Welcome To My World

Hello and welcome to my blog, “Down In Front”. The reason for the title of the blog should become apparent soon.
The first thing you should know is that I don’t usually get farther on the internet than “to see the entire video enter your credit card number”. But I’ve come to realize that the internet is more than a place to almost download porn. It can also be the 21st century version of a Texas clock tower...a place to let off a little steam. So I’ve decided to climb the internet and with a keyboard and two fingers start blogging at passing strangers.
Why now, you ask? (I have to say I’m impressed with your thirst for knowledge.) The short answer is “none of your business” but I think that would make for a dull blog. The longer answer is that my girlfriend of two years, who I'll call Miss Ex, left me.
Now I’ve been rejected by women before... and colleges, employers, credit card companies (amongst others), but never by someone I loved (That thing with the computerized MasterCard voice was only a crush). Anyway, that’s not the worst part. She’s an actress, I’m a playwright. She just got a part on Broadway, I’m still tending bar...wait it gets worse. I tend bar in a Broadway theater and...wait for it...she’s in the show that’s coming into my theater. What are the odds, right? My friend Bennett (not his real name) who sells souvenirs at the theater says I should play the lottery the day of the first performance, I think I should stay out of electrical storms.
So while she’s going to be up on stage dancing her pretty little feet off I’ll be working the front of the house (that’s what they call ushers, bartenders, souvenirs sellers etc...) in the lobby one flight down from her (Ed. Note-this should be when the blog’s title comes into focus).
A Broadway theater bears a strong resemblance to a carnival freak show. Usually I’m just a curious onlooker but now I think I’ve turned into one of the people hammering nails up his nose. It should be interesting. I’ll keep you posted.

The Interview

He just sat there staring at me with the cold, lifeless eyes of a frozen dead guy...kind of like Walt Disney eyes. Maybe that’s why “Some Day My Prince Will Come” kept running through my head the whole meeting although it might have been because Bennett was humming it the entire time. In hindsight it was probably a little unprofessional of me to bring Bennett along but give me a break, it was my first time. I had no idea how to behave and Bennett’s an expert on having no idea how to behave so I figured...

Anyway, I’ve never even met a head hunter before let alone had an interview with one but when he called me I thought what the hell. I’ll be honest though, part of me was hoping to see a giant pot full of boiling water with the Three Stooges in it when I walked in.

As usual, I was disappointed. I think he was too. He didn’t seem very impressed by our meeting. I probably should have said something unrelated to Bernadette Peters but I couldn’t think of anything. Besides he asked all the good questions. “Where do I see myself in 5 years?”, “what would I bring to a potential working relationship?”. Man, that guy could ask some serious interview questions. I can’t believe he’s been out of work for sixteen months. I guess the head hunting field has been hit as hard as the housing market.

Anyway, I couldn’t offer him a bartending job at the theater. He didn’t have any relevant experience. Wow, I never thought I would hear myself type those words in the same sentence “relevant” and “bartending job at the theater” and I’m pretty sure Bennett is pissed at me. I explained to him that it wasn’t that kind of head that the guy hunted and he says he believes me and he’s not mad but he is. I can tell. Sure, he’s still humming “Some Day My Prince Will Come” but now he’s doing it really sarcastically.

Come On, Irene

What a weekend. Damn you, Irene! I mean, water everywhere. First, it came in through the bathroom and, frankly, I have no idea why Paul McCartney sang about that. I was cursing non-stop. Then it somehow soaked into the bathroom ceiling which immediately started to buckle then collapse. Sure I was warned about this and I thought I was prepared until the raw sewage joined the flooding. No one talks about that. Well, I shouldn’t say no one. Bennett knows a couple web sites where they talk exclusively about it but I had no time to consult the inter web. I was busy running around putting pots under the leaks. Pot actually, I only have the one. On the bright side I finally learned the difference between a pot and a colander.

It was a hell of an afternoon but eventually it passed and things went back to normal. Now, of course, comes the clean up. They say New Yorkers are all about pitching in in these situations. We’ll see. The first one I’m going to go to is my upstairs neighbor. I mean this is her fault. Damn you Irene! Every one knows you take the sleeping pills after the bath not before and certainly not before you finish filling the tub. Don’t ask me how the sewage got involved. I made the mistake of asking her and now she’s dead to me as a sexual fantasy and I wouldn’t want that to happen to you guys with me.

So, like I said, a hell of a weekend. I think there was a hurricane too. I wish I could’ve gone out and enjoyed it. I probably wouldn't have gotten as wet.

Well, when you live in New York, you have to take the good with the bad. You learn to put up with buildings with 19th century plumbing (the bad) in order to live in a ten by ten studio for $2200 a month (the good)”...I know what you’re thinking and yes you also learn to master the art of self delusion when you live here.

My Friend Bennett

I had to go in to set up the theater bars tonight. Since the show is about to start previews, I knew they’d be rehearsing all day so the chances of me running into Miss Ex were pretty good. Today was the day I’ve been dreading.
Because of the costumes and make-up I couldn’t pick her out of the bouncy little chorus right away, but as luck would have it (my luck anyway) I was with my best friend Bennett (not his real name. I had to change it so he wouldn’t sue me. Did I mention he was my best friend?) Anyway, he had no trouble picking out Miss Ex. It felt like my heart stopped and I was floating towards a bright white light. Turns out it wasn’t because I saw Miss Ex but because Bennett was hugging me so tightly he was cutting off the oxygen to my brain.
Bennett loves Miss Ex. She’s the woman he always thought he’d grow up to be so our breakup has been especially tough on him. How can it not be tough when your best friend and your best hag break up? Two separate Thanksgivings, Christmases, two separate Tony parties...so I tried to be understanding when he kept pointing out how happy Miss Ex looked. It did kind of help that he said it with as much resentment as I felt.
I don’t know what I’d do without Bennett’s envy and bitterness. He has worked hard at it and earned every bit of it. He came to New York at 22 to take Broadway by storm and now, ten years later at the age of...as he says...”none of your damn business...stop looking at my hairline!”, he’d settle for taking Broadway by a light mist.
So, I guess, in a weird way Bennett and I are in the same boat...then again weird is probably the only way you could be alone in a boat with Bennett.

