xtcian

I'll tumble 4 ya

11/13/03

First off, a hearty thank you to those who commented on yesterday's blog, and to keep them coming – I know Sean Patrick is reading them all. Some of the statements aren't all sweetness and light, which is good for him to hear as well. I know Bud has had a complicated relationship with his time at UNC, but I think he ultimately is glad he did it, if only because all us cool kids are now in his life permanently. Either way, it has been good for me to read the comments (and the emails) because it does a good job of convincing me I'm not living in some sort of opiate-laced nostalgia.

Speaking of which, I had my first shift at the Park Slope Food Co-op today – I went in there and said that my back sucked and I couldn't lift anything, and naturally, I got put on the "re-stocking" team that ensured I'd be lifting 40-lb. cartons full of organic soy milk all afternoon. Much easier was the cashier position, a skill I've had since my days in retail at the record store. Even the various lesbians around me smiled in appreciation at my lightning-quick check-out prowess.

While I was scanning organic kale, Tessa hotfooted her way into Manhattan to catch the gala opening night of Taboo, the Boy George musical that has been the subject of much controversy and stories of various-wheels-falling-off during rehearsal. Apparently they were still re-writing the script as of last week, which is almost always the death knell of any production (big exception: "Apocalypse Now," which was being re-written while the cameras were rolling).

Tessa gave me a synopsis of the story, which suffers from my LEAST FAVORITE PLOT DEVICE EVER: the drug/alcohol addiction of the protagonist. I swear to god, the second Our Hero does a line of coke in ANY movie, I fall asleep. Nothing is more boring to me than the addiction-and-recovery plotline; writers who continue to trudge down that road can go fuck themselves.

Anyway, the musical was apparently sort of a beautiful disaster, and by 2am, the Times, the Washington Post, and all the biggies had already eviscerated it via the Web (I blogged about this phenomenon a few days ago.) By then, T was already at the after-party at the Roxy, swingin' it old-skool style with Rosie O'Donnell and Barbara Walters, sipping drinks off women dressed as tables.

As I write, it is 3am and Tessa is back - but the producers, along with Boy George and Rosie, are still at the Roxy, not knowing just how bludgeoned they have been by the critics. The show, costing tens of millions of dollars, will close in weeks, but they are still drinking, not knowing. Here's to a night of blissful ignorance.