The Lie of "Brian"

Meet Brian. GOD, he's the best. (PS ^actual Southwest ad)

As an artist, people are often asking me to speak at things where audience members will have thoughtful questions, or various recording devices and my internal monologue is always WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME I’M FAKING ADULTHOOD. But off I went on book tour.

It was on my third stop that I met Oscar: Nosey Man of Scotch Plains, New Jersey. It wasn’t a remarkable crowd that day in Scotch Plains; mostly older people, a few flat-out almost-dead people accompanied by the teenagers who had wheeled them into this lecture hall, plus a handful of perfectly nice Jewish Gen-Xers who had clearly planned this event.

I spent about an hour chronicling my London and New York theatrical career, my research journey in Siberia, the story of how my first novel came to be, the pertinent information about my upcoming novel…

Let me be clear: talking to a roomful of strangers for an hour about anything is not fun. Like what could I possibly be an expert on? Even current eleven-year-olds know more about what is up with my iPhone, and probably have a 401K or two in better shape than mine.  But talking at length about yourself? That's the pits (maybe it's fun if you’re Oprah? but I honestly doubt it...) It is far more interesting to speak about what you value, believe in and your personal mission statement. But book talks are a wily hybrid of selling a product and selling your actual self. It’s more intense than being an actor, oddly, because you are the entire cast and creative team, and this “show” never closes. In the theatrical talkback, you very rarely have to talk about your own damn self which is fantastic because talking about yourself, no matter how profoundly awesome you may be, is seriously boring.
    Why have you even invited me here to talk about myself? I think. I’m just a 30-something with a barely verified Twitter account and a PhD-level specialist knowledge of both Murder, She Wrote trivia and pre-1998 musical theater. I’m basically the same awkward teenager I was 18 years ago. Except now I have a utility bill and ulcerative colitis. Do I inform them of my encyclopedic knowledge of Angela Lansbury trivia? Do I make them follow my cat on Instagram?
    The answer: I eventually come to do both of those things.

But anyway there I was in Scotch Plains talking about myself. When I had finished my talk I asked, in the now-forever-lost innocence of pre-Scotch Plains book tour events:

    “Any questions?”

In the back of the room, an older man named Oscar had been trouble the whole book talk. Oscar was handsome, popular, with the charisma of a cult leader. Terrific. In response to my invitation for questions, Oscar the octogenarian class clown raised his hand.

    “I have a question,” he said with an air of faded-but-not-forgotten Mad Men; the white-guy bravado that comes from any 85-year-old with all his hair, and can still drive a car unsupervised.
    “Yes, Oscar?”
    “ARE YOU MARRIED?”

—Record Scratch.—
Hold on a minute.

Would Oscar have asked a male author this question? Why does it feel as though the onus is on me, on us, the women, to identify and justify independence? Why are women always the victims of some kind of Marriage Inquisition?

Also, there’s no short but positive answer to this.

I mean I guess I could be coy:
    “Why, oh my gosh are you proposing, Oscar?”

Or be socially strong:
    “No, but I am really content to [blah blah enter completely honest statement you’ll write off as feminist bullshit blah blah]”

Or I could simply have some damn boundaries:
    “I meant questions about the BOOK, anyone have any of those?”

There’s really no version of “NO I AM NOT MARRIED” that could satisfy a person or crowd that had the audacity to ask. Mind you— all of this crossed my mind in 1/1000th of a second.

Reader? You’d be as shocked as I was to hear the phrase:
    “Iiiiiiiiiiiii aaaaaaaaam, yeeeeees I aaaaaaam married yeeeeeeees” fall out of my mouth in slow motion.

Time stopped. I imperceptibly moaned as I prayed fervently for a flaming hot meteor to strike the lectern here at this Jewish Community Center.

    “Um… any other questions?”
    “Yeah!” Oscar again, “What does he DO?”

But before I could worry about diarrhea soaking my skinny jeans I found myself spewing the following out of my unruly mouth:

    “Heeeeeee is aaaa pilot. YES! He’s a pilot. He flies planes…. Because he is a pilot—BRIAN!” I screamed, “—Brian: The Pilot….”


I ran.

With shocking, and extremely creative ease, I had lied outright to a room full of senior citizens and barely broken a sweat. Thus I ran from the JCC of Scotch Plains New Jersey. I ran with the ferocity of Harrison Ford running from Tommy Lee Freakin’ Jones.

I’m sorry Oscar.
I’m sorry Scotch Plains, New Jersey.
I’m sorry Brian, wherever you are…

*

Once on the train back to New York City I immediately texted people to assess my level of trash can person:

• I called my best friend and former high school roommate Lilly who has seen me far worse than this! Lilly was there the day my Dad died, the day I got LASIK eye surgery and had to wear the weird goggles, Lilly has even picked me up from a colonoscopy or three. Lilly laughed so hard she almost asphyxiated. 
• I texted Laura Benanti, the only adult in my phone who knows how to capably handle a real-life-Nora-Ephron-essay-plus-sensitive-etiquette situation and she told me I’d done the right thing to both panic-lie AND run away. Plus she's from New Jersey. So.
• I texted Danny Burstein who virtually high-fived me and told me to tell the world about Brian, suggested contacting Central Casting for a full fake-wedding photoshoot, and made a few vivid additions to the backstory almost instantly.
• I texted Julia Murney, who thought Brian was lovely (He is duh), though was concerned with how quickly Brian and I were moving in the relationship.
• I texted my also-single, kick-assiest-woman-I know friend Amy Maiden in Australia,  who reminded me that “it’s the end of days so fuck it it’s fine.”
• I texted Samantha Massell, daughter of a successful, single, working mother who was outraged on my behalf.

Sent this to everyone on the list, above

Basically: I got most of the moral support I required before I even reached Trenton.

