Welcome back, Campers! How are we settling into fall and yet another Mercury (and five other planets) retrograde? Did you text your ex? Accidentally reply-all to an email to talk minor (or major, we don’t judge) shit on someone still on the thread? Do you need a Pumpkin Spice Marlboro Light?
Campers, we’re here for you! We suggest logging off immediately after catching up with us and giving a well-manicured middle finger to your worries.
It’s time for BIG DIVA FALLLL. Our tolerance for bullshit? Basically subterranean. Our hair? Closer to god than ever thanks to the lack of humidity and a surplus of Elnett. Our wine? Comes in magnum, darling. This fall we’re making demands instead of gently expressing our needs, by god!
In this issue, Sam brings you a close encounter with diva soprano extraordinaire Barbara Cook, and Marilyn offers up some inspiration for infusing your everyday life with a little excitement and a very special hummus recipe to boot.
Thanks for getting lost with us.
LYLAS,
Your Misguidance Counselors, Sam & Marilyn
I have a Barbara Cook story. October 2016, the week after she turned 89, I was the most fancy and getting ready to perform at Carnegie Hall. I received an email. The most important part of this email informed me that Ms. Barbara Cook had requested a young man to wheel her on stage. Apparently, I was the most easy-on-the-eyes of those at arm’s length. I hastily typed, "This is my life's calling.” Send.
Ms. Cook was backstage, instead of in her dressing room, because she wanted to listen to the singing. She wore colorful checks with a cascading necklace. I was in a grey suit and hairsprayed. I had decided to wait until right before we went on stage to introduce myself because so many strangers were coming up to her. It seemed to be getting overwhelming. I was there for a job, so I sat at the edge of her aura. Out of the way, but not out of reach.
But as I sat dutifully, she began to sing each song being sung on stage, or at least what she thought was being sung, to me. I didn't breathe for fear that any move, false or otherwise, would stop her. Soon after, I heard the song before her entrance and cautiously took a steadying inhale to speak.
"Hello, Ms. Cook. I'm Sam. I'll be escorting you on stage tonight. We go on after this song."
She gave me a once-over.
"Oh, you’re who they got for me."
I, confused but compulsively pleasant, said, "I hope I'll do."
She gave me a big smile and touched my arm with a nod. I took this as approval, although she didn't seem to like my shoes. I mean, she said as much.
“...they’re pointy.”
When the doors opened, I pushed Ms. Cook through the thick, veiling glow until the volume of the staggeringly capacious hall became visible to us and we became visible to the thousands of sets of devouring eyes. I felt like I was drowning because my lungs weren’t working but, also, flying because my stomach had dropped so far.
With aid from fight or flight instincts mixed, presumably, with fairy dust, I managed Ms. Cook to center stage because that was my blocking, and I am very brave. I locked that chair because I was not gonna let Barbara Cook roll away on my watch. Then I walked stage right with an acute awareness of my every movement.
Ms. Cook told a story about maybe an audition and sang a song about a fish. Neither was clear but the audience hung on every word. Her command of us, her enraptured charges, was as masterful as ever. I stood like a pleased fool, looking into the expanse of mesmerized strangers seated in red velvet and actively memorizing each face and sconce. Then, I sang Happy Birthday to her from the Perelman Stage with almost 3,000 backup singers (audience members), marking my New York City debut.
I went to collect Ms. Cook, unlock her chair, and assist in her exit. We made it about 10 feet when a black object shot out from underneath the upstage wheel.
I instinctively invoked my degree in Musical Theatre and, with Vera Ellyn’s smoothness, grabbed the object without the slightest falter in stride. *yas glissade realness* Following up by using my keen ability of sight to identify the object as a shoe. *ok queer eye for the orthopedic guy*
No sooner had I performed the proverbial special skills section of my resume (on stage at Carnegie Hall no less) did I hear a distinct reprimand from Ms. Cook over the rapturous thunder of her exit applause. I was living a stress dream.
