I know it’s the height of uncool to like musicals, and to keep my credibility here I ought to be writing an entry about how much I loved seeing Dayglo Abortions at the Horseshoe Tavern, but…I’d take Michael Crawford being angsty in a mask over indie club music, any day.
I fell in love with musicals one Sunday afternoon in the early eighties. No one was home, I had nothing to read, and there was nothing on tv. So I went through my dad’s records and found Carnival and put it on. I was immediately inthralled. It was like reading a book. I listened to the songs and closed my eyes and imagined the story to go with it. That summer was spent listening to South Pacific, Annie, Oliver, and of course Carnival. Twenty two years later, I can still sing “Everybody Likes You” word for word – which, suprisingly, was sung originally by the late crusty Law and Order icon, Jerry Orbach.
But in 1986, I discovered modern musicals. The Phantom of the Opera had just begun on Broadway, and though I had no faith that anything modern could possibly hold a candle to the wonder of “I Hate Him”, or “Her Face”, I was curious and asked another kid to make me a tape. That summer was spent singing along with Michael Crawford, as he pined after the (dreary but prettily voiced) Christine. Duets! Passion! Drama! I was a complete convert. In the years which followed, my Dream Academy and Phil Collins tapes were shoved to the back of the tape case to make room for Les Mis, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Into the Woods, and Miss Saigon.
Apparently, Jesus Christ Superstar doesn’t translate well without the background music; I was listening to it with headphones and singing along when Paula gently asked if I could stop shouting, “Jesus must DIIIIIIIE,” for a little while.
I saw The Secret Garden (eerie as hell; the audience was made up of 924 girls with Mary Lennox bows in their hair, assorted mothers, Todd, and me) and Passion live on stage, I spent a year listening to Rent. As I grew older, the musical theatre boom faded away. Aspects of Love bombed, then CATS ended its long run. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s latest musical was met with helpless giggles by the audience, which would have been fine if it hadn’t been a drama. I counted myself very lucky when, eight years later, Wicked began a Broadway run.
And then…they finally made the Phantom of the Opera movie. The Really Useful Group had been threatening to make it since 1987, when Michael Jackson was their top pick to play the Phantom. I’m surprised they didn’t hire him in the end. Think of the money the financially struggling producers could have saved on makeup.
After his surprise come-back in the ’90s, John Travolta was their next choice. I liked it even less than Michael Jackson. As the years went by and the movie plans dragged on, I lost hope that the movie would ever be made. But, here we are, seventeen years later. Interest in the Phantom has all but vanished, leaving the producers with a cast whose biggest collective claim to fame was a four minute role in “Mystic River”.
After seventeen years, I could have borne one glaring error. If the lip-synching had been poorly done, or Raoul had looked fifteen with a shoulder length bob, if the Phantom had looked just like John Travolta circa 1991 with a mask on, if his voice had sounded like the raspy end of an electric guitar lick, if the sets had the too-saturated, too-large feel of stage props…just one of those would have been fine. But not all of them.
I walked out soon after the first appearance of the Phantom (whose credits include the internationally acclaimed “Lara Croft: Tomb Raider” and “Tales of the Mummy”) surprised that I was the only one doing so. Of course, I was also one of the oldest people in the theatre. I doubt anyone in the audience had even heard of the musical before seeing the movie.
When Wicked comes to Toronto this spring, you can bet I’ll be in the best seats I can find, sobbing for Elphaba as she tries to find her lost love. But I’m glad that Carnival has been largely forgotten in the 43 years since it was written. For me, musicals work best in book form, my imagination turning Michael Crawford’s Phantom into the disturbed hero and Sarah Brightman’s Christine into a strong, intelligent – okay, even my imagination can’t make that kind of stretch – turning Christine into someone a leeetle less vacuous, the story unfolding in my head, and not at the mercy of a money-driven film industry.
Kite left Monday morning. Twenty seven hours later, the phone rang.
Sage Hello?
Kite Hi! I’m in Memphis!
Sage Memphis…Tennessee?
Kite Yes. And I am off the bus. The roads were just terrible, icy the whole way. Tell Paul that at one point everybody had to get off the bus to push it out of an ice patch.
Sage, incredulously Push it?
