Better than I thought

That applies to Sunday. All of it was better than I thought it would be.

Elaine got tickets to play ... months ago. When I was still working. Elaine is very into taking advantage of everything Chicago has to offer, which is wise and wonderful of her. So when tickets to the rather controversial production of Wuthering Heights at the Shakespeare Theater at Navy Pier became available, she grabbed them. She invited me to go along and I said "yes." Things I didn't know then:

1) She had three tickets, not two, so someone else would be accompanying us

2) I'd be unemployed, and a $100+ Sunday spent watching a play I wasn't passionate about would be unwise

So I didn't want to go. I didn't know how to get out of it, but I knew I'd rather stay home. 

But Elaine has been very kind to me, working hard at nurturing our new-ish friendship, and so I committed to going. Also, I haven't seen live theater in, oh, I don't know how long. And Navy Pier is always fun, but I haven't been since before covid.

It was with more than a little anxiety I got on the train Sunday. Though it was the first time that I got to ride at a reduced fare, just for flashing my spanking new "Hi! I'm old!" card.

I hung around the train station for a while then I took a Lyft to Navy Pier. My driver seemed surprised that I was going to the theater entrance, not a sports bar entrance, since it was, after all, Super Bowl Sunday. It was kinda nice to tell a stranger what it's like to have been in advertising for decades (43 years, to be exact) and not feel pressured to watch The Game and scrutinize the commercials. I only saw one in advance (Anna Faris for avocados) and it was so high concept I didn't think it would resonate with a wide audience. But you know what? It doesn't matter a damn what I thought of the ad. I'm not in advertising anymore.

Elaine was there, right on time, at the entrance to the theater. She kept checking her phone because her other friend, Rosie, was nowhere in sight. She was in the lobby already. I admit I was very nervous about meeting her. I know very little about Rosie -- just that she is mom to an adult daughter and still working, teaching dance and music to little kids at a rather prestigious Chicago private school. This made me self conscious. Here I am, a roly poly retiree!

She could not have kinder or friendlier. Phew! I appreciated that enormously. At one point she turned to Elaine and said, "You're right. She's smart and funny!" I loved that because it means she asked Elaine about me before we met, and maybe she was as nervous beforehand as I was.

The play was interesting, too. A very imaginative, minimalist set. Unexpectedly funny in an absurdist English way. I mean, Heathcliff and Cathy weren't exactly a laugh-a-minute couple, but this production did wrest a few giggles from us.

Afterward we had a lovely dinner at Reunion and Elaine drove me home. 

So let's re-examine what I'd been freaking out about:

1) Rosie was completely charming and welcoming

2) The play didn't suck and the tickets were Elaine's treat because she got them from a neighbor who couldn't use them and ... I admit I got lost in the story, but no matter. Plus Reunion offered a discount for theatergoers, so I got to try a favorite dining spot of both the Obamas and Oprah at 20% off!

So I'd twisted myself up in knots over nothing.

I'm glad a fine time was had by all, but I really have to work at trying not to be an ass.

 

I miss the pear salad!

Stumbled on this photo in The Sun Times and it touched my heart. How well I know that corner! How often I made my way down Randolph, past the State of Illinois building, juggling purse and briefcase, checking my watch, upset at myself for being late but confident my friend Barb would be later. The hostess station and bar at 312 were always buzzing, and the popularity of the show next store at the Cadillac Palace determined whether it was packed or not. Upstairs -- just above the "walk" light -- the seating is more spacious and the view is nicer but downstairs, the service was faster. Since we always ate here before a show, I learned to specify a table downstairs when I called for reservation and to never check my coat or bags. That allowed a faster getaway to make the 7:30 curtain.

The mixed drinks were potent. I only ever had one to Barb's two glasses of wine. And my favorite dish there? The pear salad! I'm not a massive salad fan, but I loved this one. It was so pretty, with the walnuts and cranberries arranged just so around the pears on top of the lettuce and spinach leaves. The white china plate was full and about the size of an old vinyl LP. That pear salad was always the healthiest thing I ate all week.

