Sondheim on Sondheim Commercial

Things I love:
1. Tom Wopat is holding a cup of coffee, as if he’s sitting on my sofa in the morning…as in, the morning after he broke into my apartment, taped my hands behind my back, sang “Too Many Mornings,” and then humped me silly. (Too much? Let’s just say “Gave me major razor burn.”)
2. Barbara Cook seems totally attitude-free. It couldn’t be true (could it?) but I’m immersing myself in the fantasy.
3. Vanessa Williams’s* hair

*And, yes, Yawndheim60, there’s an apostrophe and an s after “Williams.” If her name were, say, Vanessa Sondheim, then we’d write “Vanessa Sondheim’s hair,” right? Well, just think of that final S in “Williams” the way you think of the final M in “Sondheim”… And add a friggin’ apostrophe S.

My Life, Mr. Sondheim. For the Taking.

I have written Stephen 11 letters over the years. Well, that’s not true. I’ve written something in the area of 40, but I’ve sent 11. And in 9 of those 11 I pitched my idea for his next Great American Musical. Below is my latest.

Dear G-d,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you are still basking in the glow of your stupendous 80th birthday celebration. As you may have noticed from the ecstatic applause from Orchestra Row G, I thought it was a lovely tribute but stand by my conviction that David H Pierce’s German needs some work. I’d be happy to oblige for your 85th birthday concert. (Or, if you don’t want to wait that long, a private concert in your town-house…? Ha ha! I could bring the deviled eggs! My mother’s recipe, which was really the only good thing to come of that relationship [unless you count the broad shoulders].)

AnysheseriouslyhadbroadershouldersthanJoanCrawford, I’ll cut to the chase, since I know you’re terrifically busy, and that the time spent reading (and answering?) this letter is time away from writing your next masterpiece! (Ideally, one in the “Sweeney” vein. Not that “Road Show” was disappointing!)

As I mentioned in my previous epistolaries, I would like to offer you the unrestricted rights to my life-story -  gratis! (As if you need inspiration!) In case you’ve misplaced my previous said correspondence, I’ll just give a quick synopsis here of what I see:

The lights come up on the cramped, dank check-out station of a NY Public Library, where a nattily dressed, balding man on the other side of 60 despondently checks out books to the masses. At 28, his play, (XXXXXXX) had been produced by (XXXXXXX) in an off-Broadway production the Times called “winning” and “insightful,” but then a series of disasters struck – namely, his lover of 18 years getting, fighting, and dying of that fucking disease. You, of course, can balance the maudlin with the funny. And, boy, does it get funny! He spends the next few years grieving, overeating, and getting fired from jobs he didn’t give two shits about, and when he fiiiiiinally felt ready to fall for someone new, he ended up just being a green card angler. Also, he gave me crabs. Uruguayan crabs, which apparently have some special immunity to Permethrin. Way to go, Uruguay. Anyhedeservedtobedeported, save for our hero’s funny, sweet, unemployable younger brother and his girlfriend Patty, who’s only as much of a cliche as the Julianne Moore character was in “A Single Man,” (and yes, I know that Christopher Isherwood penned her first), our balding leading man is alone…except for you. George, spending Sunday in the park, and Giorgio, and Fredrik, and Mme. Armfeldt, and, of course, Phyllis, both young and old. Jesus Christ, Mr. Sondheim; thank you for the Phyllises.

Anylet’stalkaboutcasting…  In my last letter, I said John Lithgow could pull it off (if he lays off the Botox), but I now wonder if it might be better to cast a younger actor who might be able to play me in my salad days? Perhaps Cheyenne Jackson? NPH would be excellent, of course – he was so brilliant in Assassins – but he’s busy with his sitcom and his award-show-hosting gigs, and Cheyenne just has so much presence. His thighs alone have more gravitas than the entire cast of “Hair.”

I jest (sort of), but only because my fingers are shaking as I write this. It might appear that my desire to have you score my life is just another example of pathetic New York vanity, but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like… Like spending all my savings to go to Mexico to try some crazy aloe/cactus/turmeric cure. A crazy, last-ditch effort to salvage something, to make so much nonsense become…sensible.

I’m embarrassing myself. Not as much, perhaps, as when I first saw Terms of Endearment in Union Square Regal and sobbed so hard that I peed myself (true), but close enough.

I look forward to hearing your thoughts. I don’t have a title yet, but you’ve always been brilliant at those, too.

With Utmost Respect and Humility,

XXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX

Alfred Molina Can Kiss My Grits

And by “grits,” I mean testicles. Seeing Alfred in the (very good) new play “Red” reminded me of a fantasy I had while enduring the recent Broadway revival of “Sunday in the Park with George.” For over two hours, Daniel Evans as George made me weep with boredom, and the only thing that kept me from shoving my Playbill down my throat was the rather random thought that Alfred Molina would make a brilliant George. Too old, perhaps, and yes, he seems vaguely hunchbacked, but he’s a brilliant actor. Of course, he probably can’t sing, particularly the high notes, but that’s not my point. My point is, this man can act. And, there’s something sexy-ugly about his hunchiness. Yes, Alfred: if you’re game, please kiss my grits.

Don’t Try Phantoming at St. Ann’s

Does the world need another blog by a middle-aged theater queen who still bitches about David Hyde Pierce beating out Raul in 2007 for BP by a LA in a Musical? Probably not. UNLESS said blogger makes it his duty to use the power of the keyboard to fight injustice throughout the theater world. Most of those injustices begin and end with stupendously misguided revivals of mediocre shows (Helloooo, Blithe Spirit!), but some of them have to do with the more quotidian aspects of theatre-going…like the toilets. Which is why I’m going to start with  the appalling bathroom stalls at St. Ann’s Warehouse. Apparently the turds who designed those stalls presumed that the only people who would actually sit in one are midgets and young children.

So you can imagine my predicament when, just three nights ago at the final performance of “A Life in Three Acts” (and should have been two, thanks), my colon started convulsing like Liza in a Tijuana Pharmacy. I ran to the bathroom in the middle of Act Two, but before I could lay out my three layers of TP I knew that although my formerly-fat, now-just-large ass would fit on the seat, the door was waaaaay too close to the bowl. As in, three inches. If I wanted to sit down and actually take a Phantom, I’d have to lift my legs above my head, like a kid cannonballing into a pool. I may be slimmed down, but I’m not that slim, sister.

So I did what the newly rich Saudis apparently used to do in the 80s when they’d come to NYC: stand on the toilet seats and dive-bomb my Phantom into the toilet bowl. Which might have worked, had the Jersey Boys who designed the damn thing thought to make the stalls higher than five-and-a-half feet. As soon as I stood on the toilet, everything from my torso up was exposed. Anyone else coming in mid-act would see my oversized head (thanks for smoking during pregnancy, Mom; you were always so selfless) sticking out over the top of the stall like a stick-puppet.

What to do? I considered locking the main door and Phantoming with the door open, but there was no lock. So I left, went to the creepy beer-hall/Houston-like restaurant next door, and Phantomed in their luxuriously large stall for eleven minutes.

People wonder why more people don’t go to the theater? Start with the stalls.