I Will Follow You Into the Dark

This time of year, 9 years ago, I had a conversation with my friend Sarah as we walked across a parking lot to her car. She was casting a show for which I had just auditioned.

"Alli," she said to me, "I have had a hard time with this. I was going to cast you as the lead, but" she paused, "I would like to not? Is that OK? I want to give you a smaller part because I need help with getting this show up and you're really good at that... is that ok?"

My answer was, of course. Proud, I was, to have her turn to me when she needed help, and proud I remained of her accomplishment with that show. That was the first time I had produced anything for anyone other than my family and close family friends.

It was an odd tidbit from life to remember randomly as you're walking down Broadway one March afternoon, alone. Yesterday was exactly 8 years, 2 months and 10 days since Sarah died. There are some things you never get over. I thought that as I looked up at the billboards that line the buildings of this, the world's theatrical epicenter.

Yesterday I was accepted into an extremely prestigious (if not the most prestigious) graduate program where I, for three years, will study producing and theatre management. Overcome with joy is an understatement. I called my mom during my lunch break and screamed and yelled and jumped up and down as I walked to the gym. When I got there I changed, walked down to the bikes and before I had even begun I heard a voice.

"Alli," the voice said.
I turned around and there was my friend, a not-so-great friend, but good friend of the crew back home (which makes him like family) with whom I've shared meals and run into all over the place. His face is blown up and big and the center focus on posters and billboards and subway advertisements that promote his very-much-a-hit off-Broadway musical that was merely a nice draft he mentioned to me the day we met years and years ago. He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.
"How are you sweetie?" he asked me.
"Great!" I replied. "I just found out I got into grad school!"
"Thats amazing!" he replied, and kissed me again. "Congrats!"

I beamed and continued my workout. On my way back to work I walked right past the theatre where RENT (ironically produced by the same guy who is produing my friend's very-much-a-hit off-broadway musical) has been playing for years and years and years. My eye caught the graffitti'd wall, the part where someone had written "525,600." I choked up. I remembered those nights when Sarah would drive me back from rehearsal in her family's station wagon and she'd blast RENT and make me sing in harmony to her always out of tune, but always full of fun, voice. How, I wondered, did I get from there to here? How lucky I am.

Tonight a show opens on Broadway called The Year of Magical Thinking, which is based on a book about the loss of a woman's husband. Many people in my office have seen it and their responses range from "amazing, incredible, I was totally moved" to "it didn't affect me that much." The latter comment is usually followed by a, "but I've never experienced death before."

At the top of the b-roll footage for the show Vanessa Redgrave (who is the lead, and the only person in the show) says "Life comes at you fast." Usually, I giggle, but when I heard it yet again yesterday afternoon I smiled.

Hope is a delicate thing. When you lose so much at such a young age it is very difficult to fill yuorself with hope. Rose colored glasses are a joke. Life, as you know it, is tainted. However, there is only one choice: to survive. And the only way to survive is to dive into life with a blinding passion and do everything you possibly can to suck as much from everything as much as possible all the time. Often, you forget. But sometimes, in a moment, or a series of moments over the course of an hour or two, you remember, and all at once you can see how you went from A to B and life plateaus once again into the perfect, painful balance of joy, loss, success, failure and gratitude for everything and everyone that got you to where you are.

The story they've been wanting me to write.

For a couple months now my friends (and mother!) have wanted me to write out the following story for their own personal amusement I'm sure.

Here goes:

Back in December this company I'm freelancing for had a kick-off party at a bar downtown. The timing couldn't had been more perfect, as it was precisely 12th days after I had my heart's little pieces shattered into a thousand more. Drama aside, on came the fishnets, the heels, the skirt, and out came the VISA card. The goal was to get very very drunk and very very much make out with someone. In all, the night was successful.