Sweety

I heard some interesting words of wisdom today. I was told that women are a lot like Broadway shows, when one leaves another one shows up right behind it...in a few months...if your financing is in order.
Normally I would file that away along with other post break-up pearls like “you’re better off without her”, “there are plenty fish in the sea”, and “now that she dumped you would you mind if I took a shot at her?”(that one was from my uncle), but this gem was different because it came from the chief usher at my theater. I’ll call her Sweety because she’s a sweetheart AND because it’s the pseudonym she approved...and you really don’t want to cross Sweety. She is the queen bee of the Broadway usher family, and it is literally a family. Virtually all the ushers on Broadway are related somehow, siblings, cousins, spouses...sometimes all of the above...KIDDING, I’M JUST KIDDING!. They are all related, but that last bit about “all of the above” was a joke...ha...ha...See, this family also has had very close ties to the Westies, which is THE Hell’s Kitchen gang. Think “Sharks” from “West Side Story” just with less dancing and more killing.
Anyway, this family has been seating people at shows since the first time a cave man danced around a fire. Sweety says she was there making sure no one made any cave paintings of what they saw (apparently Neanderthals had very strict copyright laws).
I really appreciate her concern for me, post Miss Ex. She thinks it’s time for me to move on, and if she’s right about women and Broadway shows I’m half-way home. My finances are already in good order. Every night I pile up all my nickels, dimes and quarters in stacks of ten (if I had a good day at work). Now I just have to sit back and wait a couple months.

Let's Talk About Dick

Had our first front of house meeting with the house manager, Dick (Dick’s not his real name but that’s what everybody calls him so...). Dick’s not a big one for meetings...he once had a meeting to tell us that without appreciating the irony at all. That tells you all you need to know about him.

Like most of us, Dick would rather be somewhere else. Bennett wants to be on stage, I want to be on Miss Ex (and to be a playwright...both would be nice). Dick wants to be a rock star and he’s actually a pretty talented musician it’s just that...well, the poor bastard plays the flute so, I guess, until a wave of Jethro Tull nostalgia sweeps the nation he’s focusing on his theatre management career which was what the meeting was really about.

Dick told us that if we don’t screw up too much he might be able to get out of this “hell hole” theater and get promoted to one of the nicer, more prestigious theaters. That’s pretty much verbatim.

As far as pep talks go it wasn’t exactly “Braveheart”, but then again Dick isn’t exactly Mel Gibson. I mean Dick does not hold the Jews responsible for all the wars in the world. He does, however, hold the Jews responsible for that awful Tom Cruise re-make of “War of the Worlds”. In fact I think he had a meeting about that a couple years ago.

A Sure Thing

When I got in to work today Sweety was telling another usher about a sure thing she had. Not unusual. Sweety’s always talking about horses, numbers, football spreads, coin tosses you name it. She tried to get me to go in with her on a bet that Eliot Spitzer would resign because of hookers. Like an idiot I passed (Sweety knows hookers, in theory and in person).
As she limped towards me (sure things make her gout flare up) I decided I was going to say yes to anything she suggested.
She thinks it’s time I moved on from Miss Ex and she told me she has a sure thing for me at our local dive tomorrow night. I assume she told a lovely young woman what a handsome, successful, funny, kind, brilliant guy I am and now she can’t wait to meet me and start a meaningful long term relationship (that’s for you, mom). For all the rest of you, she got me a hooker(remember, she knows hookers).
Now I appreciate the thought but I think I may pass. I mean a guy has to have a little self respect. Like when I was voted honorable mention “most likely to succeed” in high school and have resolutely refused to succeed ever since. Besides I’ve only been single for a few weeks. I’m still in the late night Cinemax phase. There’s still the strip club and the sex doll phases before hookers.
Well, enough whining. My choice is a simple one. A sure thing versus a little self respect...OK, done. Tomorrow I get a case of condoms and a tub of Purell. Self respect is highly over rated. I’ll let you know how it goes.

A Store Credit

NOTE: There is no charge for the extra entendres in the following.

So I got to our local dive (that's it, to the left) for my sure thing tonight (see previous post). I came a little early...I was excited...a little nervous too. I wasn’t sure how to act with a sure thing. It’s not that I haven’t had them before...it’s just got to be different when it’s a whole person and not just your own right hand. Besides, I imagine hookers don’t appreciate guys coming late. They must have schedules to keep like everyone else
Anyway, I thrust myself into the bar and there she was, right where Sweety promised. It was Maggie (not her real name). I’ve known Maggie since she was a kid. She’s Sweety’s grand-niece and a substitute usher and I would certainly not call her a prostitute. She’s more like an enthusiastic hobbyist who has figured out a way to make a little money from her hobby. Sort of like a blogger.
At this point, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. {Ed. note- You’re not supposed to blow it with a sure thing. It’s supposed to be the other way around.} So we just had a drink. She understood how I felt and said she would explain everything to Sweety. I apologized if I was costing her an evening’s income, but she told me she could never charge to have sex with me, I was like family. I had never felt so warm and creepy at the same time. As I walked her home, she told me that if I ever changed my mind she’s available and it’ll be on her and the sex would be free too.
So I guess I, kind of, have a store credit...which I’ll never use...although, I thought the same thing about the Sephora credit I got for the last gift I never got to give to Miss Ex and look at me now...Have you ever seen a more oil free T zone?

