Fingers to be exact. On a boy wearing all black except for brown motorcycle boots. He held a Jackson plugged into a Fender and he knelt until it was his turn to ring out. He had no peddles. Andre said it's called tone.
These hands, well, it was love at first sight for me. I happened to glance their way across a darkened ballroom in mere disinterest for the onstage set being played. They were practicing, the hands, fingering scales over a shiney wooden neck. At first I thought it would be the guitar I lusted, or even the boy. But I've always been a Fender girl, and there are dozens of dark-locked boys where I exist. No, the heart I wear on my scene gurl sleeve pulled me elsewhere. I commented to my girl friends how much I liked the view. They giggled and I realized they knew not how true my feelings were.
Yes, I've fallen in love with a pair of hands. I watched them hopscotch across frets and slide from bridge to head. They doubled dutched with a wammy bar. I love playgrounds. You know that 'How Are You Feeling Today?' diagram? I always made fun of the lovestruck face; nobody really looks like that! Tonight I just stood, numb arms at my side, and listened to these hands pluck at all 6 strings in my heart. I stood, corrected.
I am in love with a pair of hands. One right and one left. And I am fairly certain that we will live rockingly ever after.
...Ricky.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
And being more like fire like a firefly!
i have so much i could say, tons of drafts with random lines of sidewalk genius. But i can't so much blog because I'm just waiting for Mulan to "put on a face" and then we are off to Adelphi Battle of the Bands 2009. Has it really only been one year? And before that, had it only been a year since then? What unprecedented adventures started by going to this very event year after year. I can't help but smile to wonder how many times we've gotten ready for the rock show, how many outfits were passed up in foraging for "that's the one!" She's the best sidekick a scene girl could ask for, no matter how many times we burned my neck with the blow dryer or mis-dyed chunks of my hair. The playlist has evolved and I firmly believe the outfits are getting better. These eyes are tired but these ears...they are 18 again.
...Ricky.
"Sparklegirl" by: Letters to Cleo
...Ricky.
"Sparklegirl" by: Letters to Cleo
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Close your eyes, try to relax. Count backwards from 10.
10. "Baby, We're Invisible" A Rocket To The Moon
9. "Cincinnati" Chasing Daybreak
8. "Big Girls Don't Cry" This Condition
7. "Former Glory" The Hoodies
6. "Clocks and Time Pieces" Search the City
5. "This Is The End" The Maine
4. "Weightless" All Time Low <3
3. "Your Favorite Song" Stereo Skyline
2. "Happy" Nevershoutnever
1. "Whoever She Is" The Maine
goodnite...Ricky.
9. "Cincinnati" Chasing Daybreak
8. "Big Girls Don't Cry" This Condition
7. "Former Glory" The Hoodies
6. "Clocks and Time Pieces" Search the City
5. "This Is The End" The Maine
4. "Weightless" All Time Low <3
3. "Your Favorite Song" Stereo Skyline
2. "Happy" Nevershoutnever
1. "Whoever She Is" The Maine
goodnite...Ricky.
Friday, March 20, 2009
(1, 2, 3, 4, 1)
Sitting here with my legs up, staring down at a pair of beat up Chuck Taylors. They're all bent up to fit my own feet, frayed in the laces and blown right through the heels. My socks don't match at all. These shoes are written all over; a short phrase to remember every time my life was changed since they were purchased. They used to be black. They used to be stiff. But these shoes are mine and they've seen too much to look anything but loved.
I wonder if Jac Vanek cries.
I love these shoes. They are absolutely a big girl security blanket, so if you see me wearing them, chances are I needed a little extra confidence to get up and shine that day. I nap with these shoes on. I push my way to the front in them. I choreograph in them. These shoes have walked through amazing times.
I am a hypocrite to hate Twitter.
Today these shoes saw the acoustic folds of another Guitar Center and heard a hundred more familiar notes. If you recognize something about that last phrase, then you should've realized I was the one updating Jay's twitter today. It's true that I requested Dakota, but he played BigCityDreams on his own. Don't I always request Dakota? My shoes like the boys with ridiculous hair.
I'm stepping down.
