I am known among my fellow theatricals as a sweet man; a kind man, even. This is the result of substandard observational skills on their part and a Steve Jobsian power of reality distortion on mine. I am one of the most judgmental bastards on the planet. No, really. Those in the know will tell you that I am truly, horribly hypercritical. And you would be, too, if you had friends like mine.
My friends are the yardstick with which I measure the world and deliver stinging blows to its ever-disappointing hands, back of thighs, and, when needed, head and neck. It can't be helped. My friends are of superior quality. As Wilde struggled to live up to his blue china, I struggle to live up to my friends. Case in point: David Turner. Just look at him:
Living up to David is a fool's game. Don't waste your time. Writer of strongly worded letters, composer of sassy-yet-haunting rags, pilot of planes which fly in the air, and flaming polyglot. And hips? None. None at all. The mid-carriage of a eleven-year-old, malnourished girl.
I ask you!
Just this morning I awoke to find the willowy sylph has gone and written a charming essay on his most recent Broadway show. (Did I mention the whole Broadway actor thing? No? It's not because I'm jealous. Really.) It can be found and should be read here, on Broadway.com. Read it and see if you don't suddenly find the rest of humanity just a little dimmer.