Not Live Blogging the Tony's

A friend of YM has the (mis?) fortune of landing front and center at the year's Tony Awards. Not having a television, and seeming gay only to the women I want to nail, I don't have much to add. Even though I've seen a good two dozen productions this year, it's the Tony's, which make the Grammy's look like a paragon of critical insight. In other words, there will be no Allison Pill in the offing. Also, even though I offered copious amounts of the monkey paw to the YM crew, no one took up my offer of a not live blogging the Tony's party. This will be a solo, surly affair, punctuated by observations that mean next to nothing to most our readership. In other words, standard operating procedure. Oh, and Keith Gessen is still a dick. First dispatch below:

First thing's first, note that everyone I know who works in this business is far more excited for this shit than I am, because let's call a room full of queens a spade (ouch) [The youth of today, they understand how we play it -- 99]: it's pomp, circumstance, and a marketing tool. For the first time this year, shows that aren't even nominated are taking the stage, and people are shitting a brick over it. It costs about $250,000 to bring a show on stage at the Tony's, and if you have a new musical (like the gawdawful CRY-BABY or XANADU), that's a healthy chunk of coin, but of course, you get the national exposure you want [Cry-Baby, covering all its bases, also went with over-urinal advertising at Jake' Saloon on 23rd where I spent the afternoon drinking -- 99] to sell the poor-man's Starlight Express to the only marginally homophobic denizens of neighboring states and Californians.

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My friend who I generally fucked out of a ticket ended up seeing the rehearsal, which will no doubt be better (also: shorter) than the actual show. It sounds like Whoopi's gonna pull through as much as she can (take for what you will), but that the sound design is so poor the performers will be able to hear me in the third mezz talking shit better than they can the orchestra, which should be interesting. Related: Patti LuPone had some kind of Ryan Adams-esque freakout about the air-conditioning or the sound or something, so bitchy they cut off her mic in the middle of her number interrupting "STOP THE SONG, just STOP IT" rant that started to scare everyone. God willing, she'll do that during the show. Thing baout Patti LuPone is that Radio City will burn down via a bunch of torch-wielding theatre freaks if she doesn't win for GYPSY tonight, but the other thing about Mama Rose is that her fame barely extends to anybody outside of this evening's Radio City crowd. So what gives her the right to this horseshit diva nonsense towards techies trying to make it through the show without immolating themselves?

Exactly. That's Broadway, folks: a tiny industry of catty freaks, musicals, and occasionally, a decent straight play, all of which inspire an inordinate amount of awe in high school drama dorks now rife with silly power (marginalized out of context) and the starfucking richies who'll throw away a quarter of a million just to take a picture next to Rosie O'Donnell. Now and again they'll get lucky and make money, and then pat themselves on the back with the vapid belief they can smell talent. Maybe there'll be an exception (this year's PASSING STRANGE), but those usually fail. This, folks, is the Great White Way.

I'd make another joke about being cocksure, but I've got so many gaybaiters ready, we might not want to post it. Onward, Sparklenight 2008. Let's make William Goldman proud: he didn't endure this shit for nothing.