My shoes make me walk toward the scene haired kids all the time. It's really not up to me at all. I've raised them to have a mind of their own and, after exploring side roads in their spare time, they've sold their soles to this scene whether it feels right all the time or not. Isn't that so typical of shoes? I tried to argue with my Dad this week that Love was free. In fact though, it costs you the most. My shoes are cheap symbols of something I find myself walking away from with empty pockets.
...Ricky.
"This is the End" The Maine
I wonder if Jac Vanek cries.
I love these shoes. They are absolutely a big girl security blanket, so if you see me wearing them, chances are I needed a little extra confidence to get up and shine that day. I nap with these shoes on. I push my way to the front in them. I choreograph in them. These shoes have walked through amazing times.
I am a hypocrite to hate Twitter.
Today these shoes saw the acoustic folds of another Guitar Center and heard a hundred more familiar notes. If you recognize something about that last phrase, then you should've realized I was the one updating Jay's twitter today. It's true that I requested Dakota, but he played BigCityDreams on his own. Don't I always request Dakota? My shoes like the boys with ridiculous hair.
I'm stepping down.
My shoes make me walk toward the scene haired kids all the time. It's really not up to me at all. I've raised them to have a mind of their own and, after exploring side roads in their spare time, they've sold their soles to this scene whether it feels right all the time or not. Isn't that so typical of shoes? I tried to argue with my Dad this week that Love was free. In fact though, it costs you the most. My shoes are cheap symbols of something I find myself walking away from with empty pockets.
...Ricky.
"This is the End" The Maine
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The snow turned into rain - -
Today is a nothing day, and on nothing days I think about everything. I woke up feeling ominous, quickly remembering that I'd been up all night wincing at under-medicated Scout and Jem. Downstairs the flag slapped hard against the garage door and windstorm sticks scratched hauntingly across my windows. I woke up knowing exactly where I was.
Yesterday was St. Patrick's Day, and while my family uses any excuse to have a party (the time my uncle cleaned the attic, or the day my cousin lost her first tooth), the thick-blooded Irish Martins hold a special twinkle in their eyes for this day. Because it happened to fall on a work day and because my uncles are still recovering from their 5-day Big East tourney stakeout, the festivities were small and the phone calls were numerous. "Happy Hour is from now until later!" Aunt Barb arrived at approximately 4 unscrewing a personal wine bottle as she walked into the kitchen. I ruined 2 beers trying to dye one a perfect shade of green for my mother, and as is tradition, was chastised for alcohol abuse. The same lecture passed down from Nanny McDonald is given whenever someone spills any amount of alcohol, and everyone in knowing unison calls out, "You better lick that up!" We sat around the kitchen table, a place my grandmother used to hold her court, and gossiped about the family and how cousin Laurie is a River Rat herself.
Two hours into Happy Hour:
I let my Aunt's face warp through the bottom of my fourth glass as she warbles on and on about the funniest nothing at alls. My lips are tart with the stinging lime juice my mother rimmed the glass with. The conversation bumps from Cousin to baseball to that time we hit a rock at the River to the sweater she bought last week that's just sorta pilly. No one ever completes a thought because we all interrupt each other by simply talking louder than the speaker at hand. The decibel level gets very high in no time. Every now and then a piece of a family secret will be hinted at and my curious ears perk up. But I know what kind of nights all the good secrets will come out on. I recall lying in the shadows of our front porches in the middle of a summer sweat, listening to my aunt and father move from family gossip to murky legends. These were my bedtime stories for countless midnights as I'd sit hidden from the kitchen table's sight and jot the secrets in my notebooks. When I read them now, I realize I must have fallen asleep from time to time because the accounts don't exactly line up. But that is how stories become legends afterall.
