New York State Of Mind

100% accurate:

Boo.

Devastatingly, due to lack of funds and insufficient prep time, I had to forgo an elaborate Halloween costume this year. Now if you know anything about me at all, you realize just how devastating a tragedy this is to have befallen me. However, like a phoenix in a wig and fake blood, I shall rise from the ashes of this finery failure and emerge next holiday in victory and even greater splendor! You know, since I have a whole extra year to work on the thing now. LITTLE DEAD RIDING HOOD LIVES!

So anyway...since I had no other plans, I decided to go to the parade in the Village. And even though I would only be watching, I couldn't betray the spirit of my favorite day of the year by just wearing everyday clothes. I had to do something...

Everyone who knows anything about me at all: "So are you getting dressed up?"
Me: "Not really."

"Not really" = sequined top hat with feathers, old prom dress, Mardi Gras beads, striped stockings, leopard print heels; elaborate face paint.

Elderly gentleman on the street: "That's a very striking costume!"
Me: "Oh, this is just what I wear every Sunday..."

The beginning of the parade was AMAZING, but it slowly tapered off into random people simply walking by wearing costumes. Since I consider myself something of an expert on all things Halloween, and because I'm just a judgemental bitch...

Presenting:

THE BeccaGo HALLOWEEN 2010 "I WISH I HAD THOUGHT OF THAT" AWARDS!

Best Group Costume: Zombie Golden Girls
Best Family Costume: Darth Vader (dad), Princess Leia (mom), and Yoda (baby)
Best Couples Costume: Where's Waldo? and Carmen Sandiego
Best Individual Costume: Up (guy in an aviator cap holding a bunch of balloons with a dollhouse tied to the strings)

And, just to prove that the "sexy" costume craze has gone FAR too far:

Top Honors go to...

SEXY BEDBUG!

Trick or treat, bitches! :D

Let The Sun Shine In

Yesterday, I saw the Broadway show Hair. And today, you get this special treat:

I danced on Broadway with the Hair eParty!

I'm the one at 1:28, with the glasses and the silver bracelets, fixing her hair (appropriate, no?). I'm also the one at the end, right in the middle, jumping up and down and waving. And I'm still a little hoarse from singing. :D

P.S.: This is the 4th Broadway show I've been in. See my theater resume for details. :)

If You Can't Beat 'Em, Kick 'Em And Run

If you've ever, at any time, traversed any pedestrian stretch of Times Square, you've no doubt encountered these "Hey, do you like stand-up comedy?" guys. They're a particularly smug and obnoxious brand of street hawker. The most common response to the plethora of people passing out flyers in this city, if one is even given at all, is usually just a simple "No." Try this approach with the stand-up comedy guys, however, and they get all, "No? You mean you don't like comedy? Don't you like to have fun??" HAHAHA AMIRITE?!? Gee, buddy, you sure got me there. Way to be. My sister once got lost when she first started working here and managed to parlay the following exchange into an Overheard In New York quote that got published in the Metro:

Stand-up jackass: "Hey, do you like stand-up comedy?"
Sister: "Do you know where the nearest Duane Reade is?"
Stand-up jackass: "I asked you first!"

He seriously would not answer her.

So today, on the way to meet my sister at her office, I discovered my new favorite method of dealing with these douches: When one inevitably confronts you with "Hey, do you like stand-up comedy?" respond "I do stand-up comedy!" and hand them a flyer you took from the guy down the block. The best part is, you won't even be lying — their reaction is pretty damn comical.

World-Famous New York City Landmarks I See Every Day Just By Going To Work

* Brooklyn Bridge
* Statue Of Liberty
* Broadway
* Empire State Building
* Herald Square Macy's
* Times Square
* Grand Central Station

I'm so blasé.

I'm, Like, All Cultured And Shit

Transcript of an earlier e-mail conversation with my sister:

Her: "Hey, want to see Mary Stuart on Broadway?"
Me: "Who's Mary Stuart?"
Her: "Uh...she's like, this English chick who was in charge and stuff...?"
Me: "Oh! Mary, Queen of Scots! I'm retarded. I thought it was just a random name, like Billy Elliot."
Her: "She was Billy Elliot's dance teacher, actually."
Me: "Yeah, I heard it's a happy little musical. She goes dancing off to her execution."
Her: "On roller skates! No, wait — that's Xanadu.
Me: "And then she gets hit by a falling chandelier instead of a guillotine!"

