A Wicked Friendship

I love the Wizard of Oz. I love it for its painted sets and its cheery optimism and the full Technicolor spectrum. I love it for its imperfections and the downright cheese factor of the whole affair. It’s safe to say the 1939 film is my favorite of all time.

I read the L. Frank Baum classic a few years back expecting a delightful Harry Potter/Narnia hybrid romp down the brick-lined path and it was nothing of the sort. It was childish and simple and at times downright bizarre. It really was nothing like I was expecting, nothing like the movie; that’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it but it just loses something without the vibrant colors and Judy Garland soundtrack. I followed it up with a reading of Gregory Maguire’s Wicked, which provides a back story for the infamous Wicked Witch of the West. I found the concept for Maguire’s novel intriguing but in execution it was wordy and complex. The character relationships were anything but straightforward, add to that Maguire’s immensely broad vocabulary (for a book based on a children’s story) and you come up with a novel that left me a little cold.

Despite being underwhelmed by both books, my affinity for all things Oz made me curious about the musical stage adaptation of Wicked. The show appeared, at least to me, to have captured a little bit of the magic that made the Wizard of Oz movie so inviting, even if I wasn’t a huge fan of the novel. So when the show came to town I arrived at the theater with my Oz obsession in tow, knowing it might not live up to the hype.

But it did. It was everything I wanted it to be and more. The music is fantastic, the cast was excellent and everything about the look and feel and sound of the show was even better than I could have imagined (it did win Tonys for Best Scenic Design and Best Costume Design, after all). For more than a month I’ve been pondering what it is about the show that makes it different. Besides the music and the sets and the amazing performances, what is it about this show that makes it so touching – so beautiful? It doesn’t hurt that it’s about two strong women (name one other live show with TWO female leads) but I’ve decided that what makes all the difference is that Wicked is, first and foremost, a story about a friendship. Romantic relationships are interspersed, a love triangle is thrown in for drama and tenuous family relationships are tossed into the mix but at the heart of the story exists a friendship between two very strong – but very different – women.

It seems to me that this is a completely new genre for show business. You have your love stories where the ups and downs of romance are the driving force behind the dramatic structure. Then you have your family stories with blood-related broods that are either very happy or very sad (usually sad with a gentle crescendo to happy or at least moderately happy). Next you have your buddy stories where two characters (sometimes more), go through something that either bonds them or rips them apart. These stories are usually either comic fluff or sappy melodramas. One other category, ensemble pieces, exists in its own sphere.

Most of the friendships that are portrayed in the stories we read/see/consume are in solo stories. In these types of stories, one character goes through trials and the obligatory tribulations and there’s usually a less important friend by their side that gets downgraded to a sidekick or, worse yet, “comic relief.” They grow very little throughout the story; the story arc for these types of characters tends to be very short. But a friend story that is neither fluff comedy or melodrama and places both friends on the same level seems revolutionary.

Wicked doesn’t seem to fit into any of the above formats. Elphaba (the Wicked Witch) is the “main character” but the story here is as much Glinda’s and, even more importantly, the two women are placed as equals. Glinda doesn’t take on the role of “sidekick” in Elphaba’s story and while our sparkly Good Witch of the North is unquestionable funny, she’s hardly comic relief. Just when you think she’s about to step into that role you start to notice a character arc building, and a growth begins that surpasses even her green-skinned friend.

It would have been really easy to have gone awry with this story. They could have dropped the curtain with Glinda laughing as the munchkins dance around singing “Ding Dong the Witch is dead.” But I somehow think that would have been so much less satisfying. Instead it ends with Glinda tormented over the loss of the only friend that has ever meant something to her.

The friendship that is forged here becomes the story. It’s not a subplot or a sideline story that gets dusted over on the way to the real meat. It’s not a small story arc buried inside a larger, more complex series of arcs. It’s the story in full, Elphaba is the meat and Glinda is the potatoes. And that allows the friendship to develop before our eyes into something very touching. To watch these two characters change together, change one another, is a truly beautiful thing. As an audience we can see how each life was touched by the other. It’s a different kind of love than is normally seen in the stories we consume. The love of friendship can be just as strong and just as life-altering as a romance and it’s something everyone can relate to. We’ve all had a friend that has changed our lives, the way Elphaba and Glinda change each other.