My grandmother gets mentioned and my aunt stands as if to toast. An old family friend had contacted her last week just to say how much she missed 'Mrs. Martin' and how she frequently thought of the long summer hours spent around her kitchen table. My parents each share similar stories of conversations. We dote on how special my grandmother was, always using the same line, "She was quite the lady, wasn't she?" I watch all the grown ups eyes closely for a teary signal, but there are none and I am grateful. The laughter picks up again with a comparison story to my "Number 2" title my Gramma Garro gave me this past weekend. We all pitch in recollections to tell the tale of how the day Gramma Martin came home from brain surgery she sat right down in her spot at the table and spoke of her surgeon, "Well, he reminds me of Billy; nice young man, not very good-looking." We laughed again at the way my Uncle Bill had tossed up his hands and been harrassed for weeks after that. The laughter sounded exactly the same to me as it had then.
Some friendly quotes from St. Patty's Day Happy Hour(s):
"Yeah, but if he lobes Jac-kay..."
"Bah! I'd take the money"
"Deb's been sentimental the past couple times though."
"Oh Deb's a pain right in the balls!"
"I'm a mother of 3 boys. We just say, 'Wrap it'."
"And if you need to wrap it...there's some in my drawer."
"I mean honestly, who could be uncomfortable around our family?"
Dad and I both raise our hands immediately. Everyone laughs but Roxy Jo.
She makes a face at me, "Well." she huffs, "Your hair looks funny."
I sit outside enwrapped in the smells of another spring and record all this, wondering if it'll ever make it into a published book and hoping someday someone will just steal my journals from me and read them against my vocal will. The upstate air in cold. A familiar truck goes by on the main road; he's had that truck since we moved here. I think of the only familiar vehicle I see driving around on the Island and how it's black and loud. I take it more as a warning than a balcony call these days. I had intended to work on choreography more today but my energy is in my head rather than my legs. Plus the obvious friendship between Jac Vanek, Nick Santino, and Demi Lovato has stricken me a tad with unproductive jealousy. And so I sit here on this porch with those mischievous eyes and update my Twitter, forming plans of my own to be the next family legend.
...Ricky.
"Same Old Lang Syne" by: Dan Fogelberg
Yesterday was St. Patrick's Day, and while my family uses any excuse to have a party (the time my uncle cleaned the attic, or the day my cousin lost her first tooth), the thick-blooded Irish Martins hold a special twinkle in their eyes for this day. Because it happened to fall on a work day and because my uncles are still recovering from their 5-day Big East tourney stakeout, the festivities were small and the phone calls were numerous. "Happy Hour is from now until later!" Aunt Barb arrived at approximately 4 unscrewing a personal wine bottle as she walked into the kitchen. I ruined 2 beers trying to dye one a perfect shade of green for my mother, and as is tradition, was chastised for alcohol abuse. The same lecture passed down from Nanny McDonald is given whenever someone spills any amount of alcohol, and everyone in knowing unison calls out, "You better lick that up!" We sat around the kitchen table, a place my grandmother used to hold her court, and gossiped about the family and how cousin Laurie is a River Rat herself.
Two hours into Happy Hour:
I let my Aunt's face warp through the bottom of my fourth glass as she warbles on and on about the funniest nothing at alls. My lips are tart with the stinging lime juice my mother rimmed the glass with. The conversation bumps from Cousin to baseball to that time we hit a rock at the River to the sweater she bought last week that's just sorta pilly. No one ever completes a thought because we all interrupt each other by simply talking louder than the speaker at hand. The decibel level gets very high in no time. Every now and then a piece of a family secret will be hinted at and my curious ears perk up. But I know what kind of nights all the good secrets will come out on. I recall lying in the shadows of our front porches in the middle of a summer sweat, listening to my aunt and father move from family gossip to murky legends. These were my bedtime stories for countless midnights as I'd sit hidden from the kitchen table's sight and jot the secrets in my notebooks. When I read them now, I realize I must have fallen asleep from time to time because the accounts don't exactly line up. But that is how stories become legends afterall.
My grandmother gets mentioned and my aunt stands as if to toast. An old family friend had contacted her last week just to say how much she missed 'Mrs. Martin' and how she frequently thought of the long summer hours spent around her kitchen table. My parents each share similar stories of conversations. We dote on how special my grandmother was, always using the same line, "She was quite the lady, wasn't she?" I watch all the grown ups eyes closely for a teary signal, but there are none and I am grateful. The laughter picks up again with a comparison story to my "Number 2" title my Gramma Garro gave me this past weekend. We all pitch in recollections to tell the tale of how the day Gramma Martin came home from brain surgery she sat right down in her spot at the table and spoke of her surgeon, "Well, he reminds me of Billy; nice young man, not very good-looking." We laughed again at the way my Uncle Bill had tossed up his hands and been harrassed for weeks after that. The laughter sounded exactly the same to me as it had then.
