When I was growing up, my best friend was a 30-year-old man named Walter Fogel.
Whenever this tid-bit comes up in conversation, there are always a flurry of follow-up questions, usually along the lines of:
"How old were you when he first molested you?"
"Did your parents know he was molesting you?"
"How is possible he wasn't molesting you??"
I don't know. But he didn't. Nowhere near it.
In all respects, we just had a perfectly normal, utterly healthy, grown-man / toddler friendship.
Walter was a neighbor and a limo driver. So, he worked nights and lived in sort of an odd, glamorous world. Especially to my young eyes.
On weekends, after I spent an hour pounding on his door screaming for him to wake up, he would take me to bet the ponies at the track or drive up the coast to see one of his many girlfriends or we'd just run errands or go to beach all day.
Then at night, he'd take me out to an insiders-only restaurant tour of LA. We'd dine at historic places like Perino's or Musso & Franks or show up at some locals-only place in Chinatown or Little Ethiopa.
Wherever we went, Walter always knew somebody - the owners, the waiters, the head chef. And quite often, he knew everybody. The room warmed when we walked in. Hugs, handshakes, laughter. There was always space for us. Even if they had to make space. Sometimes, if they were full, we got to wait while the staff taught me new things - which is how I learned to use chop sticks, kiss on both cheeks and hand jive. All the essential life skills for a young lady in society.
When I was super lucky, I got to dine in the kitchen with the staff - which how I learned a lot of Spanish, some Korean and a whole bunch of curse words. It was the absolute best.
At the end of the night, he would drive me home in his faded yellow VW Beetle that smelled like clean vinyl. I would barrage him with inane questions and observations about the things I heard and saw.
"Walter, what's a jelly head?"
"Walter, why does Shawn want to be under-the-table so bad? I looked. There's nothing but gum. And not good gum."
"Walter, how did Maureen's rabbit die? Why is Jose so upset about it?"
I'd babble on and on. Asking questions, spouting opinions, laughing at Walter's funny answers. But, evenutally, the lateness of the hour, the steady rhythm of streetlights and the burning smell of the heater would get the best of me and I'd nod off as his rickety Bug bounced down Vista Del Mar.
When we got home, he would hoist me upstairs, knock on my mom's door and say, "I've got a sack of potatoes for you" and then hand me over in a lump.
Mom giggled, thanked him and took me. She'd lay me in my bed, still mumbling details of my day and then I'd sleep. Fat and happy.
Even in those days, people asked my Mom if she ever worried about me with Walter. And she says that then, and even now, knowing all that we now know about him, she still always trusted him with me. And I feel the same way. I always felt safe with Walter. There's a million reasons to assume he was a psychopathic sex offender with evil motives, but he just wasn't.
He was, however...a convict on the lam.
Yeah.
That's how the Walter story ended. There was no child abuse, but it still crested with cops breaking down the door and the FBI interviewing the neighbors.
Walter Fogel, who was not really named Walter Fogel, was wanted by John Q Law on a number of boring charges like tax evasion and fraud.
Well...nobody's perfect.
As an adult, I've had some time to think about Walter Fogel (or whatever his name was). When I was a little girl, Walter was like the coolest kid in school and Prince Charming all rolled into one. He knew everything everywhere that was worth knowing. He was dynamic, free, charming, beloved. When I was with him, I felt like social royalty; I felt glamorous, fun and special. I thought he was the best thing that ever happened to Planet Earth.
It occurs to me looking at events through the eyes of an adult that maybe Walter was just some loser who had too much time to kill, spent too many hours at the track and knew a few busboys and waiters. Doors didn't open for us because we were special, but because he knew the janitor.
Maybe that's the case.
And maybe it was hard for a dude on the run to make a lot of close friends or fall in love because he could never really let his guard down. For Christ's sake, he couldn't even tell anyone his real name.
And maybe this boisterous little kid was a cute companion because she filled up the lonliness with her incessant chatter, never asked too many probing questions and believed every story she was told. And if she did find out anything or share it, no one would believe her because she was just a dumb, confused kid. Kids believe in the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. They're not super reliable when it comes to issues of fact v. fiction.
