piccadilly kim

There's certain things you're supposed to like. Things everybody likes, like kittens and babies. Things that reveal some deeper-than-usual depravity if you don't like them. Here's my confessions:

--Dark chocolate. Why can't it just be milkier?

--Walks. They're pointless! I have so many better things to do with my time than take a circular stroll!

--Poetry. If you don't understand it, why bother?

--Candlelight, dim light, natural light. I blame my mother. For years I'd read and she'd always turn on the brightest lights she could find to save my eyes. I'm wearing contacts now, so think where I'd be if she hadn't!

--The Lord of the Rings. It's juust sooo loooooooooooooooooong.

--Gender-neutral pronouns. Just a pain. Really, I don't care if you keep it all "he." That "he or she" thing is just way too clunky and the grammarian in me balks at "they" for the singular. I'm a girl, so surely I can say this?

--Oxford commas. That's what the AND is for!--Eating late. I know, I know, it's so classy. But I'm hungry at 5 pm, why can't we eat then and digest the night away??

--Lamb. Tastes bad.

--Guitars. They're SO country-western.

--Musical boys. Well, it's not so much that I dislike them as I just hope they don't waste their talent on me. There's so many maudlin girls who'd go so ga-ga for them, I'm sure we'd all be much happier if the beat boys spent their energy on them and left the tone deaf ones for me.

--Disney World. All you do is walk around and LOOK at the stuff! Where's the action!?

--Switzerland. How can you dislike something neutral? Especially something neutral you've never even been to? I don't know. It's just so ... landlocked. It reminds me of Kansas, another very neutral place I've never been to.

--The Grand Canyon. YAWN. Show me the surf!!

And then there's things things that I don't like, but feel entirely justified in. They include:

--Knitting.

--Cadillacs.

--Cheese.

On the flip side, there's also a few things I like that I'm evidently not supposed to ...

--Air conditioning. I know nature's wonderful, but there's something to be said for technological advancement. 71 is an awfully nice temperature to watch scorchers and snowstorms from.

--Split ends. Love them! Bet you can't beat seven on one hair!

--SUVs. Not any SUV, but mine. Baby Blazer is adorable, even if she is mighty thirsty. But she can't help that, we've all got to hydrate, haven't we?

--New Jersey. It's my beach, and don't you dare say anything against it!!

--McDonalds. Not saying I go, mind you, just that I'm not adverse to the taste once every couple of years. Especially chicken nuggets with sweet and sour sauce.

i had a poem the other night
i wonder where it's gone
i guess it didn't want to stay
and be my muses' pawn

(originally from fall 2006)

1. Procrastinate buying the book as long as possible. Look for it at the Student Senate sale, check out all the standard online options, and go through roommates’ shelves. The edition really doesn’t matter much. If you have it by the second week of class, consider yourself an overachiever.

2. Take a nap. You’ll need a lot of energy before you can possibly begin reading.

3. Copyedit as you go. Take particular glee in adding commas, correcting the omnipresent its/it’s dilemma, and generally editing for brevity and clarity with a bright red pen.

4. Count how many pages you have to go. Keep a running countdown at the top of every page.

5. Take awhile to look at all the pictures. Add moustaches.

6. Since your book is presumably used, read all the non-scientific notes written by previous owners. Using this material, draft a quick character sketch of a particular individual.

7. Attempt reading the paragraphs again.

8. If you find yourself lost in a vast sea of dry material, ditch the book and find a "study" partner of the opposite sex. Why read when you can conduct your own hands-on experiments?

9. Return to the book. Take several deep breaths.

10. Realize the futility of this procedure and spend your time more effectively: call a fellow English major and complain vehemently in eloquent words the authors of your text could only dream of knowing.

11. Open the book one more time. Prop eyes open with thumb and forefinger.

12. Give up. Nobody really reads those books anyway.

(originally from spring 2004;
adapted from the godspell song;
for all those who remember the campaign to save the pudding)

When wilt thou save the pudding?
Oh ye of Oak Hill, take
Not fish and chips, but custard,
Not stew and rice, but cake!