Some friendly quotes from St. Patty's Day Happy Hour(s):
"Yeah, but if he lobes Jac-kay..."
"Bah! I'd take the money"
"Deb's been sentimental the past couple times though."
"Oh Deb's a pain right in the balls!"
"I'm a mother of 3 boys. We just say, 'Wrap it'."
"And if you need to wrap it...there's some in my drawer."
"I mean honestly, who could be uncomfortable around our family?"
Dad and I both raise our hands immediately. Everyone laughs but Roxy Jo.
She makes a face at me, "Well." she huffs, "Your hair looks funny."
I sit outside enwrapped in the smells of another spring and record all this, wondering if it'll ever make it into a published book and hoping someday someone will just steal my journals from me and read them against my vocal will. The upstate air in cold. A familiar truck goes by on the main road; he's had that truck since we moved here. I think of the only familiar vehicle I see driving around on the Island and how it's black and loud. I take it more as a warning than a balcony call these days. I had intended to work on choreography more today but my energy is in my head rather than my legs. Plus the obvious friendship between Jac Vanek, Nick Santino, and Demi Lovato has stricken me a tad with unproductive jealousy. And so I sit here on this porch with those mischievous eyes and update my Twitter, forming plans of my own to be the next family legend.
...Ricky.
"Same Old Lang Syne" by: Dan Fogelberg
Saturday, March 14, 2009
so keep the lights dows low, oh oh! you know...
I woke up twice sensing that my body was not too excited about mobilizing even as much to pull the covers back over me. But, third times a charm and one squirm and one flip later I reached a heavy hand to the keyboard. Click. Madonna's "Like a Prayer" came singing out, calling my body vertical. Eyes still closed, my body began to wiggle and bop. I heard old internal dialogues go off in my memory ("I wanna take you a-bahbah hit!"), left over from a dance that has been one of my favorite performances ever. My senior talent show, I choreographed a piece where nuns ripped off their habits and busted a move. I loved the scandalous fit that rural Cowtown board members threw over it. I smile, and cart wheel out of bed in time for the chorus choreo.
Last night was fun. Sir Dob apologized more than once, though, I myself don't see why. Dobfest. I rushed with Every Avenue to the Greenroom to sign in and check with my Swings, then ran with All Time Low to the Vibe Lounge. How nice it is to go to a place more comfortable than your own home. I know that may seem twisted, yet, it's truth. I met a smiley Emma at the door, so cute and super cool working the event in the leather jacket that she's just borrowing before she actually gives it to me. Rather than the standard X or B, she sharpied a blue heart with double B's in the middle. This guest hearts band boys. Nice, though I think technically in that room only 1 out of my 3 were in the band. I FINALLY saw Holden Pan (I'm sorry Ricky!)and again, Gabriel stole my simple little scene heart. Why DO they play Gold Coast last? I saw things I didn't want to see, but the curses come with the gift and I'd rather 'see beyond' than live blindly.
Every time it gets a little better. A little more together in the chest, more apart in the joints. Loud music will do that to you. I discovered last night that all my friends can dance. I decided it was because they were all either dancers or musicians with adequate rhythm, yet still, I was halted in my own shuffling to stop and stare. Stealing inspiration like Winona Ryder in a vintage shop. Thank you Jacob, Tomer, Stevie Pipes, Jack, Zachary P., and Melana. And did I say TOMER? lol nice kid. We got sweaty fast, making us sticky with smiles and though the songs were not in our heartbeats, they were certainly in our pulses.
Certain birthday goers had the familiar issue of DND: dancer not dancing. I know this syndrome. Sometimes after a dancer has trained so hard to be in tune with controlling every muscle movement in themselves, it's easy to forget how to let go and shake your hair around a little. Forget about the fact that there's no choreography, this is how choreography gets made. Just jump. Jump until you don't feel good. Or take pictures of me, I'll pose for you any day lol.
