In the heart of little old New York,
You’ll find a thoroughfare.
It’s the part of little old New York
That runs into Times Square.
A crazy quilt that “Wall Street Jack” built,
If you’ve got a little time to spare,
I want to take you there.
This post is a little detour from the fantabulous adventures of the muppets. Theyâ€™re off celebrating Jim Hensonâ€™s 75th birthday. So, as I procrastinate packing for my very first Empire State of Mind trip to the Big Apple â€“ a little insight into my background of Broadway dreams.
Last night I had a hot date â€“ a grown up night out on the town â€“ with one of the roomies. Saratoga Civic Theatre is showing 42nd Street through Oct. 8. I HIGHLY recommend anyone in the Silicon Valley area go see it. Tickets are still available for the next two Friday and Saturday nights.
42nd Street is a Broadway musical about Broadway. The chorus line of dancers amid the glitz and glamour of show biz against the start dreary backdrop of the depression. It really gives the adage, â€œThe show MUST go on,â€ a whole new meaning.
The curtain opens three-quarters to reveal an ensemble of tap dancing feet â€“ the music of 42nd street. I turned to my date, and we smiled. It was easy to tell; we missed the drama, the dance and the company of the theatre.
Confession: I was a theatre geek. My hot date? One of my college roomies.
There were four of us who lived together as collegiate upperclassmen. Three were amazing dancers, with an amazing ability to sing. All with a flare for the dramatic. I was a bit of a misfit â€“ being that I cannot sing nor dance. (But I can count to 8 and I took Jazz 1 three times.)
I was the mystery roomie. The summer before my junior year, I was off cavorting on the British Isles. Allegedly I was going to be placed in the new university apartments. But I had no idea with whom. When we moved in, we were still missing half our furniture â€“ and working plumbing.
My first public dance performance was the Roomie Dance. The toilet broke. â€œUmm, Jenny. I think our apartment is floodingâ€¦â€
We were on the fourth of four floors. So this was bad. When we finally acquired a plunger, a happy plunger dance was in order. (I also found a photo of the four of us dressed as gogo dancers. But itâ€™s my blog and Iâ€™m not posting proof of that. Because seriously? What were we thinking?)
But through the years, we had some pretty amazing performances together. Ones that didnâ€™t involve dancing atop tables in celebration of triumphant toilets. At one point, we had so many swooning admirers that we ran out of flower vases. No matter, a blender will do in a pinch.
I worked backstage as my talented roomies took the stage in an annual dance competition. I might not be able to dance, but I can make sure the lights went up on them. We spent a mischievous spring cavorting in a Shakespearian summer â€“ as an angry mother, a drugged lover and a fairy â€“ in A Midsummer Nightâ€™s Dream. I conducted us all in a chorus of orgasming women in a V-day performance of the Vagina Monologues.
We were a good group. We are a good group. I may not be staring on Broadway any time soon, but donâ€™t miss 42nd Street, where one of my roomies is a star. They perform; I write about their performances. We just work. Plus, itâ€™s a great date.
Naughty, bawdy, gaudy, sporty,
Thatâ€™s where Iâ€™ll be.