(originally from december 2005;
adapted from luke 2:1-20 and matthew 2:1-12)

"Hear ye, oh hear ye, oh ye, hear, hear, hear,"
called Caesar Augustus to folk everywhere
"The time is coming, it’s coming so fast,
When you must to the town of your fathers at last
Return double-quick, oh so quick you must go,
Even if on the way you get stuck in the snow!"
"Oh no," thought Joseph, "this is not good!
Not good, oh not good, oh so very not good!
For Mary, my pregnant wife-soon-to-be,
Is expecting a baby – it’s a sure guarantee! –
And this baby will come very soon, don’t you see?"
Poor Joseph, poor Joseph, oh what could he do?
For Caesar was the sort of man – well, one who
Commanded respect wherever he went,
Even if his wishes left one quite bent
Out of shape, or in a rough way;
His heart was a size or two small, you might say.

But Joseph, he picked up, he picked up and went
To the town Bethlehem, where he had been sent
By this royal decree
With Mary, his pregnant wife-soon-to-be.
But when they arrived – oh but when they arrived! –
They found, oh so sadly, that they’d been denied
Any place they could stay – oh how glum, glum, glum, glum,
They did feel – for where on this earth could their new baby come?
But then at last – at so very long last –
They came to a stable, and sat down and crashed.

And then came the Baby, the Jesus, the Christ
Who arrived on this earth to bring us new life.

Then the angels, they shouted, they sang and they cheered,
For they were so joyful that He had appeared
Among humankind and they went to proclaim
This event oh so gladsome for the sick and the lame
And the troubled and sad and the hurt and the weary –
Their message was great and particularly cheery.
To some shepherds they came and told them the news
(which applied to the Gentiles and to the Jews!):
"A Savior has come – now go to him quick! –
In a manger you’ll find him, bundled up plenty thick!"
So off to seek him, the shepherds, they went,
As from heavenly messengers they had been sent.
And they came and they saw Him, these shepherds, they did
Then passed on the news on to many a man, lady and kid.

But that was not all, oh, no, not quite yet!
For the wise men – the Magi – we still have not met.
These men saw a star in the east late one night
(And it was very, especially bright)
So they came to find the One it foretold
And traversed to Bethlehem, a town ancient and old.
There they met with King Herod and ventured to ask
If he could assist in their difficult task
Of finding the Christ, the One Who they knew
Had been promised to come (see Micah five-two).
Now Herod was jealous of the new baby King
But told the Magi: "His praise must I sing!
So tell me exactly where he can be found,
That I may worship on His so-sacred ground."
But off went the Magi, off in great haste,
For they had no minutes of time more to waste.
And they followed the star this last step of the way
Where it stopped at the place where Jesus, He lay.
And they fell down and worshipped Him right where they were,
Then gave Him fine gifts of gold, incense and myrrh.
When finally they left to go back to their lands,
They purposely avoided Herod’s terrible hands –
For a dream had warned them that he was no dear
And the thought of seeing him filled them with fear.

Now that is the story, of Jesus, the Christ.
He came to this earth, and brought us new life.

(originally from summer 2006)

If I ran the circus, if I ran the zoo
I’d meet a Williamson or two.
The first would be Frank, oh Frank, Frank, Frank, Frank
With a build oh so tall (but not quite so lank –
y as once that he was) when he met the so-swanky
Gal at the office (where she was prepared with a soft, ironed hanky –
That came in quite useful for her, might I add, to dry off her hands
When she got them all brown in the hot ocean sands)
Frank, though, he never needed the hanky,
Even when he ate apples (you know the story).

And so they got married, the Esther and Frank
The Frank and the Esther, they festered and grew
And before you knew it – Thing One and Thing Two!
And they grew and they grew and they grew, grew, grew, grew
And suddenly there was a whole slew
Of Williamson children, cute little things who
Always behaved, oh always, always
(Just ask the in-laws to sing their praise-
s, you’ll see – or maybe you won’t)
Moving on rather quickly now
(oh look at the time!)
We’ll jump to grandchildren
And continue the rhyme
In the City of Ocean, the house by the sea
Where to men oh please let me a friend always be.

And a Frank, it was, a-bobbing,
A-bobbing out in the blue.
And Es began to count:
One Frank, another?, two –?
One Frank, two Frank, red Frank, blue Frank
Time to go inside.
(But shower first, be good and sure to get that sand out of your hide!)

And to think that I saw him on 55th Street
With the five hundred curlers of Grandmother Cubbins,
All pink in her hair, and her housedress on, too.
Take a picture, quick, somebody,
(then, display at the fair!)

It’s time for the dinner, it’s time now to sup –
Come on now, and hurry (but no one throw up!)
Now onto dessert, oh, do cut the pie:
Just a sliver of this and a sliver of that
And a dozen more slivers won’t make anyone fat!

