The Daily Dump

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Thursday, June 15

The Tony Awards Called, And I Answered: The Finale


Sunday night was the night we were all waiting for. While the other two parties had been mere warm-ups, this was the real deal, Broadway’s biggest party of the year.

(Sidebar: I know, “Broadway’s biggest party of the year” sounds . . . sarcastic. But note two things: 1) it’s not like Hollywood where it’s SO huge that it’s splintered – if you went to the Tony’s and you wanted to drink right afterwards, chances are you were at Rockefeller Plaza for this party; and 2) Broadway actors know how to party. Think about it – they have struggled more than most hot dog vendors to even make a moderate splash in an industry that forgets your name faster than a used car salesman after closing a deal. It will really break a person down, to the point where they are not only without ego or conceit, but also proud alcoholics, which are invariably fun to be around. Unless they are your parents. Moving on.)

The party didn’t start until 11:00 so The Girlfriend and I watched a bit of the show while we were getting ready just in case we found ourselves in a conversation that made mention of something other than Cats or Phantom of the Opera. Luckily we were both sitting in front of the TV for this classic moment, when Christian Hoff gave his acceptance speech for winning Best Featured Actor in a Musical for his role in Jersey Boys:

TG and I sitting on the couch, half paying attention to the TV.

Me: “Should we eat now or do you think there will be food at the party?”

TG: “There will probably be food at the party.”

Hoff: “ . . . I thank my wife, Melissa Hoff, for coming to me and saving me and being there as a mother for my children, our new baby in her womb right now . . .”

Me: (sitting up suddenly) “Did he just say womb?”

TG: “He said womb.”

Camera flashes to Hoff’s wife seated in the audience.

Me: “Awkward moment. Awkward moment. Please don’t say womb again.”

TG: (still stunned) “Who says womb?”

We make it down to Rockefeller Center by 11:15 to meet our friends outside before walking in. As we turn the corner we see a flock of spectators huddled outside the entrance to the party peering over the gates to see who is arriving. My friend Matt and I whisper to each other “I love this, I love this” and squeeze our way through the crowd, hold up our invitations and walk in.

Now, I’m not one to get off on power trips and making other people feel small, but when you’re dressed in a suit with a pocket square entering a gala with a gowned woman on your arm, that feeling of humanity seems to cloud over. You think, “Wait, maybe I AM better than the guy in the boat shoes with white socks trying to get Bebe Neuwirth's attention . . .” And then you filter through the crowd over to the bar, get a round of drinks with your friends and toast: “Well, we didn’t win this year guys. But here’s to chasing the dream!” and the faces on everyone around you go straight into “Who are they?” mode.

And then you finish those drinks and get another round and you walk through the crowd towards the food and pile your plate with carved beef and salmon and you eat your food with champagne and a cocktail on the side because why not?, options are the order of the night. Then you are “offered” women in this sense: “My daughters are over there and they are all pretty you should go talk to them.” Things seem to come easier when you’re in a suit with a pocket square.

Eventually you make your way out to the dance floor, which is set on top of the Rockefeller Center skating rink, meaning there is nothing above you but sky and stars. The band is up on stage playing the classics. As you dance scotch is swishing out of your glass like it’s “a celebration of winning the revolutionary war” in one friend’s words, and why not?, because they’re charging by the sip and that charge is FREE. You make up lies to strangers about the details of your life because hey, this is Broadway after all, and no one cares anyway.

Finally, after the night comes to an untimely close, the band announces that this will be their last song and a frazzled middle-aged man runs to the lip of the stage and screams, “I’ve got $4,000 here for you to keep playing,” and your friend calmly approaches the stage and says, “I’ll match that $4,000,” then lights a cigarette and walks away because “I’ve got $4,000” is a foreign concept to him. You loosen your tie. All around you are recognizable stars, but you eventually stop taking notice because you are just having so goddamn much fun.

The night “ending” is neither an option nor a realistic possibility and people discuss where to go now. The after-after party. The post-post script. It’s 2:00 in the morning and you’ve still got places to be – more bars, more drinks, more celebration, until a cab ride home while the sun is coming up. So, yeah, it’s hard not to catch the bug when the whole situation smacks of “cooler than thou.”

That is until you wake up the next day (later that day) and go to work and ten minutes in you get a frantic call from Crazy June because her computer is “going berserk” and when you go over to her desk you see the cursor shooting down the screen and, lo and behold, a steno pad resting on the enter key. And six hours ago is a distant memory; Broadway’s already forgotten your name.