Beyond that, she thought he was the greatest person who ever lived. And maybe if you're a loser on the lam, it's hard to come off as a hero to too many people. So, maybe that was kind of nice too.
I've been asked if it was weird to find out that after all that time I didn't know him at all. And I said, "I knew him. I just didn't know his name."
It's been almost 30 years, but here are some things I knew...
His favorite comic strip was Wizard of Id. He kept an enormous pile of change on his dining room table and let me steal from it. He ate brown eggs. He didn't like TV. He never owned a bedframe. He liked vintage beer steins. He never bad-mouthed a woman; not even an ex-girlfriend. He recycled before it was popular to recyle. He loved animals. He was never mean and rarely got mad. He thought white Bentleys were the poshest cars in the world. He loved betting the ponies. He never answered the phone. His apartment smelled like Whole Foods wihout any ventilation. He thought I ate too much. He was generous. He was good at Pac Man but didn't think people should play it too often. He was funny. He laughed easily. He was afraid of things he couldn't talk about. He knew Liz Taylor. He wanted to get married. He drove a limo. He had a crush on my Aunt. He didn't like cleaning. He had a old, heavy cuckoo clock. He believed in second chances.
I needed to get that out. Details about Walter have been haunting me. I've been dreaming about brown eggs for days. According to my Mom, Walter was desperately private. He never discussed his past or personal life. No one even knew his real age or where he was from. By some freak accident, I was the only person who knew anything about him at all. And now you do too.
When the door splintered and caved in, the police knocked over two of Walter's beer steins. They stormed into his organic-smelling apartment, tore up the mattress on his floor, the one without a bedframe. They turned over the giant table of loose change. They ransacked the newspapers bins where he cut out Wizard of Id and kept haphazard piles of folded racing pages.
But it was no use.
Walter Fogel was gone.
I don't know where he went, how he did it or even if he's still alive. I don't know his real name or how to find him. And even if I knew that, I have no idea what I would have left to say to him after all of these years.
So, this is my thank you letter. And in the purest sense, my love letter to him.
To Walter Fogel. Best Friend and Hero 1978 - 1984.
You are missed.
You are remembered.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
The Tough Mudder
So...I'm running the Tough Mudder.
What is the Tough Mudder?
If, like me, you're too lazy to type "tough mudder" into google, here's a link: http://toughmudder.com/
It's the world's hardest endurance race. Designed by British Special Services, it's 7- 12 miles of crazytown obstacles and feats of derring-do.
Some of the highlights include:
*Crawling through snow (daunting in a tank top)
*Running through a brush fire (exactly how do they control 8' flames again?)
*Trying to stay on course while you get pounded on both sides by protest-breaking power hoses (my friend suggested we "practice" this one. Holy Jesus.)
*And my personal favorite: running through a field of 10,000 volt live wires (what goes better with a jog than a mild electrocution?)
I was under the impression it was relatively safe until I read the medical waiver and basically had to stipulate that I would not sue them if I died. Which made me nervous, but I could understand. Accidents happen. Some people have died from an undiagnosed cavity in their molar. They can't be responsible for freak occurences.
But, I also had to agree that I would not sue if I lost any limbs, suffered any major brain or nerve damage, heart "episodes" or any other permanently debilitating injury.
That's when I started to panic.
But, panic or no, I plowed ahead anyway. The very worthy Wounded Warrior Project has my $200 and I'm in.
To be honest, in the past month, I've mentally adjusted to the seemingly scary ones. I can't really prepare for moderate electrocution and partial frostbite. It will just be what it is when it is.
But, the thing that has me most freaked out is running. Uphill. For miles. While RUNNING.
I'm not a runner.
I can walk for thousands of miles. I can stairmaster for days. I'm a-okay with lifting heavy things repeatedly. And I can go for hours on a dance floor without a break.
But, running...ugh.
Running seems to highlight the sins of everything I've ever eaten, drunk, smoked or
absorbed. 3 minutes into every run, it's like a get a physical clip-show of every harmful thing I've ever done to my body. My stomach boils, my lungs collapse, my head pounds and flashes of late night shots, deep fried mozzarella sticks and hazy Vegas moments flicker before my eyes.
