So I saw The Candyman's show last night.

After work I raced over to Grand Central to catch the train to White Plains. He picked me up at the station, and the second I saw him with those long period sideburns, I thought:

"I thought I was over him? Ha!"

The thing with The Candyman is that he's one of those golden people who is always in the centre of everything. The kind of person whom other people, men and women, are drawn to, like moths. People want to be their friend, people want to have sex with them, people want to look at then, talk to them, anything. My friend John is like that too, so it's a phenomena that I'm familiar with. It's like they are lit up from the inside, and the rest of the people in the world, the ones who are not lit up from the inside want to be near them, to bask in the glow.

I am not a moth (though I doubt that anyone thinks they are, so I could be wrong). It's like there's the person at the centre, the people surrounding the person at the centre, and then there is me off to the side, watching. Waiting for the golden person to come to me. I do it with John--I do not fight for his attention with his acolytes, I expect him to seek me out. Which he does.

Now I understand the exact mechanics of my relationship with The Candyman.

Anyway, we quickly grabbed some food and ran over to the theatre--or rather, the church basement with folding chairs in it. I was there an hour early, of course, because of his call time, so I picked out a nice folding chair and read Variety.

Now of course, I couldn't be the only Candygirl there, even though I was the only one up from New York. In front of me was sitting Mary Ann, an older woman from Love Creek whom I know a little--I think she was the one who brought him into the company, and then another friend of his, Randy, sat next to me. Apparently, we met when he came down to the city to see a show at LCP, though I didn't remember him. He liked me, I could tell.

Now, the show itself.

Honestly, it was grisly.

It was an original musical version of Pride and Prejudice. The girl playing Elizabeth was good, though her top notes were a little shrill, and the guy playing Mr Bennett was top notch. Everyone else ranged from bad to appalling. Badly acted, badly directed, badly sung, badly written, badly designed. We won't even discuss the accents.

Charlotte, who kept exclaiming that she was 27, was 45 if she was a day. Mr. Bingly was around 40, balding with a red fringe around his ears, and wearing glasses. Miss Bingly was so revolting that after her big number I leaned forward and whispered in Mary Ann's ear that I wished I had a gun.

And then there was the Candyman, as Mr. Darcy.

It's always nice when the person you have come to see is outstanding, so you don't have to tell him lies. He is a real actor, you see--he is a real singer. He is Broadway ready (and that is a completely objective opinion, as I thought he was that good before I fell), and seeing this man playing a complete reality within this community theatre production on a cardboard set was like seeing a Van Gogh surrounded by weeping clown pictures.

And afterwards, all of these white-haired old ladies were surrounding him, giggling like teenagers. It was really cute.
The glow, remember?

Then he drove me back to the station and waited on the platform with me until my train came.

I'll tell you the thing that got me the most. I've seen this in the movies, but have never actually experienced it myself: Every time we got into the car he would always unlock my door, open it, make sure that my hands and feet were inside, and then close the door before going around to his side and letting himself in.

He may not know how to answer a phone call, but by golly he has manners.

And I am smitten again.

One year ago today:
"It's a good thing we did that second call or the audience would have RIOTED!!!"

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