"THE OLD APARTMENT"

Barenaked Ladies Concert Post #2

CHECKING IN.

Barenaked Ladies Concert Post #1

YOU'VE COME A LONG WAY, BABY.

Checking out of Canton, NC; on our way towards Charleston, SC.
It will be four hours of hell in a car. With four other people. Fun.
AGH.

MISSING YOU? HARDLY.

Liar.
I hate the fact that I've finally found people in my life who demand me to miss them. Not that they demand it of me, but I demand it of myself, as though they all possess the power to tango frantically with my emotions and somewhat lack of control over them.
I miss so many people.
Ugh.

TRAVELING DAY.

The family is trekking to NC and SC (What a baffling combination of destinations!) for the next four days, so internet will be scarce, but I will post with flair whenever possible.
Hooray for AudioBlogger!

OPEN LETTER TO NATHAN LANE

You are, have always been, and will forever be my homeboy.

UNLESS I HATE YOU...

...MERRY CHRISTMAS, ONE AND ALL.

YA-FREAKING-Y!

LAPTOP IS BACK.
I AM HAPPY.
YAY!

FELL DOWN; FOOT GO BOOM.

Kelley go OUCH.
Rocking out the crutches (for the first time in my life), and thinking about holding off my Orlando Adventure until after the impending holiday.
Grr.
Hopefully, pain will subside, and I'll be on my way for a day of fun near the Mouse.
Only time shall tell.

BROKEBACK: THE MUSICAL!

If Nathan is backing it, and it's horrifically fake, I love my life.
He's so gay.
Love him...

NEW YORK AND KELLEY: A LOVE STORY, A SYNOPSIS.

It's been a terribly exhausting few days, with absolutely no reasoning in sight. Nonetheless, I wanted to consolidate my New York Frame Of Mind before it had fled in its entirety. So, without further adieu:

