get something worthwhile out of this besides face recognition on the street.
Style, personality, walk, personality, talk...
Monday, May 17, 2004
My Personal Experience with Hugh Jackman and The Boy from Oz
The thrills, the excitement, and how this writer made Hugh's life a little less enjoyable.
Oh. My. God. Where do I begin?
Okay, first of all, I'll just say, if you're in NYC and you're going to do what everyone should do once in their life, go to a Broadway show, GO SEE The Boy from Oz! You won't regret it. It's such a good time. The bio-musical of the Australian Peter Allen, flamboyant performer, songwriter, one-time husband of Liza Minelli and lover of men and women alike (mostly men). Hugh Jackman is incredible in an energetic performance that makes YOU feel tired by the end.
He's got this powerful voice that just spreads out and covers the entire audience, and he can shake his bon bon in such a way to demand Ricky Martin renounce his crown. Oh, and Hugh just got nominated for Best Actor in a Musical for the Tony Awards (the show itself got several other nominations as well). In addition, the performances of Isabel Keating as Julie Garland and Stephanie J. Block as Liza Minelli were incredible. Not only are these women fantastic singers and performers overall, but they had to do it in Julie's/Liza's voice, and they were both pretty damn accurate, especially Block who blew me away. Mitchell David Federan, who played Allen as a young boy, completely stole the show each time he appeared. Every time he or Hugh leaped onto or off of the piano, I winced in anticipation of some horrible accident. Luckily there was none. I hope they have some good traction on those things.
One great thing about Hugh's performance, was that even though it was quite obvious the audience was filled with screaming, drooling women who wanted to see and talk to HUGH, Hugh stayed deeply entrenched within character. He WAS Peter Allen the entire time and skillfully controlled the audience, when they were either trying to get "Hugh" to come out during the occasional interactions, or when they were just shouting out and interrupting the performance in their excitement. I could see how that might easily get out of hand, as in the first number when Hugh came out by himself to sing, "The Lives of Me," and people were just screaming. He kind of cocked his head toward the crowd and said, "Hey, let me sing for a minute." The audience laughed and then immediately quieted down. Sure anyone could say that, but how many people can deliver it in such a way to get results?
Anyway, onto ridiculous me. I’ve become a thirty-one year old groupie with a fifteen year old’s personality. Last Friday I had tickets, along with three friends, to see The Boy from Oz. It’s something that we’ve been planning for a long time. But finally, our good friend made it to NYC, and we bought the tickets. I mentioned our plans to a friend, Jessica. She mentioned knowing someone in the ensemble cast and maybe backstage passes could be finagled. Was I interested?
Um…
YES!
Wait, can I say that again? Yes! Yes! Yes!
I was on pins and needles for two days, waiting to get the answer back. A backstage pass is the kind of thing that just doesn’t happen to me. I was feeling incredibly lucky. And then, Jessica came through. We were going to meet Leslie Alexander. Our instructions were to enjoy the show, and immediately afterwards move our butts to the backstage door, pushing our way through the fawning females (and there were MANY) and announce Leslie’s name.
So, I had my dress, my Hugh dress. I work in the garment district and each day passed this gorgeous, Springy, yellow dress in the window. Most of these shops are wholesale only and will not really sell to you off the street, but I couldn’t really resist. I just liked the dress a lot, and it was yellow! I don’t think I own a single yellow piece of clothing in my entire “wardrobe.” I made friends with the owner and he was nice enough to sell it to me “at cost” (I think, it sure was inexpensive). It’s nice to have something you feel at least semi-attractive in after a few months of feeling…bloated.
I picked a nice little Greek restaurant just a half a block from the theater (I’m always in charge of restaurant-picking and so far have had tremendous luck), and we had a nice meal. After a few glasses of red wine, I was READY for The Boy from Oz! We scurried to the theater, and I quickly bought some cheap binoculars, haggling with the storekeeper, and getting them down almost half of the ticketed price. Then we shuffled in with the other cattle through the open doors. I quickly bought a sparkly t-shirt knowing that I desperately wanted one (like I don’t have enough t-shirts!) and that there wouldn’t be time after the show.
