Wallowing in Winter Whining

Did you ever have one of those days where you had absolutely nothing to say, and not one interesting idea to blog about? And it’s not like you don’t have millions of things you could talk about, or share, or poke fun at….and yet, for some reason you don’t have any desire or energy to put the effort into it? Well, if not, congratulations! You are simply an amazing individual, and should therefore feel free to go along your merry way without reading another word of this. (I mean it. Not another word.) But for those of you who may occasionally suffer from what some might refer to as “writer’s block,” kindly proceed this way. (Good, that’s one paragraph down.)

Personally, I usually have several topics on hand to blog about at any given time. As I think of things to write about, I jot them down on one of the many pads of post-it notes that pepper my desk. That way, if there should ever come a time when I can’t think of anything to write about, I would simply peel off a post it and jot down my thoughts on that particular topic. That was, of course, before the post-its started separating from their pads, thus becoming small individual pieces of paper that would get mixed in with the stacks of mail or work projects or junk mail or anything else that happened to come across my desk, and for some reason, remained there in a collective heap. The eventual result would be post-its that inadvertently attached themselves to the bottom of something I was throwing out, or they accidentally got between two pieces of paper that went into some file that I’ll probably never look at again for at least three years. (But boy, when I do look at it, I’m sure that missing post-it will give me a really great idea for a blog posting. Unless it’s something topical, like my thoughts on Paris Hilton, or the cancellation of “Dirty Sexy Money”---both of which I hope are no longer relevant or remembered.)

So I could certainly blame my lack of inspiration on the missing post it notes, or any of a dozen other excuses I could come up with to explain my predicament. (None of which would be the direct result of anything I did wrong, of course.) But I think there’s something even more sinister at work here. Something that seeps into your body around this time of year, causing you to feel even more tired and listless than usual. And if you work at home like I do, and don’t need to venture out into the world on a daily basis, than the monotony of your environment on a cold, particularly bleak winter week can make you feel like Jack Nicholson in “The Shining.” It’s not exactly a full-blown case of Winter Blues, but it’s not general Slovenliness either. It’s some grey area in between, where everything literally feels gray.

And I’m not saying I don’t have distractions. The presence of two new kittens in the house has certainly kept me quite entertained, so it’s not like I’m ever bored. I just hate the winter. I hate not being able to go outside and sit in my backyard. I hate having to put on layers of clothes just to go to the supermarket to pick up that favorite ice cream I’ve been craving. Only once I’ve been out in the freezing cold for a good half hour, ice cream is probably the last thing I’m likely to eat.

So what’s my point in all this? Don’t worry, I’m getting to that. (Patience, please!). I’m just bitching about my least favorite time of year, and how it can make me particularly lazy when it comes to writing my blog. I have so many other things to do, including filming and editing my little videos, and playing with the cats, and going out with friends, and…the list goes on and on. In other words, I have plenty to occupy my time so I’ve sort of let the writing portion of my blog slip a little in the last few weeks. And instead of updating every three days, I’ve started updating every four, or sometimes five (shocking, I know). So anyway, for anyone who might have noticed this inconsistency in my posting habits (and for the two of you, I thank you), I apologize. And that, my friends, was the entire point of this posting. (Which just proves that I can pontificate on practically anything---once I find the right post it note, that is.)

But that’s just me. Are you having any trouble when it comes to your writing efforts in the winter time?

The Unexpected Acquisition of Tipi and Tuck

When I lived in New York City four years ago, I didn’t have a huge apartment, so the only occupants that could live comfortably inside my rather meak quarters were me and my two cats. And even that was pushing it. (Thank God, the trash room was very close to my apartment door, as the cat box required frequent cleanings.)

Anyway, now that I live in a much larger house in the suburbs, I thought it might be fun to expand my collection of cats beyond the standard two. And since I’d always gotten my kittens from a rescue agency, I decided this time would be no exception. So with pen and pad in hand, I began perusing Google for the names of local rescue agencies that might have some kittens for adoption. And to my surprise, the procedure for acquiring an animal had gotten much more complex. There were legal papers you had to sign, and certain rules you had to follow, along with a background inspection of your veterinary records.

Who knew rescuing a kitten would require all this paperwork? I mean, I understand why they’re doing it--- they’re trying to protect the animals from people who might want to use them for less-than-ethical reasons. But the whole process made me feel like I was being punished for something before I committed a crime.