Good News/Bad News

Let’s play a game. Sweety came in with some good news and some bad news today. Why don’t you guys try to figure out which is which?
First, her favorite grandson Frankie(as opposed to her three other grandsons named Frankie) is getting out of prison in a few days. Second, she wants me to get the stripper for the party. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem but my go-to stripper - the one I use for all the “Welcome Home From Prison Parties” - is now my dental hygienist. It’s just typical that I use the one stripper in the world who was actually stripping her way through school. On a side note, having her hands in my mouth is nowhere near as hot as I imagined. Anyway, now I have to start auditioning strippers and I really have to find the perfect one. The first (and only) time Bennett got the stripper...well, let’s put it this way, a room full of guys who have been in and out of prison their whole lives didn’t really appreciate a pretend fireman with his nipples chained to his scrotum. There were chairs flying across the room, then bottles smashed on tables{Ed note-and the boxer shorts tossed at Fireman Joe? A prison gesture of displeasure?}. Luckily for Bennett, my dental hygienist still had a couple student loan payments left so I got her to come over and Bennett rode Fireman Joe into the sunset or until sunrise...I forget which. Anyway, the reaction to a stripper they like too much is a lot less restrained, so as you can see, I really need to make the right choice.
Ok, time’s up. The bad news? It should be pretty obvious. Sweety’s grandson coming home. I mean, do you know how old it makes you feel when your friend’s grandchildren start getting out of prison? It was just yesterday that he went away then, bam, it’s 5-7 years later.
And the good news? Come on,..how can auditioning strippers not be good news?

Trudy, Trudy, Trudy

So a girl shows up at the theater today before work, I’ll call her Trudy (and for simplicity sake I suggest you do the same). She said she was looking for Mike about the job. Being an eternal optimist, I assumed she was responding to my Craig’s List ad for a stripper. I wasn’t sure how she tracked me down, but I thought what’s hotter than a resourceful stripper? Before I had a chance to ask her, she set up her IPOD and started the music. I thought “Tomorrow” from “Annie” was an odd choice for stripper music, but, you know, there are probably a surprising number of guys out there who would pay to see Little Orphan Annie naked.

As nice as her voice was, singing fully clothed instead of dancing naked is kind of the exact opposite of what you want from a stripper. I asked her when the clothes start coming off and she hesitatingly took off her shoes then balled up her socks and tucked them in a shoe. As she neatly folded her cardigan, I realized: #1: she hasn’t missed a note in the song and #2: she wasn’t a stripper.

Turns out she was sent over by my boss (who I’ll call “the Boss”). He likes to try to pick up women by telling them he can get them a job on Broadway. When they realize it’s behind the bar and not on stage they’re out of here like the Road Runner (one girl even included the Meep Meeps) and I, and he, never see them again.

Trudy’s different though. She jumped at the chance to work behind the bar. Said it reminded her of the all female production of “The Iceman Cometh” she did in theater camp. And just like that I have a new bar partner.

For those of you wondering how I’m going to handle working with a chorus girl after my experience with Miss Ex. Well, I’ll have to wait and see, but I appreciate your concern. For those of you not wondering...wow, ouch, what did I ever do to you?

A Strong Chin

I’ve been a little curious, and tonight I found out. Trudy has not slept with the Boss in return for this job and will never have to.

He came to the theater tonight for his monthly envelope stuffed with cash and brought his wife, stuffed with shrimp scampi, who wanted to see the show. His wife is a sturdy woman with a strong chin and a stronger pre-nup. When we went to my office to get his envelope he asked me, with a mixture of arousal and annoyance, why I hadn’t checked with him before I hired the new girl with the great ass. I reminded him that he offered Trudy the job the other day. Now he was stunned, aroused, and annoyed. None of the girls he has hit on have ever taken him up on his offer. So he tells me I have to fire her, because if women are going to take him up on his offer it might as well be the blond with huge jugs he met last night, “If I know what he means” {Ed. Note-I think we all know what he means}.

I tried pleading her case, but the Boss just told me to get rid of her tonight. At that exact moment, Trudy walked in on us. She thanked the Boss for the job and helping make her dream come true blah...blah...blah. He smiled and nodded in maybe the most awkward moment I’ve ever had the privilege to be a part of. Trudy left, and the Boss and I spent a moment trying to convince each other she hadn’t heard what we were talking about. Neither of us bought it.

When we left the office, his wife was at the bar and he panicked. He ran over and started to deny everything -up to and including the Holocaust -when his wife interrupted. She just loved Trudy...couldn’t stop raving about her... ”The best person he ever hired” (I decided the “present company excepted” was implied). She told Trudy she had a job for life and made sure the Boss agreed (sounded to me like she was being sentenced). Apparently all it takes to secure lifetime employment here is a few chin-minimizing make-up tips for the Boss’s wife.

I’d like to think this wasn’t just dumb luck, that Trudy heard us in the office and took action. That would make her a formidable bar partner, but I do wonder who we’re going to get to play Jay Leno at the office Christmas party from now on.

Welcome Home

Tonight was Frankie’s welcome home party. It went pretty well as far as these things go. Bennett’s gift bags were a smash (some were smashed, most were used for smashing... heads, teeth - see below) and luckily my stripper went over real well. She cost a little more but, she was right, that third breast was worth it.

There were some run-of-the-mill fights...Ginger vs. Mary Anne...better toilet wine Attica vs. Sing Sing etc...After a few bottles of Tequila, two guys started arguing about whether light was a particle or a wave.

Now, there’s only one rule at these parties...if you lose teeth, blood, or break a bone in a fight you drink free for a week. Just when it looked like the particle guy was going to take advantage of the rule (the wave guy was very convincing with a broken bottle) Georgie came tumbling in from the back room followed by Frankie. Frankie was looking for blood and spitting fire. Georgie was bleeding and spitting teeth. Sweety had some of the guys get Frankie out of there because of his parole issues, and the main event ended as quickly as it began. Still, I didn’t think that was any way for family to treat each other... did I mention that Frankie and Georgie are related? Yeah, Georgie is Frankie’s aunt.

Turns out Aunt Georgie had been picking fights all night so she could drink for free, and Frankie got pissed off because he felt she was violating the spirit of the rule.