I ended up in some boy's apartment that had floor to ceiling windows and a view to kill... and I ended up staying there the night... and a good portion of the morning because the boy remembered how I took my coffee and went to buy me some. After the coffee was consumed, and the chatting about various film and theatre producers subsided he started to argue with me about how Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals are the best ever and Broadway has no idea what it's doing. To prove his argument he started blasting aforementioned Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals and trying to tell me that I had no idea what I was talking about. I pulled on the skirt and heels and left.

Upon arrival back at my apartment my roommate took one look at me and said, "I was worried about you. When I left you last night I knew you were in pure walk-of-shame dress." We laughed out loud.

The next day I ended up in the emergency room, with a minor medical incident that left me missing that Sunday's Redskins game. Misery.

Two days later I got a voicemail from the boy saying that he had a really good time and was I free for dinner later that week. I deleted the message and put the phone down.

Dinner? Like, dinner dinner? Dinner with a boy is not usually on my agenda when I wear fishnets to a bar. But I'm not usually one to say no to any opportunity, really, so I texted him back, sure. (I hate talking on the phone) After a series of texts the date, time and place was set - all by him. Proactivity = A+.

I showed up at the restaurant in question - a pretty hip tapas place south of 42nd street (where I rarely go). On my away he called. He was running late. Profuse apologies. I said no worries, and saddled up to the bar with a Sangria. When that was over he showed up, flustered, apologetic. We got out table and sat down.

After a few minutes of awkward conversation he said, "I feel like you're mad at me"
"Well," I said, "I'm not. You need to get over that."
"I'm really sorry I'm late"
"I don't care"
That's pretty much all we talked about for the next few minutes until he actually, no joke, I am not lying to you, said to me, "I feel like you were a lot more fun and interesting the last time we hung out."

Seriously.

Now, New York City is a pretty rad place. Great places to go pretty much all the time. Great restaurants, bars, et all. The problem is is that New York is kinda crowded, and downtown New York restaurants are really crowded on Thursdays so crowded in fact that it is physically impossible for you to grab your bag and walk out of the room. So I was stuck. Stuck with a total asshole loser who was not nearly as attractive as he was when I was completely wasted.

So that was that. The worst date of all time. It wasn't even 1/10 of a block before I called my roommate and told her what had happened. In under a half hour I was home, with a glass of wine waiting for me.

***

Now flash forward a couple of weeks to New Years Eve weekend. My trouble-maker friend Laura is in town from DC and we're sitting on my couch terrifically hungover at 4:30 in the afternoon when my phone rings... and it's the boy. (Every modern woman knows it's important to keep certain people's numbers - and sometimes locations where you met them as a reminder - in your phone so you know when NOT to answer) I scream, out loud, at the top of my lungs, and throw the phone at her.
"What a fucking moron!" I scream at her and we both double over in laugher.

A somewhat tragic story, sure, but enormously comical no doubt.

A note to the males: If you tell a girl that she was "a lot more fun and interesting the last time you hung out," she's probably not going to have sex with you ever again. Even if the sex was good.

Easier said than done

I often wonder why the simplest things in life seem to be the hardest to do. I have recently come to the conclusion that wanting a fun, simple, light relationship-ish with a boy who's cool, smart and great in bed is just about the most impossible thing to find. A year ago I was in an extremely intense, very deeply in-love relationship that ended about 40 years before I thought it would. Followed that were two brief flings that we thought fit the previously mentioned description - one, new, the other a rekindling of something old. Queen of the Grey Area, I think is what I called myself last night. What I don't get is why it has to be all or nothing? Deeply in love or fuck buddy? I want neither, and apparently that is the most difficult thing in the world to find.

Over the course of the last year my overall perception of love has fallen to pieces for reasons we won't get into now, and it has become increasingly mind-blowing to me how any two people could possibly stay in a relationship for an extended period of time. What weight we all carry with us. How on earth are you ever supposed to be on the same page as another human being at just the right moment? A virtual impossibility, I think it is. For we are the generation that carry novellas with us, and whose lives are booked solid. No time, too many words.

