Magical Musicals

For those who know me personally, you know I listen to lots of rock music [from old rock, to new, more pop-like bands], cabaret-punk, and undefined indie music like Tori Amos and the like. Another part of my broad musical taste is my love, my deepest and most obsessive love, of musicals. I have a friend who shares my love for them – or perhaps, thinking back, she’s the one who actually got me into them. Apart from the fact that I love the music, the stories and the dancing, I am always simply in awe of musicals.

For one, musical casts are made up of actors who are dancers and singers. They roll three separate talents into their person. There can’t be a mediocre one in the bunch, or it simply won’t work. Singing while dancing, they whirl around the stage – and when they stop singing and dancing long enough to speak, they’re as convincing as any other stage actor.

Next, we have the writers and creators of musicals. They compose, they write lyrics, they make up a story that manages to center around it all and somehow fit dancing in without looking ridiculous. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that it takes years to write a good musical.

Lastly, there’s the performance as a whole. Watching a musical on stage is simply a staggering experience. The grandness of it all, the lighting, the costumes, the sheer talent of the actors/dancers/singers! The notes they can hit and the emotion they manage to put in their voices and movements – it is magic, pure magic.


A Complaint Of The Spoiled

I have too many books to read. Ridiculous, I know. Not too many in the sense that I won’t have time and that I need to read a certain amount of books and meet a deadline. No, no, it’s much worse than that in the stupidity scale of complaints. No, I have too many books to read, literally, and I want to read them all right now, this second, and I can’t.

Why can’t I? Why, indeed. Mostly because I’m a nostalgic idiot and I promised myself I’d reread a trilogy of books I read years ago. Just because I felt like it. As I am strange, I am actually honering that vow to myself and so I’m now in the second book of the trilogy. Each book, I might add, is at least seven-hundred pages long. This is part of why I adore these books – they’re long, drawn out sagas that make me marvel at how the authoress invented such political and dramatic tangles.

But now I have a shelf-full of books that I bought in London, just waiting for me to pick them up and crack the cover for the first time. I can just feel the heat of their glares, the way they’re clamoring for attention in their silent way. Should I read Wicked first, or perhaps the light and fun Stephanie Meyer novel?

Oh, woe is me. What a hard life I do lead.

What do you write about when you have nothing to write about?

Well, you could write about the weather. Slightly cloudy, with a cool western breeze and a slight chill coming up as evening falls. Blah, blah.

You could write about your physical and mental state. Ouch, my head hurts. Oh dear, what a strange day. Bitch, bitch, moan, moan.

You could write about something random. Gosh, isn’t Avenue Q just an amazing musical? So funny, so daring, so damnably catchy! It’s really something that you can listen to over and over, and seeing it in the theater is even more incredible. Gush, gush, gush.

You could write about politics. GOD, Sarah Palin is stupid. I mean, she really thinks she’s able to be the vice president of a whole country? She thinks that women shouldn’t have a choice about abortions, and yet states that her daughter made the CHOICE to keep her baby! Rant, rant, rave, rave.

You can write about anything. Just as long as you still write.