In general, my body was not designed for this shit. I'm a curvy lady. I've got fat in pretty places. And having boobs and hips and a juicy heiny is aces when you're in a dress and heels. It's less convenient when you're slamming those extra bits up and down against asphalt.
Good runners always look the same - like tight, compact, genderless robot machines.
They don't look like Mae West or Sofia Vergara (Modern Family).
For good reason. It's inconvenient to have extra fat (pretty or no) when running. Amidst your crushed lungs and acid throat you also have to deal with a constant jiggle, sway, lift, SLAM!, wiggle, shimmy, lift, SLAM!, waddle, jiggle, lift, SLAM! rhythm of your breasts and hips fighting this torturous activity known as "running".
Try to go running in a Jell-O suit with 5lb weights tied to your nipples and you see where I'm coming from.
So, the thought of a few thousand volts of electricity temporarily stopping my pacemaker is far less daunting than the thought of running...uphill...for MILES.
Wish me luck!
(#2)
What is the Tough Mudder?
If, like me, you're too lazy to type "tough mudder" into google, here's a link: http://toughmudder.com/
It's the world's hardest endurance race. Designed by British Special Services, it's 7- 12 miles of crazytown obstacles and feats of derring-do.
Some of the highlights include:
*Crawling through snow (daunting in a tank top)
*Running through a brush fire (exactly how do they control 8' flames again?)
*Trying to stay on course while you get pounded on both sides by protest-breaking power hoses (my friend suggested we "practice" this one. Holy Jesus.)
*And my personal favorite: running through a field of 10,000 volt live wires (what goes better with a jog than a mild electrocution?)
I was under the impression it was relatively safe until I read the medical waiver and basically had to stipulate that I would not sue them if I died. Which made me nervous, but I could understand. Accidents happen. Some people have died from an undiagnosed cavity in their molar. They can't be responsible for freak occurences.
But, I also had to agree that I would not sue if I lost any limbs, suffered any major brain or nerve damage, heart "episodes" or any other permanently debilitating injury.
That's when I started to panic.
But, panic or no, I plowed ahead anyway. The very worthy Wounded Warrior Project has my $200 and I'm in.
To be honest, in the past month, I've mentally adjusted to the seemingly scary ones. I can't really prepare for moderate electrocution and partial frostbite. It will just be what it is when it is.
But, the thing that has me most freaked out is running. Uphill. For miles. While RUNNING.
I'm not a runner.
I can walk for thousands of miles. I can stairmaster for days. I'm a-okay with lifting heavy things repeatedly. And I can go for hours on a dance floor without a break.
But, running...ugh.
Running seems to highlight the sins of everything I've ever eaten, drunk, smoked or
absorbed. 3 minutes into every run, it's like a get a physical clip-show of every harmful thing I've ever done to my body. My stomach boils, my lungs collapse, my head pounds and flashes of late night shots, deep fried mozzarella sticks and hazy Vegas moments flicker before my eyes.
In general, my body was not designed for this shit. I'm a curvy lady. I've got fat in pretty places. And having boobs and hips and a juicy heiny is aces when you're in a dress and heels. It's less convenient when you're slamming those extra bits up and down against asphalt.
Good runners always look the same - like tight, compact, genderless robot machines.
They don't look like Mae West or Sofia Vergara (Modern Family).
For good reason. It's inconvenient to have extra fat (pretty or no) when running. Amidst your crushed lungs and acid throat you also have to deal with a constant jiggle, sway, lift, SLAM!, wiggle, shimmy, lift, SLAM!, waddle, jiggle, lift, SLAM! rhythm of your breasts and hips fighting this torturous activity known as "running".
Try to go running in a Jell-O suit with 5lb weights tied to your nipples and you see where I'm coming from.
So, the thought of a few thousand volts of electricity temporarily stopping my pacemaker is far less daunting than the thought of running...uphill...for MILES.
Wish me luck!