Wednesday was a motley rush of finding correct flight numbers and bustling back and forth in various travel scenarios. We finally landed in New York, where I checked my voicemail, finding that one element of my Northeastern Expedition was having second thoughts about city traveling. Besides being frustrated beyond all belief, my call to said party seemed to influence a bit more confidence and cooperation, and by the next morning, our plans were rather concrete.
Getting into the city was no difficult feat, but finding our hostel in twenty degree temperatures was not an adventure I'll soon forget. We settled in, bundled up, and subway-ed ourselves down to Broadway and 50th, where we traversed down my all-too-familiar Favorite Street In The Universe. We ended up near the TKTS booth, and Mary, non-chalantly, suggested that we peek to see what inexpensive tickets we could still find. Floored, yet utterly delighted, I found that there were still Putnum County Spelling Bee tickets for sale, FREAKED OUT, and went up to purchase two tickets of sheer glee. The server, however, had other plans: it knew I was at the counter, and simultaneously FREAKED OUT, leaving myself and everyone after me ticket-less and slightly less enthusiastic as I had been just moments earlier. Still, we wandered around for a bit longer, taking in dinner at a really nice little Italian restaurant, and then making our way down to 42nd to catch the subway back up for the evening.
Thursday began with a frantic call from my Floridian father, mentioning a Nathan Lane sighting on television. That, in its own right, took a good hour out of the day, but was certainly worth every delightful little pudgy, Jewish moment. Next, we cloaked ourselves in warmth, strolled out of the hostel and down the street, and stopped for breakfast at a little diner. We took a window seat and simply basked in the glory of people watching (especially when one of those people happened to be SNL's Fred Armisen, passing by and pausing to glance into the windows while I stared in disbelief and giggling wonder- because I think he's cute). After munching, we headed down to 59th and strolled through Rockefeller Center, Saks, and most delightfully, Sephora. I bought lip gloss. It is quite lovely.
Trolling down Fifth Avenue at a million miles an hour, we made it down towards 44th, where I got a call saying that my Mesmerist had finally made it into the city via bus, and was heading in my direction. We passed on another a few times (not my fault...), but finally met up- to my distinct pleasure, if I might add. We traversed a bit farther and stopped for coffee and pink lemonade (I'm not the greatest fan of hot drinks), and spent some time just talking and catching up. Another college chum/graduate managed to catch up with us in all of her splendor, and while my mother tromped back up to the hostel to find our tickets for the evening, the three of us terrorized the streets of NYC's theatre district, jumping into lobby after lobby, taking smug and smarmy pictures with our favorite theatrical gods, and indulging in general tom-foolery. We fought over the proper pronunciation of Brian F. O'Bryne's name, tried to sneak inside the shop door for Movin' Out, where they were ever-so-ironically "movin' out" (after a final performance on the 11th) and loading their sets into trucks and vans of various shapes and sizes. We tried to find rush tickets at every show imaginable, poked fun at our favorite homosexual couple currently running onstage (Can you guess, little goys?), and were thoroughly interested in Dianetic principles, as were illustrated in a fifteen-minute film screening at the Manhattan Headquarters for Scientology (Michael snuck in to ask if John or Tom were on hand to personally guide us in our journey of exploration. They, apparently, were not.)
[Editor's Note: I swear, as soon as my laptop is returned from the clutches of HP Customer Care, I will have these rumored photos to post and share and utterly rub in your proverbial faces. Seriously. I will gloat. In color.]
At the departure of Miss Dramatist herself came the first ounce of one-on-one time I had shared with Michael since our initial departure the week before. It was nice, I can assure you, even in its brevity. I "miss the crap out of him," something I find dishearteningly weak as a quality, but painfully sincere in its reality. So, that's that.
We met up with Mary again at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Factory (a supposed New York must; in reality, a not-so-must), where we shared our dinner with an enticingly pleasant view of Times Square at its bustling best. Finishing our meals, we pranced across the street to Toys-R-Us, and re-lived our woe-begotten childhoods with plenty of camera-snapping and ridiculous holiday-themed gifts to go around, all of which will be seen at a later date. Promise.
Fate then swept us closer to the Shubert Theatre, current home to the Eric Idle-penned Spamalot. We scattered through a few tiny theatrically-themed shopped, where I purchased items far above their recommended prices, and found things that I desperately wished I could have for my own, show recordings and t-shirts to abounding.
It was at this point when I was forced to say goodbye to my dear friend and companion, and we shared a nice moment on the shady corner of Port Authority, one that will be repeated in the future if it knows what's good for it. Ha.
I rushed back to the Shubert, where I climbed in, stowed far too much baggage under my tiny seat. I basked momentarily in the grandeur that is a tiny Broadway house, finding exquisite joy in both the proximity to the stage, and also in the lack of tiny little strips of paper signifying substitutes in the performance.
Original Cast Performances = Unbelievably Happy Kelley
I then turned my head and saw Mike Nichols. And froze. And looked again. He sat, and I ran downstairs to look at the lobby, and then back upstairs to look at Nichols. And then, the show began.
I have just a few things to say regarding the performance itself, as I choose not to genuinely ruin it for anyone who plans on seeing it in the future. I think I'll write a genuine review about it for Acting Two next semester, and I'll post my opinions at that point. Here's the rub- Seussical was a test-run for Idle's underlying pursuit, Spamalot. In terms of structure, presentation, characters, design, etcetera, the shows are parallels that fight for genius, but fall just short of achieving such goals. It was the star power, in earnest, that allowed Spamalot its Tony win last summer.
That being said, the show was wholly enjoyable. Hyde-Pierce, my eternal love, was not as deftly up to the task presented to him in act one, but managed to make a recovery in the second act that even I could justify. Azaria was astounding in his differing characterization, Curry was Curry, and Sara was the greatest legitimate diva I have ever seen. But it was Christian Borle, and more deftly, Christopher Sieber who genuinely made the experience an enjoyable one for me. The two were so honest and so willing to play along that I, of course, wish that Sieber wasn't gay. And that Borle wasn't dating Sutton Foster. But we'll push that aside momentarily.
Post-performance, Curry bolted and left me signature-less, which I rather expected to have happen, so I was left out in the cold merely waiting to see my beloved Sieber, and perhaps Ramirez, if I was ever-so-lucky.
The first one out was Azaria, who was kind enough to sign programs and simultaneously tickle the crowd with some Agador Spartacus crooning (a-la "The Birdcage"). Next was the diva-licious Sara, who signed the our programs, and simultaneously dropped her recent casting on "Grey's Anatomy." She was genuinely obliging, but obviously exhausted.
Finally, to my giddy and ultimate delight, Pierce came out of the stage door. He blustered through a few signatures, said some polite "thank-you"s, and then made his way in my direction. He took my program, started signing, while I interjected, "it was such a pleasure to finally get to see you perform live." He stopped, looked up, and smiled with a very genuine, "I really appreciate that." Then, we took a picture. And those of the Land Of Kelley rejoiced.

-I have to run momentarily. The conclusion when I return.

-Okay, back. And now, I shall continue...

