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.)