The Ancient Greeks had four distinct words for love, all describing different kinds of love in different kinds of relationships. They were each elements of the same concept but they all had a separate meaning. There was romantic love, of course, but the love of a friend warranted its own unique definition. We’re inundated on a daily basis by stories of sappy romantic love but it’s rare to find a story of friendship that is so deep and heartfelt. I knew I was going to like Wicked for its music and its general stage presence but it was the heart of the story that helped it surpass even my most giddy expectations. If you haven’t seen it – go. Now.

Please tell me that's a candy bar...

The hot hot weather recently has gotten me thinking about summers past and, more specifically - summer camp.

I went to Girl Scout camp for four or five years in a row, beginning when I was about 8. I always looked forward to my annual trip to the Texas Hill Country, so it’s interesting to find that I don’t have a lot of camp memories left as an adult. I liked camping and all the silly activities that go along with it so it's strange how little I remember of the experiences. And sadly, the memories I do still have are mostly unhappy ones. I feel like my camp experiences were generally good but what I remember is the bossy girls who treated me and other campers like the leftover ash after a campfire, kicking it around and grinding it into the dirt with their hiking boots.

I’ve been racking my brain for a good summer camp story to share, one that highlights what a positive experience camping was growing up but I haven’t been able to come up with a single one. I know I had fun, at least some of the time, or else I wouldn’t have gone back. My parents didn’t force me to go; it was my choice to return each summer, so it can’t have been all bad. But since I can’t think of a happy story to share, I’ll give you a story that’s a little gross and weird. Because, let’s face it, those kinds of stories are usually the most interesting to read anyway.

Summer camp was different every year. You would pick a program from the brochure based on what activities you liked; one year I chose “Wet and Wild” and we learned about water safety and went canoeing. Another year I went to “Night Owl” camp and we went for a night swim and a night hike and tried stargazing (that year, while my fellow campers were bitching about being tired, I was thrilled we didn’t have to wake up so early). But regardless of which program I chose, we always took daily trips to the pool. Every campsite had a set swimming time that remained in place throughout the week. All the activities around pool time would change daily (except for meals) but pool time was fixed. Every year I hoped for an afternoon timeslot because the pool was just too cold at 8 am and an afternoon swim was always a nice way to cool off after a full day of activities under the hot Texas sun.

We didn’t do much at pool time but it was always nice to have the pool to ourselves to splash around in the over-chlorinated water. There weren’t any old ladies try to do laps across our game of Marco Polo (which we played by substituting other words, I would say “macaroni,” another girl would say “cheese” or even “peanut butter” and “jelly.” Clearly I was a hungry child.) and there was no such thing as “adult swim.” The pool was our respite – an oasis in the baked desert.

Every now and then they would close the pool for cleaning or to fix the chemicals but to us kids it was just a lame way to punish us for something we didn’t even know we did. Everyone was always grumpy on no-pool days.

Before we could get in the pool, all the girls would cram into the changing room to put on swim suits and goggles and any other pool gear our parents had sent us with. On one occasion, I remember glancing over at a fellow camper and noticing a certain stain in her panties as she dropped them to the floor. The girl, I’ll call her Skidmarks, didn’t realize I had seen, not that she would have cared because she didn’t even try to hide her sinful stain, she just let her panties drop and went about her changing as this was totally normal; as if the chunky brown lines were just the pattern on her panties.

Later that evening, during what was likely a championship game of Macaroni/Cheese, the lifeguards and camp counselors tweeted their whistles and called for everyone to get out of the pool. It was way too early to be heading to our next activity, so we all inherently knew there must be a problem. As we were leisurely making our way to the sides of the pool, griping that pool time was being cut short, someone spotted something brown at the bottom of the pool. It was a turd. And once spotted, all hell broke loose. We began scrambling for the sides as if we were reenacting a scene from Caddy Shack. Our leisurely paddles to the edge turned into Michael Phelps style sprints to get out of the dirty, poopy water. And of course, the pool was closed the next day so it could be disinfected. Another grumpy no-pool day.