Everything turned out OK though. Frankie was long gone by the time the cops showed, and Aunt Georgie didn’t press charges ‘cause she just snapped her lost teeth back in (she was smart enough to wear her “party” teeth) and she’s drinking free for the week.

All-in-all a successful if highly ironic evening. The only downside is we never did find out if light is a wave or a particle.

How She Became Miss Ex.

Due to popular demand (well only one person asked...but she is pretty popular) I’m going to explain what happened between me and Miss Ex. I haven’t discussed this in public yet but like they say you have to own your pain...denial is not just a river in Egypt...is it hot in here or is it just you...or some such cliche.
I came home one day and she was gone along with half our stuff. I found a note that said “get electricity turned on, call cable guy, send out change of address cards”. Turns out she left her “to do” list instead of a “Dear John” note. That’s so her and exactly the kind of thing I love about her. By the way, it got the job done just as well.
A couple days later I got the actual good bye letter. Turns out her shrink encouraged her to leave. He said she was concentrating on her relationship to the detriment of her career.
He’s kind of a shrink to the Broadway stars. One of the walls of his waiting room is covered with head shots of people he has treated. Kind of like a theater neurotics hall of fame or a dry cleaners. Bennett has auditioned for him for years. He tried bed wetting, touched by a creepy uncle...nothing.
When this doctor agreed to start seeing Miss Ex. we celebrated like she just won a Tony...all night, over and over if you catch my drift. Right then I thought this guy was the greatest doctor since Julius Erving.
Anyway, in the letter she said she didn’t want to leave but if her career didn’t pick up soon she was afraid he would drop her. Right then I thought he was more like Doc from “The Love Boat”. Of course, the next week she got a Broadway show...the one where I’m tending bar.
So, to sum up, she’s got a great new career, he’s got another picture for his wall and I’ve got the satisfaction of being a small part of the great Broadway-Therapeutic complex. Win, win, win don’t you think? No denial here.

The Tonys

Well, I just got back from the Tonys and, I have to say, it was a pretty good show. Bennett’s been telling me for years that I have to see it in person to believe it. It’s completely different than what I know from TV and he was right. Being there, you really get sucked into the drama. You really feel like you’re a part of a world that, let’s face it, I can only dream about. Bennett says it’s a life changing event. I don’t know about that. He probably meant that if he could ever be on that stage it would be life changing but, let’s face it, he can probably only dream about that.

What else is going on? Oh yeah, The Tony awards were tonight too. Hey, wait a minute, you guys didn’t think I was talking about that, did you? No, no, I was talking about “The Tonys”. An off-off-off-Broadway show in a church basement where four guys play the four different ages of Tony Danza. The pre-”Taxi” and the “Who’s The Boss?” guys were great. I mean you felt like you were actually in a church basement with Tony Danza. The “Taxi” and post “Who’s The Boss?” guys weren’t quite as good but you still got a really good feel for what it’s like to be Tony Danza which is why we were all there.

Sorry, where was I? Right, the Tony awards. Besides the casts and a some low level agents no one cares except for a few die hards in the “Meat packing” district.

Another Opening, Another Blow

I suppose a few words about opening night are in order. I haven’t written about it yet because it wasn’t my finest hour.

Like a lot of my sex life, it started out great and ended with me having a sore jaw, aching balls and wanting to get the hell out of there. Dick told me when and where the opening night party was and said not to tell the rest of the front of the house staff because they were specifically not invited while I was personally requested to attend. Dick said he hated those phony show biz affairs anyway but, if I insisted, he would be my plus one which should have been my first clue that things weren’t going to go well but I was too busy planning how to react when Miss Ex, who I was certain invited me for just this reason, admits leaving me was the worst mistake of her life and runs into my arms. Wow, that would make a great story for the grandkids.

Now contrary to popular myth very few, if any, opening night parties are held at Sardi’s so Dick and I had to schlep to the “producer’s” loft in Jersey City. Every show has a “producer”. The quotes mean he’s a guy who shovels his wife’s inheritance into a show with hopes of nailing some chorus girls...or boys. Anyway, when we finally found the place we thought we were fashionably late but the company manager thought we were criminally late and he hurried me to the kitchen and handed me an apron and a corkscrew. Yup, you guessed it. I wasn’t invited, I was hired (I got a free meal and bus fare. I really need a better agent). Dick went home. He said he couldn’t stand seeing me humiliated this way. I think he just didn’t want to check coats.

Anyway, things went downhill pretty fast when the “producer” came in and asked for a virgin Mojito which is Miss Ex’s drink. Let’s just say punches were thrown (hence the sore jaw). Luckily, when I saw him at the show the next day(with his nose taped) he had no idea who I was. He was pretty drunk, at the party the night before too.

So, maybe not such a cute story for the grandkids. If grandkids at all are possible. That “producer” doesn’t believe in not hitting below the belt.

Oh, P.S., the show got decent reviews so as long as there’s an “American Idol” runner up wanting a Broadway credit on his resume this show will keep running.

the Liza Hole

When I got to the theater tonight Bennett and Trudy were staring at the wall. That’s not so unusual, they’re easily entertained. Then I noticed that they were actually looking at a stain on the wall near the bar which was changing shape as we watched it. Clearly it was another leaky pipe (working in our theater is like working in a rain forest). I was quickly shouted down. Bennett and Trudy decided it was the work of a ghost. All theater people (except me) believe in ghosts and, to be fair, a shocking number of people (and careers) die in Broadway theaters.

Sweety thought the stain looked like Edna, the Ladies’ Room matron for years and years who actually died at her post. In fact, she might still be at her post if that woman didn’t ask her where she got that pretty blue lipstick and nail polish.

Anyway, that sealed it. Bennett and Trudy decided Edna came back to watch over future generations of theater lovers. Dick assumed she was getting even with him for replacing her rocking chair with a stool and walked away mumbling about the afterlife being out to get him.