"Stop! STOP!" Her voice soared with golden tambour and released larynx. I composed myself, meaning I made sure I wasn't going to leave a puddle by the Steinway, and leaned over to her ear.
"Don't worry, Ms. Cook! I have your shoe!" So chipper that I sounded like I was a member of the Brady Bunch. But as confident as I was that this was cause for her behest, apparently it wasn't because her protests persisted.
"I SAID STOP!" Halfway backstage, her applause had subsided enough that her voice rang throughout the hall courtesy of her lapel mic.
I looked over my shoulder at Kelli O'Hara, because it was her concert, and gave a look like Oh hey, Kelli. I'm so sorry for going off script, girl, but like... I don't think I have a choice?
We rolled up to the lip of the stage. The spotlight slammed on us and Ms. Barbara Cook addressed the audience.
"I had ONE request for tonight..."
This was it. The jig was up.
How did I manage to mess up literally walking and singing Happy Birthday?! Sam! Two-year-olds can pull this off!
I was about to be reamed in front of a sold-out Carnegie Hall. Ms. Cook, who had been kind to every single person hungry for her attention all night, was so offended by my incapability that she's gonna tell all these strangers that I stole her shoe.
"...it was that a handsome, well-dressed young man push me onstage. This is Sam. Isn't he pretty?" And then, she asked them to thank me.
Applause rang out and this time, for me. Ms. Cook continued to flatter. According to Musical Theatre Legend, my cheeks blushed as red as Sutton Foster's iconic Gimme Gimme dress - from the 11 o'clock number of Thoroughly Modern Millie; her performance of the titular role winning her the 2002 Tony - before bursting into flames.
The moment continued past its due course, and then again, and again. Applause still swelling, she signaled that our time onstage was now done. I floated us offstage, Ms. Cook was wheeled to her dressing room, and I was left with coursing, euphoric adrenaline.
A breath and a step had taken me from the bright lights and crowd to the private, somber darkness of backstage. In about 10 seconds, I went from the embrace of thousands cheering and then sudden but content solitude. The concert continued behind me and I knew that this was a gift Barbara Cook purposefully gave me.
One morning in early August of the following year I woke up and couldn't stop thinking about her. The alchemistic combination of her presence, the stage lights, and the invigoration of energy from the live audience permeated, in wisps, through my mundane, muggy subway plotting. I brought her up in a conversation just one hour before hearing about her passing. The night of the concert she had left quickly, shortly after we made our exit. But before she left, she demanded to be taken back to me. She wanted to tell me "goodnight." I sang later in the concert, more than just Happy Birthday, but that is how I met Barbara Cook, and then said goodbye.
I remember a friend once saying, "Have you ever thought about all the tourists' pictures you are in the background of in Times Square? You will never see these pictures, these strangers will never know you, and yet, you are forever part of their memory. For you, it’s just Tuesday, but they're seeing New York City for the first time."
Sometimes I think I was the tourist that night but sometimes just in the background. Either way, I felt like it had weight. As a young actor, showing the requisite amount of reverence for the evening does not seem possible. Surely it could have been shared with someone more deserving than me, but I’m sure Ms. Cook would not approve of her co-star harboring such insecurities.
Ms. Cook and I, strangers, escorted each other through this shared moment, but two different life events. My New York City debut and her last public appearance.
So thank you, Ms. Cook. For that night, and everything.
“My Barbara Cook Story” by Sam Beasley (@sbeas)
Hey, beautiful people!!
Sooo many of you have been asking me about what a day in my life looks like. Evidently, my TikTok, Twitter, Insta, Finsta, Reddit commentary, BeReal, Next Door, and the open access I gave you to my gynecologist’s patient portal didn’t suffice.