They never figured out who did it but I, of course, knew who it was. I don’t think Skidmarks ever came forward and admitted her crime but I knew her secret. I probably whispered it to my camp buddy, who whispered it to our cabin mates. For Skidmarks’ sake it’s probably a good thing we weren't a gossipy group, or else this girl’s official camp nickname would have been “Skidmarks” and her life would have been ruined… for about six days.

Not to worry, Skidmarks, your secret is safe with me. I can’t reveal your true identity since I never knew it in the first place, so even though you made me swim in your toilet water and caused me a lifetime of undue stress wondering what’s at the bottom of the pool, I will bear your burden. I will keep your secret.

Happy Summer, everyone!

Not-So-Jolly Old England

I wrote this a while back with the intention of whoring it out as a freelance humor piece (a-la-David Sedaris) but here it sits on my over-crowded hard drive, gathering virtual dust. So, rather than let is slip away into The Nothing (Neverending Story reference!), I'll post it here for all to enjoy with the hopes that maybe someday it'll see a page. A real page... made of paper.

It's kind of long-winded but if you stick with it, it does get to a point eventually. I apologize for the weird font changes throughout the blog but blogger is really acting up tonight and I can't get it to stick with one font all the way through. I'll see about fixing that soon but for now I just want to get this posted. Enjoy!

I think the United Kingdom must have a picture of me posted behind the counter at the London Stansted airport. There’s a yearbook, of sorts, of dubious characters from around the world. My face is pictured alongside the likes of Osama bin Laden, who has surely been placed on the “no fly” list by now, and good ol’ Saddam, who was still alive and kicking at the time of my June 2004 trip to Jolly Old England. Flip a few pages into the book and you’ll find the shoe bomber and those nice fellows that blew up the subway in Madrid just a few months before my trip (nearly leaving me out a $500 non-refundable deposit). This was before those other nice young men decided to blow up the London underground, so they weren’t in the 2004 yearbook. I guess I’m a few grades above them.

I don’t really know how I came to be included in this yearbook. Something about a very innocent-looking 19-year-old American girl traveling alone just screams, “detain me!” Maybe it’s because I’m young (that’s discrimination!). Maybe it’s because I’m American (also discrimination, albeit warranted at times). Or maybe I look alarmingly like some diabolical London swindler who jimmies vending machines to steal “crisps” and “biscuits.” I have been told I vaguely (very vaguely) resemble Charlotte Church. Not to imply she’s a swindler…

The scourge of the earth sneaks across international borders on a daily basis (or so my TV box tells me) to claim sanctuary on foreign soil and hide embezzled funds in Swiss bank accounts and other untraceable offshore locations. Diligence on the part of airport security and immigration officials pays off but these uniformed workers are hardly infallible. Terrorists somehow manage to weasel their way through every now and then. So do the snobby, the sickly, the downright rude and Republicans.

And yet, me they detained. I arrived in the United Kingdom on the heels of a 5-week-long study abroad trip in Spain, saying “si” and “no” in endless repetition, nodding like a bobble head doll. From there my two roommates were headed to Italy while I was being shipped off to the outskirts of London to stay with my mom’s sister’s friend’s brother. One more degree and I would have been bunking with Kevin Bacon himself.

Throughout my five-week stay in the Spanish town of Vallodolid, I latched on to my roommates and scored invitations to several weekend outings, including a very smoke-filled train ride to Barcelona and a drama-filled excursion to Paris. It was my intention to do the same with Italy but as the program reached its limits so did my bank account. Alternate arrangements had to be made. I had a week left in Europe before my flight home and if I could find someone to stay with (preferably not an axe murderer or a vending machine swindler) I could probably coast by until I landed in Texas. Hotel rooms were out of the question, even hostels were iffy. I needed someone to take pity and offer me a couch or a bed or a little corner in a 2 by 3 closet.

