Confessions of a Chicago Theatre Addict

Oh my goodness. What can be said?

Perfection.

Everything about it. From the company, to the food to the weather to the performances to the memories.

It was so great to see Sarah and Kristen and Kari. Kari really pulled out all the stops, allowing us to sleep in her (really, really comfortable) bed, while we banished her to a few blocks yonder.

Ms. Christine Ebersole in Grey Gardens. What can I say that hasn’t been said? Although she seemed a bit tired, the show made me cry big, fat crocodile tears at the end. Taking that step out of mother’s gate can be hard, and I felt it, Christine, I felt it. The two acts might be from two different shows, but it all works. I loved it.

But what is up with the mezzanine of the Walter Kerr? The thing is at such a crazy, steep rake, if you happened to trip walking down to your seat, you would surely tumble and fall into the orchestra pit below. It was completely nerve-rattling to see octogenarians crawling backwards down the steps to get to their seats – especially the latecomers in the dark. As Kari said, it was like I was at “Cats.” Truly.

Anyway – Grey Gardens is a fucking masterpiece and should be running forever and required viewing for anyone who appreciates performance or the arts or beauty or a challenge or music or theatre or talent. But it’s closing next weekend. And that’s pretty fucking pathetic, if you ask me. Wicked’s going strong, however, in case you cared.

Okay – so let’s just get down to the reason I came: Patti turned it out both nights – each night I walked out of City Center wowed with a big ol’ WOW face. You never see a performance like that onstage anymore. It was a star turn that erupted all over the audience (nice use of imagery, huh?), without the aide of a harnesses or green paint or pyrotechnics, even! Too bad we were placed in the “retarded rows” each night, with theatergoers who must have thought they were at Church. Asshats. At any rate, they were outnumbered by the masses screaming and standing and clapping and nearly running up on stage to carry her out the door and into the streets declaring it official Patti LuPone month in NYC. It doesn’t get any better than this, kids.

So after the show, we stage-doored, got autographs, I missed Claire Danes walking by, and we all headed over to a dining establishment recommended by Sarah. As we sat in the empty room, in walked Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman (writers of Hairspray the Musical), and their friends, where they sat down next to us. And before I could say “You’re a Roxy Usher,” in breezed Ms. LuPone, sitting merely feet behind Gator’s head.

I recall saying to Gator in some sort of crazy, breath-voice, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Noticing my freaked out look, everyone followed my gaze to the table, where we all froze. And then we proceeded to order several bottles of wine and basically be obnoxious. Sarah even did a fancy new wine-tasting technique where she snorted the wine up her nose. It must be a NYC thing.

We played it cool, eating contraband duck innards and drinking cheap, but wonderful, wine. Finally, Kari came up with the brilliant idea that I buy the diva a drink. After a little pep talk, I did, and the dirty martini was on its way to the table across from us.

Patti seemed confused, the waiter explained its origin, she looked over and seemed genuinely surprised. She thanked us and we toasted her and clapped. (Did I mention Boyd Gaines, Claire Danes and Hugh Dancy were sitting in the next room, 10 feet away?)

The group:

Sadly, all good things must end, and we allowed Kari to enter her apartment again. Prior to entering airport security, Gator and I stopped to reflect on the entire weekend over a few beers (twist my arm!) at LaGuardia.