The only two people in this photo are blocks in the distance, and that's what's wrong with this picture. I miss busy sidewalks and people watching. I miss gossiping about office politics with Barb. I miss seeing big musical numbers performed live. I miss having someone design a beautiful plate for me. I miss downtown.

How different our lives would be today if President Trump had behaved responsibly back in January! Read this and remember it in November.

C'était charmant

Thursday night I saw Paris! The Show. It shines a spotlight on popular post-war French songs. It was all in French, which I don't speak, so I was unable to follow the story. But I enjoyed it all the same. There were songs I recognized: "What Now, My Love?", "My Way," "I Wish You Love," and, of course, "Can Can" and "La Vie En Rose." The dancing was exceptional.

I really enjoyed the venue, too. The Athenaeum Theater is a big old beauty. Over 100 years old, it was originally part of the neighboring church, St. Alphonsus. Long-ago it was a gym and community center for the neighborhood's German Catholics. Today, it's broken up into four theaters: three that seat less than 90, and a main stage (where we were) for an audience of 1000.

I got the ticket from Joanna. A friend of hers, involved with PR, got a pair of comps and was unable to go. A Francophile who's been to Paris nearly a dozen times, she was seriously into it and her enthusiasm was infectious. During intermission, she told me about spending hours buying a pair of kid gloves from a tiny Parisian boutique ("smaller than my bathroom") on one trip, and returning to the store years later. The owner remembered her -- and the gloves -- and recommended the perfect silk scarf to go with the gloves. It was such a Joanna story! She lives for the aesthetics, things I'm not sure I'd even notice if she didn't point them out.

Before the show, we went to a neighborhood diner. One of those 24/7, breakfast all day places I adore. She told me about her two new beaux -- Sid and "the other guy"* -- that she met through Our Time. What a smitten kitten! It's nice to see her happy.

It was also nice to go to dinner and the theater again. Since my friend Barb moved away/drifted away, I've stopped doing this. I didn't realize how much I missed it until Thursday night.

*She mentioned his name, but Sid is so clearly the favorite that I don't recall it.

I must be a lady of letters, part 3

Key West now has a Tennessee Williams Museum. It just reopened on December 15, a week before I arrived. It's not very big, but it's very sweet. So lovingly done. And, truth to tell, I've always enjoyed Williams' work better than I have Hemingway's, so I had a lovely time.

Williams finished Streetcar in Key West

It's not Eugene O'Neill, but then it doesn't have to be

Last week I went to see Escape to Margaritaville with my friend Barb. Chicago was the last stop before Broadway. It's a silly show -- about boat drinks and flip flops and vacation romance. I like Jimmy Buffett's music and suspect it could have been more. The songs have a wistful, subversive quality that could have taken the show in a more substantial direction.


But I'm glad that the writers went the sitcom route. This was the first time I've seen Barb since the memorial service for her late husband in September. Since then, she's tried hard to not be home, spending time vacationing in Manhattan and at her new house in Hilton Head. But she can't run away forever. She's back in Chicago for the holidays, and to make some tough decisions about her future. She's going to sell the house here, where she and her husband were living during his year-long battle with cancer.

She's not doing well. She gets teary very easily and admits how much time she spends talking to her new therapist. I suppose I shouldn't have expected her to be doing any better than this. She has been through a tremendous amount these past two years -- her own mastectomy and reconstructive surgery, debilitating arthritis, her retirement, and most of all, her husband's illness and death. She's doing the best she can. I'm confident she will come through this on the other side. But she's on a sad and lonely journey.

So a silly show about booze with a sing-along to "Why Don't We Get Drunk (And Screw)?" might just have been what the doctor ordered.