During intermission I noticed the audience (especially the gay men in the audience) staring at the stain and whispering. When I stepped back and looked at it again it hit me like a ton of bricks (gold bricks). It was Liza... ”Cabaret” Liza not the current Craig Ferguson impersonator Liza. I called Bennett over for confirmation and he said it was all he could do to keep from proposing. I literally heard “Cha-ching” as I envisioned a “Jesus on a grilled cheese sandwich” E-bay windfall. Then I noticed tears coming from her eyes. Double cha-ching. I could see the caption “Liza weeps for momma”.

As I was deciding whether to live in the south of France or Tuscany the entire Liza part of the wall crumbled. There was my fortune, a pile of rubble on the floor and there was Bennett on one knee proposing to it.

Close Encounters Of The Turd Kind

Well, it finally happened. I had my first post break-up encounter with Miss Ex. Now, I knew it would suck but as it turned out sucking would have been an improvement. When I got to the theater the whole cast was in the lobby for a company meeting. She had to walk right past the bar to go upstairs so this was going to be it.

The meeting ended, everyone filed past me leaving only Miss Ex in the lobby. As she approached the bar I ran through all the brilliant things I had planned to say to her and the best I could come up with was “Meetings, huh?” She smiled. She always humored me when I said something stupid. Then she handed me an envelope. Now she and I have a history with notes but I thought a second “Dear John” would be a little bit of overkill. Then the tiny little eternal optimist in me thought it might be a reverse “Dear John” {Ed. Note- a John Dear letter?}. I opened it without taking my eyes off her and she said she always loved my play. I always liked it when she talked dirty to me.

I finally looked at the letter. It was a rejection...an emphatic rejection...from the theater festival I had just sent my play to. She said it was forwarded to her by mistake. Then she handed me a second envelope she said was forwarded with the rejection and with a look of pity she disappeared up the stairs.

I have fucking jury duty. See, sucking would’ve been a huge step up for this little encounter.

Trudy's In The House

The porter danced down the stairs before the show tonight with underwear on his head. Nothing out of the ordinary there. What was strange was that it wasn’t his underwear. It was a lacy red thong. He found it while he was cleaning the old spare dressing room. As he danced around a little more, I noticed Trudy take a quick look down at her underwear situation then turn as red as the thong. The porter finished his dance and asked Bennett if they were his and Bennett was horrified. He would never wear lace to work.

The porter decided to add it to his “collection” and everyone went back to work. I mentioned to Trudy that if they were hers she should forget about them. No one wants anything back from “the collection”. An usher once chose to hop up and down the aisle seating people rather than get his prosthetic foot back from “the collection”. Trudy turned thong red again and said they couldn’t be hers. She doesn’t wear underwear. As hot as that was and as much as I wanted to, I didn’t believe it. Why did she check? She said she was just checking for tan lines. Again, hot but not believable. She must’ve left that thong in the dressing room which meant she was either in there with someone (hot) or living there (problematic)...and knowing Trudy for lo these several days I knew it had to be living there which is just the kind of thing Dick loves. He would blame everything from the Liza hole to Liza’s failed marriages on her, and her theater bar tending career would be over as quickly as it started. I did the only thing I could do. I went to Sweety. Luckily, her nephew had to suddenly leave his apartment (and the state) for an undisclosed location (again). Technically it wasn’t luck. Sweety has a lot of nephews. Odds are one of them is in that situation at any given time. Trudy said she definitely wasn’t living in the theater but she agreed to help him out by taking over his lease.

Anyway, I just got back from helping Trudy move into her new place. Apparently, it was just a coincidence that all her luggage had been at the theater. And that one suitcase full of underwear? She’s just keeping it for a friend.

Happy Endings

I don’t know if you guys heard but there was a bomb scare in Times Square Saturday night and not the normal kind of bomb like “The Addams Family”. No, this was the real thing. The kind that brings Rudy Giuliani out for a photo op.

Anyway, everything in Times Square was normal just before 8:00 p.m. It was like a giant bee hive with millions of workers and drones swarming around a bunch of queens. Then, suddenly, everyone was gone. If I didn’t know any better I would’ve said the rapture has started but I’m fairly certain Jesus wouldn’t make New York tourists the first group he chooses. The cops had hurried all the audiences into all the theaters. Rumors started flying. A car was on fire, a car had a bomb in it, a burning car had a radioactive bomb in it. Our audience started to panic. “What if we’re not allowed outside during intermission? Will we be allowed to smoke in the lobby?”

Eventually the show started and the front of the house staff stood around outside watching the cops and fireman standing around watching us. After a few minutes Bennett began to worry about our heroic first responders and wanted to help them. He’s a sucker for a guy (or groups of guys) in uniform. I suggested we take them some bottled water. He thought what they really needed were back rubs especially the tall guy in the hazmat suit.

I didn’t see Bennett for an hour or so until he came bursting into the theater with the good news. This scary night had a happy ending...oh, and the car didn’t explode.

The Boys Are Back In Town

Dick and Bennett came back to work tonight. Sweety’s been the acting house manager and people have had to rip themselves off with overpriced junk souvenirs. It’s been terrible and if you think I’m kidding congratulations you’re catching on.

Anyway, I’ve never seen Dick this happy. Which isn’t much of an accomplishment because I’ve actually never seen Dick happy. He’s the kind of guy Lewis Black would tell to lighten up. But today, he didn’t even say anything about the blood stains on the carpet...even the two new ones.

I figured if he was in that good a mood Bennett’s mood would be off the charts and I was right except it was the wrong end of the chart. Bennett has been this depressed since Matthew Broderick stopped returning his calls a few months after he married Sarah Jessica.

Turns out the problem was that Bennett wasn’t the center of attention, Dick was. Bennett’s empty promises of sneaking people into the show at intermission were no match for Dick’s empty promises of free front row seats. Bennett didn’t even win first prize at the farewell costume party like he usually did. His Lady Gaga came in second to Dick. I guess they really wanted those free seats because Dick didn’t actually dress up. They just called him Lady Gaga’s accountant and gave him the first place boa. In short Bennett is miserable because he wasn’t the gayest boy at camp this year.