Then we were inside! There’s something really exciting about first entering a theater before a show, and I’m not even a ‘theater person’ (I’m a movie gal). The lights are on, but kind of dim, people are talking, it’s kind of warm, you’re settling into your seat, you feel this excitement and chat with your friends about how great this is, how you can’t wait.
Then, it began! Complete darkness fell only to be relieved by Hugh at the piano. The crowd went wild. And I won’t pretend I wasn’t just as stupid, lustful, loud, and starstruck as the rest. I was.
The rest of the show was just a delight. Hugh Jackman is just an incredibly charistmatic guy. He seems to be having such a great time, smiling, leaping around, singing with such gusto, you can’t help but think the guy must collapse from exhaustion after each show. He engaged the audience frequently, choosing a few lucky individuals in the few front rows.
Okay, just a minute, I have to express one serious beef I have with performers in concerts, musicals, or plays. EVERY time you are at one, and the performer happens to interact with audience members, it’s always someone in the first four rows. Now, I know that on a common sense level, you communicate with the person closest to you, the person you can see. But, coming from a person who, due to financial reasons (it almost killed me to cough up the $100 for this show, the first several rows are $250!!!), is always a couple dozen rows back, it is always so heart-wrenching to watch. The people in the front just have more money, they aren’t any bigger of fans. And I’m sure the older man “Eugene,” who was cool and totally game with Hugh’s suggestions, was just some old guy from Jersey who came over for the show and wasn’t wondering how he was going to eat lunch for the next two weeks before his next paycheck. Now, the performers are very much in sync with the guys who control those lights, and I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to seek out someone who is sitting back there in, let’s just say….the Front Mezzanine section 1, seat E1.
Anyway, enough of my bitterness, on to the sweet! The show was really incredible. Half fantastically fun musical, half like a rock concert with the multitudes of screaming women. Shannon and I kept swooning in
to each other at each suggestive Hugh move. And there were plenty, including his “dirty dancing” which almost sent me off the deep end. I haven’t felt lust that strong in…well, in a little while. I’m not dead yet. But I have to tell you, I know I was acting like one of those teenagers on the Ed Sullivan Show when the Beatles showed up, but I didn’t care. I was having such a great time.
After the catchy, bounce around in your head all day song-of-happiness, “I Go to Rio” played at the finale, I was off, losing half my party in my mission to get to the backstage door as soon as possible. Luckily, we all met up again minutes later. It was chaos. The place was packed with women, pushing and shoving each other, pressing against the barricades in hopes of getting close to Hugh when he emerged.
I was instructed to push my way through to the door, and I did. A “security guard” of sorts was there and he was truly enjoying his “bad ass” persona. He confronted us and I told him we were there for Leslie Alexander, and he practically shoved us toward the gaping backstage door. Just as we were reaching it, out came Hugh. Shannon and I began to pass him, but naturally, we paused. Hugh looked at us, a bit confused of why were there (and not behind the barricades), said, "Hi" and then was ushered on, and we were ushered in. I don't think I actually made a sound.
Me on the piano keys staircase used in the finaleInside, we stood around awkwardly for a moment, feeling like we were in everyone's way. We slowly wandered out onto the stage where I sat on the piano key stairs and posed, as seen in the photo above. It didn't come out very well, but I know what I look like.
Leslie was great. She was enthusiastic and graciously answered all our stupid questions. We took a photo with her, looked around a bit more, and then we left. It was a great experience. Thank you Leslie and Jessica for the opportunity
The Next Day - Saturday Matinee
Since we didn't get much of a chance to have any contact with Hugh the day before, and since we were still buzzing like bees about the performance, Shannon and I decided to go once again to the backstage door to wait for Hugh to come out after the Saturday matinee. We timed it perfectly and showed up just as the show was letting out and women were rushing forward to press against the barricades once more. This time we were right in front, clutching our playbills and feeling rather ridiculous. The only unpleasant things were the security guard (same guy from the night before) who acted like a total pig (he made numerous lewd comments about Shannon's breasts), and the occasional aggressive woman pushing us from behind. I really have to admire her though, she took all his comments in stride and with grace. Not something easy to do in such a situation.