Tears ... and the Angry Inch

Wednesday night we went to see the touring production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. It was a compelling night of theater and I liked the music, but it was such an angry story -- my favorite quote from Hedwig is, “It’s the direction of the aggression that defines the act” -- that I can't say I enjoyed it. I do know that I have been thinking about it a great deal.

But it wasn't the play that made the night memorable. It was my friend, Barb. As we had dinner before the show, she unexpectedly broke down. She and her husband are getting closer to putting their home here in Chicago on the market, their new home in Hilton Head is just about done  ... and John is still battling two forms of cancer. Every three weeks he goes to Northwestern Hospital for treatments.

What's more, she has two surgeries of her own scheduled before they move: an operation on her left eye and reconstructive surgery after her own battle with cancer. Additionally, her feet are bothering her, and it turns out she has arthritis which "could" require surgery in the future.

"I worry about what's going to happen to John," she said between tears. I didn't ask her to elaborate because I knew what she meant: he's dying. When he was diagnosed back in September, his first doctor told him he had six months. That was six months ago. His new medical team said they "don't look at cancer treatment that way," and that he's been "responding" to medication. But both she and John know he's never going to get better. He gets winded so easily that he cannot climb even a flight of stairs on his own. And yet they are going to pack up everything they own and drive 950 miles to South Carolina.

She did articulate that she's worried about their medical care. Northwestern is the #1 hospital in Chicago for cancer treatment, and it's been ranked in the top 10 nationwide. Not only is John's cancer team there, so is Barb's. The oncologist who oversaw her mastectomy less than a year ago is also at Northwestern. I told her that Hilton Head has a big retirement community and there must be good doctors nearby. She was skeptical and, frankly, I don't believe what I said, either. I know someone in Key West who has to drive (now, be driven) 150 miles to Miami for care. Major metropolitan areas have their advantages, and big hospitals are among them.

The poor woman has so much on her mind. Packing up her home. Selling her home. Overseeing the construction of her home in another state. Her vision. Her feet. Her cancer. His cancer. And, living in a new town when his health deteriorates.

I didn't tell her everything would be fine. I didn't want to insult her. Instead, I told her that, under the circumstances, feeling overwhelmed completely rational. I told her I'll always be here to listen and give her a hug. She smiled sadly and said she could foresee a time in the not so distant future when I'll be living her with her in her new big house. She imagined us as two retired ladies in Hilton Head, playing nine holes of golf and then having dinner at 4:30 in the afternoon.

And I will always love him ...

… until I move on to my next crush.

HE is Judson Mills,  the best thing in the touring company of The Bodyguard. Maybe he is a good actor. I'm willing to believe he is. He's just not called upon to do much in this show -- except be strong and studly and look good without his shirt. And he was sublime in those areas.

He's in the Kevin Costner part. A leather-lunged lass named Deborah Cox is in the Whitney part. She sings well, but it's something of a suicide mission. The producers added some of Whitney's other hits to the show -- "So Emotional," "The Greatest Love of All," "All the Man that I Need" and "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" -- and those songs are so indelibly connected with Houston that it's hard not to hear the original in your head when someone else sings them.

The play itself is dumb. A bad idea, poorly executed. The source material isn't that good. The staging is ham-handed (the audience actually giggled at the video image of the cartoon-crazy stalker).

And yet I really had a nice time. Judson Mills/Frank Farmer is hot. He has a moment during the encore when he snaps his cuffs and grabs Ms. Cox for a twirl and my old heart went pitter patter.

Also, it's because we bought tickets to this turkey that we got face-value tickets to Hamilton the moment it opened in September. Hamilton was as innovative and smart as this was predictable and dumb. As wonderful as Hamilton was, not a single person in the cast made my old heart go pitter patter.

See it!

LaLa Land, LaLa Land! If an entertainment columnist isn't raving about Hamilton, he's rhapsodizing about LaLa Land!

The reviewers were right about Hamilton, they're right about LaLa Land. Where Broadway's hit is all-new and transformative, LaLa Land is an homage to the Hollywood that's gone.