I tried to cheer him up with the story of my ill fated love affair with Ingrid but even that didn’t work. He just looked at me philosophically and said, “to paraphrase Shakespeare, ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than to not be as gay as Dick.’” Poor guy. I didn’t bother to tell him that wasn’t Shakespeare and I’d appreciate if you didn’t either. He’s had a rough enough few days as it is.

The Spa

Close call tonight at work. Bennett’s trying to organize his yearly spa weekend. The problem is that the spa is for gay couples only and Bennett is currently between men. Usually, I mean that literally but this time I mean he’s single. Whenever that’s the case during spa time he wants me to pretend I’m his boyfriend. He always goes through the same sales pitch. The place puts the “ab” in fabulous (not the kind of six pack I’m interested in). They have great coffee enemas (the “I take my coffee like I take my men" treatment) and, the kicker, he says we don’t even have to have sex. Last year was easy, Miss Ex told Bennett that she was the only one in our relationship allowed to be fake gay (God, I miss that woman). This year I ended up telling him I’m allergic to chest wax.

I suggested he ask Trudy. It could be a whole "Victor/Victoria" thing. A woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman. She loved the idea and so did he until...well, let’s put it this way, Bennett could never pretend to be involved with someone who didn’t know who Julie Andrews was.

Bennett was getting a little agitated at this point which brought Dick rushing over like TMZ to a Lindsay Lohan traffic stop. Dick always says he doesn’t like drama in his theater (without ever appreciating the irony). He demanded to know the problem. Then, like any good manager, he immediately came up with a solution that none of us would have ever dreamed of...although now that I think about it Bennett and Dick do make a fetching couple.

Temp Love Part IV-A New hope

Dick and Bennett are at the spa this weekend so we have a temp house manager. Well, she’s not so much a house manager as she is a goddess. Think a young Ingrid Bergman on a good day. I know, I know, you think I probably acted like an idiot or said something stupid when she introduced herself to me. Well you couldn’t be more wrong. She introduced herself and I said, without hesitation, “Will you marry me?”

Jesus Christ, I don’t know what came over me. Something about her just...anyway, I think I covered myself ok. I told her I was just wondering if theater managers could marry people like ship captains. She said no but she would go down with the ship...I think. I kind of blacked out after “go down”. All I know for sure is I’m devoted to my her. I have entirely forgotten about Miss...Miss Something, I don’t remember. “Ingrid” is my reason for living. I think I may even ask her out. Yeah, that’s what the kids today do, right? Fall hopelessly in love then ask her out. I’m going to do it. The next time I see her which will be in a couple hours at the evening show.

Temp Love Part V-The Wuss Strikes Back

All right not the next time I see her, but definitely one of the next times I see her. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the perfect time to do it. Did you know her nose crinkles in the cutest way when she says “No refunds”? Of course you didn’t. That was rhetorical. Sorry, I tend to get rhetorical when I’m in love.

Temp Love Part VI - The Wrath Of Sweety

You didn’t think I would do it, did you? Admit it, you didn’t think I would ask her out for a drink. Well you couldn’t be more wrong. I mean, I guess you could be more wrong because technically you’re right.

As I was deciding on the perfect approach (”Do you drink?”, “Are you a big drinker?”, “Drink much?”, “Thirsty?”) “Ingrid” came over and asked me to dinner. I assume I said yes because the next thing I know I’m sitting across a fondue pot from that beautiful face.

We were having the greatest conversation about... something or other. I wasn’t paying very close attention. I was too busy deciding on names for our kids. Then during dessert she said the last thing I wanted to hear. “I’m married”? , no. “I’m gay”? No, but I appreciate the thought. No, she said, “...so I didn’t bother to talk to Sweety I just reported the ushers to the office”. At that moment I knew we had no future but at least we’ll always have fondue.

When we said good night she said she had a great time and would love to do it again. Poor girl. All I could muster was “here’s looking at you, kid.”

I just left a message for Sweety about how well the evening went and what a wonderful person “Ingrid” is. It’s the least I could do. I hope it helps.

Temp Love Part ING

I just heard from “Ingrid”. She’s been transferred to a new theater, in Branson. It could have been much worse. At least she’s still in the hemisphere. I’d like to think my call to Sweety had something to do with that. It’s kind of sad. I wish I could’ve done more but on the bright side at least this time I was left voluntarily. Not that this is about me, it isn’t, although I am the only one here.

Hi everybody from the new Facebook group and welcome. Glad to have you on board. If you'd like to know about me and what exactly goes on behind this bar and in this theater just scroll down to the bottom post "Welcome To My World" and start from there. I look forward to our blogger/bloggee relationship. Enjoy.

Of Mice And Dick

What’s old and deteriorating and infested with vermin? If you said Larry King you’d be hilarious but wrong. The answer is about half of all Broadway theaters including, of course, mine. Hot and cold running mice (Word to the wise, double check those theater Raisinets before eating).

We have an unspoken agreement with these mice. They stay out of the theater (for the most part) and we don’t crawl around in the walls (for the most part). Anyway, there are always some rogue mice who decide to give theater a try but they usually scurry back into the walls pretty quickly and considering some of the shows on Broadway I can’t blame them (Once, during a particularly awful show, I saw a mouse run out of the theater, out the front doors and right into traffic).

Lately we have been plagued more than usual by mice. Probably a combination of local construction and the Liza hole. It’s gotten so bad that Sweety told Dick that if he didn’t do something about it she would. I’m not really sure if having one of her nephews punch each mouse in its throat would be practical but at least it got Dick to do something. He sent around a memo prohibiting the staff from bringing cheese into the theater.

Surprisingly that didn’t work and today the whole situation came to a head, literally.

I was watching the tap number and, before you ask, yes, it was just coincidental that Miss Ex is featured in that number. Anyway, as it ended and Miss Ex dropped into a split (she is very flexible) to the usual polite applause a mouse jumped out of her wig and ran across the stage. I think the only thing that kept her from fainting was the thunderous ovation the mouse got.

