Life Is Around You and In You

I saw HAIR last night in Central Park. This is the only picture I was able to snap before, as Sara B. warned me previously, a Staff Member came over said no photography was allowed in the theatre. So be it. As Oscar Eustis asked in his pre-show speech, "Why would you try to take a picture on electronic media of a live event? You're here." I think that's an important tenet to remember as we go forward in the age of digital technology. And, haply, that's exactly what HAIR is about: just living in the present, man.

The show is really, really great, but more importantly, it was a transformative experience. HAIR's biggest strength is that it's one of those shows its actors don't have to work very hard to sell. Don't get me wrong, the cast at the Delacorte does work hard, and they are uniformly fit and fierce. But as Jenny, Laura, Jim and I were discussing last night, the one thing that kept the Tribal Love-Rock Musical from being phenomenal from beginning to end was that it didn't so much rock at first. Despite Patina Renea Miller's gorgeous entrance as she crooned the opening strains of Aquarius and Will Swenson's charm and flair as Berger, the show didn't fully kick it until the women of the tribe started singing their features. The nude scene at the end of the first act provided a much needed emotional moment and was very tasteful - not to mention "easy on the eyes," as Mr. Letterman would say. (Black boys really are delicious! I certainly saw a few chocolate pudding pops I wouldn't mind taking a lick of. But I digress...)

Had the volume simply been turned up a bit from the jump, HAIR would have attained that Hendrix concert feel it so wanted to provide. And that comes from someone who doesn't like extremely loud noises. I plug my ears when the express train flies by - but it just needed a little extra oomph.

As the second act began, something was stirring in the night air. The sexiness of movement and human expression was palpable. It was time to sing about real shit: drugs, war and what we're doing as Americans (and not "human beings") that makes Claude's poignant line, "I hate this world" ring so true. The final image of Claude in uniform lying dead on the flag somehow managed to be shocking for everyone in the theatre, irrespective of our involvement in Iraq, and perhaps because of it. 40 years later it seems not much has changed - except that the hippies are all gone now, so us peacenicks feel without a home in the land of the brave.

I have to admit, I was worried about the end of the show. It seemed to me that the actors would never get the rousing curtain call they deserved since the final tableau had been so solemn. As the cast rushed up on stage, the audience began clapping warmly, but timidly, mirroring the show's beginning. But just as the show gained intensity and momentum, so did the final moments of what, at last, became the Woodstock jam I was hoping for. "Let the Sunshine In" had a glorious reprise, with as many audience members dancing on stage as could fit and the entire crowd in the stands clapping and singing along. I think even Mayor Bloomberg, who was in attendance, managed to squeak out a sideways smile.

Taking cue from The Apiary, a picture review:

Photo by Michal Daniel

We starve-look
At one another
Short of breath
Walking proudly in our winter coats
Wearing smells from laboratories
Facing a dying nation
Of moving paper fantasy
Listening for the new told lies
With supreme visions of lonely tunes

Somewhere
Inside something there is a rush of
Greatness
Who knows what stands in front of
Our lives
I fashion my future on films in space
Silence
Tells me secretly
Everything
Everything

Manchester England England
Manchester England England
Eyes look your last
Across the Atlantic Sea
Arms take your last
embrace
And I'm a genius genius
And lips oh you the
doors of breath
I believe in God
Seal with a righteous kiss
And I believe that God believes in Claude
Seal with a righteous kiss
That's me, that's me, that's me
The rest is silence
The rest is silence
The rest is silence

Our space songs on a spider web sitar
Life is around you and in you
Answer for Timothy Leary, dearie

Let the sunshine
Let the sunshine in
The sunshine in
Let the sunshine
Let the sunshine in
The sunshine in
Let the sunshine
Let the sunshine in
The sun shine in...

Thanks for the lyrics, Jenny.

Just like a tattoo, I'll always have you.

[Cross-post from Adriana's Mom.]

For those of you who don't know, I have a lovely, large-ish tattoo of some florals and vines on the top of my back. Adriana has been interested in it since she was old enough to see it, running her fingers over the lines. Recently she's been chiding me as I get into the shower, "Mommy, don't wash your tattoo off!" Adriana's been obsessed with temporary tattoos and using stickers as tattoos all summer long. So I shouldn't have been shocked last night when she said:

"Maybe when I'm bigger, I can get a real tattoo on my back!"

I shouldn't have been shocked, but I was.

"Uh, not until you're 16," I said.

"Or maybe when I'm 3."

Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

As my friend Michelle Buteau would say, "chea." As in, chea right.

Let's get your ears pierced first.


After the conversation was said and done, I realized that even 16 was way too young. Not just because 16 year olds shouldn't have tattoos, but because whatever you pick at 16 - or even 18 for that matter - is gonna haunt you for the rest of your life. The girl who rescued my hair yesterday told me her friend gave her a homemade tattoo (yeah, the old-fashioned way) at age 13. She had it covered as an adult. Why? Because it was a marijuana leaf with a yin-yang next to it.