By then, it was raining and ridiculously cold, but I was significantly happier than I had imagined. We jumped back on the subway, fearing that midnight would bring about the MTA strike and leave us without transport to La Guardia the next morning. Also affected by our quick jaunt back to the hostel was my inability to catch the 12:01 screening of "The Producers" at the Ziegfeld, which was my ultimate goal, but too freaking bad. We got back, tucked in, and were situated for the evening.
Friday morning, we awoke to find that the strike had been postponed, and we had public transit to wisk us away and through the city. We packed, dragged our suitcases down Broadway and back to the miniature diner, where we sat and munched once again. I decided it would be nice to trek down the street a little further to the next available bus stop, rather than subway-ing it one last time. The air was nice and crisp, and I wanted to take one more look at the architecture (We were in the Columbia section of the upper west side, so most of the surroundings were college-student oriented. Hot.). Who I didn't expect to see, passing by the bus stop with her dog, was Tony-winner and vocal grace Victoria Clark.
I love Victoria Clark. There, honestly, aren't a lot of women I would openly proclaim devotion for, but Victoria Clark is not one of those women. I think she is unbelievable. I was fighting to see Light In The Piazza from the moment I heard it was opening at the Vivian Beaumont, but that proved fruitless each and every trip we've made to the city. I love Victoria Clark.
And there she was, talking on her cell phone and walking her dog. Right next to me. She stopped, and I started to turn as if to speak and let her know of my admiration, and as I craned my neck around, she was gone.
Poor, sad Kelley.
But I saw her, and that was enough for me. I'd been gifted with several really enticing opportunities to see and meet people in those three days, and that was merely the icing on the cake. I will be eternally aware of just how much I crammed into this miniature trip, and how much fun it genuinely was.

(Hmm. I will certainly have more to divulge as I am rightfully returned to my laptop and such, but for now, that will suit.)

INTERMISSION.

My laptop basically exploded last evening, so I'm pacing myself and dealing with appropriate bereavement issues. Beyond that, I will, at some point, have trip details ready to post after this seemingly-interminable hiatus (for me- not you).
A good trip, I can assure.
I am now sick and exhausted, however, so, to sleep I drift.

NYC.

Posting will be sporadic, if not non-existent, for the next few days, as I will be gloating mercilessly throughout the streets of New York. I will, of course, be simultaneously crushed as I wittiness true talent prancing about onstage, at which point I will be sure to drive myself into a bridge or something equally hard and deadly.
Seriously, though.

A veritable crap-load of photographs will obviously be taken, and some of them with real actors, hopefully. There will also be some "mushy romantic NYC photographs" (or so I hope), which would send My Little Icy Heart soaring. [Editor's Note: He called tonight and said, "Hey, babe," which was so ironic that it sent me reeling. I commented, and he freaked out and asked if it was "appropriate." Which, again, sent me reeling. It is so, so very weird to have someone in my life. Unbelievably weird.]

My flight leaves in less than twelve hours, and I'm still far from focused on packing. Basically finished, but far from focused. I hate being distracted by sixteen million factors that don't matter or shouldn't matter or won't matter but might just matter. They hold such dominion over my progress, and they certainly shouldn't be able to, yet they do. Without question.
With question. Whatever.

-Will he make it?
-Does he really want to be there?
-Am I annoying him?
-Will our reservations be what we expected them to be?
-What if understudies take over the performance?
-Will I get to make out with Tim Curry, or would that make Michael jealous?
-Would that make Elis jealous?
-Thank God I read all of those trashy Fearless books, because they've left me with a relative mental map of the city.
-Just how gay is Nathan Lane?
-How much did I want to jump Hugh Laurie when he started singing "Ain't She Sweet" on the show tonight?
-Is this why he refuses to read my blog?
-Will I totally screw up this trip?
-Am I ready him to meet a parent?
-Why the hell do I over-analyze EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE?
-Am I officially out of hotel stationary?
-Why are the Barenaked Ladies so damn amazing?
-How freaking amazing is this trip going to be?
-Will I have another insane celebrity sighting like at The Frogs?
-Can I go see The Producers at midnight at The Ziegfeld?
-Why does James Barbour have to be in LA right now?
-Which leading man in Spamalot would be the easiest to take advantage of?
-No wonder Michael doesn't read this stuff.

Alright. I'm done. Really. It's time to try and get some rest before I go absolutely insane. Which I've already started to do. Too late. Oh, well. Some rest will be a good thing, I think. More updates via AudioBlogger to come, I suppose.
Later.