But now, dear parents, grand and alike,
I will say this not twice, not treble or thrice,
(For you are all smart, there’s not one single dunce –
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha) – now hang on to your seats,
‘cause you’re only old once!

(originally from october 18, 2004)

To the sand, to the sand, to the sand I will go
And I’ll play, play, play in the rain and the snow –
But NO, oh NO, no,
NO snow on the sand, the sand is the unsnowiest thing that I know!
It is dry and not damp, not damp and so dry
Except when the ocean comes on it to cry
Which it does fairly often, I’m certain enough,
And the myth that it doesn’t I will often rebuff.
The ocean cries tears of the saltiest kind,
But they’re happy, so happy, for it knows that to find
The Tweezies, the Tweezies, that special sea-breed,
Its weeping will draw them quick out of their mead
Hall where they’ve reveled so long
With dancing and feasting and oceany song.
So its not out of sadness nor out of despair
But from joy and delight and de-lack-of-despair
That the ocean its tears daily does shed
Which fall on the Tweezie, on the top of his head!
Then, when the ocean has cried there, right there on the sand,
You can see the Tweezies come out and come up, each hand in each hand
Their hands are the handiest part of their whole,
They’re upsy and downsy and insy and outsy,
And wowsy and bowsy and powsy and dowsy
They do lots of fun things, these hands on these Tweezies,
They even cover their snouts when they sneezies!
Or their mouths when they wheezies!
And sometimes even their feet when they freezies!
Which is really quite useful, it is, is, is, is,
When the Tweezies begin to jaunt ‘bout on the sand.
The sand is not hard, not up by the sea,
And it is quite lax for a Tweezie, you see.
It is so soft and so mushy and so squushy
A Tweezie, you see, could become – horror! – fluhshy!
Except for his hands! Oh his glorious hands!
His hands that cover his soft little feet
And keep him from sinking, from sinking so quick
Under the sand where he’s bound to get sick!
How do they do this, his hands, you may ask?
They do it by keeping his feet stable and steady
And ready and steady and steadily ready
For whatever may come up from beneath
Like his wife Mrs. Tweezie or his pet Tweezie Squeeth!
The Squeeth are an old brand of Tweezie best friend,
And the Squeeth, he will bounce and will pounce and will trounce
He’ll flounce when they can, in spite of himself,
When he finds an old foe, a great friend or a spouse.
The Tweezie, the Tweezie, like I said once before,
Is the friend of the Squeeth, who’s certain to roar
If anything sharp or hard flies at the poor Tweezie guy.
He’s soft and he’s squishy, a bit like the sand,
And it hurts him so much if a point pricks his hand.
So that’s why he keeps the Squeeth always nearbysies
To keep a sharp lookout with his ten super eyesies.
The Squeeth likes the Tweezie, too, really, he does;
They work well together and this is because …
Because, oh because, the Tweezie supplies the Squeeth with his extra front teeth!
The teeth of the Tweezie are a sight to behold
Some of them silver and some of them gold
And some of them ruby and some of them not
And some of them cold and some of them hot!
The teeth of the Tweezie are extensive, you see,
But he does not use them to see!
Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no
He uses them all to gnaw and to gnaw!
To gnaw and to gnash and to gnash and to gash
And to gash and to gnaw and to gnaw and to gnash!
But the Squeeth oh dear oh, the poor little Squeeth
Is simply lacking any fine teeth!
He has ten eyes, ten eyes, to be sure,
But what good do they do him without any teeth?
He sees all the food that he’d like to bequeath
To his stomach each day –
All the curds and the whey, and the whey and the curds
But lots more than that.
Oh much more than that, than that, oh than that!
He’d like to taste turnips and trifles and tarts
And apples and olives and artichoke hearts!
SO, the Tweezie, dear Tweezie, dear Tweezie-kin pal
Chews all the curds and the whey and the whey and the curds
The turnips and trifles and tarts and apples and olives and artichoke hearts
Then he gives them to Squeeth-friend who with a big sigh
Swallows and swallows, then asks for some pie.
But the pie must now wait for another day
For the ocean is out and its now time to play!
The ocean, the ocean with its splash and its splish
And its sploosh and its slosh and its splush and its swish!
Its swish, splush, slosh and SPLOOSH,
Squish, squish, squish!
With the Squeeth along with the Tweezie, you see,
They can play in the ocean this fine, fine, fine day.
For the sand is so bright and shining and white
Oh what a sight, what a sight, what a sight!
It crackles and crinkles and crunkles and coos
When over it often the Tweezie and Squeeth tread with their shoes.
Crackle and crinkle and crunkle and coo,
The sand laughs at the pair,
And it plays with them, too!

