gif: patti lupone

  • Requiem: Rip reblog if u care
  • Oh What Circus: ur fave is problematic
  • On this Night of a Thousand Stars: suck my dick.
  • Eva And Che: I sucked dick. Drive me places
  • Eva Beware of the City: check ur self b4 u shrek ur self
  • Buenos Aires: Walk-in to da club like...
  • Good Night and Thank You: TFW no gf
  • Art of the Possible: surprise bitch
  • Charity Concert: reblog to save a life
  • I'd be Surprisingly Good for you: dick sucking the sequel
  • Another Suitcase in Another Hall: TFW no bf
  • Peron's Latest Flame: ugh Fake fan girls
  • A New Argentina: yes we can
  • Don't Cry for Me Argentina: Behold. The show's only legacy besides Madonna and Lupone
  • High Flying Adored: uptown girl, she been living in an uptown world
  • Rainbow High: ima gonna pop some tags
  • Rainbow Tour: wow u suck at your job
  • The Actress Hasn't Learned the Lines: #Argentinelivesmatter
  • And the Money Kept Rolling in: make it rain
  • Santa Evita: Brain washing
  • Waltz for Eva and Che: first of all, how dare you
  • She is a Diamond: lay off my girlfriend
  • Dice are Rolling : Darth Vader noooo
  • Eva's Last Broadcast: Rose Tyler I...
  • Montage: It's like a chaotic horrific "one day more"
  • Lament: and this happened to her body, I hope you didn't plan on sleeping
Les Miz is a long show. And it was a long time between my cues. One night a couple of months into the Palace run, I got really tired of listening to the score. [..] After the barricade scene this one particular night, I went back to my dressing room, took off my wig, my costume, my microphone, and my contacts. I turned off the Tannoy (the intercom), stuck some gum in my mouth, put my glasses on, lit a cigarette, and began reading the Madonna issue of Interview magazine. I was sitting there in my long johns because it was wintertime and the Palace Theatre was freezing. Just as I began thinking, “I wonder where they are…”, Roger Allam burst open my dressing room door with his foot.
“You’re on!”
“Holy Shit!”
My wig, my costume, and I flew down three flights of stairs. By the time I hit the bottom step, I was fully dressed. (No contacts, no mike, no time). The ghost of Fantine is supposed to make an entrance in the closing minutes of the show as Jean Valjean is dying, but I had left Colm Wilkinson onstage alone, dead, sitting in a chair, head listing to the right, barely breathing - rnough to keep him alive - for sixteen bars of music.
Yeah, I royally fucked up.
—  Patti LuPone, A Memoir