Quick, someone get Andrew Lloyd Webber on the phone!

Lame Claims To Fame: Volume V

Flashback: January 2008...

So, for those of you who don't travel in these sorts of circles, the Tony award-winning Broadway musical The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee will be closing on January 20th after a two-and-a-half year run. Upon hearing this news about three weeks ago — especially as an actress, a singer, and the bearer of an English degree, who lives for all things quirky — I was kicking myself for having missed the chance to see it.

Until I realized that I have a sister who does travel in these sorts of circles.

And who happened to be paying attention during this particular lament of mine, and who remembered it come Christmas present-buying time.

Which is how I came to be onstage with the cast, under the spotlights of the Circle in the Square Theater, beaming from ear to ear during yesterday evening's performance.

But let me back up a bit...

Technically, this is not the first time I've been in this sort of situation. For my 20th birthday, my mom took me to see Grease (with Rosie O'Donnell — remember that??), and when I made a request to the guy playing Vince Fontaine, who was spinning rock 'n' roll records before the show, I mentioned that it was my birthday, and he pulled me up onstage to dance (of course, I can't prove this because when Mom tried to take a picture of it, security confiscated her camera). And when I had front-row seats for the Broadway revival of The Rocky Horror Show about 8 years ago, I managed to jump onstage to dance with one of the Phantoms during the Time Warp — but then again, we are talking about Rocky Horror.* As for the Bee, I've only heard rumors of audience participation, so I'm not getting my hopes up.

*Case in point: When I saw it again the next year (with Sebastian Bach — remember that??) and somehow ended up being the only one in the audience who yelled out (per "the script") "What's your favorite toothpaste?" right before the word "gleam" in "I Can Make You A Man," and then "Mine's Crest — I like the PUMP!" right after it, Terrance Mann as Dr. Frank broke character to look right at me and shout back "Get your own damn show!"

The lobby of the theater is decorated like the hallways of a real middle school. Handwritten signs and posters advertising bake sales and club meetings, "Read to Achieve!" and all those other cheesy inspirational slogans plastered everywhere, actual rows of lockers, and — my personal favorite — a "Putnam County Lady Pirhanas — 1998 Field Hockey Champions" banner hanging from the ceiling. Against one wall is a "Volunteer Speller Registration" table, so, curious, I get in line. The cute gay boy with the clipboard asks me my name, where I'm from, if I'm a good speller, if I ever do word puzzles, if I think I'd be nervous on a stage in front of about 500 people. I feel like answering every question with, "Are you kidding me?? Do you even know who you're talking to here??" He thanks me for volunteering and I am then told that only four people will be picked to be a part of the show. Four people out of about 500. Everyone waiting in the lobby has been on this line. There are still people waiting behind me. Registration eventually closes and they have to turn people away. When they come back out to announce the winners, I try to ready myself for the inevitable disappointment.

My name is the first one they call. >:)

My fellow spellers are another girl, about my age, maybe younger, with dark curly hair, who is actually taller than me (!); a precocious and adorably geek-chic, 10- or 11-year-old boy named Jack; and an older, somewhat Middle Eastern-looking man with a name I'm not even going to attempt to spell. Hopefully, it won't be the word I'm given during the competition. We are escorted to a small backstage office full of technical equipment for our "orientation." We are told where to come onstage, what to do once we're up there, how to adjust the microphone. We are told not to bring any electronic devices with us, to just react naturally and enjoy the show, and that the actors will help us. It is repeated several times, with great emphasis, that before we spell the word we're given, no matter how hard or easy a word it may be, we MUST ask two questions: "Can I have the definition, please?" and "Can you please use it in a sentence?" — and in that EXACT order. Then we are instructed very explicitly to NOT try to be funny: "Don't tell jokes or stay up there longer than you need to when you're done spelling. As funny as it may seem in your head, trust me, it's not going to be that funny. There are trained professionals up there for that; they don't need your help."