Mia keeps trying and trying to get a break as an actress while paying the bills as a barista. Sebastian keeps playing weddings and garden parties as he dreams of opening his own jazz club, even though everyone tells him there's no money in jazz or intimate clubs anymore.

They meet, they fall in love. They break into song and they dance. 

Emma Stone is adorable, ready to pick up the mantle of America's Sweetheart that Julia, Jennifer and Sandra have all outgrown. Ryan Gosling is so intense and so handsome. You really want them to live happily ever after.

It's not a perfect movie. It doesn't have a memorable score. There isn't a song that stayed with me or that I'm still humming. None of the supporting cast is remotely interesting.

But it's joyous and consequential. It's what we go to the movies for. See it!

 

Happy birthday to me, part 7

Wednesday night was a mixed bag with Barb, as time with Barb just naturally will be from now on. She is, after all, dealing with her husband's lung cancer while building a new house in another city and trying to get her own breast reconstruction done.

So the fact that she point zero thought into my birthday gift -- a candle and bar of soap -- hurt at first but then I got a hold of myself. No, I'm not a priority for her right now. And while that stings, I have to suck it up and accept that this is how it has to be

Barb also didn't like the play. I sent her a link  days before, but she never opened it. So I was offended at first when she said she hoped it would be a musical -- showtunes about autism? -- and she was offended that a dog was killed (before the play starts). But again, the regular rules don't apply right now. Her life is overwhelming her. This is my time to step up and be more sensitive.

The good news is that her husband has actually gained 10 lbs.! That's an indication that the chemo is working. The contractors on her home in Hilton Head have figured out how to add an elevator to their new home without prohibitive cost. It will make it possible for her husband to go from the garage up to their bedroom without using stairs, which will probably always be too taxing for his compromised lungs.

I'm a little confused about her the state of her reconstructive surgery. First it was on hold because of her infection, then there was dimpling and now her breasts don't match. I don't have any more detail than that because I don't ask questions. I just let her talk. This is intensely personal and she'll let me know what she's comfortable with me knowing.

Happy Birthday to Me, Part 2

Wednesday night, Barb and I had dinner and then saw a play. She, of course, forgot my gift at home. She's done this in the past. I suspect that she hasn't chosen my gift yet, but never mind. I'm seeing her again in a couple weeks. At least this year she was on time. Barb is usually late ... very late. So that was a good sign.

We went to 312. I had the calamari/shrimp appetizer and lasagna for dinner. It was delicious. It was great to catch up, even though much of what she had to say left me sad.

Gooey and certain to not be part of the Thanksgiving menu.

 Her husband is suffering from Stage 3 lung cancer and is going through chemo. She teared up when she told me how one of the doctors warned him that only 25% of patients with his condition make it 5 years, that he can only count on "8 months to 2 years." And that was two months ago.

"He's not even an oncologist!" Barb raged. I asked her what the oncologists did say, and she replied that "they don't talk in those terms." Barb is aware that her husband is not going to be cured, but she says his medical team is devoted to "managing it."

Then she showed me the photos of her new home in Hilton Head. It's still under construction, but will be done early next year. She referred to the guest bedroom as my room, which was sweet of her, and made a point of showing me where my private bathroom will be.

I want to be happy for her. I mean to be happy for her. But as we went through her photos, two thoughts kept running through my mind:

1) I'm so bad with money! She's building a house and furnishing it to order -- complete with a private office,  a gallery room for her paintings and an area for a built-in wine rack -- and I can't afford to finish my own little tiny bathroom.

2) Her husband may not live to move to Hilton Head. He's already unable to fly down there with her to supervise the construction, and she's adding an elevator to the plans because he probably will never again be able to negotiate stairs without being left breathless. The man is dying, and she knows it. Will she really want to live there by herself? It's all unutterably sad.