Not that I shared it with more unsuspecting senior citizens, but the Lie of Brian grew. And grew. Brian is amazing, you guys. God he loves flying so much, #blessed! He loves flying and tennis and sunsets and me. His father bought Amazon at 6 so he’s loaded! Plus he’s an orphan so no irritating in-laws, and he’s super sorry he can’t be here today but he’s flying the red-eye to Beijing …again.

Anyway the next day I went to Claire’s and bought the biggest, most hideous rhinestone fake wedding and engagement ring combo $27 could buy. And no one ever asked me about being married again. (Lesson? Props matter).


I am grateful for the experience in Scotch Plains. I am better armed for the future, and both impressed and horrified that a prop wedding ring can help keep everyone focused on discussing my attempt at an artistic contribution to society and less focused on discussing my damn love life.

Protector of the skies and my heart.

An Open Letter to Angela Lansbury on her 90th Birthday

Dear Dame Angela,

It seems inappropriate to be writing this open letter to you on anything other than a now-vintage Royal typewriter, but alas. 

Happy 90^th Birthday. 

You sure do know how to live a life. 

I often 'joke' on all forms of social media (and, well, truthfully to anyone who will listen including total strangers on public transportation), that my admiration for you borders on obsession. The truth is there is nothing borderline about it...

[Pause] 

Your portrait is absolutely not my iPhone wallpaper...

...Nope.

The greatest day of my teaching life was NOT when my student Kendyl gave a report on you entitled “BOW DOWN...”

...Casual

Nor did I name my cat after you...  

My cat: Tatiana Angela Lansbury Romanov

I have many personal and artistic role models (Danny Kaye, Cate Blanchett, Marcel Marceau, Irene Pappas and your real-life BFF Bea Arthur to name a few), but you remain, without exception, my only true idol. 

The truth is: not only your career, but your life itself is of profoundest meaning, inspiration, and influence. 

I’m sure you’d be really proud of my parents to know that I first came across you as Princess Gwendolyn in the 1955 classic The Court Jester (my father was Danny Kaye’s biggest fan). This resulted in many a dinner party in which 7-year-old-me regaled guests with citations of you saying “I don’t give a FIG for your wishes!” (and of course, the “Pellet with the Poison” sketch), and once in a while sneaking up behind other children on the playground and whispering “…if he dies, YOU die…” just like Princess Gwendolyn. ...Well, at least I thought I was pretty cool... 

I then devoured “Til The Clouds Roll By—” (like I said: I had great parents). As I grew of course I reveled in the magic of Bedknobs and Broomsticks and Beauty and the Beast, not to mention exclusively watching Murder, She Wrote if ever I stayed home from school for any reason. 

"The theater is magical and addictive."

As a teenager I became enamored with the theatre, and that was truly where, what can only be described as the tsunamic-thrall of respect for your legacy deepened. 

I did reports on you.

Devoured your early cinema work.

I delighted in watching you host the Tonys.

Wrote your quotes about life and acting in my journals

     and, perhaps most importantly, 

created THE ANGELA LANSBURY POWER PLAYLIST (starting with “We Need a Little Christmas,” taking the scenic route past “Anyone Can Whistle,” “Worst Pies in London,” Pirates of Penzance and “Bosom Buddies” then ending with your “Rose’s Turn”). 

By the end of college, the deal was sealed. 

When I moved to America from London at the very end of 2009, I was in a state of intense personal turmoil. The only adult life I’d known had crumbled in London, and I was starting over in The Big Apple with nothing to lose—because, frankly, I’d already lost it all. 

But I was lucky enough to be able to catch you live on stage several times. I even happened to sing an aria from Master Class at The Acting Company’s benefit honoring Terrence McNally that you hosted in 2011 (but was honestly so overwhelmed by singing on my first Broadway stage in yours and other luminaries’ presences, I couldn’t even face the CONCEPT of meeting my only idol that evening…) You were a true lady—you gave me a hearty, smiling “Brava” from the seat beside Terrence, and you spoke with eloquence, honesty and warmth. I also had the privilege to meet you personally at Terrence’s opening of It’s Only a Play, in which you were just a gracious and dignified. 

In short: you were everything I hoped you to be. 

But while I always admired your work, something happened to me personally in 2012 that changed me, and your influence was right at the center of it. 

I “awoke”  in the middle of the bitterly cold winter of 2012, to a wave of intense emotions I believe I had been tabling since my move from London, and more than likely a hefty load of feelings from the passing of my father in 2001. I was processing grief, heartbreak, and a total shift in professional identity; and, though it sounds almost laughable at the age of 27, I was feeling that I had started over “Too Late.” 

That it was “too late” for me to make it in the American theatre

“Too Late” to find another life partner

“Too Late” to recreate myself 

“Too Late” to ever feel young and vibrant again.

Above all, that the chance to begin again was “behind me.” 

I took to my sofa—and, in the fashion of all respectable nervous breakdowns, I adorned myself in the customary uniform (aka ‘The Bathrobe of Shame’), stopped eating anything that couldn’t be lazily pawed into my mouth, and promptly contracted walking pneumonia. I was winning at life. 

And then? Then, just like I had when I was a child home sick from school, I began re-watching all twelve seasons of Murder, She Wrote. It was light. Charming, It solved problems in 45 minutes. It was radically comforting. It was also a parade of gigantic theatre actors, screen stars, and stars-to-be. 

I love that as executive producer, you paid your actors well, I love that you gave “first-TV-chances” to young people you believed in, and above all, I love that in Season 6, when your real-life family was having trouble, you left Hollywood and prioritized their wellness, then returned to work like the professional you are. I love and admire your lifelong marriage (it reminds me of the love of my parents), I love how ardently you loved your husband, and your sons; I love that you were a wife and mother who was also an accomplished artist. 

"I was a wife and a mother, and I was completely fulfilled. But my husband recognized the signals in me which said 'I've been doing enough gardening, I've cooked enough good dinners, I've sat around the house and mooned about what more interior decoration I can get my fingers into.' It's a curious thing with actors and actresses, but suddenly the alarm goes off. My husband is a very sensitive person to my moods and he recognized the fact that I had to get on with something. Mame came along out of the blue just at this time. Now isn't that a miracle?"