The actor Tony Goldwyn showed up with his very large brood in tow. In case you don't know him simply from his last name, he was the really bad guy in Ghost. See the photo to the right.
After a bit of a wait, Hugh came out, as you see depicted in all the photos above. True to what they say about him, he was gracious and kind, signing numerous autographs and greeting everyone. He signed my playbill, I took all the pictures left on my roll, and after 5-10 minutes, he ducked back into the theater and it was over.
This is when things got weird for me. Being front and center, I was in the perfect place to just observe him the whole time. I've always thought myself a pretty good judge of body language and I am one of those people who like to sit in a park, eat lunch, and just watch all the different types of people walk by.
Watching his face and body, it soon became apparent to me that what he was doing was a complete obligation. Okay, I know, DUH! The required 5-10 minutes of autograph signing is the kind of thing all big actors have to do after each show, though I have no idea if they actually DO. And yes, we were all a bunch of slobbering women (I think I spotted about three men) who were just dying for the chance to look in his eyes and have him fall instantly in love with us (though of course, we all just respect him for being such a family guy! -- a woman next to me said that while making dramatic gagging gestures) but...but... I don't know. I could tell by his face that this was all a bit tiresome, all a bit overwhelming, all a bit unpleasant. Did he explicitly show this? Oh no! If you look at the photos, you see how great he was. Smiling, signing autographs, saying hello and waving. One woman, in a moment I found a bit creepy, even gave him a science book that she had read his son really enjoyed.
He did his "job," and that's what it suddenly seemed like. A job, or a requirement for your benefit, like going for your annual visit to the gynecologist. It all ended so quickly, and I was standing there, filled with these bipolar feelings. I was thrilled that I'd gotten photos, that he'd signed my playbill, and that Shannon and I had just even DONE this (we had our doubts if we should even go since it was a bit silly), but at the same time, I felt as if I just became a part of his life that he found obligatory and mildly distasteful. I mean, there's a part of you that always knows this deep down, but I was just sort of confronted with it and felt awful about it. When you see a movie, TV show, or play that really means something to you, and you feel yourself so drawn toward an actor/actress, you want to be a part of his or her life. That's what celebrity is all about, isn't it? Naturally, you always assume that that actor is a cool guy, someone just like you, someone you could hang out with, talk to, fall in love with. When you discover s/he is not, you get that jarring reality check that the individual is an ACTOR. According to several interviews and Leslie herself, it is all true -- Hugh is a great guy. And then there was I, being a part of the icky side of fame. Sorry, Hugh. Well, I did have an amazing time. That's got to be worth some small fragment of discomfort. Right?
Oh. My. God. Where do I begin?
Okay, first of all, I'll just say, if you're in NYC and you're going to do what everyone should do once in their life, go to a Broadway show, GO SEE The Boy from Oz! You won't regret it. It's such a good time. The bio-musical of the Australian Peter Allen, flamboyant performer, songwriter, one-time husband of Liza Minelli and lover of men and women alike (mostly men). Hugh Jackman is incredible in an energetic performance that makes YOU feel tired by the end.
He's got this powerful voice that just spreads out and covers the entire audience, and he can shake his bon bon in such a way to demand Ricky Martin renounce his crown. Oh, and Hugh just got nominated for Best Actor in a Musical for the Tony Awards (the show itself got several other nominations as well). In addition, the performances of Isabel Keating as Julie Garland and Stephanie J. Block as Liza Minelli were incredible. Not only are these women fantastic singers and performers overall, but they had to do it in Julie's/Liza's voice, and they were both pretty damn accurate, especially Block who blew me away. Mitchell David Federan, who played Allen as a young boy, completely stole the show each time he appeared. Every time he or Hugh leaped onto or off of the piano, I winced in anticipation of some horrible accident. Luckily there was none. I hope they have some good traction on those things.