(originally from classical myth class in the spring 2006 semester)

Of all the Greek heroes, before this class I was most familiar with Hercules; Odysseus was second, probably due to Wishbone. I associated Hercules in particular with superhuman strength accompanied by an inordinately athletic body, and maybe curly Greek-godlike hair (I hadn’t pictured the beard, though!). More importantly, he was the good guy who’d go around doing good works for the populace. He’d live up to the description in Powell where "Tiresias foretold what … rebellious monsters, on land and by sea, would Heracles slay." I had tentatively similar thoughts of Odysseus, Theseus, and Jason. But when we studied them, I was quite disappointed to learn of their horrific flaws. Hercules "whirled his club down on the boy’s fair hair and shattered the bones beneath," Euripides writes. That’s not a line I expect to hear of a hero. The other three all gallivant around the Hellenistic world, flouting their marriage vows. (Hercules would, too, except he already killed his wife.) How do the heroes get off so easy?

I suppose the easy answer is simply that they’re heroes. They’re famous, and, besides, they do lots of other great things that surpass their minor murders. They’re above all that. Or are they? Hercules doesn’t face a Greek executioner, but he could have been killed in any of his twelve labors. But he wasn’t; he survived and came out the victor each time. And which is he remembered for now: child-slaying or labor-defeating? It seems that, though he paid tremendously for his sins, his punishment was actually a favor in disguise. He received glory and fame for what should have brought him pain and disgrace.

Then there’s Odysseus. I was most angry with him. Maybe it’s just that I’m single in the midst of the senior scramble, but I really sympathize with Penelope as she waits faithfully for twenty years. "I must endlessly feel the loss of an absent husband," she writes in Ovid’s Heroides, "Oh, I hope … that you, if you are free to return, do not choose to stay away." Yet, while she pines, he cavorts a year with Circe and seven with Calypso. Surely it was a man who decided to make Odysseus a hero. How does he get off so easy?

Perhaps now would be a good time to address the heroines. They’re certainly not a perfect lot either, but they tend to be remembered for their flaws whereas the heroes are not. What’s Medea do? She murders her children. What’s Hercules do? He courageously completes twelve labors. What’s Phaedra do? She falls for her stepson. What’s Odysseus do? He has lots of adventures after winning the Trojan war.

Again, how do the heroes get off so easy? Is it just because of Greek life – that infidelity was typical, and of course the heroes would have affairs, too? Or was it that the people could live vicariously through the heroes whose sins they coveted?

And how is it that the heroes don’t have any psychological pain about their misdeeds? Hercules doesn’t develop post-traumatic stress disorder; Odysseus doesn’t end up depressed. It’s hard to say what their consciences told them about extramarital affairs, but the heroes don’t strike me as the most guilt-ridden bunch imaginable.

Maybe it’s all just part of the job, being virile and excessively strong and prone to kill things like Nemean lions or Cyclopes or small children. Or maybe I’m a bit harsh on them. They’re only half god, after all.

It’s not that I want to discredit their good deeds – they are numerous, I admit. It’s just that these guys have gone down in history as heroes, but they did a lot of rather un-heroic things, too. It’s like finding out Santa doesn’t really deliver your Christmas presents – or worse, that he eats reindeer.

(originally from sometime circa 2003)

The big brown squirrel awoke one day, full of the glee that comes from knowing his entire day could be spent in the redemption act of discernment. As he opened his eyes to the lovely creation all around him, a deep sense of shalom overpowered his tiny soul. He quickly set about his life’s vocation of nut-gathing, for which God had well equipped him with a marvelous set of large, white, Dutch teeth. Completely engaged in his task, he thought of how much he would like to be a human image-bearer for God, but eventually concluded that his station in life was a direct result of the fall. While he waited longingly for some nice Calvinist to come along and redeem him, he took a brief break from his nut-gathering in order to flesh out his worldview to include almonds as well as walnuts. Finally, as the sun was setting over the Engineering Building, he calmly reflected on how serendipitous it was that his great calling of nut-gathering so clearly met the world’s great need of excess nut-removal.

