Next to Normal Night

I saw NEXT TO NORMAL last night. It's a Broadway musical. It was nominated for like 237 awards and won most of them. It's about a family with a dead kid and a Mom that can't get over it. And they sing about it a lot.

I know I'm alone in my viewpoint here, but were the producers just sitting around watching Ordinary People and thinking..."you know what this tragic family drama needs? SONGS!" ?

In general, I 'm not a fan of dreary musicals. If it's happy or funny, add music. If it's sad, make it a play. Please don't make me watch you sing about Leukemia, the Holocaust or A.I.D.S. - unless you're making it hilarious. And I've seen RENT. Not hilarious. It's just folks singing about A.I.D.S. and dying and dying from A.I.D.S. It's not as funny as it sounds.

But, critics love it.

And critics loved NEXT TO NORMAL. They even gave the lead actress, Alice Ripley, every best actress award they could find. I think they even made up a few of them on their computers at home. (One award was just covered in yogurt lids.)

They really love this lady.

And I will say that she seems like a fine actor and her voice clearly has range. The only thing is, she sings...like the Swedish Chef. Yes, I mean the Muppet character.

The first time it happened, I thought it was a little flub. Whatever the line was, it ended in the English word, "Fear" which was pronounced, "Feeyewer".

I struck my ear as unbelievably odd...clearly a little mistakey-poo. But then, I found out over the ensuing hours...nope...she meant to do that. That's just how she sings. For no discernable reason, she swallows words and makes them all Bjorky. She'll be perfectly non-muppet for a few words, lull you into believing it won't happen again, and then she pops out a "GEWD" (GOOD) or an "AFFAHR" (AFFAIR) out of the blue and assaults your ears again without warning.

"Now I see her, feel the FUUUR! (FIRE)
Now I NEW (KNOW) she needs me THUUR (THERE) to SHAAR (SHARE)
I'm NOWAHR (NOWHERE)"

I looked around. Surely everybody there was as distracted as I was by this super bizarre phenomenon. But, they all just sat there, delighted and peaceful.

Thank God for my friend, Thomas. The second we broke for intermission, I asked, "what do you think?"

He replied, "Yeah, it's good; but what's the deal with that lady? Is she overcoming some kind of defect or just singing like that to win a bet?"

It has to be the latter because I looked it up and there is no earthly reason for Ripley's Muppet voice. She's not Norwegian or born with mugglewumps on her larynx. She's from San Leandro, California. She's a pure-bred, English-speaking, American bi-ped. Which means someone TRAINED her to do that. ON. PURPOSE.

And I guess people love it. In New York, she's a demi-God. In other words, they've heard her sing - with their ears - and liked it anyway.

I, however, found it SUPER distracting. I actually enjoyed parts of the show. The daughter was great; very believable as an awkward, sarcastic teen. She had a nice voice that came out sounding just like a human person. So, that was a a nice relief. And Dad was just like a Dad/husband guy should be. He had a nice, pleasant man-voice. The dead son guy was a little over-the-top, musical theater gay for me. (Lots of knee bending, quick turns and jazz-hands), but on the whole, he was fine.

Everyone was good.

It's just hard to watch when you're praying that Miss Scandinavian vowels doesn't sweep in and ruin whatever song you were starting to enjoy. And this is one of those talky/singy musicals where even the most banal dialogue is sung. And she's the lead, so you're never really safe from her chiming in. It was an aural minefield. I was exhausted by the end.

Even though I'd give this musical my "Most Likely to Forget By New Year" Award. (Add it to their pile of accolades), it was a decent production. They have some money behind it and a lot of talent on the stage. And, most importantly, it gave Thomas and me a reason to speak in Swedish Chef accents for the rest of the night. So, I'm glad I went. Theater is about amusement and distraction. For perhaps the wrong reasons, I got both.