Trust me, kid. I would never let you get a tattoo at age 3. Inking Dora and Boots around your navel may seem like a good idea now... but trust me. Come your wedding night, you're gonna be wishing that Dora was a dolphin.

Quick Fix.

Got my hair fixed. It's better. It's sort of black with white stripes now.


No, not those.


Ehhh! Wrong again.


Yeah, sort of like this, if she were laying on her side.


There - that's it! I look good. And smell even better.

The highlight of my day...

It was time for a change.

I've been feeling a little less than myself lately, so like any good girl does when she needs a pick-me-up, I decided I'd do something with my hair. Anyone who knows me knows I am often forced to go months between haircuts, because I am a broke-ass chump. This trimless stretch of time usually results in me sporting a 'do I like to call the Orthodox Jew Wig:






"Meh, this hair. Something needs to be done! What a shame it doesn't bettah compliment my lovely eyeshadow."

As I strolled through the pharmaceuticals isle yesterday, I thought, "Why not just dye my hair at home?" I used to do it all the time in high school, resulting in a fun but harmless reddish hue. But nowadays things are different. Regular hair dye comes with "revolutionary" highlighting tools. Ooooh! Highlights! I love highlights! According to Raj, my Parisian Indian former guru at Jean-Claude Biguine, I need highlights. ("You must get zee highlights! Wizout zem your face looks so un-appy.") Unfortunately, Raj costs nearly $300, so I've been looking un-appy for about 6 months.

That's it - I'm taking matters into my own hands. Step 1. Brilliant All-Over Color. Got it. Hey! That fun but harmless reddish hue - wow, this is just like high school! (If that's the case, I should be Perioding My Pants any minute now.) Step 2. Revolutionary Tool for up to 30% faster highlights than before...

The color I was supposed to wind up with is called "French Eclair." Delish, right? Who doesn't want hair that reminds people of a pastry filled with creamy delight? I mean, I bought the thing because it says "Couleur Experte" right on the box. That's COLOR EXPERT, but in FRENCH! French people are the snootiest in the world, right? They have to be good at doing highlights.

Well, the French may be, but it turns out I'm not. I was going for this:



But I got this:


That's a guy.

I know it looks like that a) because I have a mirror, and b) because despite my husband's attempts to reassure me ("I like it. No, I like it."), when my kid toddled into the room she exclaimed, "MOMMY, YOUR HAIR IS ORANGE!"

The good news is, I look more like a rural woman who delivers mail in a forest green '78 Chevy pickup than I ever thought possible. The bad news is, instead of the snooty French look I was hoping for, I may just have to become the snoodiest non-Orthodox chick on the block.

Well, I guess he really is clean, then...

I dunno. It just feels a little anti-climactic.

Wake Up, America

Just saw this Miley Cyrus clip on Buzz Feed wherein she and her BFF Mandy tell the tweens of America what they can do to Go Green. None of their tips are particularly revolutionary ("Oh! You can shop online, even tho we're the worst...") but good, nonetheless. I'm not trying to downplay the positivity or reach of her message, but, you know, another thing you can do to Go Green is not mass-produce Hannah Montana t-shirts, wristbands, legwarmers, backpacks, pencil cases, shoes, jewelry, hair clips, makeup, bedding, folders, notebooks, stickers and dolls and then sell them at Wal*Mart. Also, if you really want to Go Green, girl, you might want to think about not gettin' that truck for your 16th birthday:

Sorry - Long Time, No Blog

It's just that I've been busy in China and all:



p.s. - Bela says hi!

Can I Get a Witness?

Yes, now I, too, believe in miracles, Celine. Yesterday, the most amazing thing happened: I witnessed the price of gas GO DOWN while I was at the pump! It was like seeing the lame walk or hearing the mute speak. It was as if that gas had turned into wine and suddenly we were at a party.  It was like that scene in Zoolander where the models start pouring hot fuel all over themselves in celebration of a joyous day.

It was, in short, astounding.  I was about to ask the guy for a loaf of bread and some fish, too, but I didn't want to press my luck.

I deserved that kind of serendipity, though, after having to pay $205 to get my car out of tow for being 15 minutes late for alternate side parking the other day. I think the sticker I saw on the fence at the tow pound was what prompted my good luck:

Gives new meaning to Jesus, Take the Wheel, huh?  I just didn't expect him to take my wheels.

Speaking of Ms. Underwood, I just had to include the video for JTTW (let's make that the new WWJD, kay?). I'd never seen it before, and if you haven't, you must watch. As some of you may know, I had a car accident a few days before this past Christmas, so I find this song touching. But perhaps less so now that I've seen the video. Does one usually wear a face full of silver makeup and a smile when in such dire need? It's like a drag queen's dream come true. That's not a dis against Carrie, because Lord knows I love me some silver makeup, but really, director? And what's with the ROPM (Random Old People Moment)? Do they need Jesus to drive their car, too? I can just hear him now: "Jesus, am I the Son of God or a chauffeur, for my sake? Oy!*"

*In an ironic twist of fate, Jesus was reincarnated as a Catskills comedian.