waxing poetic about 42nd Street. Never a good sign.

Here's a dumb cell phone picture I took during 42nd Street when I was running wardrobe this summer. I remember thinking what a stupid play it was. But recently I've begun to feel more kindly towards the accursed musical. It is, after all, a story about a young girl who gives up the security of home for the magic of the theater. And she gains a persnickety, loyal and annoying tap dancing family. And I like that she ends up single at the end, with what seems to me like two gay boyfriends. I'm feeling that, innocent, single theater girl in the big city vibe. I came home today humming "young and healthy" under my breath. Could be I've been running wardrobe for too long. I feel like I haven't seen natural light in ages. Joe Turner has come. And Gone.

I'm not really a bad girl, I just do bad things.

Tallulah Bankhead once said "it's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time." I've been haunted by this quote everytime I try to write in any kind of blog. Tonight, slightly tipsy on whiskey after missing a quick change in tonight's show, I decided instead of going out to the lesbian bar that I would stay in with only the company of my dying computer. It's hard being lonely but it will make me better. And maybe I've proven my bad girl chops for the time being.

Wardrobe at Centerstage

I always have such high hopes for blogs, all these plans about the things I'm going to share in them, but I'm such a space shot I can never do it. Last night I saw Candide, my last play, last night and then had champagne at the shop. Now I'm sorting through all my stuff and trying to remember life before the College Light Opera abducted me into its sphere of insanity. Listening to Sandra Bernhard, her cover of Kiss me Deadly moves me to tears. Farewell image of College light opera shop.

Workaday Attic

The show we're working on now is 42nd street, and I'm doing wardrobe, running the show, so it's my responsibility to pull most of the costumes, the ones we aren't making, from the attic. The attic is the most indescribable place. I've had anxiety dreams that have taken place in a similar setting. The Inn was built in 1902, so the attic is creaking, splintery, and dark. There are thousands of costumes, jammed together, hanging from rusting metal pipes suspended by chains from the rafters. Pipes run along the floor too, at a variety of heights perfect for tripping. Overflowing boxes of costume pieces line the floor. Nothing is organized. It's also the hottest place imaginable. And I spend hours up there every day.

The big gossip today was that all the girls found some townie boys and they all went to the beach together and flirted and hooked up. I ended up knowing the townie boys from high school, and the whole thing just made me sad for some reason. I miss my rock star girlfriend, so out there she could never be a townie.

Just starting out

I've tried to write in a blog before, on my old Livejournal, and it became increasingly hard to do as I got older. Now I want to give it another try, a creative outlet during post-college time. I thought I would start, as many people do, by posting a picture of my cat.