Goodbye to All That! Again.
I waited too long between newsletters and now there's too much for us to catch up on.
I’ll begin at the end.
The end of the longest-running show on Broadway. I witnessed the angel of music sing for the last time in the Majestic Theater on Sunday, but moments after the cast and crew gathered on stage to celebrate closing The Phantom of the Opera after thirty-five years, producer Cameron Mackintosh stated it was only a matter of time until the Phantom would haunt Broadway once again. “All the greats come back, so it’s only a matter of time.”
Over the past month, life has felt a little like show business. Just as one play closes, there’s a new musical opening across the street. It’s a little overwhelming. Like being on a moving train, you can’t get off. Or like being stuck on a carousel.
Still, I have faith that I’m moving forward even if it’s not in a straight line. A lot of what I’m experiencing is just the nature of being young and unsettled. Even when it causes whiplash, I believe all these endings and beginnings are necessary.
On the last day of March, I finished my first full-time job. It’s funny going to the same bus terminal every day and sitting at the same desk until one day you stop coming back. Most of my friends and coworkers had wrapped before my last day so it wasn’t the big goodbye I experienced the day we wrapped production.
I’d already cleaned out most of my desk, taken the decorations off the office walls, and mailed the last of the wrap gifts by Friday afternoon. Until the last hour, it was just another day. Then, as I hugged a few people goodbye and said, “See you on the next one!” the bittersweet emotions caught up with me. I felt proud of what we accomplished and sad I wouldn’t be working with that team any longer. As I rode out of New Jersey, taking in the New York skyline, I was grateful for how much that job let me grow in those six months and for the fact I’d be able to sleep in the following Monday.
The next night I threw a housewarming party - my first hosting event since returning to New York! After a day of cleaning and arranging my new apartment, I raided the Trader Joe’s cheese section, stocked up on liquor, and left myself thirty minutes to throw together a sparkly silver party look.
The best thing about a tiny New York apartment is that it takes very few people to fill it. My crowd of fifteen closest friends occupied the space nicely. Everyone brought rosé, proving how well they know me. College and high school friends bridged the social gap, and none of my records were scratched while being handled by intoxicated parties. My music selection for the evening started with Donna Summer and ended with the original cast recording Little Shop of Horrors.
Overall, my apartment’s society debut was a smashing success.
A day later, I set off on a week-and-a-half trip to California to visit family and friends.
Back when my high school best friend and I used gossip for hours on end about camp crushes, rumors, and all the rest, my mother would delight in entering my bedroom to recite some version of the following Eleanor Roosevelt quote:
“Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.”
She'd give us a smug smile and walk out, leaving us to exchange guilty expressions.
It made a lasting impression, even though we never heeded her advice. I'm still a gossip, but I’ve tried to keep the details of other people's lives out of my openly autobiographical newsletter. I’d be crazy to TrumanCapote1 someone for the sake of a two-thousand-word blog. Yet, my rule left me in quite a predicament while writing about my return to Los Angeles, since my entire reason for going was the people.
The people in L.A. are by far the best thing the city has to offer me.
Sure, when I stepped off the train at Union Station the sun shone brighter, the surfer dudes were blonder, and the wind blew even more effortlessly through my hair than I remembered. But that feeling faded as soon as I had to walk half a mile to reach the nearest breakfast sandwich. What remained exciting, even on day seven of my trip when the sky was cloudy and the temperature dropped below 60 degrees, was reuniting with an old friend over breakfast and asking, “So, what have you been up to?”
During my week in L.A., I slept on four beds/air mattresses, saw seventeen different friends, and went to about four hundred different cafes. I caught up with people I hadn’t spoken to in months over coffee, in a hot tub, over steaks, at the beach, over drinks, and between watching Succession. I saw new houses, met a new boyfriend, and heard all the details about new jobs.
Some people had grown a lot in the past eight months and others were just as I remembered them. The best surprise was seeing people who were going through a tough time when I left finally coming out the other side stronger. The bummer of the trip was understanding that my role in their journey is a lot smaller these days. I can’t be down in the trenches or reveling in the daily victories with people I used to see constantly. Part of being a long-distance friend means only taking in the broad strokes.
In some ways, it’s freeing to no longer know (or care) what certain college acquaintances are up to - who’s dating who, where the guy everyone wanted to befriend is working, etc. But with my closest friends, I sometimes wish I could be there for all the little moments.
Joan Didion wrote about moving to New York at twenty and accidentally staying for eight years in an essay titled “Goodbye to All That.” She writes:
“Some time later there was a song on all the jukeboxes on the upper East Side that went “but where is that school girl who used to be me,” and if it was late enough at night I used to wonder that. Now I know that almost everyone wonders something like that, sooner or later… one of the mixed blessings of being twenty and twenty-one and even twenty-three is the conviction that nothing like this, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, has ever happened to anyone before.”
All that’s happening out in L.A. has happened before.
