This goes out to all my peeps suffering from bad living situation mono.
If you come home to a room full of drunken idiots, you have a roommate problem.
If you sit out in the hall for a few hours to avoid getting written up for an alcohol violation, you have a roommate problem.
If you retreat to a friend's dorm at midnight in the hopes that your roommate will pass out by the time you get back, you have a roommate problem.
If your arm drapes over the side of your bed and spills a giant beer can, you have a roommate problem.
If your desk is littered with homework papers and empty chasers, you have a roommate problem.
If your recycling bin overflows every week even though you never buy bottled beverages, you have a roommate problem.
If you deposit said recycling into the floor below's receptacles so no one can trace the beer cans to your room, you have a roommate problem.
If you are woken up at 3 in the morning by a gaggle of giggling girls who your roommate doesn't even know, you have a roommate problem.
If those boozed up bimbos bump your roommate from the premises, you have a roommate problem.
If you wake up at 4 in the morning to the murmurs of a romantic skype conversation, you have a roommate problem.
If on another drunken escapade your roommate makes out with a picture of the girl he shares these romantic, late-night colloquies with, you have a roommate problem.
If you huddle at the base of the bathroom door to make sure your roommate is still breathing, you have a roommate problem.
If you can't see the floor because apparently laundry is an ancient, mysterious art, you have a roommate problem.
If you feign sleep in an attempt to make your roommate and his talking-at-a-perfectly-audible-decibel friend leave because it's 1 in the morning and you have an 8am class (which you have every day except Friday), you have a roommate problem.
If conversely you have to go about your daily activities silently because hangovers produce nocturnal creatures, you have a roommate problem.
If while cleaning the bathroom you find your sink is clogged by an indistinct goop that strangely resembles your roommate's facial cream, you have a roommate problem.
If after your roommate has attended the live version of alcohol EDU you open the fridge to find a massive beer can of which you have no idea where he keeps getting these abnormally sized things, you have a roommate problem.
If you waste inordinate amounts of time complaining about your roommate to sympathetic friends who are nonetheless tired of hearing about it, you have a roommate problem.
If your roommate transfers, you have a roommate problem... solved.
#roommateproblems
Thank goodness my other roommate is quiet.
Hoping the replacement is just as wonderful as this one,
Jamin
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
A Jewish Night to Remember
Sunday night before finals week, Curtis and I had tickets for "Jackie Hoffman's A Chanukkah Carol". For those of you who are unfamiliar, Jackie Hoffman is currently playing the grandma in "The Addams Family" musical. She is Jewish, a veteran stage actress, and really bitter.
So we arrive at the theater and start descending the steps to our seats. We're 11 rows from the front and about 6 from the back. We arrive at what we think is our row but our view is obstructed slightly by an unusually tall man with huge limbs. Sitting comfortably, his arms fully cover the arm rest and therefore obscure the lettering denoting the row number. He looks oddly familiar to me. I have a thought about who he is but suppress it for the moment. I lean in front of him to see if the empty seats beyond him and his two compatriots are ours. Upon confirming this my eyes are startled by the most amazing sight. NATHAN. LANE.
The voice of Timone, the star of The Producers, A Funny Thing Happened..., and a hundred other things, the Theater Hall of Fame inductee, one of the few male musical theater stars of his generation, the comic genius is sitting right next to us. My suspicions are confirmed and I realize that the small fry and giant are respectively Pugsley and Lurch from "The Addams Family". For some reason, I am completely calm. I ask the big guy if we could get by him to our seats. They all stand. We brush by them and in my head I'm thinking "OMGIBRUSHEDNATHANLANEHESTOODUPFORMEAAAH".
Curtis is evidently oblivious to the greatness we are so near so I pull out my phone and start typing in the text message composer "Do you realize who's sitting next to us?!" Curtis jerks his head back to see and I exclaim, "Curtis! Subtlety!" He realizes who's sitting next to us. Quiet outbursts of awe and amazement ensue.
The show commences and it is an absolute laugh riot. As Curtis put it, enjoying a show next to Nathan Lane is surreal. He's a good audience member with a generous chuckle and he golf claps for his favorite sections. At one point, Jackie did impersonations of people in her synagogue asking about Nathan Lane. Our heads turn to make sure Nathan is laughing at jokes about Nathan. Nathan deems it appropriate to laugh at himself. We join in. Thank goodness Nathan has a sense of humor.
Needless to say, laughing at a show with a comic icon multiplies the pleasure of the experience. Several larger outbursts occurred post-show when it was safe to act like maniacal fans who just met their idol. As Steph put it in his comment to my facebook update:
Merry Christmas! Here's your present!
~God
I love New York,
Jamin
So we arrive at the theater and start descending the steps to our seats. We're 11 rows from the front and about 6 from the back. We arrive at what we think is our row but our view is obstructed slightly by an unusually tall man with huge limbs. Sitting comfortably, his arms fully cover the arm rest and therefore obscure the lettering denoting the row number. He looks oddly familiar to me. I have a thought about who he is but suppress it for the moment. I lean in front of him to see if the empty seats beyond him and his two compatriots are ours. Upon confirming this my eyes are startled by the most amazing sight. NATHAN. LANE.
The voice of Timone, the star of The Producers, A Funny Thing Happened..., and a hundred other things, the Theater Hall of Fame inductee, one of the few male musical theater stars of his generation, the comic genius is sitting right next to us. My suspicions are confirmed and I realize that the small fry and giant are respectively Pugsley and Lurch from "The Addams Family". For some reason, I am completely calm. I ask the big guy if we could get by him to our seats. They all stand. We brush by them and in my head I'm thinking "OMGIBRUSHEDNATHANLANEHESTOODUPFORMEAAAH".
Curtis is evidently oblivious to the greatness we are so near so I pull out my phone and start typing in the text message composer "Do you realize who's sitting next to us?!" Curtis jerks his head back to see and I exclaim, "Curtis! Subtlety!" He realizes who's sitting next to us. Quiet outbursts of awe and amazement ensue.