Thanks to that ovation the producers toyed with the idea of making the mouse in the wig permanent until they found out what a trained mouse costs. So they settled for the cheaper and more satisfying option of ripping Dick a new one which they did with gusto after the show.

When I left Dick was mumbling something about getting Sweety to “take care” of the producers but it looks like the upshot of the whole day is that we’re going to have our Liza hole filled and we’ll be able to bring cheese to work again and, really, who could ask for more than that?

Even Naked Cowgirls Get The Blues

There’s a nut who hangs around Times Square...well, that’s not fair, there are a lot of nuts hanging around TImes Square. Not the cute Damon Runyan type but the loud, grotesque “put me on a reality show” type. But I’m talking about one specific nut. He wears a cowboy hat, boots, and tighty whiteys and in what can only be described as a cosmic coincidence he calls himself “The Naked Cowboy”. He wanders around Times Square playing guitar and passing the hat asking for spare attention. He’s done everything tourist attracting novelty acts do, up to and including running for mayor (just like Mike Bloomberg). He must be reasonably successful because he has imitators, well imitator...”The Naked Cowgirl”. She’s got the hat, boots and tighty whiteys and what she lacks in a top she makes up for in age. She is well north of seventy. Sorry about the image, but you guys only have to imagine it. For us Times Square regulars it’s kind of like Dorian Gray being forced to live in his attic.

Anyway, as I was serpentining around the knots of tourists staring at the giant Sesame Street characters and angry, threatening religious fanatics (and believe me it’s not easy to tell the difference) I noticed the white cowboy hat and off key covers of “Coldplay” that meant I was nearing “The Naked Cowgirl”. So I girded my loins and just hoped she was thoughtful enough to do something about hers. Happily, I couldn’t tell because I was blinded by the reflection off the little mirrors on her nipples which was odd because her nipples are usually down around her waist and covered by the guitar. As my eyes adjusted to the light I saw a beautiful twenty something blond woman in the naked cowgirl outfit singing the...well, let’s face it, it doesn’t matter what she was singing...but she was surrounded by desperate tourists (mostly male, mostly drooling) trying to get her to aim her bouncing breasts at their camera phones like stock traders trying to sell during a crash.

It suddenly seemed so simple. A twenty something topless cowgirl. It improves Times Square more than all the “Applebee’s” and “Red Lobsters” put together. Rudy Giuliani must be kicking himself for not thinking of it if he’s not too busy thinking of how to take credit for it.

On the way back from the bank (I just happened to take the same route) I saw that white hat again but the gawkers were different, less intense, more condescendingly jovial. You guessed it. The regular naked cowgirl was back. I desperately searched for a beautiful twenty-something topless woman, something I have some experience at but nothing. She was gone. Was she ever really there? Am I seeing things? Well, if I am seeing things I guess I could do worse than beautiful, topless blonds.

A Perfect Little Family

A little family came up to the bar tonight. Not a family of midgets, although that would’ve been awesome. I just mean a husband, wife(who I’ll call John and Jane), and two kids about 4 and 6 (who I’ll call 4 and 6). They were adorable and so were the kids. The whole family was so cute they looked they jumped out of a catalogue for perfectly cute family products.

Trudy fell in love with the kids. She spent the next half hour ”oohing and ahhing”. She said they were so cute they made her ovaries hurt. I don’t know if it was a contact high or what, but I’ve got to admit...my testicles were aching a little. Trudy said that when she’s a little older that’s exactly what she wants. Well, I am a little older and that could’ve (should’ve?) been me.

I immediately began regretting every decision I’ve ever made in my life. As I got up to regretting what I had for breakfast (Come on, the only thing adults should use Fruity Pebbles for is as a drag name.), I opened my office door to find John sitting at my desk breathing irregularly. Before I had the chance to ask what he had for breakfast, he shot out of the chair and from under the desk I heard someone complain about having her teeth ripped out of her head. It was Maggie. You remember... Maggie, Sweety’s grand-niece and paid sex enthusiast who I have a store credit with? Well, she was working at the theater tonight and also ushering. John mumbled something about not being able to find his seat as he hurried out of the office tucking and zipping.

Being an ethical person, Maggie decided to return half his money since she only finished half the job. Being a theater person, she decided to return it to his wife. I have a lot to learn about theater from her.

Anyway, I don’t know if Jane had a clue when Maggie returned the money, but I do know that Jane handed it right over to me for her 4th glass of wine and intermission was only half over.

You know, regrets are a waste of time. What’s wrong with being single? Why is devoting your life to playwrighting a bad thing? Why can’t I have Fruity Pebbles for breakfast? Do credits with hookers expire?

Welcome Back Blogger

Hi everyone. I'm back. It's been awhile but there've been a lot of reasons for my absence from cyberland. Well three actually. First, August. August is vacation month...not for me but for Bennett's shrink and I always seem to end up filling in. It keeps me occupied mostly thinking that the $165 he charges is a bargain. There's a lot of whining and tears and Bennett gets upset sometimes too.

The second reason for my absence was September. You know how sometimes if you hear a song over and over you can't get it out of your head? Well, it's the same after a month of hearing about Bennett and his breast feeding experiences. His mother is lucky she never got involved in that whole thing.

The third reason was October. Nothing interesting happened in October. I know what some of you are thinking...I've set the bar for interesting pretty low already. Wow, I've really missed you guys but anyway, October didn't even clear my already low bar.

So why am I back now? Because something interesting finally happened. I had an idea (which, in itself, is interesting). Why can't blogs be used by people to post the completely mundane, meaningless nonsense that happens to them on a daily basis? I can't believe no one has thought of that before. It's brilliant. So from now on if nothing interesting happens to me you'll be the first to hear about it. Maybe it'll catch on. Imagine an entire blogosphere filled with crap. It's really a great time to be alive.

