Friday, January 26, 2018

It's Still Magic Even If You Know How It's Done




Ursula Le Guin died this week and many people mourned her. She was a writer of science fiction, the old school stuff that changed people’s lives. I have to admit that I never read her books.



But I thought I’d take this opportunity to write the eulogy for the author whose works I have read.



For some people, the beach is their place of refuge. Their happy place. They post countdowns all winter long about the first day of summer and then post endless photos of toes in the sand, kids frolicking in the waves, drinks with little umbrellas in hand. Bubbles is one of those who loves the beach. Others are more specific in their locations. Etsy loves Saranac Lake in upstate New York. Rorey considers Sudbury, Vermont her personal slice of paradise. For my husband, driving a boat around Lake Wallenpapupack in the Pocono mountains is his idea of heaven on earth. One October, before the docks were pulled in, he spent hours racing around the flat glass surface, ears red with cold, going as fast as the motor would allow. Rain or shine, flat calm or full chop, he just loves being out on that lake. Some people love being on a mountain skiing, or walking the streets of Paris, or a million other places that calms their soul.



I love going to Anhk-Morpork. I know where the best pubs are, the best curry, and which shops are the most fashionable. I know that dragons really do make terrible Hogswatch gifts, so I support the efforts of the Sunshine Sanctuary (and, of course, the Lady Sybil Free Hospital).  I know to fear the Summoning Dark as well as The Shades and to pray to the goddess Anoia when my cutlery gets stuck in drawers. It is a city that never sleeps, eats whatever is put in front of it (even CMOT Dibbler’s sausage-inna-bun which only the very brave or the very drunk should attempt) , and has a river that you can walk across, but to me, it’s home. And I can never go there again.



You see, the Discworld, and all the cities and continents within, such as Ankh-Morpork, were created by Sir Terry Pratchett. He died on March 12, 2015.



He left behind the Discworld – a series of 42 books, all about a flat disc-shaped world, carried on the back of four elephants (it used to be five, but one fell and when it landed, it split the continents and its bones turned to gold). The elephants stand on the back of a giant turtle named A’Tuin. Unseen University is the greatest academic institution in the land and the Librarian is an orangutan who always know the exact book you need. Many of the Discworld books fall into categories. Some are stand-alone stories, some follow the paths of the Lancre witches, others follow the lowly watchman Sam Vimes through his eventual rise to becoming the Duke of Ankh (but he really hates wearing the ducal tights and especially the hat with the feather.) Death talks in all caps, rides a horse named Binky, and could murder a curry. There are books about gods, monsters, and those who fall in between. There is a huge cast of characters, one major locations, several minor ones, and all form an interconnected world where politics, race relations, good and evil, all come together to tell a story.



And now its gone. There are no more stories to tell.



I started reading his books about 20 years ago. They fall into the category of fantasy, but they are far closer to Douglas Adams in tone than J.R.R. Tolkien. I don’t know a single other soul who reads them, but in England, he was a best-selling author. He died, much too young, at 66 of early onset Alzheimer’s. His unfinished works were destroyed by steamroller, per his instructions. His daughter, a writer in her own right, made it crystal clear that the Discworld was the work of her father and that she would not be continuing the series.



So, imagine, that Saranac Lake is closed or Vermont has been, um, overrun by ice zombies. Imagine that no boats are allowed on the lake and there are no more visits to the beach. You will always have pictures and memories, but you will never get to go there again. Never get to immerse yourself in everything that you love about it. Every year, I got to go to the Discworld and make new friends, have no adventures, learn new details about the city and its denizens. Whereas I started as a tourist, I became a local. I know what happened when Mr. Hong chose to build the Three Jolly Luck restaurant on the site of a former fish-god temple and what happened when he opened on the night of a full moon and a lunar eclipse at the winter solstice. I know how to play Thud, both the troll and the dwarf side, and I know that Leonard of Quirm is more a prisoner in mind than body. And I know I’ll never, ever get to visit with him again.



J.K. Rowling gets much credit for how she was able to layer the cast and plot of the Harry Potter series. The vanishing cabinet is first mentioned as a blink and you’ll miss it gag in Chamber of Secrets, but becomes an integral part of Half-Blood Prince. In Deathly Hallows, a random collection of characters are overheard meeting in a desolate wood and even though none of the characters are main ones, we can easily feel the pain of Ted Tonks, Dean Thomas, and Griphook because we had met them before. While the chapter mostly is used as an exposition drop for our main characters to learn what is happening in the wizarding world, it is also an example of Rowling’s skill. She didn’t just know how to set off Checkhov’s gun, she knew how to build the firearm from scratch and hand-poured the bullets.