The show commences and it is an absolute laugh riot. As Curtis put it, enjoying a show next to Nathan Lane is surreal. He's a good audience member with a generous chuckle and he golf claps for his favorite sections. At one point, Jackie did impersonations of people in her synagogue asking about Nathan Lane. Our heads turn to make sure Nathan is laughing at jokes about Nathan. Nathan deems it appropriate to laugh at himself. We join in. Thank goodness Nathan has a sense of humor.
Needless to say, laughing at a show with a comic icon multiplies the pleasure of the experience. Several larger outbursts occurred post-show when it was safe to act like maniacal fans who just met their idol. As Steph put it in his comment to my facebook update:
Merry Christmas! Here's your present!
~God
I love New York,
Jamin
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Moments- You'd Never Know You Had One
"Life happens wherever you are, whether you make it or not."- Uncle Iroh
New York City. One of the most famous cities on Earth. A little island packed with buildings, industry, theater, mental disorders, ethnicity, wealth, tourism, miscellany, vandalism, bridges, dreams, rats, pomp, prestige, parks, people, life. Many flock to the neon-lit gates of cultural heaven hoping to become the next big artist, performer, CEO, writer, headhunter, innovator, professor, TV Producer, social worker, diplomat, lawyer, celebrity, person. It's true, New York is brimming with opportunity. It's the lazy man's portal for entertainment, the hyperactive man's satiation. But living there a semester made me realize that life's lessons were just as accessible a continent away.
New York as well as the other big metropolises around the globe offer life on an "accelerated" level. The grandiosity is appealing. Perhaps the biggest reason we admire people who make their pilgrimage there is because we think they'll forge some part of the new world,. The knowledge and expertise they'll receive will allow them to become the movers and shakers, the icons from which the rest of the world draws its example. For some this becomes reality. But even if great influence comes within your grasp, the power to enjoy it doesn't necessarily come with it.
Indeed, I've met a strange and wonderful assortment of people. They're the sort of people you might find anywhere. They dream, they struggle, they hope, they breakdown, they create, they try to live. They, like me, came pursuing a dream. In that pursuit, it's easy to lose ourselves to that dream and forget to live the moments in between. I sometimes wonder if people going to college in remote locations are gaining more than kids here. However brilliant or talented my peers, the living embodiment of their dreams comes in their orbit so much they forget that years of discipline separate them and their counterparts. The ultimate manifestation of their crafts exists so close that they try wring wisdom from them as desperately as a killer strangles his victim. But the best wisdom always springs from within yourself. Maybe it takes a change of perspective or maybe you really do need the buzz of the city. However, the making of a wise man requires a mirror not binoculars.
We all hide. The city dwellers hide in the vastness, the home dwellers in the possibility. What both can sometimes miss is the opportunity for life. You have to believe in what you're doing, not where it's taking you, but the exact moment you are doing it in. You have to love your friends and family. Who cares about the relationships other people have? They can't enrich your life. These are the faces that color your journey and that will aid you through it. And finally, you have to realize there is no unreality. You're alive every second. Even if it's not "out in the real world" or measured in facebook posts, each moment is just as important as the ones you capsulize in your memory.
Life happens. It doesn't happen forever. So make it happen well.
Merry Christmas.
Love,
Jamin
New York City. One of the most famous cities on Earth. A little island packed with buildings, industry, theater, mental disorders, ethnicity, wealth, tourism, miscellany, vandalism, bridges, dreams, rats, pomp, prestige, parks, people, life. Many flock to the neon-lit gates of cultural heaven hoping to become the next big artist, performer, CEO, writer, headhunter, innovator, professor, TV Producer, social worker, diplomat, lawyer, celebrity, person. It's true, New York is brimming with opportunity. It's the lazy man's portal for entertainment, the hyperactive man's satiation. But living there a semester made me realize that life's lessons were just as accessible a continent away.
New York as well as the other big metropolises around the globe offer life on an "accelerated" level. The grandiosity is appealing. Perhaps the biggest reason we admire people who make their pilgrimage there is because we think they'll forge some part of the new world,. The knowledge and expertise they'll receive will allow them to become the movers and shakers, the icons from which the rest of the world draws its example. For some this becomes reality. But even if great influence comes within your grasp, the power to enjoy it doesn't necessarily come with it.
Indeed, I've met a strange and wonderful assortment of people. They're the sort of people you might find anywhere. They dream, they struggle, they hope, they breakdown, they create, they try to live. They, like me, came pursuing a dream. In that pursuit, it's easy to lose ourselves to that dream and forget to live the moments in between. I sometimes wonder if people going to college in remote locations are gaining more than kids here. However brilliant or talented my peers, the living embodiment of their dreams comes in their orbit so much they forget that years of discipline separate them and their counterparts. The ultimate manifestation of their crafts exists so close that they try wring wisdom from them as desperately as a killer strangles his victim. But the best wisdom always springs from within yourself. Maybe it takes a change of perspective or maybe you really do need the buzz of the city. However, the making of a wise man requires a mirror not binoculars.
We all hide. The city dwellers hide in the vastness, the home dwellers in the possibility. What both can sometimes miss is the opportunity for life. You have to believe in what you're doing, not where it's taking you, but the exact moment you are doing it in. You have to love your friends and family. Who cares about the relationships other people have? They can't enrich your life. These are the faces that color your journey and that will aid you through it. And finally, you have to realize there is no unreality. You're alive every second. Even if it's not "out in the real world" or measured in facebook posts, each moment is just as important as the ones you capsulize in your memory.
Life happens. It doesn't happen forever. So make it happen well.
Merry Christmas.
Love,
Jamin
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Blue Flower Needs A Green Thumb
Ok, here is example #2 of good production, bad piece.
