Electric City: Brooklyn, AZ
On Sunday, The American Theatre Wing celebrated the 60th Annual Tony Awards at Radio City Music Hall in New York City, and, like the theatre junkie that I am, I tuned in at 8 p.m. sharp.
Usually throughout the show, I experience various emotional peaks and valleys. Excitement, joy, envy, reflection, sadness and boredom -- I get them all. I won't lie and say that I don't cry either, because I do. Those full cast numbers with everybody singing different parts get me every time.
---
I meet Brooklyn during "Theatre in New York" -- a 2003 summer class at New York University. She sits beside me in the second row, and we quickly develop rapport as we discuss our first days in the city. While I watched the chess players, she met Jimmy Fallon, whom she then blew him off when her cell phone rang. While I ate Tai food, she went to Coyote Ugly.
Brooklyn, ironically, is from Arizona. She is bubbly and fashionable and the flirtiest girl that I have ever met. Think Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde, but make her a brunette. Minus the fashion, she has two strikes against her, but she wins me over when she compliments my make-up.
The thing I like about Brooklyn is her appreciation of New York. She comes to class two minutes before the tardy bell, beaming and carrying a variety of shopping bags, and I usually find myself summarizing the second half of the reading assignment for her. It's fine, though, because she helps me with my books and the elevator. Brooklyn loves the city almost as much as me, and during her six weeks here she is going to experience as much as she can.
One Friday, Brooklyn and I decide it would be fun to go to the 57th Annual Tony Awards. We know we won't get in, but we certainly could stand outside Radio City Music Hall and watch Broadway's finest walk the red carpet.
I'm not really a fan of award shows. In fact, most years I can barely force myself to sit through the Academy Awards' opening monologue -- unless, of course, the underappreciated Jon Stewart or the adorable Billy Crystal mesmerizes me. The Tony's, though, it's my show. Forget Julia Roberts, where's Joanna Gleason?
Watching the Tony's sweeps me into a kind of two-hour fantasy. Since I was a little girl I have dreamt of being a dancer -- a chorus girl in a Broadway show. I love to watch the clips from plays and musicals performed, and when I was younger, I'd tape the Awards and memorize every live performance.
We plan to meet Sunday at 6 p.m. outside Radio City. No problem, I think. I'll go shopping for a few hours on Fifth Avenue then mosey a block over and save us a spot. Wrong. In my excitement I forget to check my calendar, and when I exit the m6 bus at 59th Street, I find myself in the middle of the Puerto Rican Day Parade's aftermath.
For a 4'6" woman who sits at ass-level, hundreds of thousands of people of any nationality in a 10-block radius is horrifying, but imagine five boroughs worth of proud Latinos celebrating in the streets. I attempt to walk east on 57th Street, but I am swimming against the heavy current. I turn around and flow wherever the sea of red, blue and white takes me.
After nearly a half hour of being stumbled over or nearly crammed off the curb, I seek refuge in French Connection. Driving around the store for nearly an hour, much to the agitation of the staff, I emerge purchase-less onto the now less crowded sidewalk and make my way to Radio City.
Partitions have been set up to corral the tourists and theatre enthusiasts -- I consider myself more the latter, but looking back I'm not so sure -- so I ease into a area of seven or eight women. I have just gotten settled when an officer notices me. He ushers me to an empty gate specifically for the press. Thankful for his help, I tell him I am waiting for a friend and proceed to watch the stars from my private pen.
Brooklyn arrives soon after and alongside b-list reporters we photograph the red carpet. Although we can only see the actors' heads and profiles, we still snap picture after picture on our disposable cameras. It doesn't matter that, in the developed film, nobody but us will be able to distinguish the back of John Lithgow's head from behind a spotlight; we were there.
As the last guests arrive and the carpet clears, we walk along 51st Street toward Fifth Avenue. We immediately stop when a black limousine parks and Barbara Walters steps out. She looks good for her age, yet still older than I expected. I say nothing, fumbling to reach my camera and muttering obscenities as Brooklyn is already off the curb and shaking Barbara's hand. She, Barbara not Brooklyn, poses for a picture and continues to walk toward Radio City.
A member of the NYPD chats with Brooklyn as I put my camera away. This ought to be interesting, I think, and wander over to meet my friend. It is here that I witness the power of a hot girl. She giggles and smiles, her perfect teeth gleaming from her tan face. The officer is clearly infatuated, and when Brooklyn asks if she can wear his helmet and sit on his motorcycle, he is all too eager to oblige. I laugh when she straddles the bike in her skirt, as I am certain somebody's helmet got a bit tighter.