The play we saw, Finding Neverland, was very appropriate for the night. A very glossy retelling of how Barrie came to write Peter Pan, there was little in it to make us sad. It made it nice that there were so many kids in the theater. Seeing children all duded up for a night out of live performance is always uplifting.

So it was a bittersweet birthday celebration. But I think every encounter with Barb from now on is going to be bittersweet, so I better get used to it.

Exhausted but very, very happy

I am so lucky to live in a great city and to be cheering for a great team.

Jake was great & Russell got a grand slam!

Sunday Stealing

To play along, click here  

26.) Favorite kids name? Depends on the last name it's going with.


27.) Do you speak any other languages? No

28.) Do you use Twitter? Yes

29.) Do you go onto YouTube? Yes

30.) Do you play Angry Birds? I have


31.) Do you like Angry Birds? Sure

32.) Do you like Hello Kitty? Not especially


33.) Have you ever cried because you were so happy? Yes

34.) Who would you like to see in concert? I'm going to change the question a bit and answer that I wish I could see Lin-Manuel Miranda in Hamilton. Here he was before the play was even staged. So imaginative and smart.



35.) Can you swim well? Well, it's the sport I'm best at.

36.) Ever won a contest? Yes.

37.) Ever won a giveaway? Yes.

38.) Do you get a full 8 hours of sleep every night? Not usually. This could be why I'm so often tired.

39.) What tea do you like? Hot. I don't like iced tea.

40.) What coffee do you like? Ew! Ick! I don't like coffee at all.

41.) Do you shop at Walmart? Seldom

42.) Do you shop at Target? More often than Walmart


43.) What do you order at Second Cup? Nothing because I've never heard of it

45.) Do you like homemade meals? No. I hate the idea of someone fussing over me like that. I'd rather we meet at a restaurant and split the bill.

46.) Do you like homemade baked goods? Yes

47.) Do you shop online? Doesn't everyone these days?

48.) Name 3 stores online stores you would like to shop at: Amazon, Overstock and Hanes

49.) What holiday don't you like? I don't like Mother's/Father's Day anymore, since all my parents and grandparents are gone.

50.) What do you eat more of when you're sick?  I suppose saltines are good for you no matter what ails you.

Thanks, Guys!

Months ago, when I found out when we would be seeing Hamilton, I was worried. The last week of September is typically crunch time for teams in play off contention. I planned on insisting I take the seat on the aisle so I could run out and check my phone during the performance.

HA!

Behold the best record in the major league baseball, Ladies and Gentlemen. I can be forgiven for not expecting this. It's also the best record the Cubs have earned in more than 100 years.

With my guys MORE THAN 18 GAMES AHEAD of the Cardinals, my fat ass stayed in the seat for the entire performance.

YES!

I've seen so many wonderful shows at this theater,* beginning with A Chorus Line in the 1970s. A haunting Cabaret revival, the hilarious and surprisingly sweet Book of Mormon, the ultimate jukebox musical Jersey Boys ... But I've never seen anything like Hamilton.

It's a rap opera. I loved it so much I forgot I don't like rap. The score was also heavily influenced by 1964-66 British invasion pop, reggae and the Great American songbook.

It's all about the "10-Dollar Founding Father without a Father." All I knew about Alexander Hamilton before Wednesday night is that he annoyed Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr shot him. All I knew about Burr is that he shot Hamilton.

To be honest, before Hamilton, the only Revolutionary-era figures who sparked my imagination are Jefferson (portrayed as a Princelike rock star) and Abigail Adams. Now I'm fascinated by the bastard orphan son of a whore and a Scotsman who grew up to be a hero and a scholar. While Abigail Adams doesn't appear, this play is not short on women. And let's face it, most accounts of our nation's birth emphasize the Founding Fathers at the expense of the ladies.

This all does my heart good. Before the play started, I heard a young man (18? 21?) whistling "My Shot." Just as I've never much liked rap, I bet this kid never much liked American History. There were some children in the audience, too, but I was especially excited to see high school/college aged kids.