One great thing about Hugh's performance, was that even though it was quite obvious the audience was filled with screaming, drooling women who wanted to see and talk to HUGH, Hugh stayed deeply entrenched within character. He WAS Peter Allen the entire time and skillfully controlled the audience, when they were either trying to get "Hugh" to come out during the occasional interactions, or when they were just shouting out and interrupting the performance in their excitement. I could see how that might easily get out of hand, as in the first number when Hugh came out by himself to sing, "The Lives of Me," and people were just screaming. He kind of cocked his head toward the crowd and said, "Hey, let me sing for a minute." The audience laughed and then immediately quieted down. Sure anyone could say that, but how many people can deliver it in such a way to get results?
Anyway, onto ridiculous me. I’ve become a thirty-one year old groupie with a fifteen year old’s personality. Last Friday I had tickets, along with three friends, to see The Boy from Oz. It’s something that we’ve been planning for a long time. But finally, our good friend made it to NYC, and we bought the tickets. I mentioned our plans to a friend, Jessica. She mentioned knowing someone in the ensemble cast and maybe backstage passes could be finagled. Was I interested?
Um…
YES!
Wait, can I say that again? Yes! Yes! Yes!
I was on pins and needles for two days, waiting to get the answer back. A backstage pass is the kind of thing that just doesn’t happen to me. I was feeling incredibly lucky. And then, Jessica came through. We were going to meet Leslie Alexander. Our instructions were to enjoy the show, and immediately afterwards move our butts to the backstage door, pushing our way through the fawning females (and there were MANY) and announce Leslie’s name.
So, I had my dress, my Hugh dress. I work in the garment district and each day passed this gorgeous, Springy, yellow dress in the window. Most of these shops are wholesale only and will not really sell to you off the street, but I couldn’t really resist. I just liked the dress a lot, and it was yellow! I don’t think I own a single yellow piece of clothing in my entire “wardrobe.” I made friends with the owner and he was nice enough to sell it to me “at cost” (I think, it sure was inexpensive). It’s nice to have something you feel at least semi-attractive in after a few months of feeling…bloated.
I picked a nice little Greek restaurant just a half a block from the theater (I’m always in charge of restaurant-picking and so far have had tremendous luck), and we had a nice meal. After a few glasses of red wine, I was READY for The Boy from Oz! We scurried to the theater, and I quickly bought some cheap binoculars, haggling with the storekeeper, and getting them down almost half of the ticketed price. Then we shuffled in with the other cattle through the open doors. I quickly bought a sparkly t-shirt knowing that I desperately wanted one (like I don’t have enough t-shirts!) and that there wouldn’t be time after the show.
Then we were inside! There’s something really exciting about first entering a theater before a show, and I’m not even a ‘theater person’ (I’m a movie gal). The lights are on, but kind of dim, people are talking, it’s kind of warm, you’re settling into your seat, you feel this excitement and chat with your friends about how great this is, how you can’t wait.
Then, it began! Complete darkness fell only to be relieved by Hugh at the piano. The crowd went wild. And I won’t pretend I wasn’t just as stupid, lustful, loud, and starstruck as the rest. I was.
The rest of the show was just a delight. Hugh Jackman is just an incredibly charistmatic guy. He seems to be having such a great time, smiling, leaping around, singing with such gusto, you can’t help but think the guy must collapse from exhaustion after each show. He engaged the audience frequently, choosing a few lucky individuals in the few front rows.
