If you can't take the heat, get out of rehearsal. A.k.a. reference joke: Sarah's response to the maddening heat

Tonight’s rehearsal might as well have taken place in a studio-sized barbecue straight off of Satan’s patio.  Even as I sat and typed this post, I could feel the heat radiating off my computer, blending with the body heat from my fingers and wrists.  I know I could also speak for Kenny, who played his keyboard in front of the large, open window.  There might have been some semblance of a breeze, but it was probably just the collective sighs of an oppressed city.

At least the view of Manhattan was beautiful.  

Everything about the night was epic.  While the rehearsal conditions were straight out of Dante, the journey there was positively Homeric.  This was our first night rehearsing in Long Island City.  Green Space, to be exact -- a large, brick building in the middle of Queens and a ten-minute walk from the subways, which, in this kind of weather, makes you incredibly sensitive to every step you take.  While the ice-coffee in my hand seemed like a good idea at the time, I soon regretted the choice (damn you, Manhattan!  Why must you tempt me with a Starbucks on every corner?!): aside from obvious dehydration, the sweat of the cup kept dripping down onto my hand and all over my phone, which I fixed my eyes on for most of the walk so I wouldn’t make a wrong turn into a dark alleyway somewhere and get whacked, Uncle-Ben-Spiderman style.  

On the way, I met up with Isabel, and almost immediately after her, Abby and Clea.  A merry, musical troupe straight out of the mind of L. Frank Baum, except instead of tromping down Emerald City, we were in Long Island City, en route to Green, looking for the cryptic “brick building” described on the website.  Fortunately, spotting said building wasn’t the problem.  Getting in was.  As expected, I suppose.  No one let Odysseus simply traipse into the underworld; he had a 3-headed dog to go through.  Frodo, a giant, flaming eye.  Marty McFly, 1.21 gigawatts and his mother’s advances.

And we!  Fie!  A locked door!

Impenetrable.  Detestable.  Indigestible.  Thankfully, relief came in the form of a kindly man with a wizard hat (kidding) who opened the door.  

Room 301.  Shouldn’t be too hard, we thought, and naturally took the stairs up to the third floor.  Except the numbers on all the doors started with four.  To the second floor it was.  

The hallways were straight out of that iconic Scooby Doo montage -- the one where Scooby and the gang, while outrunning monsters/ghosts/abominable snowmen, enter and exit the doors, all willy-nilly, from right to left, left to right, in every order under the sun.  (Side-note: did you ever notice that all the villains in that show make the same growly noise?  One of my childhood conundrums.)  The room, just as hot as the outside, was a large dance studio with wood floors, a mirror across one wall, and purple and green curtains hanging over the windows.  The woman in charge handed Olivia the keys to the room, and then ordered everyone to take their shoes off.  

Indeed, we had entered the stifling underworld, and already, it had claimed our soles.

Things were looking awfully moist.  Not once did the heat ever let up, despite the best efforts of the open windows and the one pathetic air-conditioner, literally chilling uselessly in the corner.  Regardless, the entire cast remained in good spirits.  Kenny stumbled through the show with them, running through all the songs, as Olivia looked on with her script.  At one point, Ben, our sound designer, even stopped by to hear the cast sing so he could edit the musical tracks accordingly.    

My last order of business for the night: take everyone’s picture for the costume designer.  By that point, when Olivia joked about the cast having to take their clothes off, everyone was almost far too willing to comply. 

The beginnings of topless tech already.