I hope, that sometime before these 20s are over that I'll find myself with someone simple, easy. I will not find myself deeply in love, and I will not find myself in The Grey Area. A simple definition, nothing long-lasting, but pleasantly content for a few weeks/months time is the ideal. Taking over the world seems simple enough. Finding the right boy at the right time, the impossible.

Behind the velvet ropes

One of the most fascinating things about my job is how I develop all kinds of relationships with people I've never met face to face. So last night, at a very very fancy party with very very fancy people I decided - after a few vodka tonics - that it would be a good idea to march right up to a VIP member of the press with whom I speak almost daily (but have never met face-to-face) and introduce myself.

And that I did.

"Sam*," I said, "Alli. Nice to finally meet you!"
"Alli!" He stuck out his hand. "Wow! Nice to meet you too! Wow, you're totally not what I pictured you to be! You're stuatuesque!" Clearly the vodka tonics had been flowing freely.
"What'd you expect me to be like?" I asked. "Frumpy? Hiding under my desk, slitting my wrists." He laughed and pulled out the chair next to him.
"Sit," he said. And I did.

And when the drunken theatrical intellecutal conversation in which the Nederlanders and the Schoenfeld's also partook came to a nice pause, I excused myself and walked away, for discussing the tragectory of national theatrical economic and social impact over the last 50 years is not something I like to discuss with a little vodka in the blood stream. I prefer baseball. Or Quantum Physics.

This morning, exhausted, before I had finished my coffee, my boss came and stood right in front of my desk
"So which VIP reporter are you flirting with now Alli!?!??"
"I was NOT flirting with him! He was with me! It's not my fault." My co-worker who had been by my side last night came to explain.
"Oh yeah? Well, I don't believe you," my boss said. "And someone's going to be jealous" (Meaning the actual VIP reporter who I have a legit crush on. Our face-to-face meeting is one of the story books, let me tell you.

Being chastised in general I can handle, pre-coffee chastising I cannot.

Later, my boss walks up to my desk. "This has been the longest fucking week."
"I'm so exhausted," I say.
"Well, of course you are," he says, "flirting with every journalist on Broadway!"

A few hours later the phone rang.

"Alli." It was Sam.
"Hey..."
"It was good to meet you last night."
"Yeah, you too."
"Now I have an entirely different image of you. Tall. Gorgeous. Intellectual."
"...thanks?" I replied, trying to keep my eyes open through the lack of sleep.

The notion of celebrity has always fascinated me. We have our top 5 VIP reporters, who are the single most influential people my office deals with. We coordinate red carpet arrivals and parties to which we invite celebrities who will in turn bring out all kinds of press for us. Last night, as Sarah Jessica Parker and Nathan Lane and Mario Cantone and Victor Garber, etc etc etc all walked by I felt like I knew them. When you put a face to that name, to the voice on the phone, your reality in turn gets shaken a bit in the sense that it actually becomes reality, and not a fantasy. This is actually happening. You are actually building relationships. You cannot hide under your desk. This is your life.






*the names have been changed to protect the innocent!

A couple weeks ago I had one of those perfect, spontaneous, lovely, serendipitous nights. In my dirty jeans I jumped on a train and met up with a boy, and we went for a pitcher of Yuengling, some stale popcorn and laughs - totally unexpected. I always like moments like that because 50% of you is enjoying yourself for obvious reasons (cute boy, great beer, popcorn), and the other 50% of you is enjoying yourself because you didn't actually think at ALL that you'd be with a cute boy, drinking Yuengling and eating popcorn and laughing that night. All a surprise, all quite fun.

Anyway, after that the boy hailed me a cab, kissed me on the lips (a few times...) and off I went home, curled up in the back seat.

My cab driver was amazing. The second I slumped back into my seat he said, "Did I come at the wrong time?"
"Excuse me?" I responded.
"Did I come at the wrong time? You were kissing that boy. Sometimes I don't know if I should keep driving!"
Only in New York will you climb into a cab and start talking about your sex life with a total stranger.