But something else in that period hit me in the core of my being: 

You have proved that it is never too late for anything.

You not only prove it.

You live it. 

You are fearless. 

You are willing to try and attempt any kind of role, to transform yourself in any way. 
You became an Oscar-nominee at 18
     theatre star at 41
          a household name at 60
               and won your first Olivier at 89.
You work hard (you still do 8-shows a week on tour!)

You have re-invented yourself over and over again as an artist and a woman, from screen starlet to stage diva, to the most famous and beloved woman in television, and repeat.  

You stand like a pillar of fire, for those of us, just like me, that sometimes falter in our belief. That worry that the best of life is behind us...

It is not.  

Thank you for living it. 

"Here I am, I still go on, you know, like the tides..."

I have been putting off completing this open letter to you for years, for a large part of me knows that I could never truly say it all—and in truth, of course I cannot. I could never articulate the full intensity of what your life’s example truly means to me; how much it heartens, galvanizes, and ignites within me a personal, professional and spiritual goalpost. One of hard work, devotion, above all, hope. 

"I'm in a very enviable position, being able to work like this 45 years later. It's always beginning! I never have a sense of finishing up, just new things beginning. When I die, they're going to carry me off a stage."

I’m crying now, to be truthful. But only in joy. 

Thank you for your legacy. 

Your influence.

For the art you have given the world. 

For being the woman you are. 

Happy 90^th Birthday Angela. 

The honor has been all ours.  

With infinite love and gratitude,

Alexandra Silber

Playbill "Cue & A"

I recently filled out a delightful little questionnaire for Playbill.com [and big thank yous to Matt Blank at Playbill who is always a joy to work with!] Here are some highlights! I had an absolute blast with it.

The full article can be viewed here.


* * *

If you could go back in time and catch any Broadway show, what would it be?
    ⁃    The original 1938 production of Our Town
    ⁃    Tyne Daly in Gypsy
    ⁃    Uta Hagen’s famous first performance on Broadway of A Streetcar Named Desire (when she stepped in from the touring company for Jessica Tandy), where she went on with Marlon Brando with only five minutes of rehearsal before the curtain went up…? Yeah.

Fire up that DeLorean…


Current show other than your own you have been recommending to friends:

Rachel Bay Jones’ performance in Pippin.


Favorite showtune(s) of all time:

Let me begin by saying that I have a very specific definition of what a ‘show-tune’ IS, and believe you me: Anything does NOT ‘Go.’ A true Broadway show tune  is more than merely a tune from a show—it must have pep, tunefulness, and vigor—it tune rallies those musical theatre troops in a singularly sensational, glittery fireball of razzle dazzle reminding you that it is time to start livin’.
That there is no business like show business.

A Show-tune is you and your family singing in the car.
A Show-tune is sung in the shower. 
Can we all agree ‘Epiphany’ from Sweeny Todd is not a sing-along in the car sort of number?
For this reason: “Sunday,” “One Hand One Heart” and “Will He Like Me?” are not on the Show Tune list, and
“Morning Glow,” “Camelot,” “It’s Today,” “There is Nothing Like a Dame,” and “The Lees of Old Virginia,” ARE.


Some favorite modern musicals:
American Idiot destroyed me.


Some favorite classic musicals:
Classic musicals are my thang so this is tough. [*thinkthinkthink*]

She Loves Me, Fiddler on the Roof, Hello Dolly!, Carousel, 1776, and Show Boat.


Broadway or screen stars of the past you would most have loved to perform with:
Mary Martin


Your personal performance idols, living or dead:
I admire many people, including:

    ⁃    Danny Kaye,
    ⁃    Bea Arthur,
    ⁃    Cate Blanchett
    ⁃    Maria Callas,
    ⁃    Marcel Marceau,
    ⁃    and Irene Pappas.

But I save the term idol for only one woman, and that is Dame Angela Lansbury.


The one performance – attended - that you will never forget:
[WARNING: I’m offering this answer in numerical points to prevent you from having a stroke whilst reading.]

PICTURE IT:
1. In Seventh grade.
I went along to a
2.  middle school production
of
3. The Sound of Music
at
4. Hillel Day School
because
5. my friend Shira (yes, really), 
from
6. ballet class
was playing
7. Max Detweiller…
And Five seconds after the curtain went up I realized the entire production was…
8.    …in Hebrew.
It was also happened to be
9. Groundhog Day.

…Scene.


Most played song on your iPod:
“Heaven When We’re Home” by The Wailin’ Jennys.


Most-visited websites:
Hungoverowls.tumblr.com 

…Hungover. Owls.
[*She lets it sink in…*]
Get into it.


Favorite Tweeters:
Anika Chapin (@AnikaChapin). She is one of the few tweeters that can make me *actually* laugh out loud. Her thread is an uber-smart, super-witty, MENSA-level, anthropologic braniac-splosion of pop culture and musical theater.

Just follow her.

 
Last book you read:
I’m a voracious reader but the last book I finished was The Trickster’s Hat by Nick Bantock. Nick Bantock is an author and visual artist (the author of the Griffin & Sabine Trilogies), my lifelong artistic idol. This is his latest book which is a mischievous and thrilling study of (and guide through) the alchemical art of creativity.


Must-see TV show(s):
This lady loves herself some crime drama… the real nitty-gritty vintage stuff.  If it "looks like we gotta murder to solve" ... I’m IN.


Some films you consider classics:
What About Bob? and The Court Jester. (Cult classics? Are they cult classics if I am the only one in the cult? Dunno...)


Performer you would drop everything to go see:
I have dropped everything to see Rebecca Luker.


Three favorite cities:
Venice, Glasgow, Detroit.


