Ranting Details

Lazy Post of the Day: Girl, I CUT Him

I walked into my apartment yesterday afternoon and my roommate and friends were watching this clip.  Too good to keep to myself!  Happy Sunday! 

Ready. Aim. Fire?

I am feeling aimless right now.  Even as I sit here in this Soho coffee shop I have little on my mind other than returning to my couch and inserting a DVD of Mad Men into the player. I want TV.  But I need structure and a purpose to get me out of my holiday stupor in which I did little more than drink egg nog, eat fast food, and watch every movie with even the slightest chance of garnering an award this season.  After months of working as a freelance writer and photographer, I have hit a wall like a sticky rubber hand out of a vending machine and now, to say nothing of the type of dirt and hair said rubber hands attract, I am not sure how to peel myself off.

For a while I thought the answer was to leave the city.  When I returned to the buzz of New York after a tranquil summer in the mountains of Montana I felt as if I had been dropped into the middle of a pinball machine and it was only a matter of time before the iron ball rolled me over.  I wanted out.  I called my parents and informed them I was coming home in the winter for an indefinite amount of time and I was going to start school.  I made the announcement to my friends over multiple dinners, giving them an ever-shifting percentage of the likelihood of my departure as I watched them sip margaritas.  Eighty percent sure I will be gone at the beginning of January, I would tell them. 

Today is January 16th and I’m still in the city I’ve come to call home.  Yet without the fix of going to school—at least not until the fall—I am living each day without any type of structure; and unfortunately I’ve never been good at self-imposed structure (or at least not as diligent as I want to be).  This is probably because I spent my whole life enacting the schedule put up on a bulletin board at school and work, one that would delineate each hour of my day not only down to the room I was in but to the type of shoe I was wearing while in it.   

Those days are gone.  They fell away two years ago when I came down with Epstein Barr Virus and replaced a healthy work ethic with a couch tenure of epic proportions, one where chicken noodle soup was as essential as water and bagels became their own group on the food pyramid.  Through the discomfort I redefined my sense of normalcy.  I adjusted to the habit of enacting one task a day when my body allowed, and resolved myself to waiting out the virus and creating a life where my brain and creativity could coexist with the illness.

When I look at the past two years rationally I am able to give myself credit for persevering.  When I look at it with my dancer brain intact, the brain where eight hours of rehearsal would be followed by the gym, I feel utterly lazy.  But life changes.  Captain Obvious hand delivered that message to my door each time I popped in a new movie from my Netflix queue. 

The list of movies may be never ending but as each day passes I feel my life is returning to a true sense of normalcy where I can not only execute jobs to make money, but go out and socialize with my friends over the occasional glass of wine; the highlight of my week is no longer the eager anticipation of opening my mailbox and seeing a new disc of Battlestar Gallactica. (That’s just an added bonus.) 

But this transition back to a healthier life is proving just as confounding and difficult as the loss of my health in the first place.  I feel like an inmate on parole, always nervous that one mistake—whether pushing too hard with physical or social activity—will land me back behind bars.  To live with a chronic illness for any period of time makes the idea of living without it unfathomable.  Without the weight of the illness sitting on my shoulders like two grand pianos I have so much more opportunity; I can pursue photography with more fervor; I can enter a more intense school program; I can hopefully get to a point where dance is a part of my life again; and I can continue to be mindful of my ongoing recovery. “I can” is slowly replacing “I can’t.” 

Most importantly, as my incredible sister reminded me yesterday, I can give my permission to be aimless for a while.  It’s time to rebuild and understand that I have to lay out the foundation brick by brick because I can’t reach the top floor of the building without first creating the ground floor.  And if I have to watch an episode or two of Mad Men along the way, so be it. 

While writing this post I was reminded of the lyrics to one of my all time favorite Stephen Sondheim songs: “I Know Things Now” from Into the Woods.  I first discovered this song when I was five but the lyrics continue to resonate more with each passing day. 

Mother said,
"Straight ahead,"
Not to delay
or be misled.
I should have heeded
Her advice...
But he seemed so nice.

And he showed me things
Many beautiful things,
That I hadn't thought to explore.
They were off my path,
So I never had dared.
I had been so careful,
I never had cared.
And he made me feel excited-
Well, excited and scared.