Half a century. Two continents. The two worst wars the world has ever seen. Four star-crossed lovers. Treachery. Death. Rebellion. Revolutionaries. Horror. Heartbreak. Ex-patriotism. Regret.
This is essentially how Second Stage Theatre sold The Blue Flower...along with name dropping Stephen Schwartz as the producer. Sounds pretty exciting right? I thought so too. So much so that I wanted to see this show since it was in its American Repertory Theatre run. Alas, what Stephen Schwartz deemed to be "the most creative and original piece of musical theater that I have ever encountered in my [his] life" turned out to be one of the least accessible pieces of musical theater that I have ever seen in my life.
The description above should give you a pretty good idea of the subject matter. It's a World War story filled with the many tragedies typical of that time: lost love, lost country, lost freedom, lost opportunity. The Blue Flower centers on historical figures Max Beckmann, Franz Marc, Hannah Hoch, and Marie Curie. If you want to know about them , read a book or check Wikipedia because after seeing the show, I know little more about them than I did before the show despite the barrage of expository information I received during their frequent breaks from character to act as narrators. From what I could tell though, these people led really interesting lives deserving of a musical...just not this one.
As Stephen Schwartz said, this was definitely "creative". A screen behind the actors continuously streamed images, either to aid the narration with artifact-like clippings, provide a backdrop, or service a character within a scene (ex: a lecture board from Max's time as a professor). The actors switched from playing characters to narrating with every change of stage direction. The music was ethereal and gave a sense of unreality. The house shook with the sounds of war, lights flashed, actors crawled; clearly you were supposed to feel the anguish.
But despite the attempt at a visceral stage experience, one crucial element was overlooked in the making of this show: investment in the story. Maybe I'm a mainstream whore, but I would loved this show had it been told in a more traditional format. The screen was distracting and I wasn't sure whether to watch it or the actors. Not to mention it hurt my poor aging eyes. I really wanted to care about the characters, but their dual purpose as historians and dramatists undermined the few immersed emotional moments that were present. The music's devotion to mood setting as opposed to story expansion made the songs boring and indistinguishable from one another. The stage flare didn't excite you because you weren't entirely sure what was going on.
If I could steal the rights and reproduce this show, I would. There was a great story dying to be told, literally. I would move Schwartz from his producing position to his more usual role of composer and thereby create another Grammy-winning, show-stopping soundtrack. While I was at it, I would hire Winnie Holzman to write the book. I would rehire the entire cast of Broadway veterans to realize these characters in a production that actually highlighted their talents instead of theatrical experimentation. And finally, I would pump it full of cash and a chorus and give it some edgy dance numbers. That's as "creative" as it needs to be. A great story told well needs no special tinkering.
Dreaming of Becoming an All-Powerful Theater Tycoon,
Jamin
Half a century. Two continents. The two worst wars the world has ever seen. Four star-crossed lovers. Treachery. Death. Rebellion. Revolutionaries. Horror. Heartbreak. Ex-patriotism. Regret.
This is essentially how Second Stage Theatre sold The Blue Flower...along with name dropping Stephen Schwartz as the producer. Sounds pretty exciting right? I thought so too. So much so that I wanted to see this show since it was in its American Repertory Theatre run. Alas, what Stephen Schwartz deemed to be "the most creative and original piece of musical theater that I have ever encountered in my [his] life" turned out to be one of the least accessible pieces of musical theater that I have ever seen in my life.
The description above should give you a pretty good idea of the subject matter. It's a World War story filled with the many tragedies typical of that time: lost love, lost country, lost freedom, lost opportunity. The Blue Flower centers on historical figures Max Beckmann, Franz Marc, Hannah Hoch, and Marie Curie. If you want to know about them , read a book or check Wikipedia because after seeing the show, I know little more about them than I did before the show despite the barrage of expository information I received during their frequent breaks from character to act as narrators. From what I could tell though, these people led really interesting lives deserving of a musical...just not this one.
As Stephen Schwartz said, this was definitely "creative". A screen behind the actors continuously streamed images, either to aid the narration with artifact-like clippings, provide a backdrop, or service a character within a scene (ex: a lecture board from Max's time as a professor). The actors switched from playing characters to narrating with every change of stage direction. The music was ethereal and gave a sense of unreality. The house shook with the sounds of war, lights flashed, actors crawled; clearly you were supposed to feel the anguish.
But despite the attempt at a visceral stage experience, one crucial element was overlooked in the making of this show: investment in the story. Maybe I'm a mainstream whore, but I would loved this show had it been told in a more traditional format. The screen was distracting and I wasn't sure whether to watch it or the actors. Not to mention it hurt my poor aging eyes. I really wanted to care about the characters, but their dual purpose as historians and dramatists undermined the few immersed emotional moments that were present. The music's devotion to mood setting as opposed to story expansion made the songs boring and indistinguishable from one another. The stage flare didn't excite you because you weren't entirely sure what was going on.
If I could steal the rights and reproduce this show, I would. There was a great story dying to be told, literally. I would move Schwartz from his producing position to his more usual role of composer and thereby create another Grammy-winning, show-stopping soundtrack. While I was at it, I would hire Winnie Holzman to write the book. I would rehire the entire cast of Broadway veterans to realize these characters in a production that actually highlighted their talents instead of theatrical experimentation. And finally, I would pump it full of cash and a chorus and give it some edgy dance numbers. That's as "creative" as it needs to be. A great story told well needs no special tinkering.
Dreaming of Becoming an All-Powerful Theater Tycoon,
Jamin
Friday, December 23, 2011
Lysistrata Jones is No Sondheim
New York is where bad theater goes to be expensively produced... and die. For all the amazing stage magic, the innovative works, the re-imagined classics, the celebrities, the divas, the industry greats who uphold the integrity of live theater, the process of finding theatrical gems is still a messy one. Maybe in readings people have a harder time discerning the quality of material. Perhaps they think the theatricality of a piece can't be totally explored until it's a fully fleshed production. If this is the case, finding good art has long burned through the pocketbooks of hopeful producers and interested audiences.