Unfortunately, my real-life episode of Sex and the City ends prematurely when Officer Horndog needs to escort "someone famous" to Times Square. But not before he offers Brooklyn his number. To my surprise, however, she refuses. "I don't call boys. You can call me," she coos, scribbling her number on a receipt. I marvel at this concept, because while the gesture seems old-fashioned, Brooklyn has effortlessly gained complete control.
I think about this as we walk down Fifth. I have time to think, as Brooklyn occupies herself on her cell phone. Since meeting her, I have learned that no matter who you are, you will always be the third-wheel when with Brooklyn. Her cell phone never stops ringing, and she never stops talking, and you never can say more than a few sentences about the sex appeal of New York's Finest before the next call.
She hangs up as we approach a small Mexican restaurant near Times Square. We have just decided on a meal when her phone rings -- again; it's Officer Horndog asking where we (read: she) are. Within minutes, he and his buddy arrive. I have had enough of being a wallflower by this time, so I fake interest in the restaurant's grande selection of three enchiladas.
I can only stare blankly through the glass window at the laminated menu for so long, though, and thank God when two businessmen approach. I recognize them from a few blocks ago; they had stopped us earlier, asking if we knew of a good sushi place. We talk about how funny it is to run into the same people in such a large city and how they had been Tony red carpet watching themselves. I know that I am flirting with the out-of-towners; they are handsome. At least I wasn't straddling the one's briefcase.
The Brooklyn-PD leaves as my businessmen continue their sushi quest. As the sound of the motorcycles fade, we hear singing. At first only a voice can be heard, but as we near Times Square, a piano also becomes audible. Turning onto Broadway, I see Billy Joel on a stage elevated above a crowd of spectators. Must be the "someone famous," I think.
We watch and listen for a while, but decide it's been a long day and wait for a bus to downtown. While waiting, I silently absorb the city as Brooklyn chatters away on her phone. She does stop for a minute, however, so we can take a picture with a group of FDNY firefighters.
We never did get to eat our enchiladas and need food badly by the time we return to the East Village. In a local McDonald's we order two cheeseburgers and sit down in a small side area. Brooklyn asks if I need any help, and I'm curious as to why her approach seems so casual and non-patronizing. Without asking, she offers the answer, "My brother's a quad." Sitting there under the flourescent lights and the yellow and red tiled walls, we have our first and only real conversation.
Once home, I rewind the tape I had set to record the Tony's. The opening shot is Billy Joel performing live from Times Square.
Usually throughout the show, I experience various emotional peaks and valleys. Excitement, joy, envy, reflection, sadness and boredom -- I get them all. I won't lie and say that I don't cry either, because I do. Those full cast numbers with everybody singing different parts get me every time.
I meet Brooklyn during "Theatre in New York" -- a 2003 summer class at New York University. She sits beside me in the second row, and we quickly develop rapport as we discuss our first days in the city. While I watched the chess players, she met Jimmy Fallon, whom she then blew him off when her cell phone rang. While I ate Tai food, she went to Coyote Ugly.
Brooklyn, ironically, is from Arizona. She is bubbly and fashionable and the flirtiest girl that I have ever met. Think Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde, but make her a brunette. Minus the fashion, she has two strikes against her, but she wins me over when she compliments my make-up.
The thing I like about Brooklyn is her appreciation of New York. She comes to class two minutes before the tardy bell, beaming and carrying a variety of shopping bags, and I usually find myself summarizing the second half of the reading assignment for her. It's fine, though, because she helps me with my books and the elevator. Brooklyn loves the city almost as much as me, and during her six weeks here she is going to experience as much as she can.
One Friday, Brooklyn and I decide it would be fun to go to the 57th Annual Tony Awards. We know we won't get in, but we certainly could stand outside Radio City Music Hall and watch Broadway's finest walk the red carpet.
I'm not really a fan of award shows. In fact, most years I can barely force myself to sit through the Academy Awards' opening monologue -- unless, of course, the underappreciated Jon Stewart or the adorable Billy Crystal mesmerizes me. The Tony's, though, it's my show. Forget Julia Roberts, where's Joanna Gleason?
Watching the Tony's sweeps me into a kind of two-hour fantasy. Since I was a little girl I have dreamt of being a dancer -- a chorus girl in a Broadway show. I love to watch the clips from plays and musicals performed, and when I was younger, I'd tape the Awards and memorize every live performance.
We plan to meet Sunday at 6 p.m. outside Radio City. No problem, I think. I'll go shopping for a few hours on Fifth Avenue then mosey a block over and save us a spot. Wrong. In my excitement I forget to check my calendar, and when I exit the m6 bus at 59th Street, I find myself in the middle of the Puerto Rican Day Parade's aftermath.