Okay, just a minute, I have to express one serious beef I have with performers in concerts, musicals, or plays. EVERY time you are at one, and the performer happens to interact with audience members, it’s always someone in the first four rows. Now, I know that on a common sense level, you communicate with the person closest to you, the person you can see. But, coming from a person who, due to financial reasons (it almost killed me to cough up the $100 for this show, the first several rows are $250!!!), is always a couple dozen rows back, it is always so heart-wrenching to watch. The people in the front just have more money, they aren’t any bigger of fans. And I’m sure the older man “Eugene,” who was cool and totally game with Hugh’s suggestions, was just some old guy from Jersey who came over for the show and wasn’t wondering how he was going to eat lunch for the next two weeks before his next paycheck. Now, the performers are very much in sync with the guys who control those lights, and I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to seek out someone who is sitting back there in, let’s just say….the Front Mezzanine section 1, seat E1.
Anyway, enough of my bitterness, on to the sweet! The show was really incredible. Half fantastically fun musical, half like a rock concert with the multitudes of screaming women. Shannon and I kept swooning in
to each other at each suggestive Hugh move. And there were plenty, including his “dirty dancing” which almost sent me off the deep end. I haven’t felt lust that strong in…well, in a little while. I’m not dead yet. But I have to tell you, I know I was acting like one of those teenagers on the Ed Sullivan Show when the Beatles showed up, but I didn’t care. I was having such a great time.
After the catchy, bounce around in your head all day song-of-happiness, “I Go to Rio” played at the finale, I was off, losing half my party in my mission to get to the backstage door as soon as possible. Luckily, we all met up again minutes later. It was chaos. The place was packed with women, pushing and shoving each other, pressing against the barricades in hopes of getting close to Hugh when he emerged.
I was instructed to push my way through to the door, and I did. A “security guard” of sorts was there and he was truly enjoying his “bad ass” persona. He confronted us and I told him we were there for Leslie Alexander, and he practically shoved us toward the gaping backstage door. Just as we were reaching it, out came Hugh. Shannon and I began to pass him, but naturally, we paused. Hugh looked at us, a bit confused of why were there (and not behind the barricades), said, "Hi" and then was ushered on, and we were ushered in. I don't think I actually made a sound.
Me on the piano keys staircase used in the finale
Inside, we stood around awkwardly for a moment, feeling like we were in everyone's way. We slowly wandered out onto the stage where I sat on the piano key stairs and posed, as seen in the photo above. It didn't come out very well, but I know what I look like. Leslie was great. She was enthusiastic and graciously answered all our stupid questions. We took a photo with her, looked around a bit more, and then we left. It was a great experience. Thank you Leslie and Jessica for the opportunity
The Next Day - Saturday Matinee
Since we didn't get much of a chance to have any contact with Hugh the day before, and since we were still buzzing like bees about the performance, Shannon and I decided to go once again to the backstage door to wait for Hugh to come out after the Saturday matinee. We timed it perfectly and showed up just as the show was letting out and women were rushing forward to press against the barricades once more. This time we were right in front, clutching our playbills and feeling rather ridiculous. The only unpleasant things were the security guard (same guy from the night before) who acted like a total pig (he made numerous lewd comments about Shannon's breasts), and the occasional aggressive woman pushing us from behind. I really have to admire her though, she took all his comments in stride and with grace. Not something easy to do in such a situation.
The actor Tony Goldwyn showed up with his very large brood in tow. In case you don't know him simply from his last name, he was the really bad guy in Ghost. See the photo to the right.
After a bit of a wait, Hugh came out, as you see depicted in all the photos above. True to what they say about him, he was gracious and kind, signing numerous autographs and greeting everyone. He signed my playbill, I took all the pictures left on my roll, and after 5-10 minutes, he ducked back into the theater and it was over.
This is when things got weird for me. Being front and center, I was in the perfect place to just observe him the whole time. I've always thought myself a pretty good judge of body language and I am one of those people who like to sit in a park, eat lunch, and just watch all the different types of people walk by.