(#2)
Monday, January 3, 2011
2011: A New Year's Odyssey
I don't make New Year's Resolutions anymore.
"Why?" you ask, politely inquiring while you sip your macchiato, hoping my answer will be brief for once.
(No such luck).
BECAUSE...New Year's resolutions are like things you put on a family Christmas list.
What you really NEED for Christmas is a brand new car or a liver transplant. But, you can't really put that on your list. Too expensive. Too big. Too overwhelming. Too invasive surgery-ish. So, you have to put something small - something attainable.
Like...new socks.
But, the problem is that most relatively functional adults are able to take care of most of the small needs as they go. I'm never sitting around in early April with my big toe popped through a sock hole thinking, "I really need new socks. Only 7 short months til Christmas!"
Of course not.
I just buy socks.
And so do you. You buy socks. And underwear. And a new collander and music and toilet paper and kitchen bags and Apple accessories and cool t-shirts with irreverent phrases that make us feel hip. All of our basic wants and needs are taken care of by a Chase debit card and the Santa of immediate gratification.
Which leaves very little we want or need for our family Christmas list.
So, your list ends up filled with moderately-priced things that aren't truly important to you - but you wouldn't mind having. (ie: New pedometer and/ or Thai Cookbook.)
And that's how resolutions are for me.
What I really need in 2011:
A Focus and Goal for My Life - to have something to strive for that will one day make me worthy of an encyclopedia blurb and will validate my existence in this mortal coil.
Too big. Too overwhelming.
And very hard to accomplish.
Where do I start? And exactly how do I know when I've finished?
Chances are slim that I will wake up one day, stroll to my local coffee chain establishment, order a chai latte and then administer the heimlich maneuver to a woman choking on a biscotti, save her life and the life of her unborn child. Then, immediately achieve absolute clarity on the singular purpose of my life.
(To be barista!)
But, setting a random event as a resolution is impractical. There's no way to strive toward that goal and finally cross it off the list. It's too big. Too messy. Too poorly defined. It's just not practical.
The things on your list need to be easier, smaller, more attainable.
Something that leaves you with a sense of accomplishment.
But, here we see the flipside.
Goals that are too easily attainable can be dangerous too. In my 2005 resolutions, I basically just churned out a generic to-do list featuring such lofty goals as:
"#8 Better toothpaste" and "#14 Buy eggs".
(Those were taken verbatim).
(In my defense, I accomplished SEVERAL of my goals that year.=))
While attainable, there is no purpose or necessarily any big picture benefit from listing goals that are essentially chores.
And once again, we find ouselves seeking something in the hazy middle ground. Searching for a goal somewhere between the meaning of life and the reminder to buy groceries. Finding small goals that will help us if we achieve them, but offering no risk if we fail.
Our resolutions all become slight variations from the same template:
"1. Lose XX lbs.
2. Be a better person.
3. Do better stuff.
4. Make more money.
5. Change that bad habit I always feel guilty about.
6. Start that thing that scared me.
7. Get serious about that thing I said I would do last year...and the year before.
8. Keep resolutions this time."
There's something particularly awful about making empty promises to yourself.
And it's unbelievably tragic to have to make the same ones over and over again.
So, I quit it.
Two years ago, to be exact. I went cold turkey. No promises. No resolutions. No lists of things I should've done better before or swore to be better about in the future.
January 1st was just the first day of the next month. Like any other month.
No lists. No reflections. No goals. No reasons. No purpose.
And there's the rub.
I'm not a self-starter. I've never never finished anything that wasn't on a dare or didn't have a deadline.
So, in the past two years, I've done a staggering amount of nothing.
I'm 35. I'm not married. Or dating. Or can even remember what kissing was like. I have no children. I live in a tiny apartment. I have a job that's just a job - not a life goal or even a career. But, it pays my rent and keeps yogurt in my fridge. I have a car that's paid for even if it has a shocking amount of duck tape on the bumper.
Things are okay. Not maginificent. Not amazing.
My head is above water, but there's room for improvement.
If I had to make a wish list, there would be a lot of things on it.