(originally from november 29, 2006)

Well, at least for a Calvin student: I'm not sure I like Blue Like Jazz. I'm about halfway through, and I have found some bits I really like (and several that have made me laugh out loud; once a man on the train asked if I was okay ... oh dear ...), but I went into the book thinking I'd be crazy about it (since EVERYBODY else is, right?), and I'm just not that crazy about it. I get bored in parts. It feels a bit too tell-y in parts (I know, I know, I'm in no position to judge ... but if I were, that's what I'd say). I think if I went into it thinking it were a devotional sort of a book, I'd really like it, because it would seem so interestingly written. But, I went in thinking a bit more Anne Lamott (maybe I shouldn't have read the back cover ...), and he's not quite her. (Shocker, I know.) Anyway, I'll read the whole thing and give it a fair assessment then, but I just wanted to confess these heathen thoughts while they were fresh.

AND -- I must say, I am shocked and appalled and positive there is some tremendous mistake and that perhaps he has not actually read Taming of the Shrew?? The bit where he alludes to Lucentio pursuing the belligerent Bianca with kindness -- I think it's more likely he's referring to the Petruchio/Katharine relationship (after all, L&B aren't usually major Shakespearean characters referred to in other texts -- and Bianca is not usually called belligerent) -- but then he should have used their names! And, if that is what he meant, how can he possibly call Petruchio "kind"?? Did he miss that bit about "KILL a wife with kindness"??

(originally from november 16, 2006 -- and spoiler alert for the musical blood brothers)

I just wanted to recommend that anyone's who looking for a good, thought-provoking musical in London might want to check out Blood Brothers. If you do, come back and help me sort through these mental meanderings ...

--was it tacky to mention Marilyn Monroe what, 9 times? in one musical?
--okay, let's trace that dance motif and talk about it ...
--Mickey was perfectly cast; Eddie was way too old and perhaps a bit too camp?
--was the narrator the devil?
--at first all the superstition stuff seemed a bit over the top, but by the end I think I was okay with it ...
--have you ever heard of the superstition of not putting new shoes on a table?? I'd never heard of it before.
--I can forgive the semi-weak plot device of Mrs. Johnston not running to call the police because she's superstitious as it was kind of necessary for the plot -- can you?
--the whole thing felt a little too melodramatic and over the top at the beginning, but again by the end I think I was okay with it ...
--gosh, I feel sorry for Mickey!!! I just want to give him a hug!
--nothing ever really happened between Linda and Eddie, right?
--why exactly did Mickey go to jail? And what exactly happened that October night? Did Sammy kill a man? If so, why didn't Sammy go to jail? What happened to him??
--anyone else note the irony of double casting Mr. Lyons as the milkman who danced with Mrs. Johnston at the beginning of Act II?
--that looking glass breaking, salt spilling song started to get kind of catchy, eh?
--was "class" a way too obvious rhyme at the end? But I think I can forgive it, too.
--the English seem much more opposed to medicating depression in general; what do you think of that?
--I sympathize so much with Linda, as long as she never slept with Eddie, in which case I would sympathize with her significantly less.
--what was going on with Mickey's sing-songy lyrics about being seven, almost eight? Did they mean to make that a song but then decide not to or what??
--when they moved to the country, at first it seemed like Linda was another sibling -- where was her mother??
--anyone else seeing vague Harry-Ron-Hermione bits? Maybe it's just the two guys and a girl thing ... yeah, I think so ... I wasn't thinking Phantom-Raoul-Christine but probably could have been just as easily ...
--okay, did I get this right?: Mickey shot Eddie and immediately thereafter the sharpshooter shot Mickey?
--do you hate or feel sorry for Mrs. Lyons?
--wasn't it awfully lucky they were fraternal twins?
--did it feel pseudo-(and not as good!)Shakespearey ("In fair Verona ...") to anyone else at the narrator's prologue?
--I liked the scrim thing at the beginning and opening of Act II. It was also cool that Act II was actually decently long!
--so, if I wanted to get out there and do something about the class system in England now ... what would I do?? (Besides cry. I'm sure I wasn't the only one with a tear or two in sight ...)