When he said, "Come in!"
With that sickening grin,
How could I know what was in store?
Once his teeth were bared,
Though, I really got scared-
Well, excited and scared-
But he drew me close
And he swallowed me down,
Down a dark slimy path
Where lie secrets that I never want to know,
And when everything familiar
Seemed to disappear forever,
At the end of the path
Was Granny once again.

So we wait in the dark
Until someone sets us free,
And we're brought into the light,
And we're back at the start.

And I know things now,
Many valuable things,
That I hadn't known before:
Do not put your faith
In a cape and a hood,
They will not protect you
The way that they should.
And take extra care with strangers,
Even flowers have their dangers.
And though scary is exciting,
Nice is different than good.

Now I know:
Don't be scared.
Granny is right,
Just be prepared.

Isn't it nice to know a lot!
And a little bit not...

 

So Close I Can Almost Taste It!

(Someone had a little extra time on their hands today.  Last time I checked Pillsbury made holiday sugar cookies...but not Presidential Sugar Cookies.)

Lazy Post of the Day: Mamma Meryl!

Since my first viewing of Mamma Mia (Exclamation Point) this summer, which left me angered and attempting to shovel my eyes out with my soda straw due to the travesty taking place on the screen in front of me, I must have endured a brain transplant.  I don't know what happened, but the second time I watched the film (at home on DVD) I fell in love.  It's a brilliant disaster and I can't get enough.

I have always had obsessions with campy movies, dating back to the days I watched Hairspray and Rocky Horror Picture Show as a kid, and my love was cemented when I found Showgirls, which, as any good friend of mine knows, is one of my top five movies of all time.  Now I am proud to add ABBA's international juggernaut to my camp gallery.  It's clear Meryl Streep is having the time of her life.  It's clear that every blink, toe tap and hair toss is choreographed down to the split ends.  And it's clear she is, as my friends would say, "acting her face off." 

Need an example of the hilarity?  Check out this video of "The Winner Takes It All" which makes up the climax of the movie.  In addition to having a completely absurd card metaphor at its center, the song also allows for Streep to bring out an arsenal of hand gestures and scarf moves for the obscenely long cliff power ballad.  Add in Pierce Brosnan standing more still than the rocks beneath his feet while the "best actress of our generation" attempts to get any reaction from him (but only succeeds in making his chest hair billow in the breeze) and you can see why I was rooting for Streep to take Best Actress at the Golden Globes last week.  (WHAT?!  Seriously.  She was nominated for this movie.  Proof that she will get a nom even if it's a two hour epic of her peeing on the side of the road.  But she's also kind of brilliant in it.  God, I'm so conflicted inside!  Must hate movie.  Must love movie.  Mamma Mia, here I go again!)

As an added bonus: the criminally catchy title song. 

So, Ranters, am I the only one?! 

OMG! The GMG!

I have always had this idea in my head that I get along better with girls than with guys.  Perhaps it’s part of the gay gene.  I spent my whole adolescence identifying with more “feminine” hobbies like ballet and acrylic nail painting, therefore eliminating most of my common ground with fellow sixth graders.  The time I feigned interest in throwing a football across a field has long passed, and just as the Packers ball we played with used to hit me in the face, so did my realization recently that my friends are for the first time overwhelmingly male.  With the beginning of the GMG it’s safe to say they are overwhelmingly gay, too. 

I guess this non-discovery hit me last weekend.  Typically when I’m on 34th street I am doing anything in my power to keep my head down, shoulders broad—as to pave a clear path for myself through the throngs of people meandering in front of Foot Locker—and iPod firmly in place as I dart to B&H Photo, which has become my only reason for entering the neighborhood ranked far above Times Square on my list of most despised New York locations.  Only, last weekend I stopped dead in the center of the street.  It was there I began my trip to Philly as I threw my arms around Benton, a southern belle with curly hair as unruly as his love for sweet tea.  We made our way to the Bolt Bus, which makes the Chinatown bus look like a Port-a-potty in comparison, and quickly united with five more guys (Michael, Max, Darren, Chris and Nick) and one fantastic lady, Jessica, the mastermind behind the trip. 

Much to the dismay of the other passengers, we roped off a square of eight seats in the back of the bus and began planning our surprise attack on Amos, the friend whom this entire trip had been planned around.  After living without him for several months due to the fact that he actually procured a steady job in these unsteady times, we decided to go catch him in A Chorus Line before he flew away to another part of the country to which the Bolt Bus doesn’t drive.  Little did we know that getting to Philly was going to be just as difficult. 