*I'd love a better apartment or house. It would sweet if I could afford it too.
*It would be neat to have sex again. Even better if I could stomach the guy. A big plus if we actually loved each other. It's the trifecta if it could all happen without me getting so consumed by the joy of sex and fighting that I forget to live my own life. (Have I said too much?)
*It would be awesome to know to the core of my being what I was supposed to be when I grew up. And to be achieving that dream.
*I'd like my parents to stay alive forever. LIKE THEY PROMISED.
*It would be swell to travel to foreign locales. And would rock hard core if someone paid me to do it.
*It would be great to create something I was proud of. (Aside from my old sketches - which I like very much, but were summarily lost in the great Hard Drive Crash of 2010. (Screw you PC! Go Mac!))
*I would like money to rain from the heavens directly into my bank account in inexhaustible amounts.
Unfortunately, I have very little control over those wishes. I can have them. I can do a vision board. I can light a candle or rub oil on my forehead or sit cross-legged in silence and manifest them like Deepak Chopra and Oprah say you can. But, in the end, they aren't actions. They are hopes.
And in the wise words of Barbara Sher, it's not important what you do. It's important that you DO SOMETHING.
With that it mind, I will make one simple goal this year. It's tangible, quantifiable and will be readily apparent if I fail. To make it interesting, let me add that if I slack off and do not achieve it, I will cut off my hair. And I have awesome hair. Long. Mangeable. Creatively colored. And I look super man-ish without hair; I might as well grow an Adam's apple. So, these are stakes.
Here it is...
For 2011, my simple and only resolution is: to write 25 blogs.
That's it. I'm not good at blog-writing. It violates my sense of privacy and perfectionism. But, all of my quality friends tell me that's why I should write them. It's like emotional stairmaster to this control freak.
So, I'll write them. I don't care who reads them or what they say. And knowing me, I'll be up at 11:57pm 12.31.2011 crying, typing and stroking my hair trying to finish all 25.
But, there you have it. It's something. It's doable. It's quantifiable. And it has consequences.
Now, just 24 more to go!
Happy New Year, fellow cynics. =)
"Why?" you ask, politely inquiring while you sip your macchiato, hoping my answer will be brief for once.
(No such luck).
BECAUSE...New Year's resolutions are like things you put on a family Christmas list.
What you really NEED for Christmas is a brand new car or a liver transplant. But, you can't really put that on your list. Too expensive. Too big. Too overwhelming. Too invasive surgery-ish. So, you have to put something small - something attainable.
Like...new socks.
But, the problem is that most relatively functional adults are able to take care of most of the small needs as they go. I'm never sitting around in early April with my big toe popped through a sock hole thinking, "I really need new socks. Only 7 short months til Christmas!"
Of course not.
I just buy socks.
And so do you. You buy socks. And underwear. And a new collander and music and toilet paper and kitchen bags and Apple accessories and cool t-shirts with irreverent phrases that make us feel hip. All of our basic wants and needs are taken care of by a Chase debit card and the Santa of immediate gratification.
Which leaves very little we want or need for our family Christmas list.
So, your list ends up filled with moderately-priced things that aren't truly important to you - but you wouldn't mind having. (ie: New pedometer and/ or Thai Cookbook.)
And that's how resolutions are for me.
What I really need in 2011:
A Focus and Goal for My Life - to have something to strive for that will one day make me worthy of an encyclopedia blurb and will validate my existence in this mortal coil.
Too big. Too overwhelming.
And very hard to accomplish.
Where do I start? And exactly how do I know when I've finished?
Chances are slim that I will wake up one day, stroll to my local coffee chain establishment, order a chai latte and then administer the heimlich maneuver to a woman choking on a biscotti, save her life and the life of her unborn child. Then, immediately achieve absolute clarity on the singular purpose of my life.
(To be barista!)
But, setting a random event as a resolution is impractical. There's no way to strive toward that goal and finally cross it off the list. It's too big. Too messy. Too poorly defined. It's just not practical.
The things on your list need to be easier, smaller, more attainable.
Something that leaves you with a sense of accomplishment.
But, here we see the flipside.