She Asked Me

Remember that stuff in my last post about using a blog to tell the world about all the meaningless crap that happens in your life? Well, that’ll have to wait cause when I got into work this evening there was a note tacked to my door. I assumed that either the theater was being foreclosed on or Martin Luther stopped by with 95 complaints about the show. Turns out it was nothing so mundane. The note said, “Please, please, please come to my dressing room after the show tonight. It’s very important. I really need you. Miss Ex” (and no, she didn’t actually sign it “Miss Ex”. We’re still on a first name basis).

I knew she would come to her senses and want me back but it left me with a difficult choice. On the one hand I could swallow my pride and say “thank you, thank you, thank you”, or be a man about it and say, “abso-fucking-lutely”.

When I got to her dressing room she was in an indescribably sexy dress. It was...it had...she looked...see, can’t describe it. She desperately needed (italics not mine) me to be her escort to some LGBT thing she was asked to be a presenter at. Most fabulous something, something of the year. I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention I was too busy deciding where we should go for our honeymoon. After I decided on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls (great kitsch value and cheap prescriptions) I heard her say something about asking every other guy she knows, gay, straight, friends, relatives. No one was available, even her cousin Marty who is all of those things wrapped up in one. She even tried J-Date. No luck, which I can’t believe. She is every Jewish boy’s dream. Believe me, Mel Gibson would really hate her.

So with no other options she decided to ask me. We’re going the day after tomorrow so I assume I said “abso-fucking-lutely” or “thank you, thank you, thank you” or knowing me, both.

Now I can’t stop thinking about her in that dress thinking of me as a last resort. I don’t know whether to be aroused or offended...well, OK aroused is winning right now but in about two minutes (not including clean up) I get the feeling I'll be pretty offended.

What To Wear? What To Wear?

There’s only one problem with going to this Drag awards banquet with Miss Ex and no, it’s not the enormous can of emotional worms it opens. I happen to like emotional worms and I’m also partial to enormous cans. The problem is what to wear. The closest thing I have to a suit is an Evel Knievel jump suit I wore to a party once. Word of advice: double check the invitation. Not all brises are costume brises.

So, this afternoon I went to see Bennett. Bennett is the gay Tim Gunn...sorry, the super gay Tim Gunn and he is the neighborhood go-to guy for wardrobe. See, he keeps a souvenir from all his sex partners so he has a huge inventory. Of course, it’s mostly Euro-banana hammocks but he does have the prom dress from a girl he went to high school with as well as the tux her date wore. I wanted to wear the tux. I look great in powder blue if I do say so myself but Bennett said “no” with a look that added “you tasteless peasant”. He offered me a choice between a black suit from the mortician he dated during his Goth phase or the sparkly black tux that belonged to Peter Allen who he dated during his hyper-fabulous phase (Bennett’s not Peter’s).

The choice was simple, a no-brainer, really. I will be wearing the one that smells faintly of formaldehyde and dead lilies. That’s right, I’m going in Peter Allen’s tux.

I figure throwing myself into the spirit of the event might score me some points with Miss Ex...not that I’m doing any of this for that reason. I’m doing this for the kids...or rather the drag queens...or the kids of drag queens. Anyway, I’m ready. Bring on the red carpet.

We Did It

We did it...we did it...WE DID IT. That’s right three, count ‘em three times(the title doesn’t count). I even started on number 4 when I saw her note. I know what you’re thinking, “Uh oh, a note” but this time is different. It said, “Have dance class then shrink. Lock up when you leave.” Not exactly a love poem but, believe me, if you read it naked it can be pretty damn hot.

Anyway, before all that stuff the night wasn’t looking too promising even though I was looking very Peter Allen. The event was at a cabaret space above a bowling alley in Brooklyn and the only red carpet in sight was on the 6’4” tranny in the 6’2” mini skirt. I had to sit through an hour and a half of Lizas and Chers and a surprising number of Kaye Ballards before Miss Ex finally gave her award for best solo male/female duet. That’s when things took off. She did a great job then she sang “It’s Raining Men” with a giant Diana Ross with huge knuckles (it turns out it wasn’t the real Diana Ross) and brought down the house. Three Joan Collins’s were carrying her around the room like she was the winning coach of a very fabulous Super Bowl. I haven’t seen Miss Ex so happy since...well, never. She couldn’t stop talking about it even while we were doing it. Luckily I always liked when she talked dirty during sex.

All this leaves me with one problem, though. I may have to come up with a new pseudonym for Miss Ex. What do you think of Mrs. Ex?

The Victory Lap

So this morning after I finished measuring Miss Ex’s apartment to see how my stuff would fit I headed to Starbuck’s and who should I happen to run into after 3 hours and 3 double shot espressos, but Bennett. I didn’t have to tell him about last night, he knew when he saw I was still in the Peter Allen tux. As I was about to start my victory lap Bennett told me about the time the love of his life (for that month) was nominated for an off-off-off-Broadway award {Ed. note-the Ooobies?}. He won, was the star of the night and made love to Bennett in a way “that made him glad to be a man” (after they got home, I assume). The next day while Bennett was online registering with Williams-Sonoma a delivery guy shows up with a muffin basket from Mr. Oooobie. The note said “I appreciate you being there for the best night of my life. Nothing will top it until I win the Tony.” It turns out he was

Mr. Ooobie’s victory lap. (FYI: Mr. Ooobie is now tending bar in the theater across the street from us.)

Bennett was killing me with this story. I started shaking and sweating. I was afraid I was going to pass out. I mean 3 double shot espressos really go through a guy.

When I got to the theater I felt great and I had almost gotten Bennett’s story out of my head when I saw...you guessed it...a note on my office door. It said, “thank you. I wish every night could be like last night except I want to win the awards instead of presenting them...blah...blah...blah...career...blah...blah...blah focus etc...etc...I think you can guess who the note was from. Oh, on the bright side there was a gift card to a local bakery. I hear they have great muffins.