Favorite sport/team/player: 
All Detroit sports rile me profoundly. I love the Red Wings (hockey), but I’m a baseball lady down to the bone marrow (my Dad was a phenomenal [left-handed!] first baseman)—so without question my Detroit Tigers! I get very emotional about it.


First CD/Tape/LP you owned:
What’s an LP…? #kidding


What are some of your most memorable roles as a kid or teenager and how old were you?
Annie Sullivan in The Miracle Worker (I was 16)
Amalia Balash in She Loves Me (17, in high school at Interlochen Arts Academy—opposite Michael Arden as Georg)
and
MISS HANNIGAN… I was 8… it was most-likely an inappropriately accurate, gin-soaked carbon-copy of Carol Burnett’s performance down to the vocal inflection but still…



First stage kiss:
I don’t remember. But certainly my most memorable stage kiss blunder was last summer in She Loves Me with Santino Fontana (a very old “Dear friend’ from Summer camp). We ran at each other at the just-wrong moment and totally botched the final kiss.

Basically: I broke his face.
There was blood.
Then I apologized to Laura Osnes:

@alsilbs, what have you done to my prince? @SantinoFontana is fragile. #handlewithcare
— Laura Osnes (@LauraOsnes) June 20, 2013

How you got your Equity card:

the anti-climax

Hilarious. I began my career in the West End for five years before I came to America for what I believed to be a short visit. Because I assumed I would eventually return to London, I didn’t join Equity for the two short projects (Carousel at Reprise and Master Class at the Kennedy Center) I was working on.

But by the time Hello Again at the Transport Group rolled around, I realized that my original 10-week “visit” to America had turned into a-year-and-a-half. Who was I kidding? I lived here.

I walked into the Equity building… and ten minutes later I walked out with my Equity card. Okay, fine—a touch anti-climactic, but that’s my story and I like it.


Most challenging role you have ever played:
Helen in Howard Barker’s The Bite of the Night, and Julie Jordan in the last West End revival of Carousel.


What has been the biggest challenge about this project?
Aside from it being a kind of performance marathon, Arlington is an incredibly complex piece of text and music which requires me to be in optimum shape in every respect. Combine that with a difficult subject matter (and subsequent emotional gymnastics) and you’ve got a challenge on your hands…


What has been the most fun or fulfilling aspect?
…I love a challenge.

Plus, working on it with the creative company I am keeping.


Worst flubbed line/missed cue/onstage mishap:
[Sigh… Please see blood-soaked stage kiss above.]


Worst costume ever:
Once upon a time I was a “spirit of the wood” in a Christmas pantomime in Glasgow in 2002.
I’ll say the words UNI-TARD and FELT LEAVES and just let your imagination do the rest.


Craziest audition story:
- I have sung all three daughters’ parts of ‘Matchmaker’…. with different voices for each daughter plus played all the dialogue…with myself.
- I have had someone say: “See we're gonna need you to create the physical comedy of the donkey yourself…”
- I have faked being English (in London), only to book the job and have to film it for three days… in New York…trapped in my English accent lie the whole time.
- I have mimed a blind girl being eaten by a werewolf.

But this one takes the cake:

When I auditioned for Master Class I—in utter seriousness—ACCIDENTALLY LOCKED MYSELF IN A UTILITY CLOSET at the studio. I might have missed the audition altogether had the casting director not come to GET ME OUT.  True story.

…Luckily that embarrassing tale of Sophie De Palma has a happy ending. :)

West Side Story

Any upcoming or side projects you can talk about?
I was honored to portray Maria in the first full-symphonic performance of West Side Story last year with the San Francisco Symphony (opposite the gorgeous Cheyenne Jackson as Tony). The recording is set to be released later this summer.


Leading lady role you've been dying to play:
Hedda Gabler.


Leading man role you'd like a shot at:
Captain Hook. [*achem*]— hand down.


Something about you that surprises people:
I am an introvert. Or, perhaps more accurately, a ‘shy extrovert.’


Something you are incredibly proud of:
I’m a proud lady from the state of Michigan.

Sooo…I even made up a snazzy Michigan handshake called “Glove Love” (because Michigan is shaped like a mitten or a glove for those of you who might not be aware)….It is super intense. I may or may not have Glove Loved with James Earl Jones (who is from Grand Rapids).


Career you would want if not a performer:
I am so lucky to already have it—a teacher.
I’m a Professor at Pace University and it is one of the most rewarding aspects of my life. (I’m “Professor Silber!” Ha!)


Three things you can't live without:
Honestly, there is nothing I “can’t live without.”
But I really like watermelon, crime drama and red shoes.


"I'll never understand why…"
…Skeeter is in The Muppet Babies but not in The Muppets? (Like: did she DIE?)
…Britons say “The Menopause”
…the Snuggie is a thing
…Theatres don’t do Ivanov more often?


Words of advice for aspiring performers:

Success is not about what you do, it is about how you feel about what you do.

The “Hogwarts Incident”

Birmingham Palladium Cinema

[In which Lilly drove up five hours in a minivan from Oberlin only to be instantaneously whisked away]

*

[At rise: Deepest winter. Al, Mom, Kent, Grey and Lilly sit around the dining room table discussing various life events. All but Lilly have been in the house solidly for nearly six weeks, contemplating existence as well as preparing their various college re-auditions, but mostly obsessively reading the first four Harry Potter books, attending the local premier of the first film, and then re-attending it every-other-day or so, particularly after going to Greek Islands diner because the movie theatre is right around the corner.]

Lilly: So Grey, you’re applying for a school in Australia?
Grey: Yep. I want it.
Lilly: That’s amazing!
Grey I just wish we could all go to school at Hogwarts.
Al/Kent/Mom: [in unison] T O T A L L Y. 

[Pause.]

Lilly: …Um…What’s Hogwarts?

[—Record scratch—crashing pause—mouths agape—plates are dropped.]

