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. 

*****

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.

*******

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. 

 

 

*******

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.

UNIQUE NEW YORK

We have, finally, switched to the classic 'Broadway' schedule. That means no killer weekends where we do 5 shows in 3 days, the schedule that makes Sunday almost impossible to bear, knowing that, even though every fiber of your being is screaming for rest, there are STILL two more shows to get through. 

Now, instead, we have the much more sensible two-show-Wednesday,  two-show-Saturday, and one show on Sunday that starts at three p.m. !!! This means that Sunday mornings can be a leisurely affair, and Sunday evenings are fat with possibility since you're out of the theatre by six p.m. Why, it's almost like having two days off! After doing the horrible five-show-weekends for the entire run in Singapore, this Broadway schedule is like getting all you Christmas and birthday presents at once.

This is how I used to feel about Sunday...

This is how I feel about a Sunday matinee now...

It's worthy of a party. And party we did...

After our last two-show-Sunday, the boys down in dressing room A hosted a small, celebrational soiree, serving up Perfect Manhattans. (For the mixologists, that's equal parts sweet & dry vermouth and a good quality Bourbon. And if you're feeling wild, a splash of Cointreau for complexity). 

Nothing says "Celebrate" like pizza and manhattans.

******************

New York continues to entertain me. I lucked into some tickets for "How To Succeed In Business...".

It's not one of the shows I would not have picked on my own, but I'm really glad I saw it. It's bright, fresh, energetic and just plain fun with some of the best choreography I've seen in a long time. Strong performances from everyone including, though I am loathe to admit it, Nick Jonas who was charming and funny, and Beau Bridges was hysterical and who knew he could sing and dance.

 *

Through a series of connections, I also managed to score some tickets for the always-sold-out "Sleep No More". This is a kind of non-linear, non-verbal, movement-based, immersive, sensory-overloading theatrical installation event created by a company called Punchdrunk. 

The experience, in which you follow characters around a HUGE environment to witness a loose re-telling of MacBeth, is difficult to explain. I found it to be like being lost in someone else's vast dreamscape. I couldn't stop thinking about it. Even the next day, I still couldn't get some of the images and theatrical moments out of my head. The more I think about it, still, the more I want to go back because I know there are lots of things that I missed.

For some great photos and a really well written explanation of the experience, click HERE to see another blogger's page about the show. If you're coming to New York and you don't mind a little leg-work with your entertainment, this is a must-see.

*

I also took myself to see the much-acclaimed "War Horse". There were no connections or luck involved with this ticket, just me forking over $125, but it was worth every penny and more. In decades of going to see live theatre, this is one of the most unique, intense, brilliant and beautiful productions I have ever seen. The craft of story-telling honed to it's finest. The end of Act I had me so gob-smacked that, when the house lights came up, I sat in my chair, mouth hanging open,breathless and unable to move.

*

This mad city also continues to provide plenty of free stimulation. My British friends might be interested to know that British Tourism has partnered with The New York Metro Transit Authority to promote culture-vulture holidays...

Conversation over-heard on 5th Avenue...

HER: Do you wanna see my office?

HIM: Can I fuck you in your office?

HER: (no pause or change in tone) No. Do you wanna see it?

And then there was the topless woman beating the crap out of Hello Kitty in front of the Toys R Us in Times Square.

This has been making the rounds on Facebook.

It couldn't be truer...

ALL AROUND THE TOWN

I never thought I'd say it, but I wish it would snow. This warm weather just isn't right. Don't get me wrong, I curse the snow as I'm trudging through it just like everyone else, but that doesn't mean I want the seasons to disappear. So far, we have had one snowfall in NYC, and the snow barely lasted one day, but for that one day, my little street was transformed.

Lonely, stone puppy on my terrace

In this city, it's easy to want to cut yourself off from the constant input of information and the never-ending crush of people, particularly when you work in Times Square. But if you can find a way to channel it, it can also be a rush to navigate the energy currents on the way to and from the theatre.