Pratchett was the same. Characters dipped in and out of the books so that the stories never felt isolated from one another. I actively dislike books where characters have no family, no friends, no coworkers and exist in a bubble of only the few people necessary to the plot. Life doesn’t work like that and neither did the Discworld.



The Discworld reflected our world. There was a Scone of Stone instead of a Stone of Scone, though both were stolen. There was a book about Australia, one about rugby, and even one that riffed on Shakespeare. When I am sick, or busy (or during those very weird few months when I was highly medicated and couldn’t follow a recipe, let alone a plot) I could disappear into the Discworld and be at peace. I would open the latest book, read it cover to cover, then flip it back to front and start all over again, once, twice, thrice until I practically had it memorized. I still check Amazon hoping that a magical final book will be revealed, that I’ll get one last visit to my home away from home, so that this time, I can really soak in all the details. Sir Terry Pratchett will be greatly missed by his family, obviously, but also by the millions of fans who raced to the bookstores to purchase his newest novel and lose themselves in the magical world that he created.    



At last, Sir Terry, we must walk together.

Terry took Death's arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night.

The End.[77]

Friday, January 12, 2018

Do You Hear the People Sing?


The first show I ever saw on Broadway was Cats. It was an excellent starter show for an 80s tween. When the sirens came on, startling the “cats” onstage, I almost went through the roof. Though, to be honest, it isn’t that good of a show. You either have to be really high or really young to really enjoy a show filled with people in actual, legitimate catsuits. I can’t imagine sitting through it stone cold sober now, but at 12? It had me at “meow.”


I know people hate musicals. That the very idea of someone just randomly bursting into song while everyone around them acts like this is perfectly natural is too bizarre to be believed. I get it. But I love them unreservedly.


From Cats, I graduated to more mature fare. I spent all of high school in thrall of both Les Miserables and The Phantom of the Opera. I had an airbrushed jean jacket with the face of the Phantom on the back that I wore with pride. Not irony. PRIDE. I still think sitting through three hours of what my husband refers to as “ that show about the French revolution where everyone dies” is my idea of heaven. I am not such a snob that I think a touring production is automatically lesser than one in New York City. I saw a Thenardier in Boston who brought down the house and a Marius in Philadelphia who broke my heart. There is something about hearing those striking chords and seeing that giant red flag fly that just destroys me each and every time.


(But, after multiple viewing, I have come up with a few questions about the plot. First, after Valjean agrees to take care of Cosette, he asks Javert for three days to care of the situation. What on earth is he expecting to do in that little time? Kill her? Adopt her off to yet someone else? It probably took him three days just to find Cosette, let alone set up a new life for the kid. Second, why didn’t Thenardier recognize Valjean in the sewers? And third, if Marius sings about all his friends being dead and Cosette sings about living a lonely existence with no one but her father – then who are all the people at their wedding? And what on earth did Marius tell her to get her to agree to get married without her father in attendance? Anyway, back to the blog.)



I was lucky, living on Long Island, the theater was LIRR ride away. Back in the day, you could go to a booth on Times Square and try to get tickets to any show that day for cheap. Now, it’s a huge storefront and it’s all very professional, but back then, you felt like you were really in on a secret. Or at least I did. One day, I was able to get tickets to Miss Saigon. I called my mom on a pay phone and she actually left work early and hopped on a train to meet me in the city. Even more shocking, when she found me, she was happily eating a black and white cookie she had picked up from a random bakery. I could not have been more shocked if she had stopped for a bump of coke.


Think back to all the movies you have seen in your life. Thousands, right? And some have been great, some good, some terrible, but how many created indelible memories, moments that you will take with you to your grave? I have had those moments at the theater.


The moment the gunshot rings out in Miss Saigon.


The moment the witch takes flight in Wicked.


The moment in Once when she doesn’t tell him that she loves him.  