The first of two posts in which I will explore this concept of good production, bad piece will focus on Lysistrata Jones. First, let's start with the facts. Lysistrata Jones is a modern musical retelling of the Aristophanes play Lysistrata. The concept translates thus: Lysistrata persuades the women of Greece to withhold sexual privileges from their husbands in order to force them to negotiate peace and end the Peloponnesian War= Lysistrata Jones, so named by her hippie parents, wants to do something with her life and decides she wants to end the Athens University basketball team's losing streak by not "giving it up" along with her fellow cheerleaders (on a cheer team she created by the way). Sounds like a simple enough idea modification. Could be a nice vehicle for exploring sexuality in the modern collegiate environment or perhaps activism in youth or even just a nice throwback to ancient Grecian playwriting.....It was none of these things.
Lysistrata Jones was, what the kids would call, a hot mess. The best thing that can be said about this show is that it was an exercise in duality. Here, in list form, are the many ways in which Lysistrata Jones was stratified:
1) Romp vs. Real- Lysistrata Jones couldn't decide if she was a farcical romp simply wishing to entertain or if she was a show with depth that explored real issues. The songs' lyrics were vague enough to give a dance jam feel but scene set up suggested that the power ballads were meant to be taken as serious character drama. This indecisiveness left the show as bare as the cast members during the locker room scenes.
2) Character vs. Characterization- Similarly, the characters were at times trying to be real people struggling to find themselves outside of the roles they've been forced to play...but mostly, the actors were trying to find characters in the grossly over-stereotyped mess of lines that was their motivation. Lysistrata and her friends came across as what old people think of college kids: dumb, hyper-emotional, vain, and somehow not a real person yet. Maybe this wasn't the greatest situation to explore young adult angst, but seriously, go sit in the quad of a college campus and do some in-person research. We are not soulless blots of human beings waiting for adult fulfillment. I cannot stress this enough, THESE CHARACTERS ARE THE WORST CARICATURES EVER.
3) Sexy or Sexy Not- For a show about withholding sex, the topic rarely came up. As I mentioned earlier, among the things Lysistrata Jones could have been, a meditation on late adolescent sexuality it was not. For a while it sounded like they skirted around the subject in an attempt to be a family friendly show (Psh, yeah right). But a few swear words and exposed genitalia later, it was clear this was not the case. Once you've crossed this line, why not go all the way (hehe)? Such subject matter is going to turn parents away anyway. Make this delve into the real issues people in their late teens are facing like what sex says about identity or the excessive interdependence in modern budding relationships. Or, if you expose your toned, young cast at all, make it count. The little skin we were shown was more awkward than sexy. Fail. Broadway dancers know sexy. Give them sexy back.
Remember when I queried that perhaps creatives couldn't tell if a show was good or not until they fleshed it out? Well, this show having already gone through out-of-town tryouts and an Off-Broadway run would have seemingly been through the goodness filter. The results should have yielded BAD. Maybe other people like this show, but for my taste the question I then imagine the producers asking themselves is "I wonder if other theatrical elements will cover up our book and score?" The reason I think this is because the hip-hop dancing was definitely the highlight of the show. Oh, and the busty black narrator who, like the other elements of her show, couldn't decide which sense of the word "muse" she was, story teller or gentlemen's play thing.
Maybe audiences will get distracted by the zingy one-liners or the indiscriminately high belting or the biggest rack to ever be bedecked in a golden leotard, but for theater's sake, I hope not. Here, let me do something hip and modern cuz I'm an edgy blogger. Hashtags! Ooooo #cantbelievebonnie&clydeisclosingbeforethismess
In the words of Russell Brand, "Doesn't matter how much you tart up a corpse. You could be the world's finest embalmist; I would not be swayed." Yes, I just compared a musical to a corpse. Too much? Maybe. Do I want you to see this regardless? No.
Tune in tomorrow when I rip The Blue Flower petal by petal,
Jamin
The first of two posts in which I will explore this concept of good production, bad piece will focus on Lysistrata Jones. First, let's start with the facts. Lysistrata Jones is a modern musical retelling of the Aristophanes play Lysistrata. The concept translates thus: Lysistrata persuades the women of Greece to withhold sexual privileges from their husbands in order to force them to negotiate peace and end the Peloponnesian War= Lysistrata Jones, so named by her hippie parents, wants to do something with her life and decides she wants to end the Athens University basketball team's losing streak by not "giving it up" along with her fellow cheerleaders (on a cheer team she created by the way). Sounds like a simple enough idea modification. Could be a nice vehicle for exploring sexuality in the modern collegiate environment or perhaps activism in youth or even just a nice throwback to ancient Grecian playwriting.....It was none of these things.
Lysistrata Jones was, what the kids would call, a hot mess. The best thing that can be said about this show is that it was an exercise in duality. Here, in list form, are the many ways in which Lysistrata Jones was stratified:
1) Romp vs. Real- Lysistrata Jones couldn't decide if she was a farcical romp simply wishing to entertain or if she was a show with depth that explored real issues. The songs' lyrics were vague enough to give a dance jam feel but scene set up suggested that the power ballads were meant to be taken as serious character drama. This indecisiveness left the show as bare as the cast members during the locker room scenes.
2) Character vs. Characterization- Similarly, the characters were at times trying to be real people struggling to find themselves outside of the roles they've been forced to play...but mostly, the actors were trying to find characters in the grossly over-stereotyped mess of lines that was their motivation. Lysistrata and her friends came across as what old people think of college kids: dumb, hyper-emotional, vain, and somehow not a real person yet. Maybe this wasn't the greatest situation to explore young adult angst, but seriously, go sit in the quad of a college campus and do some in-person research. We are not soulless blots of human beings waiting for adult fulfillment. I cannot stress this enough, THESE CHARACTERS ARE THE WORST CARICATURES EVER.
