Pre-War Protest

Are you there, readers? It’s me, Mrs. Tittle-Tattle. Summer in the City is tourist season, which is why I always feel like such a complete failure that I, a native New Yorker, am here a good part of the time. But there is one thing that makes sweltering in Manhattan worthwhile: Broadway. I always make it a point to go to the theatre as often as I can during the summer months, when my kids are in camp.

As usual, this season everyone has been bemoaning the state of the original musical. I do agree that the pickings have been as slim as my anorexic friend Jessie who eats flax seeds for every meal. We need new ideas, new music, and stories that are relevant to all of us on the Upper East Side (well, besides tourists and show queens, who else buys most of the tickets to musicals?).

Since the government seems to be taking suggestions from every life form on the planet as to how to stop the oil spill, I don’t see why I can’t propose a way to revive the original musical by offering my own creation: PARK AVENUE, THE MUSICAL!

We open with a big production number. The set is a fabulous recreation of Park Avenue. Well-dressed men, women, and children stand in front of awnings, singing:
Park Avenue’s the place to be
We’ve got lots of diversity
Some of us are merely rich
And others are really, really rich.

Doormen leap out from the buildings and start tap dancing towards center stage, bursting into song:
Park Avenue’s the place to be
We can make some good money
We’re important to the rich
And we know who in the building is the biggest bitch!

That’s the cue for the entrance of Alexandra Newmoneyson, strutting her way downstage dressed in a long sable coat. Chorus members enter with PETA signs and start throwing fake animal carcasses at her, while she breaks into song:
Park Avenue’s the place to be
I’ve had so much plastic surgery
That I can barely open my mouth to sing
So instead I’ll do a dance with my diamond ring.

At this point, she whips out a rock the size of a bowling ball and begins to do a demented dance, cradling her ring like the lover she never had, since her husband is sleeping with his publicist.

The other main characters include Kristen Shiksa-Shapiro, an ingénue from Ohio who marries Gary Garmento Shapiro, a much older, divorced schmatta magnate. Gary’s show-stopping eleven o’clock number is entitled, “I Donated a Wing to Mt. Sinai, and They Put Me In a Semi-Private Room When I Had Prostate Surgery.”

Then there’s Wendy Wasperton, the elderly President of the board of her building who dislikes all her neighbors with new money but realizes nobody else can afford the apartments anymore. In her Dream Ballet, Wendy is a young bride, moving into her Park Avenue pre-war with her husband, Charles Wasperton III, happily surrounded by other “families like us.” Everyone waltzes around an enormous Martini glass. The cheery music abruptly transitions to a dissonant crescendo, as men dressed in suits chanting “Goldman Sachs” begin jeteeing around the stage throwing money into the air, leap-frogging over the others. A new group of men enters, in oxford shirts and khakis, carrying a banner that says “Hedge Fund Honchos.” They begin leap-frogging over the Goldman Guys. The old money couples and the new money men perform a kind of gang dance reminiscent of West Side Story, except nobody is Puerto Rican. Wendy crumples to the floor, emitting a primal scream, as all dancers encircle her. The old money side slowly slinks away and the Goldman Guys and hedge funders triumphantly march around the stage. Blackout.

Now don’t worry, this is a musical comedy and not some pretentious, depressing drek that makes you want to hang yourself from your Swarovski chandelier. There will be lots of showbiz levity, including a kickline of plastic surgeons, and a romantic duet between Alexandra Newmoneyson and her Birkin bag (a giant puppet, played by one of those Avenue Q actors). And Suzy McFloozy, a slutty trophy wife, sings a comic torch song:
A Handyman is a dandy man,
He services me just right.
When somethin’ here needs fixin’ (she grinds her hips)
I let him screw in my light.

Of course, the comedy is peppered with some gut-wrenching doses of Park Avenue reality, as revealed in the lyrics to the song, “Hate Thy Neighbor”:
You’re bathroom’s leaking into my foyer
I’m going to sue you; I just called my lawyer.

But in the end, love of great co-ops conquers all, and even the most despicable characters are redeemed. Together they form a new charity called Heels-on-Wheels, which distributes designer stilettos to women in African villages, so they can feel more fashionable while trekking through the mud looking for fresh water. See you at the theatre!