I, of course, did silly scene gurl things. Ya know, the things I do when I get too brave for my own good. I looked for too long, until there was eye contact, I texted when I could've waited, I offered compliments with that smile that Mike McG knows is all too guilty beneath the surface. Andre Palmer and I have seemingly found something new to bond over, that is, getting into trouble. We're both real good at it and are in the process of developing our codified language so that Nate will never find out what we're actually discussing. : )
In retrospect, which is the tense I always think in on the car ride home, the darkness was fun. It's easier to see certain things in the dark, though harder to learn lessons. Those come in the light reality after wards. But there's spotlight in the dimness that takes both purpose and patience to achieve. And it's my favorite kind of center stage.
...Shawty Watch-a-lot.
"Your Love" by: The Outfield
Last night was fun. Sir Dob apologized more than once, though, I myself don't see why. Dobfest. I rushed with Every Avenue to the Greenroom to sign in and check with my Swings, then ran with All Time Low to the Vibe Lounge. How nice it is to go to a place more comfortable than your own home. I know that may seem twisted, yet, it's truth. I met a smiley Emma at the door, so cute and super cool working the event in the leather jacket that she's just borrowing before she actually gives it to me. Rather than the standard X or B, she sharpied a blue heart with double B's in the middle. This guest hearts band boys. Nice, though I think technically in that room only 1 out of my 3 were in the band. I FINALLY saw Holden Pan (I'm sorry Ricky!)and again, Gabriel stole my simple little scene heart. Why DO they play Gold Coast last? I saw things I didn't want to see, but the curses come with the gift and I'd rather 'see beyond' than live blindly.
Every time it gets a little better. A little more together in the chest, more apart in the joints. Loud music will do that to you. I discovered last night that all my friends can dance. I decided it was because they were all either dancers or musicians with adequate rhythm, yet still, I was halted in my own shuffling to stop and stare. Stealing inspiration like Winona Ryder in a vintage shop. Thank you Jacob, Tomer, Stevie Pipes, Jack, Zachary P., and Melana. And did I say TOMER? lol nice kid. We got sweaty fast, making us sticky with smiles and though the songs were not in our heartbeats, they were certainly in our pulses.
Certain birthday goers had the familiar issue of DND: dancer not dancing. I know this syndrome. Sometimes after a dancer has trained so hard to be in tune with controlling every muscle movement in themselves, it's easy to forget how to let go and shake your hair around a little. Forget about the fact that there's no choreography, this is how choreography gets made. Just jump. Jump until you don't feel good. Or take pictures of me, I'll pose for you any day lol.
I, of course, did silly scene gurl things. Ya know, the things I do when I get too brave for my own good. I looked for too long, until there was eye contact, I texted when I could've waited, I offered compliments with that smile that Mike McG knows is all too guilty beneath the surface. Andre Palmer and I have seemingly found something new to bond over, that is, getting into trouble. We're both real good at it and are in the process of developing our codified language so that Nate will never find out what we're actually discussing. : )
In retrospect, which is the tense I always think in on the car ride home, the darkness was fun. It's easier to see certain things in the dark, though harder to learn lessons. Those come in the light reality after wards. But there's spotlight in the dimness that takes both purpose and patience to achieve. And it's my favorite kind of center stage.
...Shawty Watch-a-lot.
"Your Love" by: The Outfield
Friday, March 13, 2009
it's a love story, baby just say yes!
The only quiet time during Dance Adelphi week is the few extra hours we have in between the Friday Matinee and Friday Evening show. I've been sitting, obviously, watching and writing when I can and I thought my dancer followers might appreciate some notes on them while I have the time. So I have to ask you, what do you see when you look at a bunch of dried roses?...
Even delicate Natalie agrees- "This is shitty." The simplicity of this statement makes me laugh. She laughs too, though I can see in her tattered legs warmers and beaten shoes what an absurdly understated comment it really is. The warm-up was a killer. Of course we were a little late and talked a little too much at barre, but the work was the same. I finally feel the ballet love that all the greats swear by. I used to wonder in angst why anyone would want to do the same shit day in and day out, how boring that is! But now in my old age (old, in dancer years), I have come to cherish the consistency of a good ballet barre; grateful for it's predictability in such an unstable world.