The cheapest seat for tomorrow's matinee is $400. That's nose bleed. Is it worth it? No. The play will be here well into the new year (I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't still here in 2018) so the demand will diminish and the prices will go down.

But you definitely should see it. It really is that good! PBS is showing a documentary about its creation -- Mr. Manuel, I am in awe of you! -- later this month. I can't wait.

*It'll always be The Shubert to me.

Wednesday night I get to see Hamilton! Our tickets are terrific, and we got them for face value. (The cheapest scalper seats for tonight are $500+.) I've been listening to the soundtrack, prepping. (I can hear Eliza's voice in my head: "Look around ... look around ...".) I am so excited that my city has come together over a biracial cast rapping about the founding fathers.

What a glorious, positive thing!

I was also looking forward to spending time with my friend Barb. Her life is changing so much. Newly retired, awaiting breast reconstruction, downsizing one home into another ... I don't really know the details of what's going on with her and I was looking forward to catching up.

So when I got the email this afternoon, I felt my stomach drop.

Barb's husband is in the hospital. In the morning they thought it was pneumonia. When I held her and hugged her this evening, the doctors were preparing her and John for the likelihood of lung cancer.

This news exhausted me. I got home and went to sleep on the sofa at 8:00.

2016 has delivered to much pain and hardship to me and to those around me. I can't bear to list it all out right now.

Thank God for the Cubs.

I mean a lot to him

My cousin is a very talented man who has followed his heart and managed to make his career in music. He gives private music lessons to kids and plays in a big band on weekends and, until recently, was a professor at a local university.

For reasons a bit too complicated to go into, we grew up separately, even though his mother is my godmother and we lived not far apart. I'm a little older, and apparently, he always thought I was pretty neat. Five years ago, we had a reunion when his mother returned to Chicagoland for a visit and looked me up. Ever since, he has been very good about reaching out to me. Whenever he plays gigs in my neighborhood, he invites me, and we trade messages on Facebook all the time.

He got a job playing in the orchestra for the touring company of Chicago during its short run here in ... Chicago. This is put him in pretty elite company and he was proud to get the job. And nervous, very nervous. He kept sending me reminders about the short, one-week run.

We've been crazy busy at work and instead of seeing Chicago again (I've seen the play at least twice on stage and then, of course, there's the movie) I really wanted to sleep. Plus, I'm broke and spending beaucoup bucks on a play I know so well just wasn't on my agenda.

There was just something about the way he asked me that got under my skin. And so on Thursday morning, when I found a $30 ticket on StubHub for Thursday night's performance, I snapped it up.

The production was very entertaining. John O'Hurley is a most talented old hand at the role of Billy Flynn, and both Roxie and Velma were very good.

Best of all, in this production the orchestra was on the stage, not in the pit. So I was able to watch my cousin at work all evening.

Afterward he walked me to my train. One of his sons saw the production ... and me. That was it. Not his wife, not his other son (his daughter lives in New York). This is probably because the show was only in town for a week, but still. He thanked me for coming and repeatedly told me how "sweet" I was for coming out. Having someone in the audience there for him was a big deal.

I felt very good about having gone.

So often, when I think about family, it's easy to fixate on what's wrong with my relationships. Instead of concentrating on the love I don't get, I should stop and feel the love I do get.

I MIss Barb

Saw Bullets Over Broadway this week. Instead of my usual theater buddy, Barb, a coworker was in the seat beside me. And nothing was as good.

The play wasn't as good as the movie. I was disappointed because Susan Stroman directed and choreographed this and she can be marvelous. But the music was ... weird. None of it was original. Why "Hold that Tiger!" and "Yes, We Have No Bananas?" Didn't make sense. And a musical whose musical score doesn't move the action along is, well, weird.