Grey: [deadly serious] Lilly get in the car.
Lilly: —What?!
Grey: [action movie, Bruce Willis, intense] —GET IN THE CAR!!
Lilly: [laughing a little, albeit nervously] Where are we going?

[Everyone begins standing, moving mechanically, like a car service team at the Indy 500]

Kent: [taking her by the arm] We’re going to the movies—
Grey: —Taking care of a serious problem.
Kent: Jesus!

[They are at the door]

Al: I’ve got her coat.
Grey: Good.
Mom: [calling from the driveway, honking, already in the car] WE CAN STILL MAKE THE 8:30!!
Kent: Buckle her in. I’ll lock up.

[They drive off down the street getaway-car-style, and “christen” Lilly to her very first Harry Potter experience. A trip we would repeat dozens of times before the winter was out. Phew. Crisis averted.]

It's all Greek to me...

In from the Blizzard

I enter the high rise studio room in the middle of a blizzard-- fresh off the plane from the mild, sunny West.

"Alexandra!" many people cheer, and they gather toward me like enthusiastic magnets. I should be a day late more often, I think.

I am instantly greeted by the quiet, charming, disheveled director of genius proportions, who has been talking to Chita in the corner alongside a gigantic window displaying the snow coming down in vast curtains outside.

And when I say Chita? Yes, I mean the one and only Chita Rivera. The living legend.

These people could not be nicer. It feels; not at all like the first day of school, but like the first day of summer camp— or rather, the second day of summer camp and everyone has heard about the camper arriving tomorrow and let’s make sure she feels welcome. Delightful.


* * *


Why Can’t I Speak?


Five of us gather around the piano— the musical director Patrick, Justin the young actor playing Niko, myself and Jim the accompanist. Leveaux looks on, Banderas beside him, stage management organize, shuffle and arrange in the corner.

There are two trios Niko, The Leader, and The Widow sing together— we go about learning them.

Then a Ricola exchange-- Chita is kitted out with anything a performer might need and it is all there on the music stand-- balanced within an inch of its life. "Anything you need my dear!" smiles Chita, a beautiful septuagenarian of Olympic proportion. Still on it, sharp as a whip and kind far beyond necessary for her status.

The left-handed MD Patrick takes us through it slowly, the rhythms are tough— the harmonies complex. One of Kander’s great unknown and literally unsung gems. Chita makes notations (she is left-handed too).


And just then, from the bluster of the February storm, enters a dark-coated John Kander shivering from the wind and cold. He made his way to our gathering around the piano.

“Hello…” his voice was soft, his eyes incredibly kind.

We continued learning. Harmonies. Chords.

He placed his satchel and battered umbrella on a nearby chair, removed his coat, and sat there listening. They are all; these lovely men—Kander, Leveaux (David NineandFiddlerRevivalsVisionaryEnglishDirector), Banderas (yes, of the Antonio variety)— in fact, listening. In exactly the same position: legs crossed, arms folded, head at rest atop the right hand brought up directly to the chin and mouth. A stance well known to the deeply contemplative. Think about the story of the butterfly… I think they are.


Suddenly we reach an impasse: Chita feels her notes “aren’t what they used to be I fear, too high too high. I’m so sorry.” She has such a sense of humor— not only about life but about herself, her self-awareness harsh but remarkable. She is struggling but so are the newbies! we have only been learning music for three-quarters of an hour! (And for what it’s worth, I disagree, I think the woman is a marvel though I don’t quite feel inclined to say so in this moment).

“May I?” Kander asks the accompanist politely.
“Of course,” Jim stands up allowing the composer to sit before the keys.
“Allow me, I’m just going to sort of the keys and modulations…”

We all watch in silence.
“Watch…” Chita whispers to me, “just watch. `When John touches a piano, it explodes with sound…”

And then it did.

He sat there a moment, brow furrowed, working out chord transpositions with the ease, vision, and elegance of a mathematician. I am in awe.

“Told you…” Chita smiled.


Meanwhile, Justin is focused and serious in the corner. I assume from every clue in his demeanor he is experiencing the not wanting to blow it sensation. I can only imagine; Alan Bates on his mind, a classic novel, a beloved film, an A to hit, Banderas to play to, the world to impress. --When I glance over he is buried in the score—for what it’s worth he’s doing just fine on all counts and I’ve known him 30 minutes.


Back at the impasse Chita looks over and smiles at me before announcing to Kander, "Yes I heard her next to me and thought 'I sound great!' but it wasn’t me after all! I’ll get it. I will get it. I just want to do your music justice darling."

Kander stood, clasping his hands together and placing them casually across the top of the upright piano. He is such a quiet man. "I promise you will be fine," he murmurs, eyes smiling.
"Yeah?"
"Have I ever broken a promise to you...? …after all these years?"
"True."

And they smile.

And it was that exchange. It was in that exchange that I could not believe the company I was keeping.

It truly was, above all others, a moment I have worked my whole life to be in the presence of. One that teleported me straight back to the dusty days of a twelve-year-old girl on a bunk-bed at Interlochen listening and learning from to and from these people making theatre history on a crappy Walkman. Banderas was great-- the real deal and a wonderful man, but these were my idols. It was the moment of a lifetime. A moment of arrival.

After the music session we packed up our things and made our way toward the smaller rehearsal space to talk things over, but I am mesmerized by Kander’s warmheartedness, his gentle face. His kind eyes.

"You wanna know why his eyes are so kind?" Chita asks me looking over at her old friend.
"Yes. Why?"
She smiled, not looking at me, “Because he’s kind…"

...she nudged my shoulder and walked slowly away, each step seemingly filled with memories...

"Bad Crime Drama"

Now. Let me just explain something. I LOVE CRIME DRAMA. I don't know how it happened, I don't know why. But I love it ALL. My love for crime drama is RAMPANT. From the truly incredible to the truly atrocious, it doesn't matter. Bring it on.