Pancakes for dinner! The green room is focused but frazzled with the time honored task of pancaking. To pancake a shoe means to cover it with tan makeup or various other substances to make it the same color as your complexion. Basically, turning pink slippers contemporary. There's no great art in pancaking, which is evident as I observe dancers sprawled out in every position trying to avoid "splotchiness" and getting powder everywhere.
Laura Jane (stage manager) perches atop the staircase where as a freshman I once watched Shoshanna get lifted feet above the Olmstead Theatre every night for A Dream Play. That tech assignment was how I got close to Michelle and Erin. Now I call them Meesh and E.Woods. LJC calls 15 till places. She is as alive and gracious as the single yellow rose she is holding. A glittery cloud of chatter puffs and flows over the dressing rooms - excited dancers wipe off warm up sweat and transform into the gorgeous women they all are. There is little clothing being worn. Opening gifts are everywhere; crates of clementines waiting in every dressing cage from Jennifer, a fruit platter from the LD Debra. Roses from Alexandre. Beautifully spoken blessings from Frank. I will always love that man.
"10 till places!"
Alex frets over Sam, who has cut his hair without permission, and over Jessie, who went tanning the afternoon of Opening Nite and now closely resembles a rock lobster. She, as Jessie so often does, smartly talks her way out of it, assuring him that she'll look gooooorgeous tomorrow. The understudies sit calm in the comfy green room chairs. They no doubt wish they too were frantically smoothing on eye shadows, yet they are happy to be caught up in the moments. Moments that will stay with them whether they like it or not.
"Places! We are at Places!"
I can't figure out how that final call always sneaks up on a cast although there are warnings every 5 minutes for a half and hour prior to it. A blur of Skittles runs by and LJC urges the Seseme Street Suite cast not to run. Ziggy lingers at the fruit platter, stuffing her chipmunk cheeks with cantelope until somebody pushes her along.
Dancers are always eating. And being gross. Dancers are gross people. They talk about pooping, being gassy, having hair in awkward places, and getting pimples around their mouths.
Tim burps loudly and allows it to linger. Everyone stops their chatter to groan and he just shouts, "It was Ellie!" referring to the prima ballerina of the department.
Alex, "Thank you, Tim. My god everyone burps here. This isn't a school, it's a fucking farm!"
Tre's piece goes on and Meesh briefly freaks out that she has sat in brown junk with her poofy white costume. She has not, and we convince her to go to places. Melana comes out in the most hideous outfit I have ever laid eyes on. Even Alex is stunned to silence. How do I descirbe this, I say. Tim's words are "the floppiest pancake clown shoes I've ever seen." She has black cutoff capris under my pretty pink chiffon dress and a red and black houndstooth scarf tied around her like a cape. Gorgeoness? When intermission starts and Tre's cast returns, Meesh comes rushing over to me already ripping her costume off and whispering about how on her leg she was tonight. Note: "on your leg" means to be on balance, correctly placed and centered. Tre himself comes back in near tears shouting, "Work babies!"
We're back to talking about bowels. Kaitlin warns her cast mates that she's still feeling a little gassy. Ziggy admits that she let one lose right as she jumped into the light for Pinball. We are gross people. Michelle reads Cosmo out loud while we eat all her Amish friendship bread and Kelly Butterworth tells secrets of how she, the goodie girl, got detention as a kindergartner. When the act is over, we will probably be very obnoixous and scream- I mean sing -some throw back song or just one of the tunes self warm ups have made classic. Triple threats. And this routine will go on, every night for a week and a half, until the show closes and we have but memories of these glittery clouds and half naked sing-a-longs.
What do you see when you look at a bunch of dried roses? I see this.
...Ricky.