Goals that are too easily attainable can be dangerous too. In my 2005 resolutions, I basically just churned out a generic to-do list featuring such lofty goals as:
"#8 Better toothpaste" and "#14 Buy eggs".
(Those were taken verbatim).
(In my defense, I accomplished SEVERAL of my goals that year.=))
While attainable, there is no purpose or necessarily any big picture benefit from listing goals that are essentially chores.
And once again, we find ouselves seeking something in the hazy middle ground. Searching for a goal somewhere between the meaning of life and the reminder to buy groceries. Finding small goals that will help us if we achieve them, but offering no risk if we fail.
Our resolutions all become slight variations from the same template:
"1. Lose XX lbs.
2. Be a better person.
3. Do better stuff.
4. Make more money.
5. Change that bad habit I always feel guilty about.
6. Start that thing that scared me.
7. Get serious about that thing I said I would do last year...and the year before.
8. Keep resolutions this time."
There's something particularly awful about making empty promises to yourself.
And it's unbelievably tragic to have to make the same ones over and over again.
So, I quit it.
Two years ago, to be exact. I went cold turkey. No promises. No resolutions. No lists of things I should've done better before or swore to be better about in the future.
January 1st was just the first day of the next month. Like any other month.
No lists. No reflections. No goals. No reasons. No purpose.
And there's the rub.
I'm not a self-starter. I've never never finished anything that wasn't on a dare or didn't have a deadline.
So, in the past two years, I've done a staggering amount of nothing.
I'm 35. I'm not married. Or dating. Or can even remember what kissing was like. I have no children. I live in a tiny apartment. I have a job that's just a job - not a life goal or even a career. But, it pays my rent and keeps yogurt in my fridge. I have a car that's paid for even if it has a shocking amount of duck tape on the bumper.
Things are okay. Not maginificent. Not amazing.
My head is above water, but there's room for improvement.
If I had to make a wish list, there would be a lot of things on it.
*I'd love a better apartment or house. It would sweet if I could afford it too.
*It would be neat to have sex again. Even better if I could stomach the guy. A big plus if we actually loved each other. It's the trifecta if it could all happen without me getting so consumed by the joy of sex and fighting that I forget to live my own life. (Have I said too much?)
*It would be awesome to know to the core of my being what I was supposed to be when I grew up. And to be achieving that dream.
*I'd like my parents to stay alive forever. LIKE THEY PROMISED.
*It would be swell to travel to foreign locales. And would rock hard core if someone paid me to do it.
*It would be great to create something I was proud of. (Aside from my old sketches - which I like very much, but were summarily lost in the great Hard Drive Crash of 2010. (Screw you PC! Go Mac!))
*I would like money to rain from the heavens directly into my bank account in inexhaustible amounts.
Unfortunately, I have very little control over those wishes. I can have them. I can do a vision board. I can light a candle or rub oil on my forehead or sit cross-legged in silence and manifest them like Deepak Chopra and Oprah say you can. But, in the end, they aren't actions. They are hopes.
And in the wise words of Barbara Sher, it's not important what you do. It's important that you DO SOMETHING.
With that it mind, I will make one simple goal this year. It's tangible, quantifiable and will be readily apparent if I fail. To make it interesting, let me add that if I slack off and do not achieve it, I will cut off my hair. And I have awesome hair. Long. Mangeable. Creatively colored. And I look super man-ish without hair; I might as well grow an Adam's apple. So, these are stakes.
Here it is...
For 2011, my simple and only resolution is: to write 25 blogs.
That's it. I'm not good at blog-writing. It violates my sense of privacy and perfectionism. But, all of my quality friends tell me that's why I should write them. It's like emotional stairmaster to this control freak.
So, I'll write them. I don't care who reads them or what they say. And knowing me, I'll be up at 11:57pm 12.31.2011 crying, typing and stroking my hair trying to finish all 25.
But, there you have it. It's something. It's doable. It's quantifiable. And it has consequences.
Now, just 24 more to go!
Happy New Year, fellow cynics. =)
Monday, November 29, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 15, 2010
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.
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.
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