Watching his face and body, it soon became apparent to me that what he was doing was a complete obligation. Okay, I know, DUH! The required 5-10 minutes of autograph signing is the kind of thing all big actors have to do after each show, though I have no idea if they actually DO. And yes, we were all a bunch of slobbering women (I think I spotted about three men) who were just dying for the chance to look in his eyes and have him fall instantly in love with us (though of course, we all just respect him for being such a family guy! -- a woman next to me said that while making dramatic gagging gestures) but...but... I don't know. I could tell by his face that this was all a bit tiresome, all a bit overwhelming, all a bit unpleasant. Did he explicitly show this? Oh no! If you look at the photos, you see how great he was. Smiling, signing autographs, saying hello and waving. One woman, in a moment I found a bit creepy, even gave him a science book that she had read his son really enjoyed.
He did his "job," and that's what it suddenly seemed like. A job, or a requirement for your benefit, like going for your annual visit to the gynecologist. It all ended so quickly, and I was standing there, filled with these bipolar feelings. I was thrilled that I'd gotten photos, that he'd signed my playbill, and that Shannon and I had just even DONE this (we had our doubts if we should even go since it was a bit silly), but at the same time, I felt as if I just became a part of his life that he found obligatory and mildly distasteful. I mean, there's a part of you that always knows this deep down, but I was just sort of confronted with it and felt awful about it. When you see a movie, TV show, or play that really means something to you, and you feel yourself so drawn toward an actor/actress, you want to be a part of his or her life. That's what celebrity is all about, isn't it? Naturally, you always assume that that actor is a cool guy, someone just like you, someone you could hang out with, talk to, fall in love with. When you discover s/he is not, you get that jarring reality check that the individual is an ACTOR. According to several interviews and Leslie herself, it is all true -- Hugh is a great guy. And then there was I, being a part of the icky side of fame. Sorry, Hugh. Well, I did have an amazing time. That's got to be worth some small fragment of discomfort. Right?
Friday, May 14, 2004
Irresistable Hugh!
Okay, I'm trying to put pictures in my blog, but I have yet to be successful. Yes, this picture is here, but I want the text to WRAP around it, and I can't seem to get that to work (and my MS Frontpage is back home on my crappy laptop). So, for now, it'll all just have to be aesthetically less pleasing than I'd hoped.
This Friday I am going to see him in The Boy From Oz and I'm so excited I can hardly stand it. I just think he's an amazing actor who has it all -- tons of talent (he sings, he dances, he can play a flamboyant gay man or husky mutant), great looks, and he's supposedly just a really nice guy.
Oh Hugh, I forgive you for Van Helsing (sadly, it kind of sucked), and maybe watch X-Men again, until Friday comes.
XXOO
Monday, May 10, 2004
A GOLDEN SHOWER!
OH. MY. GOD. You are not going to believe what just happened. I was sitting here on my gentle, quiet Sunday morning, watching Meet the Press, and enjoying a very kind email sent to me by someone who actually reads this blog. I had the large Law & Order hardback book by Wolf and Burstein in my lap, where I was checking something. I saw my naughty boy cat (Seamus), sniffing and pawing at a large, black plastic bag on the ground near me. A cat pawing and sniffing at something always worries me, since sometimes it means they may want to use it to crap on.
I shooed him away and with a flourish snatched up the plastic bag.
*SPLASH*
An ENORMOUS, and I do not joke when I say ENORMOUS wave of yellow cat piss flew from the bag and splashed ALL over me, my book, and the treasured comments from my writing professor that were sitting on the ground at my feet. It drenched my clothes, and even left a sizable mark on my roommate’s (eek!) computer chair which is already old and rather…absorbent.
I don’t know how many of you have had the pleasure of taking in the scent of cat piss, but it is one of the most powerful, disgusting, gag-inducing smells on the planet. Sometimes it’s like sticking your head in a toilet bowl of ammonia, and sometimes it has a more sickly, buttery smell. This one is the latter.
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Needless to say, after rinsing off my poor book, I have taken a very long shower.