Within five minutes of departing from the mock station in front of Hammerstein Ballroom the bus driver, a portly woman with a winter coat zipped all the way up to the lips she was using to do her stand up comedy routine over the loud speaker, tried to take her first difficult turn onto the highway.  Only instead of turning, she drove straight into a stationary object: a fire hydrant.  And, in the process, almost drove us straight into another: the window of a Subway sandwich shop.  While I am as guilty as anyone of wanting a Five Dollar Footlong, I also possess a little self-control.  Seemingly un-phased by her blunder, she got out to make sure the damage wasn’t causing gasoline to leak out of the bus, thus making sure we weren’t in the middle of a Speed-like conundrum, then returned to the driver’s seat and completed the turn onto the highway. 

As five other gay boys, one token straight boy, a lovely lady and I began analyzing the ups and downs of Beyonce’s career, we also began to bask in the glow of a weekend away from the city.  Then we hit a bus.  Only ten minutes into the trip, and five after our last accident, the driver managed to do the unthinkable: hit a stationary bus in the middle of the entrance to a tunnel.  And this time she cracked a window. 

After a whir of activity that brought the police to the highway, and caused our driver to plea with passengers at the front of the bus to fill out a form saying she wasn’t responsible for the accident (“It was the weed, I swear!”) we were informed all it would take was a quick change of  a bus at Exit 15 and we would be on our way to Philly.  Only by this time we were forty-five minutes behind schedule, craving cheesesteaks, and dangerously close to missing Amos hold up his headshot before doing a few quick pelvic thrusts while decked out in ‘70s jazz pants. 

It was time to conserve excitement/rage.  But seeing as we had enough energy to power a circuit party, this was hard to do.  Still, we managed to all close our eyes for a moment beneath the breeze of circulated bus air and dream of a time when we thought it was still possible to make it to our destination on time. 

Whether through the collective power of positive thought or divine intervention, our bus driver was able to drive the entire two hour trip without getting into a third accident.  Had I been my sixth grade self I would have decoupaged a memory box as an award for her accomplishment, but seeing as I can’t really afford the materials for such luxuries these days, a dirty look while we were exiting the bus had to suffice.

All glares and negative energy shifted the moment we were greeted by Jessica’s lovely parents, Betsy and Ted, who had offered to turn their house into a gay bar for the night, and also offered up their immense knowledge of Philadelphia history as we hauled ass to the theater.  Past the liberty bell; down the streets modeled off of the Champs Elysees; and just beyond the steps Rocky ran up.

When we finally got there and saw the A Chorus Line marquee, Max felt so excited by our unlikely arrival he proceeded to do Michael Bennett’s opening combination while navigating through other patrons on the way into the theater.  (Why walk when you can 5,6,7,8?)  As if his excitement wasn’t contagious enough, we entered into the lobby and saw a placard with Amos Wolff’s name on it, notifying us of his appearance in the show (he was swinging in for this performance) and bringing our hysteria to new heights. 

From the moment the lights came up on a stage full of dancers we all located Amos and stayed glued to him throughout.  Fortunately he was unaware of our presence so there was no pushing to his performance in order to please us; instead we got a fantastic, natural show (including the best Cassie I’ve ever seen) with the equally fantastic promise of a surprise at the stage door.  

We all waited, stuffed between the brick walls in a narrow alleyway beside the theater, to pounce on our friend as he emerged from the theater.  He didn’t emerge.  He bounced down the alleyway like the concrete was a trampoline.  After all of our stress on the bus ride, the end result proved to be well worth the hassle as we smothered him.  But the night was only beginning. 

Once completing a brief stop at a local pub filled with burly frat brothers downing beers at the bar as, creating an entertaining juxtaposition, the entire Britney Spears catalog boomed from the speakers, we traveled to the suburbs with the gay to straight ratio now at 7 to 2.

I think it was around the time when we started comparing leg hair while a Disney megamix blasted from the speakers that it hit me how nice it is to be old enough to not have to filter around my friends—gay or straight—anymore.  Throughout childhood I often filtered myself at school.  I talked about football when I had no knowledge of the sport; or I sat quietly while the other boys talked about messing around with girls in their parents’ hot tub.   In this kitchen I was free to be myself around people I am passing into adulthood with.  At times, this comfort comes from something as seemingly superficial as talking about love interests.  But I think there’s an innate understanding with people who were either literally or figuratively hit in the face time and time again with a football as a kid; kindred spirits of sorts.  Not so much brought on by sexuality but by the struggle, however large or small it was, it took to get us to the point where we are all together. 