3) Sexy or Sexy Not- For a show about withholding sex, the topic rarely came up. As I mentioned earlier, among the things Lysistrata Jones could have been, a meditation on late adolescent sexuality it was not. For a while it sounded like they skirted around the subject in an attempt to be a family friendly show (Psh, yeah right). But a few swear words and exposed genitalia later, it was clear this was not the case. Once you've crossed this line, why not go all the way (hehe)? Such subject matter is going to turn parents away anyway. Make this delve into the real issues people in their late teens are facing like what sex says about identity or the excessive interdependence in modern budding relationships. Or, if you expose your toned, young cast at all, make it count. The little skin we were shown was more awkward than sexy. Fail. Broadway dancers know sexy. Give them sexy back.
Remember when I queried that perhaps creatives couldn't tell if a show was good or not until they fleshed it out? Well, this show having already gone through out-of-town tryouts and an Off-Broadway run would have seemingly been through the goodness filter. The results should have yielded BAD. Maybe other people like this show, but for my taste the question I then imagine the producers asking themselves is "I wonder if other theatrical elements will cover up our book and score?" The reason I think this is because the hip-hop dancing was definitely the highlight of the show. Oh, and the busty black narrator who, like the other elements of her show, couldn't decide which sense of the word "muse" she was, story teller or gentlemen's play thing.
Maybe audiences will get distracted by the zingy one-liners or the indiscriminately high belting or the biggest rack to ever be bedecked in a golden leotard, but for theater's sake, I hope not. Here, let me do something hip and modern cuz I'm an edgy blogger. Hashtags! Ooooo #cantbelievebonnie&clydeisclosingbeforethismess
In the words of Russell Brand, "Doesn't matter how much you tart up a corpse. You could be the world's finest embalmist; I would not be swayed." Yes, I just compared a musical to a corpse. Too much? Maybe. Do I want you to see this regardless? No.
Tune in tomorrow when I rip The Blue Flower petal by petal,
Jamin
Thank You Heavenly Father/A Mini Discount Guide
Your heart pounds excitedly. You relevé to see above the other couple hundred heads in the crowd. After years of dreaming about seeing Broadway shows on the regular, you're living in New York and can take the ACE line 6 stops uptown to play the lottery. Tickets used to drain your parents' wallet, but now, with your residency you can afford a weekend gamble because, after all, you can just come up and play next week.
You turn nervous and jittery to your friend Steph. This is his first time playing the lotto, this your second. You recall the last time you played lotto, how very many people there were and how even with three people, none of your names were called. You dial down your expectations realizing there's probably twice as many people here vying for coveted front row and box seats to the year's biggest blockbuster. Still you can't help but be hopeful and pray to Heavenly Father that you'll get to enjoy this most delightful of delights.
The man with the megaphone begins calling names. You clap as lucky patrons scream with joy even though a little monster inside you gets increasingly bitter and worrisome as seats disappear. States are shouted out: California! Indiana! Massachusetts! Minnesota! New Jersey...(The great state of no-smiles always gets a groan.) You wonder to yourself if it helps that you put WA down instead of NY. Maybe they're nicer to out-of-towners; people from far reaches of the globe may only get to see this show once. Your suspicions are suddenly confirmed as places like Japan and Israel are called. (Seriously, how many people from Israel are at this lottery?) This game has got to be rigged. Somehow they sort through the whole pile of cards in under a minute seeking the candidates most likely never to return. You rue the day you moved to New York. Even though you put WA down on your card, somehow they know you live here and will come back religiously until you get a ticket. You'll never win lottery now.
The front row is completely gone. Only 8 seats left which means only 4 names called since most everyone asks for 2 tickets. Just as you tilt your head to the ground swearing you'll never convert to Mormonism, you hear, "From the great state of Washington, Ben Bartels!" An uncharacteristically manly grunt of "YES" is emitted from your ecstatic larynx. Steph pats you on the back as you worm your way through the crowd to the doors leading inside the theater. You can't believe it. You can practically feel the gleeful hormones surging through your body. You make a mental note to ask one of your Mormon friends back home to convert you. Hopefully it's not too late to go on a mission.
The rest of the day you run on essence of whimsy. Life is beautiful and everything laughable. Jealous texts from friends reading "FU****!!!!" or "F*** YOOOOOUUUU!!!" help you appreciate what a blessing it is to see this show for such a low price. The world's a divine miracle. The show is fabulous. People are literally 15 feet away from your face. Some ensemble members glance up at you from time to time. The speakers are right in front of your face but you don't care; by the time you're 60, doctors will probably be able to repair eardrums. The giddiness lasts for the rest of the week. After the haze is over, you wonder if you'll ever be able to win the lottery again...
To your amazement, next week, it happens again! Your friend Nik wins the Wicked lotto and your friend Steph graciously allows you to see it with him as you've been long anticipating the day you could see Teal Wicks in person. You revel in the amazingness that is winning the lottery again and seeing a long-running Broadway show front row with someone you admire playing the lead. You think your luck has probably run out.
But then you and your friend Haylin decide you wanted a gay night out so you chance playing the Priscilla lottery. You win and are then witness to the gayest thing you've ever seen on stage. Your luck is uncanny. Your status update is met with a long line of angry comments. You think this is probably the last time this'll happen.
Well, you were sort of right. Colleen and you went lottery hopping and ended up at Godspell which plays half an hour later than the other lotteries. The lottery has all been called so you go to the front to ask if they have standing room tickets. The ticket woman tells you to "Hold on a sec" and proceeds to usher the winners inside. To your surprise and bewilderment, she realized she forgot to give away the last pair of seats so she unceremoniously hands over the ticket slips proclaiming "Winners". You see Godspell up close and on cushions. Spit flies into your face. Colleen is actually pulled on stage by a very hot Jesus to play pictionary! You start to think fate really likes you or maybe God is once again trying to tell you something...
