So. After Sunday night, a new item has taken the top spot on my “Biggest Regrets of Life” list. And no, it’s not ‘Shouting “CHARLIE!” in Dule Hill’s Face While I Ran to The Bathroom Drunk at 3:30 am.’ Though admittedly, that should probably be afforded a place somewhere on the list. It’s this: Not Asking Reeve Carney About Hanson When I Had the Chance.
You have to understand. Lucky and I are Hanson fans down to the core of our souls. That’s how we met. They’re still our favorite band. In some twisted way, Hanson is the reason this website exists. And we talk about them at any possible opportunity. In fact, once on a red carpet we asked no less than Tony and Pulitzer Prize winner Tracy Letts about Hanson — they’re both from Tulsa! — with exactly zero shame.
So for me to fail to ask Reeve about Hanson, while chit-chatting, drunk at 4am on the second floor of a swank suite in the Carlyle Hotel — when Hanson actually introduced me to Carney’s music well before he was even a twinkle in Julie Taymor’s eye… WHAT ON EARTH IS EVEN WRONG WITH ME?!
I mean, okay. My convo got interrupted by an unnamed Motown starlet who was chatting Reeve up hardcore. And girl was giving it such gusto that like, I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt her in return because like… I dunno. You do you, girl. Get it!
But yeah. At 4am, I was chatting with Gideon Glick, and then all of a sudden there was Reeve Carney, dressed like a punk vampire, and he was talking to me and the champagne was amazing and the hotel suite smelled beautiful and was just-barely-lit so we all looked amazing and I don’t even know what the fuck was going on with my life in that moment.
But to be completely honest, Tony Night is series of “OMG WTF” moments, just over and over and over. Because one second you’re in Bemelman’s Bar, hugging a friend who you haven’t seen in weeks, and then you turn around and Broadway’s Zachary Quinto and Smash‘s Joe Machota are just… right there, next to you. Or you’re at the bar in the Summer Garden at Rockefeller Center, catching up with another friend, and Andrew Andrew begin playing “MMMBop” and you race to the dance floor — because, hello, have we mentioned loving Hanson? — and Jesus Christ, there’s Tyne Daly, beside you, bopping along just the same as you are. Or, okay, maybe Tyne Daly is bopping along a little bit better than you are, because Tyne Daly is kind of just better at everything than you are.
And one of the things that makes the whole damn night so fun is that it feels like everyone is having the same kind of night. There’s no air of pretension — no one seems over it, or incapable of appreciating how rare and wonderful and bizarre it is that we’re in these rooms, doing these things. Everyone still seems to be a fan, on the inside. Of Broadway, of other actors, of omelets, of champagne, of 5am sunrises over Central Park.
Last year I ended up sitting on a bed beside Frank DiLella while Claybourne Elder introduced me to someone named David. David looked familiar but I couldn’t place him and Clay — bless him — told David I write a theater blog and we started chatting about this site and theater we loved and it was quite nice and like two hours later I would realize I’d been talking to David Cromer and like… that’s how these parties are. Just people talking to people about theater and what we love. You turn around and you’re talking to Lindsay Mendez about dresses. Or making silly faces with Colin Hanlon before he turns into a pumpkin. You turn around again and you’re telling Reeve Carney about when the party ends. Or embracing Andrew Keenan-Bolger and then singing “Seasons of Love” with the entire room at 5am while someone plays piano. Because we’re all fans on the inside.
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