LION KING CARES

This is the time of year when all the Broadway shows begin their massive fund-raising campaign for Broadway Cares / Equity Fights Aids. This involves a number of large-scale events,  but every show in town also collects donations and sells signed posters and other items in the lobby after every performance.

We've signed about 300 of these things so far

 For a reasonable donation, audience members can have their pictures taken with a cast member in the lobby, and for a more generous donation, a private back-stage tour led by one of the cast members. I did a particularly odd tour last night. Usually, tours are purchased by families because the kids want a close-up look at the puppets and the adults want to stand on a Broadway stage,  so I was a bit surprised when I went to the lobby to find a single young man waiting for me. During the tour, he seemed completely disinterested in getting a closer look at anything, all he wanted to know was how much everything cost. How much did the show cost? How much did that puppet cost? How much did that costume cost? It was all a bit odd and a little tiring, even more so because his English was barely understandable. In the end, I pushed my tour-guiding spiel into high-gear and quickly sent him back out into the streets.

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As of Wednesday, March 14, 2012, The Lion King became the sixth longest-running show in Broadway history with 5,960 performances. That's more performances than RENT, BEAUTY & THE BEAST or MISS SAIGON. The previous 6th place holder, at 5,959 was, believe it or not, OH, CALCUTTA !!! (Yeesh!)

The Lion King only needs 177 more performances to take 5th place, currently held by 

A CHORUS LINE.

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There are a few things that New Yorkers seem to be madly, passionately in love with: their dogs, coffee houses, horn-honking, and the Burberry scarf.

 Is it just me, or is anyone else oh-so-tired of the Burberry scarf ? Really, I don't get it.

First of all, it's brown. Not a rich, deep, chocolate brown. It is not the enticing red-brown of exotic spices, nor is it the golden-brown of the desert sands. No, it is more of an I-can't-commit-to-an-actual-colour brown. Halfway between camel and caramel brown. Baby-shit brown.

Secondly, while it may have been a symbol of status and high style at some point in it's early history, doesn't the fact that everyone is wearing it now make it passe?

Third: did I mention that it's brown?

There is also a segment of of New York's population that is fond of the fashion trend known as "sagging". Here are some visual aids for clarification.

Now, I've worn some pretty outlandish street clothes in my day, but this trend baffles me. Not only is it awkward and unflattering, but I'm getting a little tired of having someones underwear in my face as I follow them up the stairs from the subway. In order to keep their pants at the correct height, these guys either have to walk like they have a grapefruit between their thighs or they have to constantly use one hand to hold their pants up. My dresser told me a story about watching some poor guy try to run across the street, with his pants around his thighs, who tripped and fell into a giant puddle. His 'cool factor' immediately plummeted to zero as everyone on the street simply pointed and laughed.

While it's clear that the "style" was popularised by rappers and hip-hop artists, there are a couple of theories as to how it got started. The most plausible seems to be the idea that, in prison, your belt is taken away causing your pants to droop, thus, gang members adopted  the style to indicate that they've served time. Another story is that, if your ass is 'available' in the slammer, you wear your pants low to indicate this, and you can bet that most of the boys wearing this style on the street would be horrified to hear THAT theory. 

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I've been craving a Reuben Sandwich so I began a search for New York's best Reuben. I mentioned this to my makeup artist, Elizabeth, who also happens to love a good Reuben, and she dug out an article by New York Times Magazine in which they too scoured the city for a Reuben to remember. After discarding the non-traditional sandwiches (who wants a Reuben made with turkey and coleslaw?!?!) I narrowed my options down to two, and picked the one restaurant that made a classic Reuben using their own corned beef, their own Russian dressing and gallons of butter. 

The cheesy, melt-in-your-mouth Ruben from Zoe Restaurant

Instead of fries, I opted for a side of their 'crispy fried Brussels sprouts'

served with a dollop of sour cream.

This may make sprout haters cringe, but I LOVED them!

Head chef and owner, Zoe, in blue, and our server, in white.