The company wasn't as good. My coworker was excited to be there and clearly enjoyed hanging out with me, which was flattering. But I miss Barb, and I'm worried about her. I've known her for more than 20 years and have been going to the theater with her nearly that long. She's supposed to be in the seat beside me. I can't wait for her to get well.

"At least we're not dead."

It was ridiculous that we were laughing. After all, none of it is funny. It's just that there was so fucking much of it that Barb and I were found ourselves in stitches.

I don't feel like detailing the litany of woes bedeviling me. If you want to read about it, you can find it here, and here, and here. I try to remain cheerful despite all that, but every now and again it washes over me that I have been in some degree of pain every day for nearly three months, with no concrete end in sight, and I feel overwhelmed and exhausted. Last night, I sat down to eat at a lovely restaurant with an expansive menu, and I was bloated and full and uncomfortable. Again. Still. I wanted to cry.

That's when Barb breezed in. She looked more distracted than usual, which I thought was work related. After all, after her biopsy last month, she shot me a text message saying the procedure had gone "just fine."

She hadn't lied exactly. The biopsy itself had gone "just fine." It's the results that took my breath away. She has cancer and will undergo a double mastectomy on April 6. My head was spinning as she explained her options for reconstructive surgery.

Complicating the situation is Barb's kid sister. They both tested positive for the BRCA gene and so her sister spun out at this news. Sis is also pressing the panic button about her teen daughter -- Barb's niece -- worrying that the high school student is a ticking breast cancer time bomb.

As we were packing up, leaving the restaurant to go to the theater, Barb commented that if one lowers the bar "way down low, we're actually lucky. At least we're not dead." As I juggled my handbag and computer bag, I countered that at least I've only got two bags -- the colostomy bag hasn't made three yet. This tickled us.

The play we saw was 42nd Street. It was nostalgic, predictable and silly and just what we needed. At one point during dinner I suggested we just blow it off. After all, it's just lighter than air. "You're going out a youngster but you've got to come back a STAR!" The score includes "Lullaby of Broadway" and "Shuffle Off to Buffalo." When I got home, I felt happier than I thought possible under the circumstances. Sometimes fluff does a body good.

But here's the thing I'm thinking the morning after. Barb has cancer. Mindy's husband has a bad ticker. My nephew is battling depression. My friends in the Keys are beyond broke. I pass my florist's shuttered door every morning. Joey's dead. I'm still sick.

I cannot believe how bad 2016 is turning out to be!

Life is a cabaret, old chum!

"... And as the election season heats up, it's always instructive to think about the consequences of dancing while fast asleep." So ends the Chicago Tribune review of this latest production of Cabaret. I saw it Wednesday night and can't stop thinking about it. It was awesome, entertaining, disturbing and yes, in this Year of Trump, extremely relevant.

It's easy to see how Trump's free-wheeling, "Look, Ma! No hands!" style might be exhilarating in a world where everyone else seems scripted and focus group-tested. And maybe that giddiness allows people to overlook his casual cruelty about those with disabilities, his disrespect and bullying of his opponents, and his demonizing Muslims.

Except that all has real-life, long-ranging and unintended consequences. Once fear and hate are unleashed, they are hard to control.

Here's Joel Grey, Emcee in the film version of Cabaret, performing "If You Could See Her Through My Eyes." It's not subtle, but it's a powerful distillation of the message of the play. I can't stop thinking about it, and I hope -- I really want to believe -- that we're better than this.

You go, girl

Saw the Carole King musical, Beautiful, last night. What a lovely heroine she makes! She's talented, she's humble, she's good, and she's highly relate-able. You watch and say, "I've been her!" Or, "She's just like my friend!"

And the music! Of course, "Beautiful," and "It's Too Late," and "You've Got a Friend" and "I Feel the Earth Move" and "Natural Woman." The songs that have made Tapestry one of the most popular albums of all time. But there's also her older stuff with Gerry Goffin. I've always especially loved "Up on the Roof."

 
If you get a chance to see it, do. You won't regret it.