Don't Step On My Blue Man Shoes

On January 21, I walked to Coffee Shop on Union Square for lunch. I love that joint. The waitresses and bartenders are hot, and the food and atmosphere remind me of my local gourmet diners in L.A. -- the 101 Coffee Shop and Fred 62.

That night, after dining on tapas at Azafran in south Tribeca, Julie took me to see the Blue Man Group at the Astor Place Theater on Lafayette Street. We shuffled around between parked cars in the cold outside the theater for a few minutes before the show to get our heads right. Our seats were the first row in the mezzanine, and as I took my place a kid in a black t-shirt approached me and asked how tall I was. When I replied, he asked me to follow him to the rear of the upper level. As other guests (including Julie) moved past us, he delivered what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech.

He told me that he needed to find someone for a job, and depending on how I answered a few questions I may be the one to fill it. Question number one regarded the size of my shoe (10) and number two was whether or not I was claustrophobic (no). He informed me that in about an hour and a half, the Blue Men would enter the audience for the second time, looking for someone. I would be chosen. He quickly ran through the entire routine, dictating exactly what would happen to me while I was on and off stage, assuring me that contrary to appearances, I would never be in any danger. I was growing nervous and more than a bit paranoid, but how could one resist an opportunity such as this? I accepted. After changing into some shapeless black sneakers and assuring my man that I wouldn't cover up the blue T-shirt I was wearing with a jacket, I returned to my seat and told Julie what was going down. And then I waited. And was entertained. No, I was more than entertained -- I was enthralled. I laughed out loud and gasped and yelled and interacted.

The first time I met Julie was at The Blue Man Complex Rock tour last summer at the Shrine in downtown L.A. It featured the Blue Man Group jamming with rock musicians, and though it was good, it was nothing compared to this show in Lower Manhattan. After approximately an hour and a half, I felt a presence next to me. Sure enough, while the audience was distracted by something onstage, one of the Blue Men had silently wandered up to my seat like a curious insect. With his inquisitive alien head cock, he stared down at me and offered his hand. I took it. I think he may have raised my arms as the spotlight operator and a cameraman focused on me, to give the audience a chance to give me a cheer. I was then whisked up the steps to the back of the mezzanine and then down the stairs at the back of the theater. We bounded up the center aisle and his two indigo cohorts helped me up onto the stage. From then on, the experience was an adrenaline-pumped blur. The blue-skinned entertainers helped me into a white jumpsuit and, looking into my face with that adult-baby gaze, one of them marked my cheek with a blue dot. I was then fitted with a spray-painted motorcycle helmet ("with the blast shield down I can't see a thing") and my world went dark. They then guided me backstage where events got even wackier, but nothing was ever out of control. I think I'll skip what happens next. I don't want to ruin the show for those who haven't seen it, nor do I want to spoil the magic for those who have. But within five minutes I was back onstage, my head emerging from a solid block of orange Jell-O (I was now holding the dark helmet) while my body unfolded from a small black box. My white jumpsuit was now covered with blue paint and I stood in triumph next to a large white canvas splashed with blue prints of a familiar-looking body. I never really had time to be nervous -- the bright lights kept me from seeing the audience. But I could hear their reaction and was thrilled.

After the show I was so elated by the experience that Julie and I walked halfway to the subway line before I realized I was still wearing those atrocious black trainers. On the way back to the Astor Place several people who'd seen the show smiled at me or patted me on the back. "Good job!" one of them said as I walked through the doors. "I didn't do anything," I thought, "I was merely the tool of the artist: a prop. I was a paintbrush". I approached one of the Blue Men in the lobby and said, "I have Blue Man Shoes". He verbally directed me (they CAN speak!) to the girl with whom I needed to make the footwear exchange. Eventually Julie and I made it back to the W on Times Square. As we walked into our room I glanced at myself in the mirror. I'd brushed most of the remaining flecks of orange Jell-O from my face and hair, but I still bore the mark of a blue smear of paint across my left cheek. Like a child home after a night of trick-or-treating, I had the urge to leave it there. But realizing that out of context it looked like a sloppy mascara job, I washed my face before going downstairs to the bar. My brush with destiny as a blue paintbrush was over.