(originally from october 17, 2006)

All right, guys, I know we've all seen the Princess Bride more than once or twice, but this last time I saw it I came up with a question that's been nagging at me ever since. When Inigo hears Westley's scream (as he's in process of becoming mostly dead), he explains that Westley makes that sound because it's that night that his true love marries another. How does Inigo know that? Granted, he could know that the Princess Buttercup is getting married that night, but how does he know that she is Westley's true love? The last time Inigo saw Westley, they were swordfighting (and the Princess was a valuable object in question) and Inigo got knocked out. When did he get the news flash that Westley loved her? He thought Westley was the sinister Dread Pirate Roberts, and it seems reasonable to assume that he thought the DPR would be up to no good -- yes, Inigo could gather that the DPR wanted to capture the Princess, but there are other reasons for trying capture someone (particularly when you're a pirate) than true love -- and furthermore, surely the DPR doesn't do something so fanciful as fall in love?? The only explanation I can figure is that Fezzik filled Inigo in sometime during that "nursing the inebriated friend back to health" bit that I think I missed this time around -- gosh, the more I think about it, the more I think that must be it -- but then, how does Fezzik know the scoop? (He doesn't just scream "grapevine" to me ...) Oh dear, who can help??

(originally from october 8, 2006)

Supposedly, you'd think, you're vulnerable in the shower because, well, of obvious reasons. But that's where you've gone wrong. No, you're must vulnerable in the shower because you can't get to a pen and piece of paper to write down all the millions of brilliant insights that come to you then, simply because they know you can't write them down. Ha ha, they say, can't catch me now! (These inspirations are perhaps cousins of the sort that flutter in your face and dance in front of your computer at odd hours of the morning ...) They drive you absolutely crazy, especially when there are so many good ones!!

And can I just point out I wrote all that in second person? I'm dreadfully proud of myself.

(originally from september 23, 2006)

It's recently occurred to me that there are lots of famous male duos in fiction. And, as happens to most things that occur to me, they've now all ended up in a list. (It's a list of the sort that I think would make a wonderful contribution to the game Outburst. Perhaps its creators would like to make my acquaintance?) Here goes (and please do feel free to add -- I must make it to at least ten before I can approach the boys at Outburst ...):

Holmes and Watson
Felix and Oscar
Higgins and Pickering
Wooster and Jeeves
Etc.

(originally from september 23, 2006)

Twice in my life I've regretted not drinking alcohol for art's sake. I can't say I actually really entirely regret my decisions for real life's sake, but I think I'm pretty safe sticking to art's sake. One of those times was tonight.Drinking alcohol really doesn't tempt me if someone's trying to tempt me. Then it actually works in quite the reverse, and I end up not only tempted to never drink alcohol but also to dump his on the floor when he's not looking. Accidentally, of course.

But, when no one's there to say, "oh, come on, Kim, you know you want to" (as if you knew what I wanted?!) and I'm completely free to make my own decision, I start to think, "well, hey, I am in Europe ...", a thought pattern which could really lead to all sorts of uncouth acts, but which so far hasn't brought me trouble. At least not too much.Tonight I was invited to a lovely backstage tour of Mary Poppins, followed by free wines and delicate, cut-into-fours prawn sandwiches of a terribly English persuasion. Yes, I was being wined and dined, though that exact phrase didn't register with me until the moment had passed. Luckily, in the moment I did realized that I was A. in England and B. being served delicate, cut-into-fours prawn sandwiches C. for free. I caved. I did not, however, cave for the elegant glasses of red (or white, but the red looked better, or at least more theatrical ... which could possibly be taken to mean it looks more like stage blood, but that really was not the spirit in which I originally began this sentence ...) wine. I was sorely tempted to think what a lovely D. subpoint the red wine would make (art's sake, we'll call it), but caution regarding a distinct lack of any food (besides the impending-but-not-yet-eaten prawn sandwiches) consumed throughout the day convinced me to abstain. That and a really sound stubbornness. It's hard to say which was the ultimate factor; the bottom line is simply that art lost out to reason. Enlightment conquers Romanticism. Chrysanthemums conquered by a peddlar. Pick your literary allusion of choice and we'll move on.

The other time I regret not drinking for art's sake was in Sicily. Need I say more? Free champaign, brought to my table unrequested by an Italian waitor (who incidentally claimed to be a Cambridge grad, but sadly presented no convincing credentials). It would have been arty, definitely, and undoubtably produced the most moving poem since sonnet 116. Now it ends up as a note on facebook.

(originally from september 23, 2006)

Twice in my life I've regretted not waiting like a crazed teenage girl outside the dingy actor's exit of a theatre. One of those times was tonight.