But you all are my nearest and dearest. No one was more supportive than my followers when I went through my DIY jam era and subsequent brush with botulism, so I’m more than happy to take you along for the ride. Also, a quick reminder that if you were a winner in the blueberry jam giveaway over the summer you can go ahead and DM my counsel @in_a_legal_jam with any questions.
OK, that's enough boring business! Let’s get into it:
7 AM – up and at ‘em girly!
My alarm went off at seven on the dot. Inevitably, I decided at midnight the night before I would wake up early, put my two feet on the floor, and wait for the devil to utter “OH SHIT! SHE’S UP!” or whatever it says on that Etsy coffee mug my second cousin gave me. I hit snooze though and chose to instead force myself to wake up an hour later in the middle of a REM cycle.
Honestly, I probably could have slept longer but I was having a stress dream where my hair was turning into kernels of corn.
8 AM - UP AND AT EM GIRLY!!!
When I woke up my hands were clenched in such tight little fists that my nails were digging into my palms. Stigmata is not the look I’m going for, though I do love a biblical fashion moment. I tried to recreate Victor Garber’s look in GODSPELL recently – outfit details on my IG in the DAY BY DAY story archive.
What gets me out of bed? WELLBUTRIN XL® (bupropion hydrochloride extended-release tablets) by BAUSCH HEALTH! I have to say, it’s nice that there’s a low risk of sexual side effects! No, really, I have to say it. #ad #wellbutrin #thanksbausch #dopamine
8:15 AM – morning routine and breakfast!
Now I know you’re probably wondering about my morning routine. I feel a little ashamed because, as I’m sure you’ve astutely noted, I wake up 5-6 hours later than Mark Wahlberg. I am here to tell you, though, that there is freedom in saying no to routine! As a person raised in the era of miniature kitchen TVs and Oreo O’s, I don’t thrive under the conditions of a strict Bateman philosophy.
Actually, I haven’t figured out how to recreate the only kind of morning routine that truly lights a fire under my ass. If only La Colombe could bottle a cold brew that has the same impact as hearing my working mother scream, “WE CANNOT BE FUCKING LATE” to me and “YOU’RE CUTTING THAT FUCKING HAIR” to my brother while LITTLE MISS CAN’T BE WRONG rang out from the car speakers on the way to the bus stop…
Despite it all, I do commit to the one thing I have done every day of my life since my little hippocampus started working: waking up and waiting a beat for the inexplicable dread to wash over me. Then, I begin to think of ways I can cancel any responsibilities I have for that day. Why do that when I could watch DESIGNING WOMEN (I’ve never watched DESIGNING WOMEN)?! OR maybe I could get a latch hook rug project going! There’s a partially completed Tigger latch hook rug project that looks like a yarn Rorschach test sitting around somewhere I should really pick up again.
For breakfast, it was coffee with oat milk. I am an oat milk fan because I follow the Horse Girl Diet(™). If you’re on horsegirltok then you know, but it’s a diet that only allows foods a horse would eat before 4:17 PM on weekdays. I know you’re wondering why coffee is allowed and I’m not totally sure. For what it’s worth, my grandma had a donkey named JJ in the ‘90s and he loved coffee and would come inside the house to watch CNN. Super evolved and woke before woke was awake. RIP JJ, you would have loved AG1 by Athletic Greens.
9 AM – exercise!
I was able to make it to a gentle, candlelit yoga class at 9 AM. They let everyone in the class keep their Apple watches on, so I figured it was fine to vape. A vape emits far less light than an Apple watch, but I was somehow targeted and asked to put it away.
A half hour into class the instructor asked us to “check in with our genitals” and prompted us to “get curious” about how those bits were feeling. I shouted “DRY” and it was not well received. I know when I’m not wanted so I promptly left.