All milestones of new houses, boyfriends, and jobs are not that novel beyond the fact that they’re ours. The specifics are what make these things matter. Sometimes I miss knowing all the specifics about the people I care about in L.A. even though I have my little dramas crying out for my attention in New York. But I’ve also never been more sure that New York is where I’m meant to be.
I returned from L.A. just in time to attend the Broadway event of the season the year: the final performance of The Phantom of the Opera.
A lot of people will tell you Phantom is not that great a musical. The most common critique is that it’s one song over and over. This isn’t totally unfounded, but what’s so amazing about the show is that it embodies Broadway with a capital B.
It offers falling chandeliers and candles rising among smoke from the ground. There are moving ramps and a gondola transporting characters across the stage. Trick mirrors, a velvet music box, hiding places, and massive set pieces. It’s unapologetically dramatic and romantic and has never failed to give me chills each time I’ve seen it. The titular song remains my favorite, but there wasn’t a misstep the entire show. The final audience applauded everything from the boat’s entrance to Christine’s performance of “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again,” which earned a mid-show standing ovation.
My first time seeing the show was for the 25th anniversary. I’ll never forget the visceral experience of seeing the Phantom lead Christine to his lair for the first time. I was thirteen. I wore my favorite blue and black shift dress with a black belt to the after-party at the New York Public Library. Little fake candles covered the front steps and the phantom’s mask was projected on the front of the building above the entrance. I walked up the stairs into the white marble building and a waiter offered me a glass of champagne. I’d never felt more fabulous in my life.
The final performance’s after-party was hosted at the Metropolitan Club, which was no public library but still pretty damn nice. I drank champagne all night and tore up the dance floor ten feet away from the last Christine Daae herself. The first people to dance were the merch-selling team, which couldn't be more fitting. They assumed I was one of them until I explained I got my ticket through the man who built the sets.2
Put simply, the night was so much fun, and I’m still pinching myself.
While gorging myself on the buffet, I found myself in conversation with two older women who had also attended the show. They sang Phantom’s praises but couldn’t help criticizing the current state of Broadway and opening night parties: They’re boring. They’re at all the same places we’ve already been. They’re not what they used to be.
This kind of thinking always infuriates me. It seems so unfair because don’t they realize I just got here?! These are my glory days of afterparties and openings and glamorous excitement. I haven’t been to any of those same places. It’s all still exhilarating and new.
But that’s New York’s way. It’s as fast-paced as its theater district when it comes to endings and beginnings. One day my New York will be history. Parts of it already are - The Palm Too, Cafe Lalo, Lester’s, City Cinemas on 86th, and now Phantom. But until New York is really “over” (which I believe it never will be) it’s my duty to soak up as much of it as possible. Enjoy the cycles of openings, closings, and new beginnings even if they’re only new to me.
Outfit of This Era:
Recommendations for This Era:
To Listen to:
The Phantom of the Opera Soundtrack. 🥲
To Read:
Answered Prayers by Truman Capote. The novel opens with:
“Somewhere in this world there exists an exceptional philosopher named Florie Rotondo… ‘If I could do anything, I would go to the middle of our planet, Earth, and seek uranium, rubies, and gold. I’d look for Unspoiled Monsters. Then I’d move to the country.’ Florie Rotondo, age eight. / Florie, honey, I know just what you mean - even if you don’t: how could you, age eight?”
Sex and Rage by Eve Babitz
‘(“You’re here!” was how he greeted every single guest at every single party Jacaranda ever saw him host - Max was a host: it was in his genetic code.) “You’re here!” he’d delight, and into his arms would fall an elegantly poised lady, suddenly a child of sorrow and joy, who’d say, “Oh, thank God, Max, yes I am!”’
To Watch:
Season 2 of Single Drunk Female
There are so many shows available right now, and I feel like this one is falling through the cracks. But it’s great! It’s funny and sweet without being too self-serious. Plus, there’s a Breakfast Club reunion for us die-hard fans in Episode 7.
Succession
Obviously.
To Go See on Broadway:
Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street - Seeing this show was invigorating. It reminded me what’s so great about the medium and is a must if you’re visiting NYC in the next year.
Moulin Rouge - I knew I’d love this show since the movie is one of my favorites, but it was even better than I imagined. My friend and I were gripping each other’s arms the entire run time with our jaws agape.
Peter Pan Goes Wrong - This was hilarious with some fantastic old-school slapstick gags. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.
For Context: In 1975, Truman Capote sold four chapters of his unfinished novel Answered Prayers to Esquire. Capote intended Answered Prayers to be his magnum opus and the evolution of the “non-fiction novel” format he originated with In Cold Blood. When the chapters were published, it became the work was a far too thinly veiled portrait of recognizable figures in New York society, all of whom were Capote’s close friends. The novel killed his career and caused him to be ostracized by the social circle he had spent decades cultivating. Thus, when a writer chooses to expose the secrets and flaws of friends without their consent or permission for the sake of art, I call it “TrumanCapote-ing.”
Thanks, Dad!
“Part of being a long distance friend means only taking in the broad strokes.“
I love it. It’s very true.