To me, that’s the power of a musical. It can create a moment so visceral, so real, that you feel like you are completely alone, but can only truly be experienced with two thousand complete strangers. I’ve seen show stopping numbers that made me want to get out of my seat and dance. I haven’t seen many shows, a few dozen, tops, but the ones I have seen resonate. Not all. I’ve seen some crappy shows, ones that had unmemorable music or actors, and I will never see a production of Annie again as long as I shall live, but the good ones that are always touring, or the revivals that keep popping back up again, those shows have legs for a reason. It’s because they can take you out of your life, your body, even, and transport you to another world where you can sing about racist puppets, telekinetic children, suicide, AIDS, murder, religion, or any number of odd things and it all makes perfect sense.


(Though some shows age better than others. Go watch West Side Story and try not to cringe. I listened to Rent recently and realized that Benny, advocate of fair housing prices and new business is not exactly a villain and that maybe the people singing about not paying rent in the most expensive city in the world may be the actual villains instead.)    

You don’t even necessarily have to see it in a theater to love a musical. I know its almost blasphemy to say a movie is better than the original production (much like saying a book is better than a movie), but let’s be clear – Grease is the word for a reason. It is a cultural touchstone – to this day, you can still see Pink Ladies on Halloween. And Sandy’s carnival ensemble, while completely impractical for anything excluding cat burglary, is iconic. “Tell me about it, stud.” Come one, just reading that, you know exactly how long to pause at that comma. And I bet every single person reading this blog has seen The Sound of Music at least once. You all know who tried to put Baby in a corner and why the Reverend doesn’t believe in dancing. And if you say you don’t, then you are my husband, who for some reason, seemed to have been raised in void of 80s and 90s pop culture.


I have so many more shows to see. Hamilton, obviously. I mean, I could sell my car for good seats, but then I’m not sure how I’d pay for my divorce. Both my kids are obsessed with In the Heights, but the only production I can find this year is playing three states away on a weekend when we are already triple booked (yet, I’m still trying to figure out how to make it work.) And while Dear Evan Hansen looks phenomenal, I’m not sure I can deal with two hours of that particular subject matter. For now, I’ll see whatever I can that come to Philly and raise my kids on a steady diet of Lin-Manuel Miranda and Andrew Lloyd Webber and hope for the best.  

Friday, January 5, 2018

The B is Back


I’ve abstained from blogging for a very long time.
A year and a half, to be exact.
Not for a lack of anything to say – ask my husband, I have not stopped talking. It was more like no one wanting to hear it. Not personally. Nationally. It’s hard to knock celebrity award shows when the Hollywood Advent Pervert Calendar is a living, breathing thing. It’s hard to blog when anything longer than two paragraphs is now considered a “long form” article because Twitter has condensed all of our thoughts into a character count. I’m not a mommy blog. I’m not a political activist, armchair sports analysist, or anyone particular with anything in particular to say. And after the last two years of politics, first the endless election cycle then living through year one of the Mad King, snarking about pop culture seemed as useful as dancing about architecture. 
Who cares what I think about a fictional female Doctor when actual health care is being turned on its head? Who cares about what books I read while the constitution is trod upon? How many posts did I think about, even write about, only to toss when something of actual value happened in the world? Reading the room meant realizing that the Internet had gone mean and rabid. The meek we had always hoped would inherit the earth turned into trolls who tried to destroy it. Being a woman with an opinion meant opening myself to being called words that even Carlin didn’t use on television. Was it worth it? Was posting something dumb and goofy that maybe 10 people would read on a good day a valuable use of my ever-diminishing “free time”? Was I just shouting into a hurricane, throat hoarse, unable to be heard?

Dunno.

However, what I do know is that I missed it. A lot. 
I am a much better writer than speaker. When I talk, I tend toward aphasia. I will stop mid-sentence, while the word I was about to say pops like a bubble out of existence. I try to remember the word and I have to get the shape of it, the sound of it, even the length of it correct before it will pop back into the sentence where it belongs. I say “um” and “ah” a lot. My vocabulary is limited. But when I write – well, the words flow much faster and have more meaning. I’m not saying I’m Shakespeare, but I’m not two monkeys banging on a keyboard either.
If you want to read what I have to say, that’s fantastic. If you don’t, I understand that too. It’s all good. I won’t take it personally. But I don’t just want to write it, I want to talk about it. I want comments, questions, I want a discussion. I want to remember what it felt like to talk about anything other than politics, climate change, and gross men doing gross things to women. I don't want to bring sexy back (and I'd really rather send Justin Timberlake away), but I want to remember what it feels like to write something on a regular basis that amuses, entertains, or interests people. Maybe I'll find an audience. Maybe a black hole symbolizing a complete lack of interest. Who knows? 
Let's find out together.