10 AM – you better WORK!
Departing class early meant I logged on for work at 10 AM on the dot. It’s important for me to make my space feel both like a sanctuary and a capitalism-driven den of productivity. I keep this promise to myself by working from my bed all day on a cat hair-coated duvet propped up on four pillows and balancing my laptop on a fifth pillow. I’m not sure what happened on my computer between 10 AM and 5 PM, but my friend did send me a delightful TikTok of Furbys smoking and setting themselves on fire. I love high art.
5 PM – happy hour and unwine-d time!
After a long day of willing no one to email me and meditating on whether or not I should buy FitFlops, I logged off for a well-deserved mug of tequila and a few episodes of THE HILLS to reconnect with my inner child. Can you believe people on TV used to stick with the first draft of their faces? And that these faces moved and crinkled and crumpled? What a time!
Two episodes in, I rinsed out my mug and refilled it with a robust chilled California red. I keep my wine on tap for easy, seemingly endless access. The tap is a plastic spigot that provides a direct line to a plastic bag, neatly packaged in eco-friendly cardboard. Super innovative! “They” say the lifespan of the wine is up to 30 days but I haven’t dared to risk figuring out if that’s true or not. Hot tip! Did you know you only get the benefits of the resveratrol in the grapes if you drink six mugs per day? This advice comes straight from Doctors Phil, Oz, Drew, and Bronner. I will not argue with that panel of experts.
9ish at night time and wine now nothing but a sad empty crimson stained sack :( – bath and self care!
I submerged myself into a bath full of epsom salts and lavender and almond oil, and even canola oil. The goal is to make my exterior soft and smooth and greasy and gleaming. Ready for the demons to come and dredge my glistening skin in cornflakes like a chicken fried steak ready for the FryDaddy. Do you think FitFlops would fry up nicely? I’m pretty sure they would. Sound off in the comments, though.
What is time, really, other than a marker of the slow march to death? – bedtime plus a special midnight snack!
I got in bed and took only shallow breaths as my mind raced through all of the things in the 38 open tabs in my browser that I never got around to (the Wen hair care hair loss lawsuit, Nick Cannon children timeline, melanoma under toenail vs fungus pics?) and then I just spent some time for myself wondering (it’s so important to take time to wonder) if there is enough money in my checking account to pay my phone bill. Instead of lying there paralyzed, I opted to get up and make a snack of tortilla chips and hummus.
My hummus recipe is a fave among my pals, and it’s super simple: chickpeas, tahini, olive oil, salt, pepper, and valium. It’s so good no one even remembers their name. Tag me if (I mean when lol) you make the recipe!
Around the time erectile dysfunction infomercials start to play on cable – PM workout and impromptu meet up with new friend!
Sleep eluded me, and I opted to go for a little walk. Since my workout got cut short, it felt like a nice way to show love to my body. A brisk 15-115 minutes will typically tucker me out. The valium in the hummus kinda kicked in though and once I got near the Brooklyn Queens Expressway I decided I needed a ride. When your motor skills are waning you need a lift from a pal with the skills to operate a motor, am I right?
A nice woman in a 1994 purple Ford Taurus that smelled like Jovan White Musk offered to give me a lift. I asked if she took Venmo, but she didn’t know what that was. I could only offer her what I had on me: a teenie Beanie Baby lobster (vintage with tags!) named Pinchers, half a klonopin, and a punchcard that would get her one free Blizzard from Dairy Queen. Luckily, she was a Beanie Baby AND a prescription drug enthusiast – what are the odds?!
The day is done! Anyone know what day it is now?
There it is! My day! I think it was only one day but it might have been anywhere between 1-4 days. I’m about to lose service because Jovan Taurus and I are in West Virginia. Fingers crossed there will be a Dairy Queen at the next exit. Fun road trip pics to come! Jovan won’t let me tag her on IG but I suggested she at least use some of the pics to update her Plenty of Fish profile.
Thanks for spending the day with me. Can’t wait to do it all again with you guys!! The next chapter of your life is beginning whether you know it or not! Xoxox.
“Day in the Life” by Marilyn Haines (@marilynhayward)