Nevertheless, I found an ad on Craig’s List that advertised for a Rescue Service that was having a big pet adoption fair on New Year’s Eve weekend from 1 to 4. So with my paperwork all filled out, I drove the forty-five minutes it took to get to the special facility, only to find out that the times for adoption were listed incorrectly in the paper. Apparently you had to have your kitten all picked out by three o’clock in order to get through all the processing by 4. And even though it didn’t list those particular requirements in the paper, and I happened to get to the agency at 2:50, I was not able to adopt a pet. And to add insult to injury, the women behind the desk made no apology for the mistake in the paper, nor did they seem to care that I drove out of my way to help them provide a nice home for one of their animals.

Disappointed that I wasn’t able to get my “instant kitten,” I went home and searched the Internet again for some shelter that was having open adoptions that weekend. Luckily, there were two in my area that held weekly adoptions on Saturdays at the local pet stores. (Pet Stores apparently no longer sell cats or dogs…they only provide food and accessories for them.) So on Saturday morning, I drove to the first pet store to find my two cats a new companion. But apparently, kittens were a scarcity at this shelter, as they only had mature cats up for adoption that day. And though my heart went out to all those homeless animals, I really had my heart set on a kitten, as I thought a kitten would be much easier to introduce into my current clan than a mature cat.

So off to the next pet store I went, only to find the same sort of situation. There were only mature cats available. And though I looked through the various options, and even played with a few, I still felt a kitten would be my best choice. Luckily one of the girls who worked for the rescue told me that Sunday was the day when most of the kittens were brought in for adoption, while Saturday was mostly for mature cats. Not sure why that was, unless there’s some sort of mass pilgrimage to the pet store after Church every Sunday.

Anyway, I decided to come back the next day to see what kittens might be available, although by this time I was already less than positive about what I might find. That was, until I saw Tipi (not her original name, by the way). And even though I was really looking for a male cat (as I’ve always found them to be much more affectionate), this little girl caught my eye…mainly because of her unusual multi-colored coat. She also had two brothers with her, one black and one grey, but her personality won me over immediately. And as soon as I got her home, I knew I’d made the right choice. She wasn’t upset to be in a new home, and didn’t seem to care that she was no longer surrounded by siblings. In fact, she took to her new surroundings immediately.

One day, while she was purring in my lap, I decided to do some research on her unusual markings, which looked like marble to me. As I was surfing, I came across a website that sold pure breed cats known as Bengals. They are a cross between a Tabby and a wild Asian Leopard Cat, and as you’d expect, many look like little leopards. Some have the famous leopard spots, but some are more marble colored, like Tippy was. As I began finding more and more information about Bengals, I became fascinated not only with their beautiful composition, but also how similar they seemed to the cat I’d just gotten from the local rescue.

To make a long story short, I decided for the first time in my life to purchase a pure breed cat. (Or a pure breed anything, for that matter. No longer will I only be associated with Mutts.) But I didn’t want to get it from a cat farm or puppy mill, or anyone who worked for such a place (even though those animals deserve to be rescued just as much as any other). After some searching and numerous phone calls, I found a breeder that was two hours away who’d had a litter of Bengal kittens with a golden male that was ready for adoption. She had great credentials and raised all the animals in her home, which made me feel like they would probably be somewhat better adjusted to domestic life than a cat born on the streets.

So I made the trip and fell in love with Tuck right away. (Again, not the name given to him by the owner.) And when I brought him home, he and Tipi hit it off right away. And since she was already a month older than he was, she became like his big sister, showing him all the ropes as well as teaching him to groom and wrestle fairly. Luckily, I have caught a lot of these interactions on film, so they will definitely be featured in future episodes of “Cat Clips.” For now, I am just enjoying my happy little zoo.

But that’s just me. Have you ever adopted or purchased an animal before, and how did you feel about the two options?

Pride is Not Just for the Patriotic

On my journey the other day through the vast playground we call the Internet, I stumbled upon a posting that caused me to take pause. (Yes, I actually cocked my head and paused…for maybe thirty seconds. Or maybe I was having a mild stroke, I’m not sure.) Anyway, the post was on the subject of Pride, and it was written by Mo of It’s a Blog Eat Blog World. In the posting, Mo asked how pride became a “sin” in some cultures, as he was having a few issues about taking some pride in his own accomplishments.