On my way back to my seat, I decide to try and play it like I wasn't picked after all, like I was just in the bathroom the whole time or something, so it will be a total surprise to my mom when they call me up, but she knows right away: "Well, first of all, you didn't come back in with the rest of them, and second, you're grinning like an idiot."

I am so excited I barely even hear the opening number; I'm focused solely on waiting for my cue. The "moderator" finally announces my name and the whole theater starts rustling and whispering and turning around to look as I jump out of my seat, plow past the rest of my row and skip down the aisle...then practically trip onto the stage. Yep, I definitely belong here — I am a true dork.

My number, as indicated by the enormous square of bright yellow cardboard hung around my neck, is 28 — coincidentally, the same number Al Sharpton was given when he was a guest speller during the Tony Awards performance. "Chip," the Cub Scout and "reigning champion," shows me where to sit on the bleachers. There's a musical number, I'm involved in a sight gag which I pull off like a pro, two actors are called up to spell, and then it's my turn.

I make my way a little nervously to the microphone at the front of the stage as the moderator perkily announces, "Miss Godan was voted 'Miss Congeniality' by her class for inviting the entire football team to her slumber party!" I play along with a demure little smile, and the audience cracks up. Man, I am loving this!

And then my word is "pakapu."

I am crestfallen. I have never heard this word before in my life. At least the audience seems to be enjoying/sharing in my reaction of utter confusion. I ask for the definition, as instructed (apparently it's some sort of Chinese lottery). I ask for a sentence, but the audience starts laughing so loudly I don't even hear it. Not like it would have even helped — the girl before me whose word was "jihad" got something like, "Mohammed always prepared the camel meat fresh each day at Ahmed's Jihad Deli."

[On a similar note: A few rounds later, another volunteer speller gets the word "cow," and sheepishly asks — as he's been told he absolutely MUST do — for the definition and for use in a sentence. The responses to these questions are, respectively: "It's a cow!" and "Spell the word 'cow'!"]

I tentatively repeat the word ("pock-a-poo...?"), then string together some reasonable-sounding letters and glance back at the judges hopefully.

*ding*

"I'm sorry, that's incorrect."

Devastation — I am the first contestant to be eliminated.

My mom tells me later that my face at that moment was perfect, that I really looked like a sad little girl. The audience gets a big laugh out of the "comfort counselor" — a large, thugged-out black man who is supposedly on parole and performing his "community service" — as he gives me a hug and a juice box before sending me back to my seat. At least I'm the first person to get "comforted," I think; the joke hasn't gotten old yet. Strangely, I do take some comfort in this. And maybe now I'll actually be able to hear the show — when you're onstage, everyone is singing with their backs to you, and I'm part-deaf as it is. And I was getting thirsty...

Afterwards, for the whole walk back to the train station, I can't stop giggling and asking did I sound ok and are you sure it was funny? I mean, people were laughing, right? I am so ridiculously proud of myself I'm practically floating down the streets of Manhattan.

I owe Courtney something REALLY good for Christmas next year. :)

City Of Dreams

Last night I saw Eddie Izzard at Madison Square Garden. Physically getting myself to this performance entailed leaving my apartment at 6:30, walking a block and a half to catch the Q, going all of 6 stops, getting off the train at Herald Square, and walking another 2 blocks to the Garden. This got me into my seat by 7:30, half an hour before showtime, giving me plenty of time to settle in and watch the Jumbotron: Mr. Izzard had his Twitter page up live onscreen and his avalanche of @replies was scrolling by for all to enjoy. There were the expected sorts of comments:

"@eddieizzard Hello from Row G, Section 202!"
"@eddieizzard SHARON WILL YOU MARRY ME?"
"@eddieizzard DAD I'M GAY"
"to the guy in the blue checkered shirt sitting in front of me: shut the fuck up. you know who you are. @eddieizzard"
"At the @eddieizzard show at MSG. Brought my flag in case anyone tries to claim my seat. :)"

But I also noticed some people who seemed to be Tweeting from out-of-town:

"In NYC this weekend to see @eddieizzard! Best birthday present EVER!"
"@eddieizzard: We came all the way from Kentucky to see you. You better be good! LOL"
"Baltimore loves @eddieizzard!"
"Can't believe I'm in Madison Square Garden right now waiting for @eddieizzard! Loving this trip to NY!"