21 Comments:

So much fun! Wow.

I love love LOVE the berserk computer with the steno pad. I have a very clear mental image of Crazy June. She would fit right in with my clients. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've had that conversation with somebody...

By Blogger babyoog, at 3:51 PM  

There might have to be more stories of this Crazy June character. Really. Please?

And to your story, I say, yeah, well... I went to the MMVA's after party. (And this is where all Americans say, "what the hell is the MMVA?" and even after clarifying by noting it's the Much Music Video Awards no one knows. Being in Canada is just sad and lonely sometimes folks, sad and lonely.

By Blogger Kelly, at 4:06 PM  

Your story reminds me of the time I interned for a Senator and someone important mistook me for someone who is also important.

For a while it seemed like we could be friends even though I rented a small bedroom in a group house and attended these parties because without the free intern food I would starve, and he was the ambassador of a powerful nation. I pictured myself hanging out at his pool in the embassy, meeting his daughters and getting to third base with one of them in the cabana.

Then he found out I was only an intern and said something inaudible and left. I felt like one of those women in a spanish novella when she tells the rich patriach that her bastard son was, in fact, fathered by the pool boy (not the patriach) and then being tossed from the mansion.

LET ME BACK IN, DON JOSE!

By Blogger HomeImprovementNinja, at 4:07 PM  

HIN: That is why you LIE. Unless the bastard son is obviously of a different race than the mother and the patriach, because then, let's face it, you're probably not getting out of the situation anyways.

By Blogger Rebecca, at 4:21 PM  

BI:
While I was reading this post, I felt so small, so insignificant, so NOBODY - until the Crazy June part.

BTW - Did anyone else notice "womb?"

By Blogger Leezer, at 4:42 PM  

Wow, your girlfriend is stunning.






What? Who said that?

By Blogger T.G., at 4:59 PM  

Who's the guy that's not you in all the dancing pics? Is this someone we should automatically know? Did he just manifest from some womb somewhere? Is he the guy from Century 21?

By Blogger ❉ pixie ❉, at 5:21 PM  

Stunning is the perfect word - for you were the epitome of class.

By Anonymous Anonymous, at 5:31 PM  

HEY! I've been Crazy June! ...well, I actually figured it out before calling anyone, but STILL! hee hee.
Those pics of your friend dancing are PRICELESS! ...and, yes, TG, you're STUNNING! :)

By Blogger lena, at 5:32 PM  

They're just my friends. No one special.

(I'm kidding guys! You're all special in your own . . . special way. And that's special.)

By Blogger the belligerent intellectual, at 5:33 PM  

Is Scott wearing... a tux?

By Blogger Libby Mae Brown, at 5:37 PM  

I love this. I love throwing caution to the wind and champagne down my throat. Bravo.

By the way, the girl in the upper right of the first picture has a striking similarity to Rachel McAdams...is it her?

By Blogger Jenni, at 6:00 PM  

maybe I am libby...maybe I am.

By Blogger [Disgrundled], at 6:01 PM  

Why do I get the feeling that everyone in that first picture is dead?

By Blogger [Disgrundled], at 6:03 PM  

Getting wasted at The Tony's does seem a little more fun than telling that dumb broad that she should move the thing on her keyboard off the flipping enter key. Although, the latter could be fun if done correctly . . .

By Blogger Dr. Kenneth Noisewater, at 10:35 PM  

Just how did you come by invitations to the Tonys and the parties? Given your "Crazy June" story, I would say you were in IT, not publicity or advertising or such.

Crazy June reminds me of that blurb that ran like wildfire through the Net about the idiot who called Tech Support and thought the CD tray was a cupholder. Does she use white-out on the computer screen??


Bird Girl

By Blogger Bird Girl, at 2:52 AM  

Crazy June = my work, every day. But I don't even get the fancy dress parties to balance it out. Boo.

By Blogger NancyPearlWannabe, at 10:11 AM  

WOmb what a sick sick word

By Blogger Softball Slut, at 11:08 AM  

the food was better last year.

By Blogger ionca, at 1:26 PM  

BI - Can't figure it out for the life of me. In these pictures you look nothing like you do in the family photos. What gives? Is it the looser tux v. too tight jeans? Hair cut? You clearly are an International Man of Mystery. Your fans must know.

By Anonymous Anonymous, at 11:51 PM  

I am jealous! I miss my NYC entertainment social life..now I will have to take the DAILY DUMP Everyday and live through you ..sigh!

By Blogger mrsmogul, at 4:46 PM  

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