I just saw Mary Poppins and it was fantastic. Mary herself was excellent and probably worth writing home about, but Bert was absolutely phenomenal. His facial expressions, characterization and reactions were outstanding, but it was his energy that convinced me he was brilliant. (Funny, I tend to be drawn to people with energy. I tend to see energy as a commodity to be highly prized. I also tend to be slightly energetic myself, or so my friends tell me discreetly in moments of grave confidence. Go figure.)

At any rate, after the final curtain call, the woman in front of me commented on my bravery standing up and asked if I knew Gavin. I was honored to suddenly be a on first-name basis with Bert's actor but had to admit that no, I just thought he was good. Well, turns out that this lady was the mum of the girl playing Jane Banks and she was friendly and showed my friend and I to The Door from whence would come the actors. We met her daughter Roxy (who signed my program with the dignified air of one who has signed many a program) and saw several others emerge. It was then that we realized none of them looked remotely like they did on stage. We waited around a few minutes more, but, feeling awkward and a smidge out of place, departed. Strike two.

Which brings us back to strike one (we seem to be progressing anachronistically tonight, which is complemented by the fact that I wrote the final side note first ...), which was in 2004 when, with the Calvin group, I saw Hamlet at the Old Vic directed by Trevor Nunn. It was also, at risk of overusing as word I particularly abhor others overusing (especially in psychology textbooks), phenomenal. A particular friend who will remain nameless and I toyed with the idea of staying to get cast signatures (particularly from Hamlet himself, who had done a tremendous job), but she (and I am not being malevolent, I am simply stating the facts) squirmed out of it and I, being unable to return alone (as I'd been forced to do when the same lovely friend ditched me at Phantom upon finding out that the tickets were 20 pounds ...) was forced to return as well. Within weeks, Ben Wishaw's name was being touted like crazy, and both of us were very sorry indeed that we had not stayed to meet him before he was famous. (And, dear friend, if you read this note, I do forgive you entirely ... and also trust very greatly that your sense of humor is still operating with the alacrity it was two years ago ...) Strike one.

As a side note, I give standing ovations when standing ovations are due. I don't give them when they're not. In general, this practice (or practise, if we're being British about it) means the rest of the audience and I are at rather physically evident odds with one another. When I sit, it's only those around me who think I'm socially awkward. When I stand, well, everyone does. (Either that or terribly courageous. I tend to prefer the latter.) Tonight was a night for standing. And did I mention I was in the second row?

(originally from september 23, 2006)

I've decided to start a system of classifying musicals. It's multi-tiered vertically and horizontally, so it might be difficult to explain here completely, but I'm dedicated, folks, so I'm going to give it a go. Ahem.On the tippity top come THE musicals. The undeniables. The of-course-these-are-phenomenal. They include Phantom, Cats, Lion King and, with reluctance I cave into academic peer pressure and include Les Mis. There's a few others I think might be able to hide away here (say, Beauty and the Beast, Joseph and the Amazing You-Know-the-Rest or The Hunchback of Notre Dame), but I haven't enough evidence to know for sure yet (which is a nice way of saying I haven't seen them in the West End ... and for you folks keeping tabs, I haven't seen Cats here either because it's closed, which rather undermines my capability to see it here, but I know it fits here. Trust me.)

I can't quite articulate what makes a musical one of THE. It's a combination of popularity, long-runningness and a whole lot of splash. It's that splash bit that's so enigmatic -- because I think it requires a large cast, tons of flashy costumes, lots of technical glitz and something either non-human or mythical, generally speaking. Plus a very healthy portion of stage magic, which is in some ways subjective, but in some ways so undeniable it's objective. If you've read this far, you're probably the sort who knows what I mean. Right?

The next level down brings the really good classics. These are superb and incredible and I have nothing bad to say about them, but they just lack a certain spark and sizzle. I think it has to do with them being entirely human, though if you can follow my mental meanderings here, feel free to help me pinpoint that thought more precisely. Anyway, this level includes Mary Poppins, My Fair Lady, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Music Man, Oliver, The Sound of Music and The King and I.On a level horizontally across from the last come the (relatively) new musicals that are fantastic, but still new and thus not yet long-running sensations. They include The Producers, Footloose, Chicago, Wicked and possibly others along the lines of Evita, Billy Elliot, Follies and Company. Their queen? Mamma Mia. Grease also seems to fit here, though I know it's been around the block before. It's because this category also encompasses those musicals that made their name as movies.Jumping down in a diagonal leap, we find the good ol' classics that are good, but not super-great. Guys and Dolls and Anything Goes spring to mind. A horizontal shift might (I'm still debating this) include classic novels brought to the stage but failed box office-ally. I created this category for Woman in White.

