Let the random tidbits of rambled information begin!
- So, Wicked = Awesome. I daresay, Wicked > *. (Wicked is “greater than” “all,” if you aren’t a loser geek like me.) It would have been nice to see it with the original Broadway cast, but beggars can’t be choosers. I thought it was amazing anyway.
The tunes are catchy, the plot is awesome, the ending just a LITTLE disappointing on some level, but still I’d go see it again. I’m reading the book as well, since Liz finished the copy I got her for Christmas. (Is it weird to give a gift to someone and then swipe it when they’re done? No? Good.)
The production value, if there is such a thing for a stage musical (and I assume there must be), is fantabulous as well. So much that it would probably be a challenge for anything other than a professional theatre to pull it off, which is a pity; I’ve decided I would absolutely sell a testicle to conduct the pit for Wicked. (I’d say I’d like to be in it, but there is a distinct shortage of decent men’s roles, and I can’t hit high F# in my chest voice like the gal playing Elphaba did a time or three.)
- Miraculously, my left foot survived walking around New York all day Saturday and has gone back to painting nudes while I’m asleep. Still, it hurt enough this morning that I decided to finally go see Dr. Bercaw, and, per usual, whichever medical student he is educating. This young lady was named Kathryn Elizabeth something or other, which amuses me since that’s my mother’s name. It’s even spelt the same, which is surprising. Also interesting was the fact that this particular medical student was very, very good looking, and tall.
The two of them twirled my foot around for a while, gave it the usual “does this hurt?” “No.” “Does this hurt?” “No.” “Does this hurt?” “HOLY CRAP OW OW OW OW OW QUIT IT” “Aha!” Diagnosis: I sprained my ankle. I should stay off it as much as possible, keep it wrapped, and take acetaminophen for the pain and swelling. Since I’ve been doing these things anyway, I took this to mean that I am now as competent a doctor as anybody. I will begin accepting patients . . . now. Form an orderly line to the right.
Anyway, the ankle’s fine, so anyone (mainly just Llij) who was concerned that I had done more serious damage: alles ist Soße.
- I’m just not ready to begin discussing the Super Bowl yet. Let’s just forget it happened and move on for a few days, and then perhaps I’ll bring it up later in the week. Possible discussion point: when did Andy Reid begin taking clock-management lessons from Art Shell? Also: Considering the Sports Guy will be insufferable for the next, oh, fifteen years, is there anyone available to drive to LA and punch him in the mouth?
- Last Friday’s story was well received, particularly among the people that DIDN’T notice I managed to switch from first to third person for the last 5 paragraphs or so. (I’ve gone back and fixed it already.) One or two people are telling me I should “finish it,” which I assume means that I should come up with however Harry and Deborah’s date ended. ‘Cause honestly, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Also, one or two people seem to be under the assumption that the story is autobiographical; not to burst their collective bubble, but although I certainly drank a lot in college, I didn’t meet any women then, because
- I have the social skills of grout, and
- I had already met Sarah in high school, and we were actually married by the time I entered my last year.
Anyway, for those that actually read the whole thing, many thanks, because it was a frightfully long thing to post on here. If I had any sense, I would have broken it up. The lesson as always: I am pretty sure I have Asperger’s Syndrome.
- That’s about all I have. If you want to see something that’s actually FUNNY, check check it.