We stayed up all night.  When I reflect on it I realize we didn’t really do anything other than rock back and forth on the tile floor while devouring pita chips.  We made it to the hot tub once.  We even handed the token straight boy, Chris, a medal (invisible) for enduring a weekend that far surpassed any of our fellow experiences in a group of gay men.  (Expect for Benton…I think he’s been to Fire Island.) 

On the bus ride back we decided to keep the positive energy going by creating the GMG: Gay Mail Group or Gay Men’s Group depending on who you ask.  While not the most creative title, it’s already proved to be a nice outlet for us all.  We email each other interesting things we read or experience.  It’s like Oprah’s book club only with the occasional added bonus of shirtless hot celebrities.   And to think it all started when that bus driver almost crashed through a building.  Maybe I should decoupage her a present after all.  

  

Winter Got Ya Down?

Pick up the new copy of Movmnt Magazine featuring two articles by yours truly!  There are features about Broadway child stars, Criss Angel's new Vegas spectacular, an in depth interview with Gus Van Sant, the director of Milk, and behind the scenes shots of Beyonce filming "Single Ladies."  What more could you want?!

 

I Cry Diamonds For Your Kiss

Yesterday afternoon I headed out to Larchmont, NY to attend a fundraiser my sister was throwing.  Over the past few years Carson has had the opportunity to teach Pilates in this beautiful community, and yesterday the fantastic hosts Jackie and Jane, as well as all of her clients and friends gathered to help support another venture in her life: the New York premiere of Katherine Kramer's Stop, Look, Listen at the Judson Memorial Church on February 12th.  The idea for how to raise money went a bit haywire once we arrived.  Fortunately I was there to document the shenanigans for the following blog story:  I Cry Diamonds For Your Kiss.

(CARSON: Maybe, just maybe...)


(...if I stomp hard enough on this kitchen floor the gods of dance will bless my hands with a champagne flute! )

(Voila! Magic feet!)


(But can you imagine if I did it with those fancy silver things on my toes?!)

(Then perhaps my hair would grow into a Hershey's Kiss of epic proportions! One even Time's Square couldn't contain!  I could auction off tickets to view my magic hair!  It would be the eighth wonder of the world!)

(LIBBY: But have you heard?  While it's true that if we raffle off tickets to your hair...)

(All the patrons of the arts will rush to purchase them!)

(It's also true that if we change your signature hair in any way, shape or form...)

(Then the children of Larchmont will cry diamond tears! )

(We must make you tap instead!)

(KATHERINE: Perfect!)

(Simmer down everyone!)

(I must tell a bedtime story before we perform...)

(To ease the hearts of these little children!)

(But don't let them catch sight of Matt first! His '80s sweater will give them nightmares and the future of dance shall be ruined forever!)

Wedding Bells?

Apparently this is what happens if I stay out past midnight. 

Michael and I have always had a weakness for photos booths. 

Wading in the Lake

(Photo by Julieta Cervantes)

Cedar Lake never ceases to amaze me.  Even though I’ve been to their Chelsea space countless times in the five years they’ve been performing there, each time I walk into the brick building I am left breathless by its sleek beauty.  Whether it’s the video screens displaying clips from past works—a great way to remind one of the strength of their repertoire as the company continues to grow—or the actual theater, with seating that can be rearranged (or scrapped altogether) in order to accommodate the needs of the choreography, the company always surprises.  This explains the healthy buzz at the beginning of each new season as dance bloggers and industry luminaries gather to see the latest offerings by the city’s leading contemporary ballet company. 

Last night was no exception.  In fact the entire gallery district was spinning as patrons braved the frigid winter air for a chance to see the newest paintings, sculptures, or in my case, dances.  Of the three ballets on the program last night (the beginning of a season which continues through January 18th) two were new commissions from European-based choreographers, and one was a returning work by an up-and-coming Canadian choreographer. 