I hope you enjoyed my second-person account of my first lottery win!...and the subsequent slew of shudder-inducing, murder-inciting wins. (Maybe I should play the real lottery.) In case you couldn't tell, I won box seats for The Book of Mormon on Broadway with my friend Steph. And by the way, that was our first week in the city... After that I won all the other Broadway lotteries. Boo-ya bitches. Yes, I'm gloating. Yes, it was phenomenal. Yes, you should reconsider being my friend, either to partake of my amazing luck or to forever upturn your nose at me. Now here comes the usual explicating.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the New York theatre scene, and may someday want to visit there, here's the rundown on discount tickets. There are lots of discount seats. You can check out a number of sites including playbill.com, groupon.com, studentrush.org, or tkts.org. (There are several other ones depending on the occasion.) The easiest discount tickets to get are the rush seats which become available the day of a performance when the box office opens. There are a limited number of seats and the prices hover around the $25-$40 area. Most shows do general rush (available to all the public) but some only allow student rush. If a show is sold-out, you can pay about $30 to rent a little space in the back of the house; this is called standing room only.
The lottery, which I described above, is something only the really popular shows do. Basically, they make so much money and sell so many seats that they can afford to sell the front row for about $32 a pop. Currently there are 5 lotteries that I'm aware of: Wicked, Godspell, Rent, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, and The Book of Mormon. The lottery is open to the public two and a half hours before the show starts and closes two hours prior. At this time, they pull names at random and the lucky winners can either request 1 or 2 seats at the discount price as long as they have cash (some allow credit) and relevant ID. Oh, the no-brainer: YOU HAVE TO SHOW UP TO HEAR YOUR NAME CALLED. (Honestly, I don't know why you would go to the trouble to enter your name and then leave. Stupid.)
And that is the very truncated guide to Broadway show hopping! If you would like more details, feel free to ask, provided you know who I am and how to reach me. (In later posts I will give more details on show tix and such. Stay tuned.) I promise I was just as excited as you would've been had you played these lotteries.
By the way, another blog post is coming later today. You should read it. Tell your friends.
Devilishly,
Jamin
You turn nervous and jittery to your friend Steph. This is his first time playing the lotto, this your second. You recall the last time you played lotto, how very many people there were and how even with three people, none of your names were called. You dial down your expectations realizing there's probably twice as many people here vying for coveted front row and box seats to the year's biggest blockbuster. Still you can't help but be hopeful and pray to Heavenly Father that you'll get to enjoy this most delightful of delights.
The man with the megaphone begins calling names. You clap as lucky patrons scream with joy even though a little monster inside you gets increasingly bitter and worrisome as seats disappear. States are shouted out: California! Indiana! Massachusetts! Minnesota! New Jersey...(The great state of no-smiles always gets a groan.) You wonder to yourself if it helps that you put WA down instead of NY. Maybe they're nicer to out-of-towners; people from far reaches of the globe may only get to see this show once. Your suspicions are suddenly confirmed as places like Japan and Israel are called. (Seriously, how many people from Israel are at this lottery?) This game has got to be rigged. Somehow they sort through the whole pile of cards in under a minute seeking the candidates most likely never to return. You rue the day you moved to New York. Even though you put WA down on your card, somehow they know you live here and will come back religiously until you get a ticket. You'll never win lottery now.
The front row is completely gone. Only 8 seats left which means only 4 names called since most everyone asks for 2 tickets. Just as you tilt your head to the ground swearing you'll never convert to Mormonism, you hear, "From the great state of Washington, Ben Bartels!" An uncharacteristically manly grunt of "YES" is emitted from your ecstatic larynx. Steph pats you on the back as you worm your way through the crowd to the doors leading inside the theater. You can't believe it. You can practically feel the gleeful hormones surging through your body. You make a mental note to ask one of your Mormon friends back home to convert you. Hopefully it's not too late to go on a mission.
The rest of the day you run on essence of whimsy. Life is beautiful and everything laughable. Jealous texts from friends reading "FU****!!!!" or "F*** YOOOOOUUUU!!!" help you appreciate what a blessing it is to see this show for such a low price. The world's a divine miracle. The show is fabulous. People are literally 15 feet away from your face. Some ensemble members glance up at you from time to time. The speakers are right in front of your face but you don't care; by the time you're 60, doctors will probably be able to repair eardrums. The giddiness lasts for the rest of the week. After the haze is over, you wonder if you'll ever be able to win the lottery again...
To your amazement, next week, it happens again! Your friend Nik wins the Wicked lotto and your friend Steph graciously allows you to see it with him as you've been long anticipating the day you could see Teal Wicks in person. You revel in the amazingness that is winning the lottery again and seeing a long-running Broadway show front row with someone you admire playing the lead. You think your luck has probably run out.
But then you and your friend Haylin decide you wanted a gay night out so you chance playing the Priscilla lottery. You win and are then witness to the gayest thing you've ever seen on stage. Your luck is uncanny. Your status update is met with a long line of angry comments. You think this is probably the last time this'll happen.
Well, you were sort of right. Colleen and you went lottery hopping and ended up at Godspell which plays half an hour later than the other lotteries. The lottery has all been called so you go to the front to ask if they have standing room tickets. The ticket woman tells you to "Hold on a sec" and proceeds to usher the winners inside. To your surprise and bewilderment, she realized she forgot to give away the last pair of seats so she unceremoniously hands over the ticket slips proclaiming "Winners". You see Godspell up close and on cushions. Spit flies into your face. Colleen is actually pulled on stage by a very hot Jesus to play pictionary! You start to think fate really likes you or maybe God is once again trying to tell you something...