I booked a dirt cheap, last-minute trip on Ryan Air and called in reinforcements to help make the arrangements. My mom called her sister, who called her friend, who called her brother. Then the whole chain reversed and worked its way back to my mom, who called the brother directly and translated his Scottish accent into a agreement. It was settled– I would be staying with the McMurdos, one step removed from Kevin Bacon, in the suburban English town of Romford. I had a name, a plane ticket and somewhere in my e-mail inbox I had an address. I was on my way.

My 2004 Eurotrip was my first transatlantic journey and my first trip alone. On top of that, the flight to London was the first leg of my journey without a teacher or a family member fetching me on the other end. I didn’t have anyone to coach me about the ins and outs of sweet-talking English Bobbies or immigration officials and I sure as hell didn’t have enough money to toss a bribe into the mix. After an unexpected financial nightmare leaving Spain (who knew it would cost so much to get six weeks worth of luggage home? No wonder the flight was so cheap.), I arrived in London ill-prepared for what was ahead of me.

When I arrived on English soil, thankful for my comparatively broad vocabulary repertoire, I was handed a sheet of paper and asked to fill out some very basic information, which basically amounted to “where are you from, why are you here and when are you leaving?” The only question on the sheet that threw me was the one that asked where I was staying. My Internet access in Spain had been limited, at best, and with the completion of my university-sponsored program it had been almost non-existent. My access to a printer was even more sparse, so I didn’t have the opportunity to print out my mother’s e-mail, so when faced with a question I didn’t have an answer to, I did what any good college student would do and left the question blank. At least I think I did, though thanks to the events that followed, the whole encounter is a little fuzzy. I pray to all things mighty and holy that I didn’t put a smart ass answer like, “Alistair McMurdo’s house,” which would have only taunted the already charming woman behind the counter.

I waited in line and handed in my paperwork, test complete, minus the one question I didn’t know the answer to. I studied hard but I must have skipped over that chapter in the text book because damn if I don’t remember seeing that in the reading. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was about to encounter the most embittered immigration official on either side of the Prime Meridian. This was no surly professor or grumpy lunch lady. This woman was a piece of work. Not only was she rude and unforgiving, she had a fiery devil tongue that could eat your self-esteem and chew at your soul. This woman made me doubt myself. She made me cry and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

"You mean to tell me you've come into a foreign country with absolutely no idea where you're staying?" asked the surly She-Devil in her snotty, posh accent. And the way she said it – so… judgemental.

After determining “That’s how I roll, bitch” to be an inappropriate answer, I informed her that yes, I had indeed arrived in a foreign country without an address and yes, I was still interested in entering her fine country. Saying what I was thinking (“Who are you to judge me, you good-for-nothin’ public servant?”) was likely to get me into more trouble, so I proposed ideas for how I could obtain this all-important address. The exchange went something like this.

Me: "I have a name. Do you have a phone book so I can look it up?”

She-Devil: "No."

Me: "I have the address in an e-mail. Do you have a computer where I can check my e-mail?"

SD: "No."

Me: "My mom has the address. Do you have a pay phone where I can call my mom?"

SD: "No."

Me: "Any phone?"

SD: "No."

Me: "Well, the man I’m staying with is picking me up here, he’ll have the address. He should be right outside those doors, his name is Alistair McMurdo."

SD: "Do you know how many Alistair MuMurdos there are in London?"

At this point the smart ass in me is itching to rear its ugly head and ask, “No, do you?” but that’s not going to help matters. The woman politely informed me that there are probably hundreds of Alistair McMurdos in London alone. Of course, silly me. My mistake. There are probably hundreds of John Smiths also but what are the chances every single one of them is in the same teeny tiny airport on the same day? What, were they all in town for a convention?

Now, Alistair McMurdo doesn’t sound like a very common name to me but then what do I know? I’m just a stupid American. Don’t you have a loud speaker? In America we have loud speakers. And even if there is more than one Allistair McMurdo in the building, you can simply ask them which one is expecting the stupid American girl. How hard is that?