Perhaps it is due to the fact that one has to use their brain a little bit, they have to do a little bit of thinking, it isn't idle "grazing" it is active and engaging. Sometimes it mixes crime with science (CSI), sometimes with math (Numbers), sometimes the focus is on trauma (L&O: SVU), and sometimes on missing people (Without a Trace).

OR perhaps it's because at it's best you get to see some pretty decent (sometimes utterly excellent) actors in circumstances involving very high stakes (or, in the cases of both Dr. Quincy and Jessica Fletcher, the stakes are VERY HIGH ALL. THE. TIME. with the exception of the first and last two minutes of every episode, culminating in a frozen frame of said characters laughing with appropriate light-hearted music to accompany the feeling that even though murder follows these people around like a stray dog, life really is okay).

The "chunk chunk" sound associated with Law & Order is so divine it creates a Pavlovian reaction in me. I drool for a good re-run with the wonderful Jerry Orbach! I luxuriate in the vintage glory of a Sunday afternoon Poirot on ITV3, and Without A Trace on every day this summer on Channel 4? Better than ice cream or sunshine or kittens.  

CSI: Miami is so bad it's good. I laugh at CSI: Miami more than I become intrigued or moved or genuinely interested. But one has to admit, on the whole, Miami is an incredible setting for crime. Miami is twisted. It's truly creepy. What with the heat, the sultry, sweet, sexy, Southern thing, the voodoo-ish subculture, the crocidiles, and the connection to Latin America and it's subsequent language, social and religious barriers; the truly twisted nature of it's plots far exceeds the general prostitute and gambling crimes of it's predecessor, and could never match the stories we've heard on every other New York based crime show. (I don't like CSI: New York, and wish it were CSI: Chicago).

Plus, David Caruso works the one-liners and specs. And he works them like they’ve never been worked before. What a facial tic is to Robert DeNiro, what a cane was to Charlie Chaplin, sunglasses are to David Caruso. In uniting his limitless repetoire of placement and removal with his unmatched ability to deliver the cutting and dramatic one-liner, this video has perfectly showcased the entire range of Caruso’s talent in less than four minutes. Is there an Emmy for Best Sunglasses Snap? ... No? Well, there should be.

But OH! Ohhhhhhh the joys of what I like to call"CSI Regular"! The gutters of Las Vegas provide the most eloquent background for stories of gambling, alternative underbelly lifestyles, dead prostitutes, aging showgirls, escapist holidays gone awry. It is fast-paced, dark and humorous. It delivers well-acted and well-constructed characters, truly vivid gore scenes (that still manage to be scientific) and wonderfully twisty plots that leave you gaping with awe. All of these are evidence of a brilliant television show and THE EVIDENCE NEVER LIES my friends! So give in to the inner forensic dork you've been hiding from all your friends! I love CSI and I AM NOT afraid to show it.

SO. All of this unbelievable ranting being said, Can you imagine my reaction when I got an audition for one of the above television shows? Well, I just nearly flipping died. I actually did a little dance. 

Television Audition

* * *

[At rise: a church basement serving as an audition room.]

[Al enters the audition room and realizes she is overly dressed. She uses this moment to think about how her agent suggested she look attractive again, and what this might mean about her personal appearance. She shakes hands with the director and writer and casting director. Greetings and all that.]

Director: So. You are American?
Al: The real thing
Director: Yes the real thing indeed. So how are you here?
Al: Um...
Director: ...I meant specifically how are you here, in this country....? [she pauses] working.... legally?
Al: Ah yes, I have a Visa. I am a "Highly-Skilled Migrant." I like it, it sounds like I pick grapes really fast. John Steinbeck, you know?
Director: [unamused pause] Indeed. [next order of business beat] So. What did you think of the script?

[As the Narrator I have to interrupt here. I want to mention the readers that I hate this question. I think this question is really unfair. What are we supposed to say? "I thought your script was utter rubbish and the dialogue, while being trite at best, is hardly as atrocious as the story as a whole. I am only here auditioning because my agent forced me to come." Would that win hearts and minds?? One might as well say "well, the thing is, I didn't have time to read it all because I was just released from Pentonville Prison yesterday, having served 90 days for an assault charge which by the way that b#%*& had coming, and I had to sort a few things out."]

Al: I thought it was super.

["Super"?!!! A beat for lameness.]

Well, the truth is, I absolutely LOVE Bad Crime Drama. 

[OH.MY.GOD. I used "BADCRIMEDRAMA" as a blanket statement again... and THIS WAS NOT THE MOMENT. NOT AT ALL. Save it!] 

I mean... not that THIS is "bad." Bad Crime Drama is a sort of blanket category I give all crime drama.... I use it to describe the genre.... as my own... little... joke.... with myself... because of my love... of it... 

[There is an utterly horrific moment of shock and horror from all three people behind the table. She attempts to save it one last time...]

I mean of course that it is guilty-pleasure crime drama. The sort of "I really should be doing the washing up, but CSI is on" sort of thing.... [getting worse.]. If you see.... what I mean.... [total. heart crushing. failure.]

Director: ... Well. Thank you so much... we'll be in touch.... 

[...with either your agent or a hospital, she meant to say...]

* * *

Um.... I did not get this job. 

Upper Class (and Laughing Last)

There is nothing like indulging in, and embracing the time one must spend at the airport. A good book. Browsing the inane little shops. Reading your chosen book, your travel companion (Atlas Shrugged today, a large but delicious book, and pertinent as Rand loved New York so).

However, today I find I take issue with the notion of Transatlantic travel. I find it insidious that a person shows up early for a flight they books six weeks ago, and gets kicked off their flight because the airline cancelled the previous flight, and has thus put all of the displaced passengers in the seats of those who could not check in online. I could not check in online because my internet was scuppered, and thus, even though I arrived two and a half hours early for my flight, I lost my seat. Madness!

