Why is it that New York City is so excruciatingly beautiful whenever I'm packing to leave?  

The sky today is that 9/11 terrorist blue, perhaps the most specific color of my lifetime.

And why does that last Tasti-D-Lite before the schlep to Penn Station, taste so much better than any of the other thousands I've had before?  This morning I had a large custom Peanut Butter with a Milky Weigh(yes, weigh not way) floater and devoured it as though it was my last meal on earth.  

It's true that the only way to live in NYC is to go away often, but I wish I could do it without leaving the Upper West Side.

Where are you now John Mark Karr?  

ALL YOU NEED IS LARRY KING LIVE

Ringo Starr was on Larry King Live last night.  I admit it, I'm huge into LK.  And while I'm being honest, I like Donny Deutch too.  And since we're now judging, I've been known to watch Tavis Smiley as well.

It was the single most depressing hour of television viewing since Girls Next Door (which I had just finished gagging through).  You know Girls I hope- the "reality" show shadowing the octogenarian nympho, Hugh Hefner, and his three live-in girlfriends, who's ages put together make them collectively still younger than him.  The episode followed the ladies trials and travails of making a workout video at the manse.  Quality stuff.

Back to Lare.  Ringo was on celebrating his 68th birthday.  It's not like he was ever the most understandable of Beatles, but he has gone from out-there-groovy to first-stage-dementia-loony.  It was funny and sad, sort of in the same way my great Uncle Yianni is prone to exclaiming(loudly and publicly), "Mamma Mia!" or to tell people, albeit politely, they are boring.  Ringo kept repeating, "Peace and Love".  He claimed the Fab Four inspired Cirque du Soleil show was amazing.  He even said he was happy that Yoko Ono called in to sing Happy Berf-day De-ah Rin-go.  Crazy time.  Even Larry was rolling his eyes.

It's just plain sad to see a Beatle get old. 

Bea is for Blogging!

THE PAN(GS)T SUIT

I'm having a really strong reaction to pantsuits.  It's when I see one, when someone mentions them, even when I think of the two-piecer, unprovoked.  

It began after the Patti Lupone dream.   Something about that nightmare- being beat down by a stage legend with rabies- left me feeling demoralized.  And when I feel hopeless, I go to the utterly more active emotion of anger.  And with no place to put my newly recycled rage, my brain made a non sequitur-ial jump to pantsuits.  I don't why this is, but it is.  

Perhaps I'm still mourning the loss of Yves Saint Laurent.  Maybe I'm reflecting on Hillary Clinton, or more precisely, having been battered all this past primary season with the same old dumb chauvinistic jibes at her fashion choices.   

Either way, it's time to get back into therapy. 

The definition of insanity is going to Herald Square over and over and expecting a different result.

-Albert Einstein

THE PATTI LUPONE PROPHECY

I had a dream, a dream about you baby.

It's gonna come true, baby.

They think that we're through...

GYPSY! The Musical

I had this horrible dream a couple nights ago, starring the Tony winning toast of New York, Patti Lupone.  It was the classic actor's nightmare- I had to go on last minute for Gypsy Rose Lee and didn't know the lines, couldn't remember if I knew how to sing, or how I had somehow ended up as an understudy for a Broadway musical in the first place.  To complicate things, instead of fessing up to the pitbullish stage manager demanding I go get fit for my costume, I decided I would fake it instead.  How hard could it be?  

And as is true with all my anxiety theatre dreams, I searched for a script backstage to learn the lines before curtain but it was too dark.  I'm too blind to find anything by the red lights that all actors nocturnal eyes have adapted to navigate "the wings".

I never have actor dreams when I'm actually doing a show in real life.  I dream of waitressing.  And likewise, if I'm waiting tables in real life, I toss and turn all night with visions of choking on stage.  It's classic transference.  There's probably some actor having it right now as I type.

But there's one way in which this dream was different.  After realizing there was no way I could pull off learning a play, numerous musical numbers, and various dance routines in 30 minutes, Patti Lupone appeared.  She was warming up- doing scales and stretching- saw that I was frantic, and asked, "What's up kid?", in that salty old NY stage actor way.  

Omigod, I thought Mama Rose is talking to me.  Evita just asked me a direct fucking question.  She looked more Italian up close somehow, older.  This is one of those weird disappointments, seeing a face up close that's meant to seen from the back of the house.

And maybe it was because I was starstruck, perhaps it was sheer admiration, or maybe I didn't want to ruin the show, I blurted out, half crying, 

"Patti," the P utterly popping in my ears, "Patti, I don't think I should be here.  To be honest, I have no idea how I got here.  I'm not prepared.  I don't know how this could have happened.  If you knew me at all, you'd know I'm the consummate profession-"

But before I could finish groveling, Ms. Lupone forcefully slammed me up against the wall.  Knocked the wind straight out of me.  I was more shocked by her superhuman strength, than being assaulted by Broadway star.

I don't remember her exact words, only that her verbal assault was even more powerful than her body check.  

I closed my eyes, prepared to take it.  She was right after all.  How dare I?  Who did I think I was?  Yes, Ms. Lupone, there were indeed thousands of girls ready to take my place.....

And here's the truly terrifying part, as I timidly opened my eyes with the  snarling Patti berating me, she was foaming at the mouth.  Completely rabid.

And that's where I decided to wake up.  It was one of those swimming through honey, trying to reach the surface for air kind of waking up panics.  And two days later, I'm still thinking about it.