At this point she made me get out of line and sit on a bench to wait for, oh I don’t know, the address to come to me in a flash of brilliance, I guess. By then I was starting to regret not making up an answer. I suppose that kind of thinking would have really done my half-complete college education proud, even more than leaving it blank. I should have put something – anything – just so the little box wasn’t blank. I suspect the blank is what tipped her off that I didn't study. If it wasn’t blank, she would have never known the difference. London Hotel, 123 London Road, London. But my perpetual fear of being caught and perhaps arrested and thrown in jail (a “you’re not really in England yet so we can do whatever the hell we want to you” kind of jail) to rot with the other diabolical characters steered me away from dishonesty. Damn my good character and high moral fiber.

As I sat on the bench my throat started to close up and hot tears burned at the edges of my eyes. Don’t blink, do not blink. If I blink it’s all over and I cannot let her see me cry. I will not give that Vile Woman the satisfaction. I had visions of sleeping on an airport floor for the rest of my vacation, the dirty filthy floor where thousands of foreign shoes pass every day of every year. And it wasn’t even the same airport I was set to leave from in a few days. I was in England but I wasn’t officially in England and I was miles and miles away from Gatwick, where my flight to Houston would take off without me. I, meanwhile, would still be sleeping on the floor at Stansted, where I would likely be sleeping the rest of my nights for all eternity. I would live like a bum on the carpeted airport floor until my dying days, without ever officially entering the country. I could have left England right then and there without any documented evidence I had ever passed through the country except for a half-complete immigration questionnaire and the popular t-shirt reading, “my friend tried to go to England but they wouldn’t let her in and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”

Finally, after making me sweat it out for a while, the She-Devil apparently took my suggestion and sent someone to fetch Alistair, who was standing at the gate the entire time, holding up a sign with my name in big block letters colored with bright yellow highlighter. The sign couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d lit it on fire. If I hadn’t been so pissed at the She-Devil I would have been excited about the sign. Nobody’s ever made me a sign before. I felt so important. Or at least I would have.

If she’d taken my advice from the beginning, this whole mess could have been bypassed. Madame McGrumpyPants could have seen for herself that Alistair McMurdo is in fact a real person, he is waiting for me and he’s probably the only one in the airport by that name. Perhaps the only one in the city. Or the entire damn world. As for me, no, I’m not a terrorist, no I don’t have the bird flu or SARS or any other flesh-eating virus (that I know of) and I only voted Republican that one time in college when I was still experimenting. Okay, maybe twice but I am from Texas.

After she confirmed Alistair’s existence, Lady Lucifer was all sunshine and daisies and Popsicles. She even wished me a happy stay. F**k off, bitch.

Since that incident I have been informed by a friend that one should never, under any circumstances, approach an immigration official without securely fastening your “F**k Off Face.” If only I’d known that at the time. On my first approach to her counter, my F**k Off Face was still buried in my luggage beneath about 8 thousand pounds of crispy, line-dried laundry. Oh how young and naïve I was. I was happy to be in the Queen’s England, happy to be in Europe, happy to be travelling and away from everything familiar and boring. If only I’d known that The Bitch From Hell had a happiness filter surrounding her counter and she made damn certain nobody (not nobody not no-how) passed into her country without being strained through the happiness filter, which strips your being of every good thought that hath ever occurred to you.

After making me wait on a bench in humiliation and treating me like a complete moron, the F**k Off Face was firmly affixed. Even after she pulled out the fake ass lollipops-and-fairy-tale-creatures attitude that F**k Off Face stayed put. Your unicorns and ligers aren’t going to change the fact that you treated me like a piece of used gum stuck to the ass of a stinky baboon with leprosy.

Five years later and I still hate that Devil Woman with the passion of a million burning hellfires. I suspect I’ve cleared my name from the no-fly Facebook since I have since entered Europe without a problem (though the United Kingdom may still have it out for me, I haven’t been back yet), but I learned a lot on that trip. For starters, always know (or make up) the address of where you are staying. Never tempt an immigration official by asking them questions they enjoy saying “no” to. And last and most importantly, always ALWAYS pack your F**k Off Face in your carry-on. At the top. Next to your uranium.