For me, due to absence last season, they were all new.  And all were thought provoking, albeit some more than others.  In my opinion, Cristal Pite’s “10 Duets on a Theme of Rescue,” the sole returning work, was the strongest achievement; a true highlight of my years of dance viewing.  Set within a semi- circle of floodlights that create the feel of an eerie, abandoned soundstage, the piece consists of only five people who pair up in various couplings throughout.  Pite manages to show the company in the strongest way possible (a way I haven’t seen since they performed Ohad Naharin’s “Decadance”) highlighting the daring partnering skills of the men, who always manage to catch their partners at the last possible second, and the raw power of the women.  As they appear and disappear into the semi-circle, egged on by the trance-like quality of Cliff Martinez’s score, they engage in duets, which as the title suggests, all have images evoking the idea of rescue—the most striking of which is the image of a man running in place (you could practically feel the wind on his face), reaching forth to an outstretched hand in front of him; an image accentuated by Jim French’s lighting design. 

Pite is able to summon a varied movement vocabulary in each duet and is helped by the malleability of the performers.  Brevity is on her side as well.  She never overdoes any particular motif and manages to find structure in a piece that is as free flowing as it is mesmerizing.  A true standout is Ebony Williams, recently in Beyonce’s ubiquitous “Single Ladies” video, who appears to have been blessed with twice as many joints as most humans.  Towering over her partner, she emerges from the darkness like an Amazon charging the battlefield.  Each moment of the dance is breathtaking, but most surprising of all is the curtain call when it becomes apparent the clown car of pairings that make up the piece is, in fact, only five dancers. 

Of the two world premieres I found only one to be a rewarding viewing experience.  One can’t fault the dancers, who performed Luca Veggetti’s “memory/measure” with their usual skill.  But the choreography is victim of a recurring problem in contemporary ballet: Forsythinitus.  All too often choreographers imitate the legendary dancemaker William Forsythe’s style—sunken hips and angular arms drenched in overhead lighting—and come across as exactly that: an imitation.  The piece isn’t helped by the fact that the sound score, which at moments is so jarring it seems like the brick walls of the structure are tumbling over in an earthquake.  Just as suddenly, spoken word interludes interject with such banal quotations as “She sneezes into her arm,” as the dancer on stage does exactly that. 

(Photo by Julieta Cervantes)

Fortunately that piece opened the program and was quickly forgotten with the following two pieces, including the second world premiere: “frame of view.”  When the audience took their seats after the second intermission, the stage had been transformed into a suggestive, linear set made up of yellow doors, a table and a trapezoidal structure that appears to be an apartment building.  Didy Veldman’s choreography is a welcome change from the tone of the previous pieces, as it presents the audience with touches of humor when people emerge from the doors, using them as dance partners, or even “imprint” themselves in the wood hoping to escape, or break through to what's on the other side.  Utilizing the largest cast of the night, Veldman parades the dancers through several group sections, including the final thrilling unison dance.  But the most touching portions are the solos and the duets which alternate between pedestrian movement and dance as easily as the score bounces from classical music to old standards.

Even in the moments that the piece meanders (I feel it would be stronger were it ten minutes shorter) it is aided by the production values that always make Cedar Lake enjoyable.  The company is as athletic as it is artistic, and, as I discovered last night with the friend I brought, a highly enjoyable evening for uninitiated dance viewer.  It may not be the answer to all of the dance world’s problems, but the type of work they are presenting is a welcome addition to the New York dance scene, and an addition that is sure to fuel a new audience’s desire to see dance.  In these trying times, that’s exactly what we need. 

One Week Late: The Best of '08

2008 was great.  Typing that sentence is a bit of a surprise to me, as in the past twelve months I not only lost the job I’d worked my whole life for, but I also went through radical lemonade diets, flew back and forth across the country hoping to find health in the mountains of Montana, and even contemplated leaving New York, the city I’d dreamed of living in since the day my family moved away when I was two. 

Yet through this shit storm of a health debacle that has tested me in ways I’d never imagined I learned I could soldier on.  I learned to rebuild, challenge myself to try new things, have faith, and smile.  Here are a few things that helped make 2008 memorable for me. 

8 Defining Moments of ‘08 (In no particular order):

1.    New York Times Interview- In twenty-two years I’ve managed to finagle employment without a single job interview.  That is, until I was recommended as a freelance photographer for the New York Times.  I will never forget the pit in my stomach as I walked into the enormous lobby of the world’s biggest newspaper holding a disc of my photography, hoping the work would speak for itself.  The elevator ride to the fourth floor was tense, but the tranquil buzz of working reporters and photographers that greeted me when the doors opened excited me in a way I hadn’t felt since I was on stage.  

