I stormed out of rehearsals today.

Morgan, like the countless Artistic Directors before him, thinks he knows what's best.

I spent the entire morning working on the toughest part of my dance. Showing each dancer their routine, one at a time, when Morgan walked

in-- asking to see a run through.

He sat there with me, watching, nodding his head every so often. When it was over he said he had only a few suggestions.

He spent all afternoon changing everything I'd done.

Telling me that it didn't flow right-- that if I wanted it to be perfect this is what I needed to do.

I told him that he promised me that I'd be the one in charge, that he'd stay out of it.

He paused and I could tell he was about to let me have it. He calmly expressed that I was lucky he showed any interest in my work. That usually he wouldn't give the time of day to an ex-chorus member's dream of being the next Bob Fosse and that if I wasn't a friend of Lee's-- he probably wouldn't do this piece of crap.

I told him to take a flying fuck. He was the one that was lucky. He was the no talent hack that couldn't choreograph if his life depended on it. So, he likes to make shit out of other people's art, thinking it will show everyone how talented he is if it's a success and how he had nothing to do with it if the show sucks. I don't have to deal with this shit.

The dancers stood on the stage, pretending not to hear the argument we were having.

They weren't doing a good job of it.

I don't think anybody in a five mile radius didn't hear our fight.

I stood up for what I believed and I felt great.