 It's like taking a short-cut through the circus every day.

Tis the season for new shows to inhabit Broadway and, as an outsider, the sheer volume of theatre here is a thespian wet dream. The Minskoff Theater, home of The Lion King, faces Times Square and straddles the block between 44th & 45th Streets. Both of these streets are crammed with theaters. In fact, if you were to leave The Minskoff stage door, walk along 44th to 8th Ave, and up 45th to return to the stage door, you would pass more than 10 theaters. On a quick trip to grab a coffee between shows, I snapped a few pics of new shows set to open, all on 45th street, all within 3 minutes of my stage door.

 Our dressing room windows look across the street into their dressing room windows.

Perhaps I can terrify Ricky's kids with my Scar make-up.

 This is the Imperial theatre that hosted the recently closed "Billy Elliot"

 This musical is based on the indie movie of the same name.

Any one's guess how long it will last.

 Yes, William Shatner is opening a one-man show.

This is the theater that housed the Canadian production of "Private Lives"

starring Paul Gross and Kim Catrall

Ridiculously stellar cast, including fellow Canadian Eric McCormack

 And those are just Broadway shows. Factor in all the off-Broadway, off-off-Broadway, experimental, cabaret and 'happenings', and it all becomes overwhelmingly fantastic.

I've been doing the show for 3 weeks now, and despite my best efforts, the massive bouquet of roses I received from Pam, Michael, Kay and Tim have faded. When I brought them home from the theatre, I tossed them in the bathtub overnight to rehydrate them. They looked so colorful, I almost left them there just for fun.

Over time, I kept pulling  the dead ones out of the vase and rehydrating the struggling ones. Fortunately, it's so hot in my apartment that the survivors dried out almost perfectly and, three weeks later,  they are still on my coffee table, looking almost as if I put a dried arrangement there on purpose.

When Pam wasn't in charge of buying roses on the sly, we chewed up as much of NYC as time would allow. I thought I might have to physically restrain her when we got a counter seat at the pizza/pasta bar at EATALY.

And then when the pizza and pasta of the day arrived, .....well, it was carnage.

I posted in a previous entry how great it was to receive opening wishes from around the world. Well, it was equally great to receive some sass from far away. I got a text from Lyall in South Africa. He included a pic of him dining with some of the folks from the Singapore production of LK. I made a sarcastic comment about having to dine with "THEM", and received this photo in reply...

 Yup, that's Jamie. He played the meerkat. One of these guys....

Feel the love

NOT SMEAR, SCHMEAR

Sometimes, I forget how Jewish I can be. I've had many Jewish friends over the years and have picked up a few "isms". They're very descriptive words.

So Pam and I are walking the streets of New York and she says she's hungry.
I agree that I am too.
She asks what I might like to eat.
"Just a toasted bagel with a schmear cream cheese", I reply.
She stops walking. "Schmear ?!?!", she yodels across the Upper East Side. "Isn't that word reserved for PAP tests?"
"SCH-MEAR", she forces me to reply. "Not SMEAR".
The slight arch of her left eyebrow indicates that she's not quite ready to believe that it's a real word.

We continue our journey, making our way down to The Flatiron district looking for an Indian grocery I've read about, and a stop for lunch at Eataly. Halfway down the block from the subway station we have just exited, it happens. She stops dead, mouth agape in shock and awe. And there it is, in big bold letters, proving, without a doubt , that I know what I'm talking about.