I hope you enjoyed my second-person account of my first lottery win!...and the subsequent slew of shudder-inducing, murder-inciting wins. (Maybe I should play the real lottery.) In case you couldn't tell, I won box seats for The Book of Mormon on Broadway with my friend Steph. And by the way, that was our first week in the city... After that I won all the other Broadway lotteries. Boo-ya bitches. Yes, I'm gloating. Yes, it was phenomenal. Yes, you should reconsider being my friend, either to partake of my amazing luck or to forever upturn your nose at me. Now here comes the usual explicating.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the New York theatre scene, and may someday want to visit there, here's the rundown on discount tickets. There are lots of discount seats. You can check out a number of sites including playbill.com, groupon.com, studentrush.org, or tkts.org. (There are several other ones depending on the occasion.) The easiest discount tickets to get are the rush seats which become available the day of a performance when the box office opens. There are a limited number of seats and the prices hover around the $25-$40 area. Most shows do general rush (available to all the public) but some only allow student rush. If a show is sold-out, you can pay about $30 to rent a little space in the back of the house; this is called standing room only.
The lottery, which I described above, is something only the really popular shows do. Basically, they make so much money and sell so many seats that they can afford to sell the front row for about $32 a pop. Currently there are 5 lotteries that I'm aware of: Wicked, Godspell, Rent, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, and The Book of Mormon. The lottery is open to the public two and a half hours before the show starts and closes two hours prior. At this time, they pull names at random and the lucky winners can either request 1 or 2 seats at the discount price as long as they have cash (some allow credit) and relevant ID. Oh, the no-brainer: YOU HAVE TO SHOW UP TO HEAR YOUR NAME CALLED. (Honestly, I don't know why you would go to the trouble to enter your name and then leave. Stupid.)
And that is the very truncated guide to Broadway show hopping! If you would like more details, feel free to ask, provided you know who I am and how to reach me. (In later posts I will give more details on show tix and such. Stay tuned.) I promise I was just as excited as you would've been had you played these lotteries.
By the way, another blog post is coming later today. You should read it. Tell your friends.
Devilishly,
Jamin
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
The Challenge/Is This Home?
Dear Neglected Readers (You've doubled in number since the last time I addressed you this way),
Ironically, when your life is really rich with experience you have less time to write about it. So for this holiday season I'll give you a present: a whirlwind walk through of my life this fall. Lucky you.
I endeavor to write at least one post a day until the end of this year. In that time you should be duly informed on every minuscule detail of my life and will not feel the need to talk to me ever again. So starts the challenge.
Post 1:
Is this home?
The first year away from your parents is a huge transitional period for any college student. Most people long to go home at least once in their first semester. Many did in fact make the venture for Thanksgiving or various weekend excursions. I did not return until this break for practical purposes; a journey across the country is more time-consuming than is worth two days of rest. But I don't think I wanted to return anyway. For me, in the quiet moments (and by quiet I mean there's still honking, the sound of an old radiator clanking and screaming hall mates next door) sitting alone in my dorm room, my yearning to be home was subdued by the knowledge that I would no longer return to the house I had grown up in.
The old brick rancher had many faults. Years of remodeling consisted of replacing two bathrooms, tearing up pee-soaked, skin-irritating carpet, removing the entryway pillars, re-flooring the kitchen, a new heating system, dishwasher, laundry machine, sink, refrigerator, basement light, basement bedroom, and windows, more shades of paint than on an entire season of Bravo's Top Design, and more furniture shifting than a household that frequently suffers earthquakes. The yard weathered tumultuous seasons, a trampoline, two swing-sets, a grave, two hot-tubs, several birthday parties, a family of 12 Russians, gaggles of teenagers, golf-swing tread-marks, a pig roast, and years of doo-doo from a revolving doggie door that brought us a Dalmatian, a Labrador, a beloved Dachshund named Munchie, and our two current dogs Rudy and Celine. But after all the remodels and the outdoor apparel, that house became beautiful, even if you could scratch your head on the ceiling or still find ants crawling out of the top step to the basement.
It had what every house inevitably gains: the feeling of home. Years of life become embedded in the floor. Every passage through your hallway is a reminder of the many nights you spent with friends who vomited from drinking too much water of all things, who vomited from trying alcohol (a little more typical), who surprised you on your sixteenth birthday by pelting you with water balloons, who ate, slept, and laughed with you until 5 in the morning and begrudgingly left four hours later. Sitting at your dining room table for dinner you recall decorating for the many holiday seasons, coming home to a burnt spot on that table and a house full of drunken, costumed adults, dancing with a Jamaican man who randomly hopped the fence of your backyard, playing Quelf, Loaded Questions and other board games, sitting with your grandparents to fill them in on the news of the day. Walking into your bedroom you remember all the feelings of angst, all the nights lying awake worrying how you'd fare at the next music competition or how you'd be seen at school, all the nightmares falling into the abyss, all the pleasant dreams about friends you miss, all the happy nights when adrenaline kept you awake, and the creepy vision of the old man you watched die in that very room. And your couch. Oh your couch. Endless hours spent mindlessly watching television or napping or just plain doing nothing to decompress from the wild life you live outside your house.
But, everything that's good feels painful to lose so I guess it's a testament to the childhood I lived in that house that I miss the fluorescent-lit Bionicle Battles in my basement and the movie nights with cast mates. And however much I miss that house, I'm oddly freed by returning to a place I've never lived in. There's a sense of continuity, that this time of my life is resolutely about self-discovery, that I'm a floater, not quite ready to settle.
Separation makes you appreciate everything you loved about your corner of the world even if it had nothing going for it EXCEPT that it was your corner of the world. The familiarity, the intimate knowledge you have of its inner life, the peers you first learned how to be a friend for, the teachers you thought knew everything, the town you couldn't wait to get out of but also secretly cherished. It's at home where you don't feel guilty doing nothing but sit on your couch for hours on end. It's at home you feel like you can become invisible. It's at home where you remember your dreams and the gap that still exists between who you are and who you want to be.
