"Tuesday is totally the new Friday" — the girl who didn't go out all last weekend
I chased after a triple header last week when I found out the spare ticket up-for-grabs for Gotye was down the block from the
Jakey Gyllenhaal was kind of incredible as a British accented, crotch-grabbing misfit, but almost as captivating as that dough-faced QT was that part of the play's plot centered around a built-in waterfall. Which, for the record, ranks right up there between every leather couch for sale at Restoration Hardware and old episodes of I Love Lucy on the obsess-o'-meter.
It all started in high school, when my mom called me in sick for an orchestra recital I was supposed to perform in so that I could go to a Britney Spears arena show outside Chicago. Needless to say, it was fantastic — she was touring off the Britney album, you guys — but we left before the encore to head home, which I later found out consisted of a column of water falling from the skies around Britney, dancing like a ho to "I'm A Slave 4 U" with a snake on her shoulders. (Basically, the best parts of Costa Rican vacations and zoo visits, combined.)
So, you can imagine when this theatre's stage starts exploding like the first scary scene in Titanic, shit gets crazy awesome. Add to it that you get to share a room's oxygen supply with one of the cutest Jewz whose ever lived, and you've got an excuse to worship here instead of being up to your ears in Kol Nidre over in temple.
Next up: Gotye. Well, shoving handfuls of dried edamame in my face on Sixth Avenue beforehand and calling it "dinner" despite being shamed out of eating the hard-boiled eggie tucked inside my Fendi purse and accidentally leaving it in there for, uh, a full 24 hours. Then Gotye. Granted, homefry is more captivating in his songwriting than in a venue this grandiose, but kicking back in a comfy chair, watching cartoons synced up to the his Phil Collins-y songs with the option of buying a cardboard box full of popcorn sounds like the best case concert-going scenario of all to me.
But, more important than anything, more than the Gotye, more than his "Smoke and Mirrors" cartoon where the boy unzips himself and a bear crawls out, was the shock and surprise that there is a candy store in the basement?!?!? Why was this not emblazoned on my ticket in a hologram or advertised with a man jumping around in a costume shaped like a Twizzler in the lobby?!?! If this is Radio City Music Hall's long lost treasure, a secret wonderland of incredibly expensive cellophane baggies of choose-your-own gummies with the actual possibility of bringing a five bound box of Nerds to your seat like it ain't no thang, I never want to see a musical performance anywhere else.
And, just because I had to adequately prepare for the Great Jewish Starve-A-Thon and the rest of my favorite wings of Stulman empire were closed, I ended the night at Fedora, eating things like cheddar poppers and teensytiny lox-covered pancakes while pretending I'm still sticking to a healthy diet. Think my nickname has to be changed from "two-drink Carlye" to "two-drink-and-six-entree Lard-ly", because good god taking twelve days off of the booze can turn a girl's world upside down. Bad news bears, if bears is also what my boyfriend goes by while dealing with a surprisingly drunk live-in girlfriend hopped up on fruity cocktails named after Gwyneth Paltrow.
Poor, poor Bears.