Those Crazy Romans...

I have come to the conclusion that Ancient Romans just really liked beach-front property. Have you ever looked a map of the Roman Empire?

Lots of coastline. Very little else.

Harold and Kumar go to the White House

No, it's not the premise of the latest Jon Hurwitz goofball/stoner flick. This is news - real American news. Actor Kal Penn, best known for his portrayal of Taj, Ryan Reynolds sidekick in Van Wilder, and Kumar, the munchie-lovin' stoner in the Harold and Kumar movies, has been named Assiciate Director of the White House Office of Public Liaison. For the full story, check out this piece on NPR. (WARNING: If you haven't watched last week's episode of House, DO NOT click that link. If you have watched it and know the outcome or if you are not a fan of House, carry on.)

It was announced earlier this month, just far enough onto the calendar page to be certain it wasn't part of the April Fools' Day tom foolery. (that may be the first time I've ever used that phrase...) The actor, who was an active part of the Obama campaign trail, will serve as liaison between the president and arts groups as well as a liaison for the Asian-American community.

Pretty damn awesome if you ask me. Maybe he'll also serve as the liaison between the president and White Castle. If Obama ever gets the munchies, Kal Penn will be all over it.

race ya to the swings

I would like to make the argument that if they made playgrounds adult-sized and removed the stigma of grown people having such childish fun, obesity would no longer be an issue.

Pride and Prejudice... and Zombies?

I can't help myself, I really, really want to read this book:

The Classic Regency Romance - Now With Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem!

Published last month, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies is a mashup of the classic Jane Austen story of civilized courtship and a horror story about the undead. I can't say I'm normally a fan of zombies but something about the juxtaposition of a comedy of manners in Regency England combined with flesh feasting monsters sends me into a fit of giggles.

Here's the full synopsis from Amazon:

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains." So begins Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, an expanded edition of the beloved Jane Austen novel featuring all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie mayhem. As our story opens, a mysterious plague has fallen upon the quiet English village of Meryton—and the dead are returning to life! Feisty heroine Elizabeth Bennet is determined to wipe out the zombie menace, but she's soon distracted by the arrival of the haughty and arrogant Mr. Darcy. What ensues is a delightful comedy of manners with plenty of civilized sparring between the two young lovers—and even more violent sparring on the blood-soaked battlefield as Elizabeth wages war against hordes of flesh-eating undead. Can she vanquish the spawn of Satan? And overcome the social prejudices of the class-conscious landed gentry? Complete with romance, heartbreak, swordfights, cannibalism, and thousands of rotting corpses, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies transforms a masterpiece of world literature into something you'd actually want to read."

Unlike whoever wrote this synopsis, I loved Pride and Prejudice but I think I love the concept of this book even more. Apparently much of the drama of the book stems from the fact that Darcy's family comes from a long line of fighters trained in the Japanese style of zombie slaying and the feisty Elizabeth Bennet slaughters the living dead after the Chinese style. HA! Oh the absurdity of it. I really can't explain how much this amuses me.

I have to wonder what Jane Austen herself would think of this book. I picture her as a good-natured sort but I'm not sure she would know what to make of the zombies.

The author (and by author I mean Seth Grahame-Smith, not the charming Ms. Austen) has a blog on Amazon and I got a kick out of this recent post"

"Yesterday, the streets of San Francisco were suddenly and violently overrun by a horde of brain-hungry unmentionables! If only the heroic Sisters Bennet had been there to dispatch the manky dreadfuls back to hell!"

He called zombies unmentionables. hehehehe

I'm told the first printing of this book sold out immediately and it is currently on back order. My manager at the bookstore is hoping we can get it on the shelves soon but this thing is nowhere to be found, it's flying off the shelves faster than the publisher can print it. I don't know when (or if) I'll be able to lay my hands on this volume of nonsense but I guarantee I will be buying this as soon as I see it. I can't wait.