WHY, do you ask, would my cats piss in a large trash bag on the floor? Well, let me just tell you…the apartment is in various degrees of super tidy and super disastrous. Both my roommates are in Las Vegas (thank you, Jesus!), so I was taking this opportunity to do two things: 1) clean the nasty apartment and 2) finalize teaching my two cats how to use the toilet. Yes, the actual toilet (see the book listed on the left).
The toilet-training had been going really well. Basically, I’ve been putting an inch of The Voice newspaper underneath their litter box each day, until it reached the height of the toilet itself. So far, except for one accidental dumping of the litterbox, it has all gone fine. Despite the ever-increasing height of the box, to even where I was wondering if they could jump up there, the cats have been doing great. Then, I moved the box literally ON TOP of the toilet seat, covering it, securing it with bungee cords. Besides being terribly inconvenient (I had to remove the bungee cords and litterbox every time I wanted to use the toilet), it has also gone really well.
Now, the final step! And just in time since my roommates come home tomorrow night. You remove the litterbox completely, stretch a piece of saran wrap over the toilet opening, dump some litter there, and leave it. The cats, already knowing the toilet is wear they go to the bathroom, should jump up there as usual (despite the now lacking litterbox) and see the litter and then just use it to crap/piss. I tried to encourage them, just as I have with the scratching post and such. Of course, cats are not happy to be up on a toilet seat, and they were a little alarmed that the part with the litter would not support their weight.
But, I waited. I left the house, since they often go the bathroom when I’m not around. I came home. Nothing. Not even a dent in the litterbox. How do you encourage a cat to crap?
I went to bed, thinking now, they wouldn’t be able to hold it any longer and would take advantage of me being unconscious. When I woke up, I went to the bathroom and saw two small indentations in the litter, but no piss, no crap. Someone had tried it out and given up.
Well, I guess I know what happened! Finding the large plastic bag on the floor (leftover from my new 13” TV I bought last night – an issue from another time), they thought that would be a lot easier than balancing on a slippery toilet seat.
Again, can I say, FUCK!?!?!?!?!
I am not sure what to do now. Do I just give up, pull the litterbox out of the closet and just forget I even tried this? Start over again at zero and try again? Keep up my faith that they will use the toilet seat within the next 24 hours and that I will NOT find any other piss/shit surprises?
I’m going to go work-out now and pray that when I get back, I find cat poop in the toilet.
Oh god, my hands still smell like cat piss. Gotta go.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Quickie Book Review: Live from New York: An Oral History of Saturday Night Live by Tom Shales and James Andrew Miller -- A
Hip hip hooray for such a great book, a "juicy read" as my co-worker put it, on all the sex, drugs, and rock -n- roll of SNL. This hefty volume (600 pages of story not counting appendix/index), is intriguing and enjoyable from first to last page. Written as if every cast member/writer/"suit" were sitting around a campfire retelling the show's history from inception to present day. you feel as if almost nothing was left out or kept secret. The honesty is a little shocking but really, quite refreshing and eye-opening. The authors seem to REALLY want you to appreciate how unique, groundbreaking, and demanding SNL was/is to create and maintain, and the message does get across. After reading it, you're not sure if you want to work for SNL or would pay NOT to. As I was reading it, I felt this strange attachment and obsession for the show come over me. The only disappointing part was the vitriolic whining of of Janeane Garafalo whom I've always thought was absolutely cool and "for real." She just comes off (and this is in her own words, since the book is just a compilation of direct quotes) as self-righteous and yet at the same time, snidely insecure. Chevy Chase is an asshole?? And Mike Myers and Dana Carvey didn't get along during the Wayne's World movies? Woah!
I shooed him away and with a flourish snatched up the plastic bag.
*SPLASH*
An ENORMOUS, and I do not joke when I say ENORMOUS wave of yellow cat piss flew from the bag and splashed ALL over me, my book, and the treasured comments from my writing professor that were sitting on the ground at my feet. It drenched my clothes, and even left a sizable mark on my roommate’s (eek!) computer chair which is already old and rather…absorbent.
