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.