2.    Christmas Orphans- My first Christmas away from home was a scary idea until it actually happened, when it proved to be one of the most memorable events of not only the past year but of my entire time living in New York.  Running Pictionary in a 15-million-dollar brownstone?  A merry Christmas, indeed.  

3.    Lightroom- Over the summer I went to visit my friend Steve in Seattle and was introduced to his friend Michael.  Through various late night discussions we shared ideas about photography and he introduced me to the holy grail of editing software: Lightroom, an Adobe program that simplifies editing options.  How I survived before this is beyond me, as it opened up my world and allowed me to get creative with the post-production of photography. 

4.    Getting a Tattoo- I never thought I’d get a tattoo.  Then I found myself in a Brooklyn parlor with my forearm to the sky, needle pressing into the skin.  The process didn’t hurt at all, and any minor discomfort was worth the result; I am happier every time I look down at my wrist and see my BIP/BON logo glancing back at me.  It’s a perfect reminder of all I’ve learned through the past two years. 

5.    Friends Moving to Manhattan- Just as my professional life started a new chapter so did my personal life.  In May I received the best present I could possibly think of: an influx of close friends from Michigan (including my best friend since first grade, Michael Lowney) and Seattle (my dear roommate, Nick McCarvel) to help me cope with redefining my vision of Manhattan.

6.    Riding My Bike Over the Summer-I never realized how cathartic a bike would be after twenty months of feeling like a slave to my body.  Yet over the summer in Montana, that’s exactly what I discovered.  I’ll never forget riding along the Clark Fork River at sunset and feeling the fresh air against my skin as I explored my hometown in a new way.  And as someone who can’t drive, I was amazed at how quickly I was able to get downtown when I didn’t have to walk.

7.    Leaving ABT- It was around this time last year I realized I would not be returning to my job at American Ballet Theatre, which was not a surprise, but heartbreaking nonetheless.  However, after having been immersed in the dance world from childhood, my separation helped me define myself through things other than my art.  I have faith that when I do return to dancing (and I will someday, whether it is as a dancer or a choreographer) I will be stronger because I know what it feels like to have my dream taken away from me. 

8.    Playbill Appearances- After years of reading Playbills and having my name appear in them for performances I never thought I’d have another connection to the theatrical staple.  Then I got an email asking me to appear on Playbill Radio.  As a dancer, communicating by speaking is never my first choice, but I felt honored to appear as a “Theatrical Expert” (ha!) alongside a legit critic to give predictions about the 2008 Tony Awards.  Even more exciting was the fact that I didn’t crumble under the pressure and start speaking in tongues (hey, it happens).  A few months later I was asked to write an article about Christopher Wheeldon’s company “Morphoses,” for the City Center Playbills.  It was a bit disorienting the first time I opened one and saw my article in print, and even stranger when I looked around the theater and saw others reading what I had written.  

Books:
1.    Stephen King On Writing
2.    The New Kings of Non-Fiction
3.    Flannery O’ Connor Short Stories
4.    Best American Essays of 2008
5.    Best American Essays of 2005

Albums:
1.    TV on the Radio- Dear Science
2.    Vampire Weekend
3.    Robyn
4.    Adele- 19
5.    Cut Copy- In Ghost Colours
6.    Santogold
7.    Roisin Murphy- Overpowered
8.    Kings of Leon- Only By The Night
9.    Little Jackie- The Stoop
10.  Lady Gaga- The Fame

Movies:
1.    WALL-E
2.    Revolutionary Road
3.    Slumdog Millionaire
4.    Let the Right One In
5.    Milk
6.    The Wrestler
7.    Frost/Nixon
8.    Pineapple Express
9.    Religilous
10.   Doubt

Theater/Dance:  (I saw very little dance this year, so it's mainly theater)
1.    Passing Strange
2.    Tommy 15th Anniversary Reunion Concert
3.    The Seagull
4.    Sunday in the Park With George
5.    In the Heights
6.    August Osage County
7.    “Glassy Essence”-Cedar Lake Contemporary Ballet
8.    New York City Ballet's Sarah Mearns as “Spring” in “The Four Seasons”
9.    Nico Muhly at The Kitchen
10.   [title of show]'s First Preview on Broadway

So, Ranters, did I miss anything important?!