"Love Story" by: Taylor Swift
Even delicate Natalie agrees- "This is shitty." The simplicity of this statement makes me laugh. She laughs too, though I can see in her tattered legs warmers and beaten shoes what an absurdly understated comment it really is. The warm-up was a killer. Of course we were a little late and talked a little too much at barre, but the work was the same. I finally feel the ballet love that all the greats swear by. I used to wonder in angst why anyone would want to do the same shit day in and day out, how boring that is! But now in my old age (old, in dancer years), I have come to cherish the consistency of a good ballet barre; grateful for it's predictability in such an unstable world.
Pancakes for dinner! The green room is focused but frazzled with the time honored task of pancaking. To pancake a shoe means to cover it with tan makeup or various other substances to make it the same color as your complexion. Basically, turning pink slippers contemporary. There's no great art in pancaking, which is evident as I observe dancers sprawled out in every position trying to avoid "splotchiness" and getting powder everywhere.
Laura Jane (stage manager) perches atop the staircase where as a freshman I once watched Shoshanna get lifted feet above the Olmstead Theatre every night for A Dream Play. That tech assignment was how I got close to Michelle and Erin. Now I call them Meesh and E.Woods. LJC calls 15 till places. She is as alive and gracious as the single yellow rose she is holding. A glittery cloud of chatter puffs and flows over the dressing rooms - excited dancers wipe off warm up sweat and transform into the gorgeous women they all are. There is little clothing being worn. Opening gifts are everywhere; crates of clementines waiting in every dressing cage from Jennifer, a fruit platter from the LD Debra. Roses from Alexandre. Beautifully spoken blessings from Frank. I will always love that man.
"10 till places!"
Alex frets over Sam, who has cut his hair without permission, and over Jessie, who went tanning the afternoon of Opening Nite and now closely resembles a rock lobster. She, as Jessie so often does, smartly talks her way out of it, assuring him that she'll look gooooorgeous tomorrow. The understudies sit calm in the comfy green room chairs. They no doubt wish they too were frantically smoothing on eye shadows, yet they are happy to be caught up in the moments. Moments that will stay with them whether they like it or not.
"Places! We are at Places!"
I can't figure out how that final call always sneaks up on a cast although there are warnings every 5 minutes for a half and hour prior to it. A blur of Skittles runs by and LJC urges the Seseme Street Suite cast not to run. Ziggy lingers at the fruit platter, stuffing her chipmunk cheeks with cantelope until somebody pushes her along.
Dancers are always eating. And being gross. Dancers are gross people. They talk about pooping, being gassy, having hair in awkward places, and getting pimples around their mouths.
Tim burps loudly and allows it to linger. Everyone stops their chatter to groan and he just shouts, "It was Ellie!" referring to the prima ballerina of the department.
Alex, "Thank you, Tim. My god everyone burps here. This isn't a school, it's a fucking farm!"
Tre's piece goes on and Meesh briefly freaks out that she has sat in brown junk with her poofy white costume. She has not, and we convince her to go to places. Melana comes out in the most hideous outfit I have ever laid eyes on. Even Alex is stunned to silence. How do I descirbe this, I say. Tim's words are "the floppiest pancake clown shoes I've ever seen." She has black cutoff capris under my pretty pink chiffon dress and a red and black houndstooth scarf tied around her like a cape. Gorgeoness? When intermission starts and Tre's cast returns, Meesh comes rushing over to me already ripping her costume off and whispering about how on her leg she was tonight. Note: "on your leg" means to be on balance, correctly placed and centered. Tre himself comes back in near tears shouting, "Work babies!"
We're back to talking about bowels. Kaitlin warns her cast mates that she's still feeling a little gassy. Ziggy admits that she let one lose right as she jumped into the light for Pinball. We are gross people. Michelle reads Cosmo out loud while we eat all her Amish friendship bread and Kelly Butterworth tells secrets of how she, the goodie girl, got detention as a kindergartner. When the act is over, we will probably be very obnoixous and scream- I mean sing -some throw back song or just one of the tunes self warm ups have made classic. Triple threats. And this routine will go on, every night for a week and a half, until the show closes and we have but memories of these glittery clouds and half naked sing-a-longs.
What do you see when you look at a bunch of dried roses? I see this.
...Ricky.
"Love Story" by: Taylor Swift
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