It was at this point, in a relatively calm and collected mood myself, that Neil shows up. Neil is a defenseless, quintessentially English functionary. An anemic-looking, sloped-shouldered, jut-toothed, slightly balding boy shoved into a suit by the oppressive and irrational Airline he 'works like a lackey from rise to set' for. He creeps over to the crowd of angry travelers and squeaks out the unpleasant news to us all surrounded by a bevy of siren-y "beauties" in heavy make-up and domineering red coats to protect his mousey self from the wrath of the crowd. He tells us to wait. He tells us we'll have to move to the side with all our bags. He tells us to wait another hour until boarding closes. He runs away each time to the protection of the red ladies.

It was at this point that a thought arises within me. Slowly, calmly, and much less offensively than the angry mob behind me. I approach the desk and say so quietly and calmly the Sirens themselves are seduced,

"Excuse me. I don't mean to be any more of a bother than that angry mob already has, but I'm just sitting here, on the cold hard ground and thinking to myself that the reason all of us aren't on the flight we booked is because you have overbooked your flight, as well as filled our seats with people from a flight you cancelled. And yet, if we had checking in online, we'd be fine. What has really occurred here is a preference towards those with a dependable, working, internet connection. that is a Socioeconomic issue. It's actually soooooort of a form of prejudice."

And no sooner had the words exited my lips than a flurry of Airline sirens and functionaries alike were hustling like headless chickens, getting all of the angry mob on to Upper Class....

... starting with me.

The End.
(...Moral of the story pending...)

PS) FYI: you're involuntarily bumped off your flight and the airline can't get you to your destination within an hour of the original arrival time, federal law requires that you be paid the equivalent of your one-way fare up to $200 or $400, depending on the length of the delay. This compensation is woefully inadequate and hasn't been adjusted for inflation since first introduced into law. (And no, you won't be compensated for the mega business deal you weren't able to close because you weren't there.) Passengers should insist on cold hard cash instead of a travel voucher since they come with restrictions and can be difficult to redeem. Also, here's a helpful website about being "bumped."

Domestic Happenings, Episode 4: What a dump!

[At rise: Al is making her way to the bus stop, ready to head to the gym. She even has a skip in her step. Little does she know, the kind of skip her step truly possesses. And low, the 67 approaches.]

Al: S#%*. [She searches her huge bag for her Oystercard. At first calmly, and then frantically. ]
Bus Driver: ... C'mon.
Al: Just a sec... please, [More frantic searching] ...one sec.
Bus Driver: [Obvious deep loud sigh]
Other Polite North London Passengers: Move it! C'mon hurry up! What's taking so long?!!
Al: Sorry. [Al exits the bus, feeling diminished, embarrassed and frustrated. Not only is her neighborhood veeeeerrrrryy well spoken and understanding, but more importantly Where could the Oyster be?!!]

[Al returns home, and ransacks the flat. The Oystercard is not to be found. She sighs:]

Al: *Sigh...*

[And it occurs to her. Like a doom-filled dawn. She took out the rubbish before heading to the bus stop, and in her enthusiasm, thrust the Oystercard in to the community garbage tip. Yes. She can see it now. A flash of light month-pass-blue flinging through the air in to the huge, collective garbage dumpster for her little corner of the ghetto. She speaks aloud to herself:]

Al: So... note to self: do not dump Oystercard with rubbish. Just like we learned in 2005 about not recycling one's passport. This is just like that... but less expensive... and dirtier... ARGH!

[She approaches the dumpster. It smells like rotting. There are over a dozen industrial size bags of garbage. And her Oystercard is somewhere in here... She has to get in. She winces, covers her nose and mouth with her scarf and pushes herself up onto the edge with her arms, and unceremoniously tumbles in to the tip FACE DOWN.]

Al: BLAHHHHHH!!!!

[She takes a moment to contemplate her situation whilst face down in the dump: "This is silly. Like, stupid-silly. Like, thump-your-forehead-with-the-palm-of-your-hand-silly. Like, I’m-going-to-throw-the-Oystercard-that-inspired-this-adventure-in-the-Thames-and-I-just-might-go-with-it-silly." And just as she begins digging, the mobile phone in her pocket rings:]

Al: Hello?
Al's Agent: Hi there Alexandra, it's Amanda here.
Al: Uh... oh hi! Hi there.
Agent: Is this a good time?
Al: [It's as good a time as any] Well... it's funny you see... I--
Agent: Where are you? You sound really echoey.
Al: Well... well, Amanda if you must know.... I... am... in a tip. [PAUSE.] A dumpster. Outside my house... My dumpster.
Agent: Right. Well... would you like to ring me back at a... more convenient time...?
Al: Um, no. Now is fine, I mean, I'm in here so... might as well have a brief chat I guess. What is, uh, up?
Agent: Uh-huh... well....

[Agent proceeds to give Al professional updates and casting information, she wishes Al the best, and hastily hangs up.]

Agent: Take care, then,
Al: You too. Bye bye.

[And then she sees it. At the bottom. Covered in dumpster sludge. She digs through to the bottom and retrieves it. Grimacing, she slides out. Success. And now to the shower... ]

Ahhhh London: The Poo

So. Tonight I am leaving work, and as I go to exit I am told I have a parcel. Hurrah! The parcel is of adequate size and shape, about the size of two loaves of bread, and fairly heavy. I hesitate a moment, then decide to take it home right away, "what am I waiting for?!" It will be just as heavy tomorrow.

So I happily stumble across The Strand, up Southampton Row and onto the cobbles of Covent Garden Piazza. Lovely.

At this point I think to myself:
"Hey there Self, gee I sure wish I had a large bag to carry this parcel in. With my already large, filled-to-the-brim shoulder bag, the strain is juuuuuust over the comfortable mark.

And suddenly! Like magic! A large, paper MONSOON* bag appears out of the corner of my eye. AHA!! It is the perfect size and shape to house my parcel. I pick up the bag, I shake it open, I prepare to house my parcel when SUDDENLY I sniff...