I don’t know how many of you have had the pleasure of taking in the scent of cat piss, but it is one of the most powerful, disgusting, gag-inducing smells on the planet. Sometimes it’s like sticking your head in a toilet bowl of ammonia, and sometimes it has a more sickly, buttery smell. This one is the latter.
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Needless to say, after rinsing off my poor book, I have taken a very long shower.
WHY, do you ask, would my cats piss in a large trash bag on the floor? Well, let me just tell you…the apartment is in various degrees of super tidy and super disastrous. Both my roommates are in Las Vegas (thank you, Jesus!), so I was taking this opportunity to do two things: 1) clean the nasty apartment and 2) finalize teaching my two cats how to use the toilet. Yes, the actual toilet (see the book listed on the left).
The toilet-training had been going really well. Basically, I’ve been putting an inch of The Voice newspaper underneath their litter box each day, until it reached the height of the toilet itself. So far, except for one accidental dumping of the litterbox, it has all gone fine. Despite the ever-increasing height of the box, to even where I was wondering if they could jump up there, the cats have been doing great. Then, I moved the box literally ON TOP of the toilet seat, covering it, securing it with bungee cords. Besides being terribly inconvenient (I had to remove the bungee cords and litterbox every time I wanted to use the toilet), it has also gone really well.
Now, the final step! And just in time since my roommates come home tomorrow night. You remove the litterbox completely, stretch a piece of saran wrap over the toilet opening, dump some litter there, and leave it. The cats, already knowing the toilet is wear they go to the bathroom, should jump up there as usual (despite the now lacking litterbox) and see the litter and then just use it to crap/piss. I tried to encourage them, just as I have with the scratching post and such. Of course, cats are not happy to be up on a toilet seat, and they were a little alarmed that the part with the litter would not support their weight.
But, I waited. I left the house, since they often go the bathroom when I’m not around. I came home. Nothing. Not even a dent in the litterbox. How do you encourage a cat to crap?
I went to bed, thinking now, they wouldn’t be able to hold it any longer and would take advantage of me being unconscious. When I woke up, I went to the bathroom and saw two small indentations in the litter, but no piss, no crap. Someone had tried it out and given up.
Well, I guess I know what happened! Finding the large plastic bag on the floor (leftover from my new 13” TV I bought last night – an issue from another time), they thought that would be a lot easier than balancing on a slippery toilet seat.
Again, can I say, FUCK!?!?!?!?!
I am not sure what to do now. Do I just give up, pull the litterbox out of the closet and just forget I even tried this? Start over again at zero and try again? Keep up my faith that they will use the toilet seat within the next 24 hours and that I will NOT find any other piss/shit surprises?
I’m going to go work-out now and pray that when I get back, I find cat poop in the toilet.
Oh god, my hands still smell like cat piss. Gotta go.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Quickie Book Review: Live from New York: An Oral History of Saturday Night Live by Tom Shales and James Andrew Miller -- A
Hip hip hooray for such a great book, a "juicy read" as my co-worker put it, on all the sex, drugs, and rock -n- roll of SNL. This hefty volume (600 pages of story not counting appendix/index), is intriguing and enjoyable from first to last page. Written as if every cast member/writer/"suit" were sitting around a campfire retelling the show's history from inception to present day. you feel as if almost nothing was left out or kept secret. The honesty is a little shocking but really, quite refreshing and eye-opening. The authors seem to REALLY want you to appreciate how unique, groundbreaking, and demanding SNL was/is to create and maintain, and the message does get across. After reading it, you're not sure if you want to work for SNL or would pay NOT to. As I was reading it, I felt this strange attachment and obsession for the show come over me. The only disappointing part was the vitriolic whining of of Janeane Garafalo whom I've always thought was absolutely cool and "for real." She just comes off (and this is in her own words, since the book is just a compilation of direct quotes) as self-righteous and yet at the same time, snidely insecure. Chevy Chase is an asshole?? And Mike Myers and Dana Carvey didn't get along during the Wayne's World movies? Woah!
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