Kite Yes! And we got it out! We were very proud of ourselves. Well, it meant we got to go outside.
Sage So, are you heading home, or…?
Kite Tomorrow. I missed my connection – okay, that’s not true, the ticket lady said if I hurried a different bus was leaving in five minutes, and I just stared at her and finally said, “Um, I’ve been on the bus a long time already.”
Sage How long?
Kite Twenty seven hours. No rest stops.
Sage Geez.
Kite So I’m going to see the sights in Memphis, then head home tomorrow.
Sage Did you hear about the earthquake?
Kite No, what earthquake?
Sage Giant earthquake, tsunamis, it shifted entire islands. Twenty thousand people have died.
Kite My god. Well. That puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?
Later, Paul and I were trudging home over the icy sidewalks.
Sage Did you hear about the big earthquake?
Paul No, what big earthquake?
I know longtime readers are sick of hearing how we don’t own a tv, but every once in awhile an event of such tremendous magnitude happens that I feel I need to mention it, so that new readers aren’t sitting thinking, “For God’s sake, do you keep the child locked in a closet all day, or what?“So. We don’t own a tv, and we tend to listen to our own music instead of the radio, and Paul is smart and doesn’t read the newspaper vending machine headlines as we pass them.
Sage describes the earthquake
Paul Are we going to have a tidal wave?
Sage No. We’re nowhere near the ocean. We’re near a lake, which is entirely different.
Paul Phew.
Sage It’s strange to think that all of that suffering is going on on the other side of the world, and here -
Paul And here it’s just the same was it was yesterday.
I remember when 9/11 happened, I thought the same thing. That it seemed incomprehensible that my world had changed so dramatically, but there were people who knew absolutely nothing about it – and, in fact, might never find out. And yet, here we are, getting up in the morning and eating breakfast just like we did yesterday, and having our own little dramas and small hardships while on the other side of the world it must seem like the Apocalypse.
We walked in silence for awhile.
Paul We should do something for the people who had the earthquake.
Sage I like that idea.
Paul Let’s send them a card, and a donation.
Sage I think that’s an excellent plan.
When we got home Paul sat in front of a blank piece of paper for a long time. “I don’t know what to write,” he said.
“You could draw a picture of something happy,” I said, “Something to cheer up the person who sees it.”
“Oh, I know, I’ll draw a picture of Peter!”
I giggled inwardly; apparently we both think kittens are cheering.
He drew a picture, then said, “I want to send them a song.”
“What sort of song?”
“Can you print out the lyrics to Macavity, from Cats, for me?”
I tried to picture a child in Tamil Nadu opening the card and finding the lyrics to Macavity (” Macavity’s a mystery cat, he’s called the hidden paw /For he’s a master criminal who can defy the law / He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair / For when they reach the scene of crime Macavity’s not there!”) comforting. I tried. No luck.
“Um, those lyrics are pretty…long. Maybe something a little simpler, like, ‘We’re thinking of you,’ or…’We’re sorry for your loss’…no, that’s stupid. I’m not really sure, actually.”
Paul thought and thought, and just as I was sure I’d have to come up with something myself, his eyes brightened. “I know!” He wrote furiously, then showed me the card.
Overheard at a restaurant:
Man #1, peeling off layers Man, in this kind of weather you have to take off all your clothes before you can even sit down.
Man #2 pauses, then says No, I think I’ll leave my clothes on today.
Sage Hi there. Would it be okay if I took a photo of your dog?
Woman For…?
Sage A photography project on Toronto. He just looks so cute, playing in the snow.
Woman Well…all right. You know, you know I don’t like him wearing that muzzle, but it’s…a long story.
Sage thinks Beginning with, “I wanted a purebred puppy…”
As you can see, the adorable Chow that had previously been happily gamboling around in the snow decided to play dead for the photo, but if I’d asked two minutes earlier, y’all would have been thinking, “Aw, I need a vicious, neurotic purebred dog too,” instead of shouting, “Honey! GET THE CHILDREN OUT OF THE ROOM BEFORE THEY SEE THIS!”