**********************

My first week on Broadway ended in more of a whimper than a roar. On Friday, I started to feel a little throat tickle. By Saturday I was hacking up a lung like an asthmatic, coal-mining sea lion. By Sunday morning, my head somehow weighed twenty pounds more than usual, causing something known in medical circles as "falls down a lot". After an hour of drinking coffee and water and vainly trying to convince myself that my body just needed a little extra time to wake up, I had to face the facts. The fact that I'd coughed so long and so hard that I'd shredded my vocal cords. The fact that my energy was so low I could barely make it to the bathroom, let alone up and down Pride Rock a dozen times. The fact that regardless of my good intentions and well-ingrained old-country work ethic, there was no way I could give eighteen hundred people their $150 worth....twice, being a Sunday. So, after a further thirty minutes of arguing with myself, I made the call to Stage Management and pulled myself from the shows. They, having witnessed my physical state on Saturday, were not surprised.

On my return to the show tonight, everyone was very welcoming and genuinely happy to see me back, and I was more than a little relieved to learn that I had inadvertently joined a secret club. Several people told me their story of have to take a show or two off during their first week on Broadway. Just another indication of the sneaky nature of stress.....you can never really be sure what it's doing to you, especially when your body is producing adrenaline in volumes that would kill a normal 9 to 5 desk worker.

****************

The subway stop that I use to go to work spits me out into the world on 42nd Street, right in the heart of Times Square. The particular stairs that I most often use are where the big, fuzzy mascots frequently hang out. Mickey and Minnie are usually there. Sometimes Spongebob Squarepants, occasionally Hello Kitty, and always, for some reason, Elmo. I overheard this on my way to work tonight:
"Gurl, them things is weird. One time I'm down here some dirtyass Elmo aksed me fo' a dollah !"

I'M JUST A BROADWAY BABY

I have improvised my way through murder mysteries in every venue you could possibly imagine.

I have had paychecks bounce and watched, many times,  as jobs evaporated because theatres closed their bankrupted doors.

I have been wined and dined by aristocracy. 

I have dragged my tired ass out of bed at 6 a.m. to unload a van  and entertain a gymnasium full of children. Children !

I have lived through shows with non-existent air conditioning, suicide attempts and on-stage death.


I have performed the dramatic, the comedic, the tuneful, the tragic, the banal and the forgettable.

I have performed WITH the dramatic, the comedic, the tuneful, the tragic, the banal and the forgettable.

I have woken up not knowing the name of the place I'm in, not knowing the day of the week, knowing only that there is a show to be performed.

I have been dissed, pissed and missed.

I have laughed, cried, fought, mourned, celebrated, discovered and bonded with thousands of people in cast after cast after cast.

I've fought with myself, for myself, sung my own praises, doubted every instinct I ever had, almost given up on myself, drank away my failures and been revived and reborn in the addictive drug that is applause.

And now, as of yesterday, I've had my Broadway debut. I have lived that moment that teenagers around the planet are dreaming of right now as they sing musical scores into a hairbrush in their bedrooms.

 Opening cards & flowers

Faux Playbill constructed by Tim

The text, in red, says, "Life's not fair is it, bitch"

 
It was an amazing and wonderful experience to receive opening day best wishes from around the world. My inbox was crammed with messages from Singapore, Australia, France, Dubai, South Africa, New Zealand, Thailand, England, Canada and The U.S.

 Gareth, the departing Scar, on his last day

Me, on my first day

PLAYBILL .COM

THEATERMANIA.COM

My new Young Simbas

Through strange rehearsal schedule, getting to learn the new stage space, getting to learn the new people and trying to put the details back into my performance, I had a small revelation. Really, at the heart of it, and without diminishing what this place is, at the end of the day, it's another show.
Yes, it's exciting. Yes,  it's gratifying to be here. Yes,  I'm proud. But being here, you realize that , though the venue is different, the people are the same. Different pond, same fish. This is Oz, and everyone wants to meet the Wizard.These people are no different than any that I've worked with over and over again, except that they are working in The Emerald City. How they got here, whether by dogged determination or simply by being in the right place at the right time is unimportant. They are the same gypsy story-tellers that inhabit every theatre on the planet. The people who knew, at some point in their lives, that they were different. The people who, night after night, leave their own lives behind and inhabit the lives of someone else in order to tell a story to everyone sitting out there in the dark. My people.