The revival of Rodgers and Hammerstein's soaring musical concluded its Atlanta performances, part of a big stage tour, last evening. I was not in the cast. My lederhosen wept.
Anyway, that's what I'm telling the dry cleaner.
As you may know, a sincere, lifelong dream of mine has been to play the demanding role of Gretl, the teeniest of Von Trapps. I've fully confessed the quest, the craft, the whining like a little girl.
See: "The Sound of Mikey" | "Meanwhile..."
I was never extended so much as a phone call inviting me to audition. Thus, you know what that meant. No "Thank you, Mr. Durrett, nice gams."
I'm not getting any younger here, producers. You are forcing me into Plan B. I've written a sequel, "The Sound of Hip-Hop," wherein Gretl (Mike Durrett) and the kin kiddies (Some Fresh-Faced Brats) flee Austria to revolutionize Motown with popping, locking, and B-boying. Feel da funk. Word. Edelweiss.
Then, stardom in my claws, I'll mount "The Sound of Kabuki" with me as most honorable G. and kimonoed kiddie kin (Some Other Fresh-Faced Brats).
In the short term, however, I get livid when I think of this year's fruitless toil, the expense, the tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tap taps.
Even the elementary Botox® injections were for naught. At least, I have three months of pre-schooler pouty lips left to carry me through the indignation and appearances on GretaWire.
And now, seriously, before my blood pressure rises any higher, I need to go phone the pediatrician....
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