Martin and I are in back, the cast’s quarters for the XANADU opening night party, the place that I’m sure will be unused—it’s always an unnecessary hassle because most of the time the cast wants to be getting drunk with their admires—eating the remains of Yoshi’s salmon lettuce wraps. They are delicious, along with the orange chicken. I don’t know why, but for some reason tonight’s “Venice Beach” menu of hamburgers and corn dogs just don’t really sell my stomach. Eat up because we must venture to the liquor cabinet and pull a copious amount of alcohol, theatre’s only true form of payment.
All the rounds are made: my operation peeps, my box office peeps, and actual marshmallow peeps on the dessert table. Tonight, I’m not driving. I’ve done it at all the other parties so this is the one where I get to hand my keys off to someone else then hit the bar. Again…and again…and uhgen…’n ugg-in…from there, why the dance floor of course! I’m a crazy drunk club girl at this point, but it’s okay, namely because I haven’t been one for quite some time. Dancing with Jen, dancing with Ned, dancing with Martin and Desiree, and then dancing with Jonny C. who, as it appears, has traded in his suite pants for a pair of silver-glitter biker shorts (emphasis on the “short”) he stole off the merchandise manikin. When did this happen!?! He had a full dress suite on a few minutes ago! I turn my head and Jonny C’s getting’ his freak on every which way…
…Keep dancing, keep drinking…hey, there’s one of the girls from XANADU. Snap a picture, she snaps off her bra. Wait, what!?! So now I’m dancing around with a cute lesbian’s bra on head for about five minutes until the gay boys swipe it from me and it is lost to the throng of performers. I’m really sorry if that was a good bra but I highly doubt you’ll get it back (and even if you do, clean it thoroughly or better yet, just throw it out)…
…Okay, it’s all getting way too bizarre in here. I’m looking at the FLASHING…Flashing…flashing….LIGHTS…Lights…lights…and through them I see two people making out who, for the absolute life of me, should not be making out. Even I know that and I’m hammered as a nail. A string of reasons run through my head: because you are in the show together…because he’s very, very gay…and because his boyfriend is right there giving you two the look of death. Oh, you’ve noticed him too. The boys go off together, I imagine to work things out, laugh the whole thing off (probably not) and she goes off to dance with the three ten-year-old boys who are her biggest fans tonight…
…The November fog has settled over the hill and makes the street lamps look like motionless fireflies caught in plastic bags, glowing warm, unearthly yellow on the parking lot. I’m in my car, it’s 2:30 in the morning, and I’m just letting the cold air fill my lungs. That was another great perk of New York; just walk it off on your way back home. Now I got to sober up and I will, but oh god, it’s going to hurt in the morning…when, in six hours, I must return to clean the whole thing up.
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