This ridiculously delicious lunch was capped off with a 'ciccolata', the dense, creamy,  Italian-style hot chocolate from Eataly. It's so thick, you could use a spatula to clean out the cup afterward.

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AROUND MY NEIGHBORHOOD

Yes, my neighborhood hardware store is called WANKEL'S

Giant rat on the street, for reasons unknown

A reminder of where I'm going as I get on the subway to head to work

MANIFEST THIS

In my opinion, there's really only two things wrong with William Shatner's one-man show,

the script and the performance.

That sounds bitchier than I mean it to. The truth is, his stories, though somewhat self-aggrandising, are actually good stories. Some funny, some poignant, and mostly quite interesting. But...if a script, a series of scenes, or stories, is like a pearl necklace, strung together symmetrically, moving smoothly from one to the next, Bill's pearls are all over the floor. The stories leap and yo-yo back and forth from topic to topic with no real flow or reason.

And though they are HIS stories, he's a TERRIBLE story teller. I don't think he finished a single sentence in the entire show. None of this seemed to bother the hard-core fans, sci-fi or otherwise, that were in the house, but I would love to introduce him to a dominatrix-dramaturg (Shari Wattling) and a director that will say, "No Bill, do it THIS way !". 

Don't get me wrong, I like Captain Kirk as much as the next closet-Trekkie, and I certainly admire Bill's fight to make his career one, long successful come-back after another, but this show was certainly not a memorable night in the theatre for me.

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One of the dressers on Lion King, Pixie, (yes, her name is Pixie) hosts a post-show cabaret on the last Wednesday of every month. It's held in a tiny room on the third floor of a tavern on 46th street, so tiny that twenty people make it seem crowded. But the atmosphere is friendly and supportive and the owner pours generous drinks and keeps the kitchen open late. 

 The event is the kind of no-holds-barred, anything-can-happen evening that everyone should experience. You never really know what, or who you're going to get, but you are guaranteed a collection of eclectic performances by cast and crew members of various Broadway shows. The most recent line-up included several excellent stand-up comics, two new songs from a musical about prostate cancer being written by two Lion Kingers (both survivors of the disease), some hot acoustic guitar playing,

 and some great solos from a variety of on and off-stage people from different shows. Even the waitress took a turn at the microphone. 

 

 

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I'm still spending as much of my time off as possible discovering New York. Recently, I've stomped the crooked streets of Greenwich Village, visited The Chelsea Market, and walked the beautiful High Line Park.

I'm also discovering places where I like to eat and drink, though I don't do either of those as often as most New Yorkers seem to. My new favourite place to indulge in good, old-fashioned, inexpensive comfort food is The Meatball Shop. This place, at least the location that I've been frequenting, screams New York. Crammed with people, noisy, happy and oh so delicious. There's always a crowd at the door since they don't take reservations but if you put your name on the list, they are happy to send a text to your mobile phone when your table is ready. Their food is so popular, they've published a cookbook and are confident enough about the loyalty of their clientele that your bill comes clipped to a recipe !! 

Meatballs. Who knew?

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Dressing room attitude

Dressing room merriment

Dressing room tasks...

signing hundreds of posters for Broadway Cares

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You know that moment when you find a forgotten twenty-dollar bill in your pants pocket. Well, I had one of those moments the other day. But better...

For a while now, I've been grumpy about dragging my laptop to the theatre on double-show days, but having it handy between shows on a twelve hour day is just so convenient for watching a movie or getting some banking done. So, I've been thinking that if I bought an ipad, I could just leave it at the theatre and, voila, no more lugging the laptop back and forth. Nice idea but a new ipad2 is five-hundred dollars. So, I put it in the back of my mind as something to visit down the road, perhaps once I move into a cheaper apartment. Fast forward to me looking for a safe pocket in my tiny purse (yes, I call it my purse) to shove some show tickets into. (William Shatner's show, actually) As I dug into a small, unused pocket, I discovered, wait for it, 500 Singapore dollars that I've obviously been dragging around with me since October !!

ipad, purchased.

Never let it be said that I don't know how to manifest.

I'm working on a manifesting a Lexington Avenue townhouse.