Moving down yet another tier, the ol' classics that aren't particularly good but still have some standing because they're ol' emerge. Showboat, Carrousel, South Pacific, Damn Yankees and Once Upon a Mattress are good candidates. I haven't seen any of them. I have seen 42nd Street, though, and am pretty sure it belongs here, too. Somehow I feel that Thoroughly Modern Millie is on a horizontal plane with 42nd, but again I can't be quite sure of that.

The final level is reserved for the don't-waste-your-money shows of no or undeserved fame. I'd put Dancing in the Streets and We Will Rock You around here.Actually, I guess there must be one sub-final level, the drafty basement of shows. (Suddenly this musing has expanded to include straight theatre as well, if only as a necessary means of incorporating the drafty basement.) Shows found here are offensive morally, artistically, intellectually or all of the above. The Holy Terror leaps immediately to mind, as does Edward II and, from everything I've heard, Midnight's Children. I didn't fancy Stones in His Pockets at all, but I know of many reputable thespians who raved about it (hence, I went to see it), so I shall not even mention it here.

As a final note, the caliber of shows within each level may vary, and there's a possibility that a show found near the top of one level may surpass a show near the bottom of the level above it. Also, of course, each individual production of a show varies tremendously from any other production, and different directors, choreographers, set designers, etc. may drastically alter the overall grade of the show. Please note as well that, for the purposes of this very subjective list, a high, West End/Broadway caliber of shows was assumed as a point of reference for all musicals considered.

Encore, anyone?

(originally from september 23, 2006)

It's amazing how something so hilarious can be so irritating -- when you forget it, that is. There was a fantastically funny P.G. Wodehouse quote somewhere in The Small Bachelor (which isn't all that extraordinary, considering it's P.G. (can I be on a first-two-initial basis with him, do you think? or maybe that's just plain tacky ...), but this book is not his best, so I was prizing the funnier moments more than usual), but I read it and laughed and kept reading and, well, the problem is I haven't a clue if the funny bit (I thought maybe it involved Americans? or engagements? or fathers? but then, none of that really narrows it down, either) was two pages back or twenty. Oddly enough, with jolly ol' P.G. those pages just keep turning, even when it's not his greatest and grandest. Alas. I recommend strongly that you read The Small Bachelor. And when you get to the funny part, could you please tell me? --K.D.

The E68, you see, that express bus of express buses, is the one that stops directly on Kim's lovely street. But one day it would seem the unfortunate E68 got itself in a bit of kersnuffle and couldn't find its poor way home. It bounded energetically right just after the "someone tell him to go left!" call had sounded, and the poor E68 found itself spun into, horrors, the route of the 144 or perhaps even the 143. Befuddled, it betook itself to the side and pondered gravely for some moments before settling suddenly on its newfound course of action, spinning out amongst traffic to pull (brave little soul) a 3-point u-ie to the other side of the median.

And then on it putzed, brave little bus, chugging merrily down the hill where it appeared quite content to follow the road's natural left before a resounding shout came from everywhere on that small, delicate bus's interior, "straight ahead!!" And straight that brave little bus went, over kerb and all. Good little bus. Don't you just love the E68? I do.

i saw a sombrero
by the side of the road
it sat and looked on
all alone as i rode
and the boats in the spit
went by lazily rowed
and thus began the day

So, if I'm going to start a blog, I might as well have a few rules, right? Here goes:

1. Never discard an ace.

2. There are certain things you should always have on you. Foremost on the list are Kleenex, tampons or pads, a book, a camera and a deck of cards. If space allows, extra batteries, Purell, a Tide stick, Tylenol, contact fluid, Band-Aids, a plastic bag and two spare tailjiggers will come in remarkably handy remarkably often.

3. Buy clothes when they scream, "BUY ME!" Note, however, that they do not actually do this very often. The fish dress, the pink pants and the holographic fish shoes are prime examples. If clothes aren't in this caliber, take a day, think things and over, and, if you still want something quite desperately, then go back and get it.

4. Never use a port-a-potty.

5. Don't talk to boys about other boys. It just isn't fair, and, besides, the moment you do things will go suddenly, terribly awry.

6. Always ask for a discount when buying multiple works of art. The answer might be no, but, hey, it may also be take 20%.

7. Never turn down a nutella crepe.