I swear, I even spotted someone claiming they had flew in from Turkey to see their favorite action transvestite in, uh, action. Man, I thought, people have crossed oceans to get to this show. Made an entire vacation of it. I merely crossed a bridge and walked a few feet. It started to occur to me, skimming these many abbreviated missives, that I had begun to take for granted my plum position on this planet.

This realization put me in mind of a thread on one of my message boards (can it — my entire social life is conducted online, ok?) in which the merits of different states as places of residence were being debated. Because this was the Interwebz and the board members were from all over the place, each arguing for their own home state, things were starting to look ugly for New York: "It's dirty. It's so expensive. There's too much crime. The weather sucks. New Yorkers are rude."

I could not let this stand, this disparagement of my beloved locale. By God, I was born and raised here! As those who know me well know, if the issue of citizenship is ever in question, I am a New Yorker first, an American second. Thus, I mounted my defense:

"I live in Brooklyn. It's not the greatest neighborhood in terms of trendiness or gentrification, but the lack of tragically hip art students could be a selling point, and I'm not afraid to walk home alone after dark. Plus, my apartment is huge by NYC studio standards, and the location is of ultimate convenience — walking distance to the subway, supermarket, library, laundromat, pizza place and Prospect Park. And by 'walking distance,' I mean from 3-4 blocks to literally right next door. And it's only about a 40-minute commute to midtown Manhattan.

My expenses — rent, utilities, food, phone, cable, laundry, transportation, even my therapist — come to less than $2,000 a month. Even with my crappy salary, that still leaves a few hundred to play. I suppose a big chunk of that is that I don't have a car anymore (not even necessary), my loans are paid off, and I have no credit cards. But I also don't make any money off of poker, and my daddy doesn't pay for squat.

Granted, it gets noisy, the weather can get crappy, and yes, sometimes people can be rude, but I think this is more than made up for by the fact that I LIVE IN NEW YORK CITY! This place never sleeps! I have access to some of the greatest shit in the world! Some people give up everything just to get here; some spend their whole lives just dreaming of it. For my whole life, I've been lucky enough to live no more than an hour's train ride away. So fine — maybe I'm a little biased, but damn it, I fuckin' love NY!"

Never hurts to remind myself of that. :)

On With The Show!

Theater people can be a little...dramatic.

A few years ago I did a community theater production of Anything Goes, where — literally — anything went. Everyone was hooking up — male and female, gay and straight, on-stage and off, publicly and privately, in singles and multiples. We made a coming-out parody of the song "Let's Step Out." We had a ball with "Blow, Gabriel, Blow!" We gave out an award at the cast party to "All Those Who Either Began The Show As, Or Became Over The Course Of Its Run, A Lesbian." But there were also more than a few hurt feelings and awkward moments. And at the center of it all, it seemed, was Julie.

Julie, Mary and I had been inseparable during the last show, when we had all been lowly chorus members, and the youngest ones in the cast by about 15 to 20 years. This time around, Mary and I were still ensemble players. Julie was playing Bonnie. Julie (besides being the prize for which a good portion of the cast seemed to be competing, à la a modern-day pansexual Helen of Troy) had also been spending more time with one of us than the other lately — at the diner after rehearsals, in the parking lot after the diner. This caused some tension.

One night, there was a minor confrontation in the wings. There were confessions and apologies. There were tears and hugs. There were attempts at hugs angrily pushed away. It was obvious to any passers-by what was going on, so most passers-by avoided our little triangle and averted their eyes.

Except for Dave.

Dave was a featured dancer, and, according to his bio in the program, had worked on a Disney cruise ship, which, if you have ever met Dave, was a hilarious thing to picture. Dave didn't hesitate to intrude on our pity party, draping an arm around Mary's shoulders and announcing, at first rather compassionately, "I'm so sorry, ladies," then, abruptly, rather petulantly, "but can we not fuck up 'The Heaven Hop' tonight?" before blithely waltzing away.

There was a brief stunned pause, then a burst of laughter, and we all realized we were being silly and kissed and made up and took our places for the next scene...

...knowing full well we'd do it all over again tomorrow night.