When that was all over he started asking me what I did for a living, why I was out late, what I was working on.
"You know, one time I had that woman. Sarah? Very small, on that sex show? She was in my cab."
"Sarah Jessica Parker?"
"Yes, her. She is very nice. And that other? Elizabeth? The one with the stripping?"
I laughed. "Elizabeth Berkely."
"Yes!"

Uptown we chatted about various celebrities he had run-ins with. Central Park whizzed by to my right. I love, love New York for nights just like that.

And what I love even more is the total unpredictability of this city. I never thought that night would happen, and I certainly never thought it would have anything to do with anything else in my life... until now.

Sitting in my boss' office just now looking over the attendee list for tonight's big flashy Broadway opening I grinned a little bit when I saw that both Elizabeth Berkely and Sarah Jessica Parker will be in attendance. Meant to be? Maybe a little. If not, it's always nice to know that even amidst the chaos of this city, maybe some things happen for a reason.

March Madness

Like clockwork, I always seem to lose my mind in March. Without a doubt, every year at this time some nor'easter (if you will...) has gotta come charging up the coast to dump literal (and proverbial) ice all over the damn place. I. Hate. March.

You see, it's been months since there's been any excitement. We survived the holidays, we ate up the end of the football season, we survived Valentines day, and then we're left with March. 31 days of pure pain and torture.

It is safe to say I have lost my mind.

Coupled with the lack of sporting event with which to center my life around, I have just opened a play. I remember in high school and college what post show depression feels like. Hell, the show isn't even over and last night all I wanted to do was shoot myself in the face. Back in January I put myself into hyper-drive (surprise!), and dove straight into the show quite pleased that it closes the day before baseball begins. Brilliant timing! What a distraction! Yes! Yes! Yes! Then it snowed, and we opened, and I have nothing left to control.

I'm totally sick of my boots, I'm sick of my sweaters, I hate my coat. For two days I got to breathe spring-ish air and fantasize about what spring brings along with it. New York emerges. We wander the streets, eat ice cream, find pleasure in laying on benches. April in New York City, my friend Chris once said, is like mating season. Hell, we're human, Bring. It. On.

But noooo... last night my laundry was done, my cupboards were full of food, my room was (kinda) clean, there was no show for every 24 hours, and it was fucking cold... so I spent my time revamping my myspace profile, staring at my shelves of books remembering how good it feels to read, and pacing, literally pacing back and forth and back and forth from one end of my aparment to another.

People think it's funny when I say I'm depressed between the Super Bowl and baseball's opening day. "Oh, there goes Alli, being a cool girl again/maybe just trying to get attention, har har har." Well, NO. It's March and the ground is frozen and my heart and soul are frozen and all I can remember is how much easier things were back in October.

Now, now that I have gone March-Mad, all I can think about is the end...

are we there yet?

The Misplaced Anger

Today, as I was walking by the GAP I got irrationally angry. (Clearly misplaced anger bubbling up. Not enough gym time or yuengling to erase this week! But one should never be that angry at a clothing store.)

The boyfriend khaki is the GAP's new product of the moment. Stringy-haired blondes in "boyfriend" style khakis adorn the display windows, billboards, magazine ads... WHY, I wondered as I glared at the display from underneath my hat, IS IT THE BOYFRIEND KHAKI?! Now, not only is the GAP trying to sell me cookie-cutter clothing, it's telling me that because I am a single woman I am not trendy. I must wear the boyfriend khaki!

But what if I don't want the boyfriend khaki?

What if I want to wear the friend-with-benefits sweatpants and pair it with the fuck buddy tank?

I don't have time for boyfriends, or boyfriend khakis, or khakis for that matter.

I'm going to be single and naked for the rest of my life, GAP! That's what I think!

And it doesn't sound that bad does it?