[sniff. ... sniff ...]
OH DEAR ...YEP. There it is. Clear as day.

It's human feces.

No no, it couldn't be a dog's; it is too large, too MASSIVE a turd to be anything but human and this gets me thinking: how desperate does a person have to BE to shit in a bag in the middle of Covent Garden and NOT EVEN HAVE THE DECENCY TO THROW IT AWAY?

A bag.
Full of kaka.
What next?
Ahhhhh London.

Domestic Happenings, Episode 2: Christmas Tree Debacle

[At rise: Al and Damian at Wilkinson, a local home goods shop, to purchase this year's Christmas tree.]



A: What?! 3 feet or 6 feet. Those are the only options?
D: Looks like it.
A: 3 feet is dinky and stupid. 6 feet is ridiculous.
D: Yes.
A: What do we do?
D: I don't know.
A: Let's get a real one!
D: I've never had a real tree before!
A: That settles it then.
A & D: Excellent!

[They march out of the store with newfound Christmas Purpose]

***

[A street market on Wood Green High Road. Make no mistake, Wood Green is dodgy. Questionable in too many ways to articulate. But it's Christmas and this corner is selling pine trees. They smell beautiful. Like Michigan.]

Dodgy Wood Green Tree Seller: Right. You 'ave the 3 foot ones in the pots for £14, or the 6 foot ones 'ere for £18. The needles won't fall off either [pronounced "ee-vuh"].

[??!! Fantastic.]

A: Right. That's helpful. [Square One. My favourite place.]
D: Well... I mean, at least it will be real. And we can replant it afterwards.
A: [to Tree Seller] Can we LOOK at the small trees without the net?
TS: No.
A: Really?
TS: 'fraid not.
A: Uh huh...
D: Real trees love the earth...?
A: ... and we're supporting our local community by buying from this woman on the street...?
D: and we can replant it in January...?
A: ...but we can't LOOK at it.
D: Right.
A: Right.
D: Let's just get this one. [indicated to dinky potted tree.]
A: Okay.

[Money exchanged. Awkward journey home with ethical potted mystery tree.]

* * *

[At home. The Spot selected. Arrangements made. Mystery Tree is placed on a small side table, the one it will majestically stand on for the next few weeks. String net is removed, branches flattened. A pause.]

A & D: [Silence]

[They stand there side by side. Arms crossed. Examining the tree. It looks like a mangled stray dog. It looks worse than a Charlie Brown tree. It looks like they bought it from a dodgy street market. It looks awful. But can they say it? What is the other thinking? Do we love it anyway or tell the truth? If we tell the truth will we crush the others' hopes?!]

A: Wow.
D: Mmmm.
A: It will be great.
D: Mmmm.



* * *

[Lying in bed later that night. The darkness brings out the truth...]

A: Damian...?
D: Yes Al.
A: Damian, I-- I--
D: --hate the tree?
A: I HATE THE TREE!!!
D: I ALSO HATE THE TREE!!!

* * *

Today we bought the socially unethical, environmentally unfriendly, highly dependable, fake tree.

The real one it outside, waiting to be planted. Our mitzvah.

The Red Shoe

So.
What I think is really great after a bad day at the office, where The Ghost of Jerome Robbins is giving our poor little company a lot of grief, is making fun of Jerome Robbins by (flawlessly?) executing THE West Side Story kick on the Aldgate East underground platform...

... ONLY to watch in total horror as my brand new adorable red pump FLIES off my foot, over the crowd and on to the TRACKS...

All hundred or so people on the platform stare. They stare and shift slightly. Will anyone do something? Shall we all just glance away? And I am frozen. Frozen, staring at my shoe in a "THAT DIDN'T JUST HAPPEN... OP! YES IT DID" way.

What to do???!

Damian goes to fetch help. A wooden broom handle, someone's cane, anything...

The only reason I got it back was because a steaming drunk guy (named Chris) singing "Happy Birthday To MEEEE! I'm 18 TODAAAAAY!!!!!" -- was too drunk to remember the tracks are in fact ELECTRIFIED. He jumped down on to the tracks, the crowd gasped (possibly because Chris might DIE on his 18th birthday...)

He jumped right down on the tracks, stumbled horribly, caught his balance, knelt down, grabbed the shoe...
... then jumped right back up.

"There you go!" he says, "Woo hoo! I'm 18 today!!!"

...and the crowd applauded! Victory.

So. Chris not dead.
Shoe retrieved.
...Absolutely fine that one.

Filming 1408

The scene is actually completely improvised, as is much of the movie, but was terrifying because you're thinking "Not only do I have to be in the presence of John CUSACK, but I also have to try to be unassuming, um, good and on top of everything else I have to MAKE UP THE LINES?!!".

So I was trying to seem very nonchlant and all, and my cool skills utterly failed me.
Utterly.

Example:
John Cusack: So.... have you made a lot of films?

Al: Um, well, no, this is my first film. My only other professional
job was in musical theatre.

John Cusack: are you serious? what musical? one in the west end?

Al: um yeah, the woman in white, the andrew lloyd webber thing?
i played the [bad self deprecating hand gestures that MAY have
included the quotation thing people do with their fingers]
"damsel in distress."

John Cusack: Right. That's great. Anyway, your first film.
well you are doing great, you really seem like you've
been doing this forever.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...

[this is where i just don't know what to say. I SCRAMBLE for coolness, for nonchalance, for anything other than total akward silence... and it doesn't come. So out flies the lamest thing I've ever said.. and it is falling out in slow motion...]

Al: Thanks... YOOOOOOOU TOOOOOOOOOOO.

[WHAT?!!! really awkward pause. I AM AN ASSHOLE.]

John Cusack: Well... you know... I have....

[I know this. I saw him in The Journey of Naddy Gan. I AM AN ASSHOLE!!!]

Al: ... I know. I was... you know. it was supposed to
sort of be a joke...

John Cusack: uh huh...