For me, though, home isn't as fixed as I imagined it. I discovered truth to the phrase "home is where the heart is". I feel that inexplicable aura of comfort here in this new house. I felt it the moment my dogs licked my face in recognition of my scent after months away. My parents have filled their energy in this house and I can be safe here. But, I'm also sure now that I've spread this aura back on the other side of the continent. It was born of my parents but didn't come from them. I created my own home with my new friends in New York, who have taken this journey with me into the cliched but essential step into adulthood. We've tested the bounds of our late-night sanity, the balance between work and play, the tolerance of less than likable people, shouldered the burdens of each other's emotional baggage, discovered what's vitally important to us when no one else is acting as our conscience. It's with these people now that home is forming. It's not a home of accumulated history or square footage (No, definitely not square footage. I'm basically living in a closet.). It's arcane but we're starting to get a sense of place.
I may one day find another house that is a home. But for now, I don't need it. The illimitable power of friends and family presses itself upon me both here and there, and I am content.
Jamin
Ironically, when your life is really rich with experience you have less time to write about it. So for this holiday season I'll give you a present: a whirlwind walk through of my life this fall. Lucky you.
I endeavor to write at least one post a day until the end of this year. In that time you should be duly informed on every minuscule detail of my life and will not feel the need to talk to me ever again. So starts the challenge.
Post 1:
Is this home?
The first year away from your parents is a huge transitional period for any college student. Most people long to go home at least once in their first semester. Many did in fact make the venture for Thanksgiving or various weekend excursions. I did not return until this break for practical purposes; a journey across the country is more time-consuming than is worth two days of rest. But I don't think I wanted to return anyway. For me, in the quiet moments (and by quiet I mean there's still honking, the sound of an old radiator clanking and screaming hall mates next door) sitting alone in my dorm room, my yearning to be home was subdued by the knowledge that I would no longer return to the house I had grown up in.
The old brick rancher had many faults. Years of remodeling consisted of replacing two bathrooms, tearing up pee-soaked, skin-irritating carpet, removing the entryway pillars, re-flooring the kitchen, a new heating system, dishwasher, laundry machine, sink, refrigerator, basement light, basement bedroom, and windows, more shades of paint than on an entire season of Bravo's Top Design, and more furniture shifting than a household that frequently suffers earthquakes. The yard weathered tumultuous seasons, a trampoline, two swing-sets, a grave, two hot-tubs, several birthday parties, a family of 12 Russians, gaggles of teenagers, golf-swing tread-marks, a pig roast, and years of doo-doo from a revolving doggie door that brought us a Dalmatian, a Labrador, a beloved Dachshund named Munchie, and our two current dogs Rudy and Celine. But after all the remodels and the outdoor apparel, that house became beautiful, even if you could scratch your head on the ceiling or still find ants crawling out of the top step to the basement.
It had what every house inevitably gains: the feeling of home. Years of life become embedded in the floor. Every passage through your hallway is a reminder of the many nights you spent with friends who vomited from drinking too much water of all things, who vomited from trying alcohol (a little more typical), who surprised you on your sixteenth birthday by pelting you with water balloons, who ate, slept, and laughed with you until 5 in the morning and begrudgingly left four hours later. Sitting at your dining room table for dinner you recall decorating for the many holiday seasons, coming home to a burnt spot on that table and a house full of drunken, costumed adults, dancing with a Jamaican man who randomly hopped the fence of your backyard, playing Quelf, Loaded Questions and other board games, sitting with your grandparents to fill them in on the news of the day. Walking into your bedroom you remember all the feelings of angst, all the nights lying awake worrying how you'd fare at the next music competition or how you'd be seen at school, all the nightmares falling into the abyss, all the pleasant dreams about friends you miss, all the happy nights when adrenaline kept you awake, and the creepy vision of the old man you watched die in that very room. And your couch. Oh your couch. Endless hours spent mindlessly watching television or napping or just plain doing nothing to decompress from the wild life you live outside your house.
But, everything that's good feels painful to lose so I guess it's a testament to the childhood I lived in that house that I miss the fluorescent-lit Bionicle Battles in my basement and the movie nights with cast mates. And however much I miss that house, I'm oddly freed by returning to a place I've never lived in. There's a sense of continuity, that this time of my life is resolutely about self-discovery, that I'm a floater, not quite ready to settle.
Separation makes you appreciate everything you loved about your corner of the world even if it had nothing going for it EXCEPT that it was your corner of the world. The familiarity, the intimate knowledge you have of its inner life, the peers you first learned how to be a friend for, the teachers you thought knew everything, the town you couldn't wait to get out of but also secretly cherished. It's at home where you don't feel guilty doing nothing but sit on your couch for hours on end. It's at home you feel like you can become invisible. It's at home where you remember your dreams and the gap that still exists between who you are and who you want to be.
For me, though, home isn't as fixed as I imagined it. I discovered truth to the phrase "home is where the heart is". I feel that inexplicable aura of comfort here in this new house. I felt it the moment my dogs licked my face in recognition of my scent after months away. My parents have filled their energy in this house and I can be safe here. But, I'm also sure now that I've spread this aura back on the other side of the continent. It was born of my parents but didn't come from them. I created my own home with my new friends in New York, who have taken this journey with me into the cliched but essential step into adulthood. We've tested the bounds of our late-night sanity, the balance between work and play, the tolerance of less than likable people, shouldered the burdens of each other's emotional baggage, discovered what's vitally important to us when no one else is acting as our conscience. It's with these people now that home is forming. It's not a home of accumulated history or square footage (No, definitely not square footage. I'm basically living in a closet.). It's arcane but we're starting to get a sense of place.
I may one day find another house that is a home. But for now, I don't need it. The illimitable power of friends and family presses itself upon me both here and there, and I am content.
Jamin
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