For a 4'6" woman who sits at ass-level, hundreds of thousands of people of any nationality in a 10-block radius is horrifying, but imagine five boroughs worth of proud Latinos celebrating in the streets. I attempt to walk east on 57th Street, but I am swimming against the heavy current. I turn around and flow wherever the sea of red, blue and white takes me.
After nearly a half hour of being stumbled over or nearly crammed off the curb, I seek refuge in French Connection. Driving around the store for nearly an hour, much to the agitation of the staff, I emerge purchase-less onto the now less crowded sidewalk and make my way to Radio City.
Partitions have been set up to corral the tourists and theatre enthusiasts -- I consider myself more the latter, but looking back I'm not so sure -- so I ease into a area of seven or eight women. I have just gotten settled when an officer notices me. He ushers me to an empty gate specifically for the press. Thankful for his help, I tell him I am waiting for a friend and proceed to watch the stars from my private pen.
Brooklyn arrives soon after and alongside b-list reporters we photograph the red carpet. Although we can only see the actors' heads and profiles, we still snap picture after picture on our disposable cameras. It doesn't matter that, in the developed film, nobody but us will be able to distinguish the back of John Lithgow's head from behind a spotlight; we were there.
As the last guests arrive and the carpet clears, we walk along 51st Street toward Fifth Avenue. We immediately stop when a black limousine parks and Barbara Walters steps out. She looks good for her age, yet still older than I expected. I say nothing, fumbling to reach my camera and muttering obscenities as Brooklyn is already off the curb and shaking Barbara's hand. She, Barbara not Brooklyn, poses for a picture and continues to walk toward Radio City.
A member of the NYPD chats with Brooklyn as I put my camera away. This ought to be interesting, I think, and wander over to meet my friend. It is here that I witness the power of a hot girl. She giggles and smiles, her perfect teeth gleaming from her tan face. The officer is clearly infatuated, and when Brooklyn asks if she can wear his helmet and sit on his motorcycle, he is all too eager to oblige. I laugh when she straddles the bike in her skirt, as I am certain somebody's helmet got a bit tighter.
Unfortunately, my real-life episode of Sex and the City ends prematurely when Officer Horndog needs to escort "someone famous" to Times Square. But not before he offers Brooklyn his number. To my surprise, however, she refuses. "I don't call boys. You can call me," she coos, scribbling her number on a receipt. I marvel at this concept, because while the gesture seems old-fashioned, Brooklyn has effortlessly gained complete control.
I think about this as we walk down Fifth. I have time to think, as Brooklyn occupies herself on her cell phone. Since meeting her, I have learned that no matter who you are, you will always be the third-wheel when with Brooklyn. Her cell phone never stops ringing, and she never stops talking, and you never can say more than a few sentences about the sex appeal of New York's Finest before the next call.
She hangs up as we approach a small Mexican restaurant near Times Square. We have just decided on a meal when her phone rings -- again; it's Officer Horndog asking where we (read: she) are. Within minutes, he and his buddy arrive. I have had enough of being a wallflower by this time, so I fake interest in the restaurant's grande selection of three enchiladas.
I can only stare blankly through the glass window at the laminated menu for so long, though, and thank God when two businessmen approach. I recognize them from a few blocks ago; they had stopped us earlier, asking if we knew of a good sushi place. We talk about how funny it is to run into the same people in such a large city and how they had been Tony red carpet watching themselves. I know that I am flirting with the out-of-towners; they are handsome. At least I wasn't straddling the one's briefcase.
The Brooklyn-PD leaves as my businessmen continue their sushi quest. As the sound of the motorcycles fade, we hear singing. At first only a voice can be heard, but as we near Times Square, a piano also becomes audible. Turning onto Broadway, I see Billy Joel on a stage elevated above a crowd of spectators. Must be the "someone famous," I think.
We watch and listen for a while, but decide it's been a long day and wait for a bus to downtown. While waiting, I silently absorb the city as Brooklyn chatters away on her phone. She does stop for a minute, however, so we can take a picture with a group of FDNY firefighters.
We never did get to eat our enchiladas and need food badly by the time we return to the East Village. In a local McDonald's we order two cheeseburgers and sit down in a small side area. Brooklyn asks if I need any help, and I'm curious as to why her approach seems so casual and non-patronizing. Without asking, she offers the answer, "My brother's a quad." Sitting there under the flourescent lights and the yellow and red tiled walls, we have our first and only real conversation.
Once home, I rewind the tape I had set to record the Tony's. The opening shot is Billy Joel performing live from Times Square.
posted by Claire C. Cake at 9:17 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home