The Perfect Gift

My mother has given me many gifts in my life. She started out on a roll. Right away she gave me internal organs, eyes and a kick-ass cerebral cortex - all excellent gifts; very thoughtful and personal. But, every year since then, her skills as a gift-giver have dissipated.

I'd like to say up front that it isn't about the money. I don't care about the price of a gift and furthermore, she has money. She isn't a single mother of 12, just doing the best she can to make 4 twigs a piece yarn look like that bike we really want. She comes from a family with live-in maids and...I'm her only kid. Still, I've endured a cavalcade of wrapped disappointments.

The sad thing is that there's a always a big wind-up. She masterfully builds anticipation. She talks about "the big gift" for days. She drops hints about what "the big gift" will be. She makes me open presents in a certain order all leading up to "the big gift."

And what is "the big gift"? Well, in my historical mental slide-show, it's a compilation of pre-used as-seen-on-TV products (things she bought for herself, opened, used and then grew tired of), half-off services to her friend's businesses (because every 8-year-old is in the market for new carpet), coupons for psychic readings (Oy), self-esteem cards (How perfect...It's a gift AND an insult!), various stolen or used bath products (Thank you, Hilton) personalized astrological charts (I wish I were kidding) and one frog-shaped sleeping bag (ribbit). Pure gems.

As awe-inspiring and amazing as these treasures are, they can only be eclipsed by her attempts to buy me clothing as "the big gift". I could list a litany of wardrobe horrors my mother has foisted on me (men's workout shorts "with cup included!" comes to mind), but my favorite was from my 11th birthday.

Filled with hope and excitement, I tore open the wrapping, lifted up the box, peeled apart the tissue paper to discover every little girl's fantasy gift...a leather biker vest and matching black, leather shorts.

Sure.

That's appropriate.

I was, afterall, in a dangerous, rebel 6th grade motorcycle club and had been begging her all season for quality bitch gear.

And with black leather shorts, you have that perfect article of clothing for days when you happen to be standing in a 4" high arctic draft that only blows at ass level...but it's still too hot for pants.

And a vest?
A vest of any kind is retarded. Who are these people who only get cold on their torsos? I want to meet them - and tear off their arms; their useless, desensitized skin wings - and donate them to robots; needy, armless robots.

Jackets are readily available for reasonable prices. Why would anyone opt for a vest?
And it's black leather. And I'm 11.
None of this equation works. What on earth was she thinking?

Her only response to my shock-riddled little face was, "You should be grateful. Leather is very expensive."

So is therapy. Trust me. And I'll need a lot more of it if I walked out of the house in the Harley Davidson pre-teen rape kit she bought me.

So, I've given up up Mom's presents.
I've stoppped hoping. I smile and nod while she hands me a gift bag and remain pleasant and non-plussed when I discover the scented candle shaped like a cat.

"Because you like candles and you HAVE A CAT!" she'll say with glee.

And I just hug and thank her.
We've turned her giftscapades into family lore. We laugh about it and I've learned to keep expectations low.

So, this year, on my birthday, just days ago, I stood outside Mom's car as she handed me a gift bag.

"Now don't get all excited." she sputtered. "You know how I am with gifts. Just know that it's the thought that counts."

I smiled benignly and thanked her for in advance for thinking of me.

With a braced sigh, I opened the bag.

I peeled back the paper and read the words, "Nintendo Wii".

My mind couldn't comprehend what my eyes saw.

A Wii. I actually WANT a Wii. Arguably, I NEED a Wii (not like one needs a kidney, but, you know, it makes indoor tennis a whole lot easier and less destructive).

Before I asked the next question, she answered it.

"Yes, it's not just the box. There's actually a Wii inside"

"And--?"

"It's not used. Or borrowed. or stolen."

"And--?"

"It's not off-market or from a trunk in Chinatown. I bought it new. In a real store. With a receipt and everything."

I thought I might cry.

It took 35 years, but she got it right.

Then she handed a smaller bag. Inside, were stolen hotel soaps and decorative kid-sized sponges in the shape of stars.

Perfect.