PEER PRESSURE ROCKS.

Post the first line from the first entry of each month to provide you with a YEAR IN REVIEW of sorts.

January:
It's the first day (afternoon, at this point) of 2005, and I, myself, am quite prepared for the New Year.

February:
Here I sit, awaiting none other than an escape from this wonderful nation where I can sit for hours on end, listening eagerly to an illiterate Texas oil man who may or may not have served his time in the Texas Air National Guard.

March:
What a waste of seven John Travolta Dollars.

April:
With multiple deaths and my Glaze Under Fire/Ross From Hell experience on Saturday, I was simply too exhausted to try and compute anything, let alone write up some mindless post about my meager existence.

May:
...And the fires of Hell are just beginning to consume my weakened mortal frame.

June:
Done.

July:
Call it disrespectful, but the California coast kicks every other God-forsaken shoreline to the curb.

August:
I think I've played through Songs For A New World at least six times today. That has to be a record.

September:
I'M POST #500, BE-OTCH.

October:
So, while we chilled with the Gators and Crocks, I noticed the Tiki masks.

November:
"I speak for him. Never had the gift myself. The words were there, but the words just sat inside me, never rose to leave. They just sat there. Many was the time-- especially with the inspiration of a well-turned lady-- that I wanted to make those words get up off their duffs, and get out of my insides and so some business. The gift of talking wasn't mine. The gift of talking so's to make someone move. And by move I mean to smile, to blink, to say 'yes, indeed' when they had just got done thinking 'no sir-ee, uh-uh...' I speak for him, because this gift was never mine."

December:
I'm a brunette. Scorn me as you must.

That was actually kind of fun. I'll have to do one next year, too.

PERPETUAL NAPPING 101.

As much as I'm going to be sick of it within a week, it's been nice to just rest. Sleep is something I was obviously lacking, but I had no idea just how much. I feel like I could live in bed for weeks on end with absolutely no remorse or concern for life otherwise.
Which is not the best feeling in the world, I'll acknowledge, but one I will certainly accommodate for a few days nonetheless.
I miss Flagler. I do. Genuinely. College has been, thus far, the greatest experience of my life. I need the freedom it provides me, and I desperately desire the company of the people I’ve been surrounded with (with very few exceptions, ironically enough).
And I’ve been ridiculously spoiled over the past weeks, with my full knowledge attached. Life has provided me with opportunities far beyond anything I could have wished for. I have the marginal success I could have hoped for with the department (grossly boastful as that may sound), I have some of the greatest companions money could buy (and certainly has, I’ll assume; those hussies…), and one of the most rapid-fire, engaging, and stirring relationships that could be dreamt of.
I suppose that stepping back for a few weeks allows me a more solidified appreciation for these extraordinary blessings that make up my current existence, but I want them- I need them- here with me now. I do. Certainly. And it will, without doubt, be a wonderful experience to share time with people who have been vacant from my life for these ironically short months, if not just to share with them the vitality that has suddenly become present within me, the budding confidence that those closest to me have begun to recognize. I am becoming the person I have desired to be for such a devastatingly long time, and whereas that’s a shocking situation, I don’t care. I am more content at this point in my life than I have been in such a very long time.
I am happy.
I am happy.
I am happy.

[Editor’s Note: I definitively need an iPod with a larger storage capacity. I have far, far beyond twenty little “gigs” of music, and it is killing me to remove some of my most treasured albums to make space for new friends. I need more space. Santa, be a dear.]

HOLY FREAKING LUNCHMEAT.

SPAMALOT.
DECEMBER 15TH.
ORCHESTRA ROW 18.
TIM CURRY.
DAVID HYDE PIERCE.
HANK AZARIA.
SARA RAMIREZ.
CHRISTIAN BORLE.
CHRISTOPHER SIEBER.

I THINK I'M GOING TO HAVE A MOTHER-EFFING HEART ATTACK.

YOU KNOW HOW I ROLL.

Acting One Show = Insanity

AS TIME GOES BY.

A week of firsts, and everything around me seems odd yet eerily normal.
Details are entirely unimportant, but the motivation beyond them is slightly more important. I spent the day in general fear and aggravation, but after spending more time in the arms of one I care deeply for, my apprehension has begun to falter, loosening its grasp on my over-exhausted logic and rationality.
If only my stomach would dare to cooperate.
Alright. To sleep I go, as 8:00 AM holds my first ever college exam. Fun.

THE NEW DO.

I'm a brunette. Scorn me as you must.