rue-madame's Diaryland Diary

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Bialystock and Bloom

Friends, Matthew Br0derick did not delight me.

His understudy did.

And I was only upset for about a minute, mostly because Terence had spent a fortune and I didn�t want him to be disappointed that his present to me was less than perfect. It helps that the understudy was cute AND hugely talented. Maybe we witnessed a star being born?

Anyway, I think MB was here promoting The Stepf0rd Wives. WTF? Wouldn�t it be funny if I said, �Hey, his loss!� that he missed me in the audience, like he would have noticed my laughter or my shining eyes or my unique clapping above the rest?

His loss indeed!

Of course, when I explained this to Mr Bingo, he had a theory at the ready: that MB needs one night off a week to consummate his sham marriage to SJP. Am I so boondoggled by MB�s many charms that I do not know this rumor? Is it possible that Ferris Bueller is g-a-y?

I wouldn�t matter to me either way, my adoration does not have a sexual preference; it refuses to pick sides so it can have it both ways�even when the object of my affection mistakenly method-acts his way through Inspector Gadget. Why, Matthew, why?

The Producers was fantashtick. Nathan Lane and the entire cast were exceptional. Everything about it was genius: the sets, the staging, the choreography, the music and lyrics. Terence sang �Leo and Max� all the way back to New Haven.

I really feel fortunate to have been able to see the show in person, from such great seats. I could have done without the flatulent octogenarians to my left, the moon-sized bald pate right in front of me, and the general gigantism of the remaining audience. Does everything near Times Square have to be so goddamn monstrous? There�s like some magnetic, yeasty center that attracts and jumbotronifies everything around it?

On the superplus side, Sephora was open at 11pm! And people were shopping. If we hadn�t been hoofing it back to Grand Central to catch an 11:17 train, I would have run in there to buy some of this

The evening was marred only by my Wolford 66 fishnets getting trashed. The zipper pulls on my boots created symmetrical holes at calf-level across from eachother. I probably wouldn�t have strutted and peacocked up and down 42nd Street if I�d known, but you know what? Even with my punk-o-riffic trashy �ho fishnets, I still got looks from attractive, upwardly-mobile looking types.

Ho ho ho. Oh yeah.

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