Ay! Why? I keep reading blog entries by PWH (people with hangovers) who seem to manage to write beautifully crafted piece-ettes that even
identify the type of hangover they’re suffering that day. I, on the other hand, can barely type. My hands are shaking madly—I suspect I may have donated blood late last night, but I really can’t be sure.
It all started with
The Revenge of Cine-oke. When we got to the Rendezvous, which was hosting the event, we were locked out of the Jewel Box Theater because the techies were performing emergency surgery on the sound system. Consequently we had to stand out in the ante-room sipping cocktails. I’d been sick during the day (a weird out-of-nowhere cold that seems to be going around; one minute you’re fine, the next you’re sniffling and belly-aching), so I hadn’t eaten very much. Or that’s my excuse.
Of course, since J and I had a big number to do, we had to have another drink just to fortify us (even though about half the people in the audience were our vanpool/friends/supporters). “America” went well. J looked awesome in a fabulous red dress (though her blonde hair was rather un-Anita-ish). I was a bit cowed—I swear I spent half the song pinned to the wall, but that choreography is pretty intimidating and it took me so long to figure out the clapping, I couldn’t manage to learn Jerome Robbins’ dance steps too. We were rewarded with souvenir T-shirts. (I can see my next
project now!)
Then I went back to our booth basking in the glory of the crowd’s adulation, and I knew I needed more, more, more attention. I also needed another cocktail, of course. By the time I got on stage to do “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina,” my inhibitions were well suppressed. By then I’d developed an affection for several members of the audience—the guy in front of me who knew the difference between Hayley and Juliet Mills; the guy called Sam, who’d sung a lovely version of something or other, and his boyfriend, also named Sam; the Chris Farley lookalike who’d done something from
Little Shop of Horrors and something else from
Grease; J to show off that lovely red dress again; the peeps from the film festival who’d been Che and Evita earlier in the evening; that vanpoolie who’s such good value when he’s drunk; etc., etc.—so I called them up on stage to be my
descamisados. It was divine, and at the end I was worshipped like only Evita/Madonna can be.
Then I woke up this morning. I had to spend a good 10 minutes holding my head, sweating, and trying not to drool too much before I could even feed the cat. My cold seems better though.