Kite left yesterday, before Paul woke up. He seemed unaffected by her exit, which is par for the course; he’s much better at living in the present moment than I am. Todd and Paul rambled around the city while I stocked up on photos, and when we all arrived home again Paul fell into his brand new Magic Treehouse book for about two hours. While he ate dinner, he asked Todd to put on a Hank the Cowdog audiobook, and we all listened to Hank drone on about Halloween. When that story was over, a new one began, about a cat that’s been abandoned by its owners and has been living alone for years. Hank comes across the cat and is (as usual) mean and hateful.
Todd and I were in the middle of deciding to play backgammon when I glanced over at the table and saw Paul bent over it, holding a kleenex to his eyes. “Paul?” I said, then with concern, “Paul, are you okay?“
He mumbled something, and I went over to the table. His entire body was shaking. “Paul?“
“This story is so…sad,” he sobbed, and grabbed another kleenex.
I knelt down and gave him a hug, while Todd rubbed his back. “It is sad,” I said. “I cry over sad stories too. I cried over a sad story just this morning, in fact.”
“The cat is all alone,” he wailed, and buried his head in my shoulder.
“I know, baby,” I said, and Todd and I looked at each other over his shoulder and teared up a little ourselves. I don’t regret a moment of it, but sometimes it’s hard knowing that Paul is 1,000 miles and another country away from his Granny because of choices we made.
Overheard in line for the ATM:
Boy Let’s play, I’m Buddy and you’re Naomi. Let’s play that’s my real name and your real name.
Grandmother, distracted Yeah.
Boy, in a deep voice So, Naomi, what would you like to do today?
Grandmother Yeah, yeah.
Boy, patiently Listen, let’s play, I’m Buddy and you’re Naomi…
When I was thirteen, I found the Cheers tv show theme heartwarming. (I also found the Golden Girls theme heartwarming. One night while visiting Kite, I pleaded with her to listen to this “really fantastic song”. She was sanguine until, “And if you threw a party / and invited everyone you knew / you would see / the biggest gift would be from me” when she cracked up and said, “Man, if the measurement of love on that show is how big your gift is, I think I’d rather cut firewood. Have fun!”)
Making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got.
Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot.
Wouldn’t you like to get away?
Sometimes you want to go, where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came.
You wanna be where you can see, our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows your name.
You wanna go where people know, people are all the same,
You wanna go where everybody knows your name.
You want to go where people know, people are all the same;
You want to go where everybody knows your name…
(Wouldn’t you like to buy a drink / Feed your alcoholic tendancies / You wanna go, where nobody’s in AA…Except Sam…but that doesn’t fit in with my point…so let’s pretend he isnnnnn’t…)
I always thought I would grow up and find a place like that – not, obviously, a bar, but a restaurant, or a shop, where the proprietors knew my name and my preferences.
I’ve turned into exactly the opposite sort of person, however. I ate at what currently ranks top on my short list of sushi restaurants in Toronto, frowning to myself about the snooty waiter, who seemed to be friendly to everyone else but me – frowning, but also pleased that I didn’t have to make conversation. When I came in a week later, Snooty looked at me for a long time before gesturing to the same seat I’d had before. He came over to take my order, and began to walk away, then shyly came back. “Were you in here last week?” I nodded. “I thought so. And I was going to say hello, and guess at your order, but I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to…you know. Anyway, welcome back!”
I smiled and said something friendly, and I haven’t been back since. Despite the excellent food, service, and atmosphere, I don’t like being recognized. I don’t like making conversation with strangers, or remembering what kind of tip I gave last time so I don’t disappoint the waiter with a smaller one, or finding myself stuck with the same order time after time because I’m afraid changing it will be embarrassing. In short, I am too shy for Bento Cheers, and I’m finding that the anonymity of Toronto has become one of my favorite things about living in the city.
Although the visit has gone well, Kite and Sage end up having their usual clashes towards the end. Sage cries a little, but only a little, because the problem is surprisingly easily resolved. Sage and Todd go out for lunch. When they come back…
Kite I casually mentioned that you’d gotten weepy, and Paul started leaping around, completely panicked.
Sage He probably thought Bush had been crowned Emporor.
