The evening actually started out with me going to go see The Little Dog Laughed,"Douglas Carter Beane's new play. Now let me be honest with you here, I really hate Douglas Carter Beane, to the point that I consider him only one tiny bit above Tyler Perry (and it really takes a lot of animosity on my end to hate gay playwrights).
As much as it kills me to type the following sentence out, I really liked the play for one main reason: Julie White. As much as I hate Beane, the guy writes spectacular female characters. He just bombs out with his gay characters, which is even more strange since he's gay himself (how difficult is it to write about yourself, mister?). For her alone, you should get your posteriors over there. It may have very well been an off-night, but Johnny Galecki was horrible (like he was looking for cuecards) and Tom Everett Scott was pretty much a non-entity through the first act, a fact made even worse by the fact that his character's actions are the main plot.
So you can imagine the kind of mood I was in when discovered that I was seated next to some actor in his "I'm-trying-to-look-cheap-but-my-parents-support-me-because-they-think-I'm-cute" gear and his fawning sycophant friend who couldn't be more obvious with his unrequited lust over him. (I wouldn't pay so much attention except the non-working actor decided to eat candy right next to me.)
I was just gagging for a drink after this reminder why I don't go to the theatre frequently. So much so that I actually took a pedi-cab: not for the thrill of being overcharged in an unregulated transport, but because it is indeed the quickest way to get to Chelsea from Midtown. I plopped myself down at The View, which has been oddly video-free the last few times I've been in. I'm hoping that the VJ is just on vacation, but if The View stops showing music videos then my nights out will be limited to 3 hours in the early evening over at Splash.
At The View I started to notice something, practically all the well-coiffed scenesters were smelling like baby powder. Now I rarely wear cologne (once a year, basically), because I figure that deodorant does the same job without being overpowering, but I can't imagine that somebody would actually come out with a scent that smells like baby powder on adult men.
Somebody must've though, because when I went to Splash--a double shot of Jagermeister made me feel the urge to dance with my shirt off (I had exhausted all my Chaser pills) --that same smell was all over the place. Even after returning to The View for a nightcap way past Cinderella Hour, I could still smell it on me from dancing. I know it's nothing in my cabinet, and the mystery--like the smell--still lingers.
Nancy Drew has her work cut out for her.
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