One of the unexpected side effects of leaving the States has been the kind of news that makes it across the border. I can’t tell if the news is getting progressively worse, or if the Canadian news agencies are neglecting the good news in favor of the bad. The news that I see while passing a newspaper vending machine, or that makes it on the CBC, is all so strange that I can hardly believe there isn’t a wave of U.S. refugees crossing the border en masse.
Hee hee. I typed “en mas”, it didn’t look right, so I went to double check via Google translation, which told me using “en mas” would give y’all the image of refugees crossing the border wearing farmhouses on their heads.
The first of the stories begins:
Alabama state Rep. Gerald Allen (R-Tuscaloosa) wants to ban public funding for any books with gay characters or content to protect children from the “homosexual agenda.” For those books already in the state’s public and university libraries, Allen suggests that people “dig a big hole and dump them in and bury them.” – Southern Voice
Oh, oh, Representative Allen, can I play too? I want to ban all books portraying Christianity as the One Truth, okay? And any books that imply that women were made from Adam’s rib, because I don’t like the government pushing that kind of agenda on The Homeland’s Youth. While I’m at it, I want to encourage all my readers to dig a big hole and bury any and all books that portray spanking as an option for parents. As my grand finale, I think I’ll firebomb all of the cigarette factories. Join me! Censorship is the answer!\
When the two plainclothes Loudoun County sheriff’s investigators showed up on her Leesburg doorstep, Pamela Albaugh got nervous…a complaint had been filed alleging that her 11-year old son had made “anti-American and violent” statements in school…Albaugh described her son as a rambunctious student who has long opposed armies of any kind.
She was aware of an incident at Belmont Ridge Middle School in which her son, Yishai Asido, refused to write a letter to U.S. Marines and responded, according to his teacher, by saying, “I wish all Americans were dead and that American soldiers should die.” Yishai and Albaugh deny that the boy wished his countrymen dead…Instead, Yishai said he has learned that it is not worth challenging authority. “At the end of the day, you lose,” he said, adding: “All of these freedoms and things they’re supposed to uphold, they bash them.” – Washington Post
You know, that kid could have been me. When I was eleven years old, my Sunday school teacher asked us to write a letter to Ronald Reagan. Ronnie’s letter openers found eight letters praising his presidency, and one asking how he could justify supporting shoveling so much money into nuclear weapons, and didn’t he know that little kids were terrified to go to sleep at night, because they could wake up to a nuclear war?
My step-sister wrote one of the drooly letters. She received a lovely series of photos of the White House interior. No response for me, though I suppose in retrospect I should be grateful that the FBI didn’t drop by to deprogram me.
Even scarier, however, is that in 2009, if we’d stayed in America, if he were in school, that kid could be Paul. Obviously we would never encourage him to wish people dead, but if he didn’t want to write to the Marines? We’d support that, we’d support talking about how war is wrong, one hundred percent.
Rainwater Harvesting: While this issue is very complex, the bottom line is that it is illegal under Colorado water rights. Although no specific statute has yet been written specifically directed at harvesting rainwater, the act of intercepting and diverting the water could be in violation of Colorado water rights. – Colorado State University
This means that putting a bucket under your gutter to collect rainwater is illegal. I’m not kidding. I wish I were kidding.
I’ve saved the scariest for last. And before you read the news story, here’s a little anecdotal preface: a Muslim co-worker of Todd’s, with an Arabic name, went to the States for a business meeting. When he arrived at the hotel, they assigned him room 911.
A prominent national Islamic civilrights and advocacy group today called on elected representatives andgovernment officials to address the rising level of Islamophobia in America. The Washington-based Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR) issuedthat call following today’s release of a survey by the Media and Society Research Group in Cornell University’s Department of Communication indicatingthat 44 percent of Americans believe the government should curtail the civilrights of American Muslims in some manner.
A Cornell University news release on the report states:
“About 27 percent of respondents said that all Muslim Americans should berequired to register their location with the federal government, and 26percent said they think that mosques should be closely monitored by U.S. lawenforcement agencies … About 22 percent said the federal government shouldprofile citizens as potential threats based on the fact that they are Muslimor have Middle Eastern heritage. In all, about 44 percent said they believethat some curtailment of civil liberties is necessary for Muslim Americans.” – PR Newswire
Still think comparing the United States to Germany, circa 1937 is an overreaction? I don’t.