I totally understand this line of thinking, because when I was young, my Grandmother practically beat it into my head that I was too proud for my own good. But before you start imagining me walking around boasting about my various accomplishments, let me clarify what my Grandmother meant by this. It wasn’t because she thought I was arrogant or self-centered (well, maybe a little self-centered), but rather because I asked too many questions. Any time she told me to do a chore, or gave me an explanation about something, I would question it. (Or so she claimed.)

What can I say? If I didn’t understand or completely believe an answer I was given, I just wanted further clarification. Was that such a bad thing? No. But to my Grandmother it was. She used to call me “Lawyer Jones” because she said I could argue about almost anything. She even tossed in the old adage, “In my day, children were seen and not heard,” to which I would reply, “I’m so glad we don’t live in your day then, because I have too many things I want to say.” As you can imagine, this response never went over very well.

Anyway, I think the confusion about “pride” stems from the various manifestations it can take. There’s the kind of pride Narsissus felt toward his own reflection, which is the kind of pride most of us probably think of. But there’s also another kind of pride, which is much quieter. Like having a deep sense of achievement of what you’ve been through, what you’ve survived, and how you’ve grown. This kind of pride is important, because it gives you strength and courage to face whatever comes next.

And so, to illustrate this point, I have written a short little poem. I hope you enjoy it.

Sometimes I’ll try and take a peak,
To find what others often seek,
The worth behind this mask I wear,
But if you knock, is something there?

Who knows what secrets hide inside,
Some hurt my heart, some sting my pride,
The kind of scars that never show,
Were only meant to help me grow.

Yet in my mind I see them clearly,
All the critics I once heard yearly,
They’ve long since gone their separate way,
Though wounds they left still bleed today.

So once again I’ll let them go,
For life is not a tale of woe,
In fact, I love the life I lead,
In many ways, I did succeed.

I look inside and now I see,
What truly are the gifts of me,
Some I’ll share, and some will steep,
Until the time what’s sewn will reap.

For on this journey, one thing’s true,
There’s only ever one of you,
You’re flying solo till the end,
So try be your own best friend.


Thanks Mo, for inspiring this post.

A Surprising Sojourn in the “South Pacific”

“South Pacific” has never been one of my favorite Rodgers & Hammerstein musicals. I played the role of Luther Billis in my High School production, which was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because it was the only comedic role in the show. And a curse, because after the show was over I was forever after referred to as “Coconuts” by many of my friends’ parents. A nickname I earned solely because of the coconut bra I had to wear during the “Honey Bun” number in Act Two. A little humiliating to say the least, though it’s certainly not why the show has never held much interest for me.

As a teenager, I found the wafer thin plotlines and ballad-laden love story a bit boring. Except for “There is Nothing Like a Dame” and “Bloody Mary,” there weren’t a lot of rousing numbers in the show. Plus, the boy and girl who played the leads in our show took their roles a little too seriously, which caused much nausea and irritation among the rest of the cast members. (Particularly the female chorus members, who couldn’t wait for our Nellie Forbush to break her leg or lose her voice so one of them could go on in her place. Oh yes, they were ruthless in my High School.)

Anyway, I went to see the new Broadway production of “South Pacific” with little or no anticipation. The tickets had been given to me as a gift, so I was merely fulfilling my obligation to use them, rather than gearing myself up for an entertaining evening at the theater. But what I witnessed at the Vivian Beaumont Theater was a beautifully mounted and executed production, perfectly cast and thoroughly entertaining to watch. The production gives the show one of the best presentations I’ve ever seen, as dialogue and lyrics meld together to form a cohesive language. The actors don’t stop to sing a song; the song comes naturally out of what they’re saying. To me, that gives the musical so much life and reality, that you forget the transition from speaking to singing. One flows into the other like a natural extension of their vocal abilities.

Kelli O’Hara was a great choice for Nellie Forbush, as she brings an awkward geekiness to the role, which is thoroughly charming. Her songs are pitch perfect, and appear to flow out of her with little effort or strain. As Nellie’s love interest, Paulo Szot was a brilliant choice for Emile de Becque. Coming from an operatic background, Mr. Szot’s rich voice is a well-tuned instrument. His reprise of “Some Enchanted Evening” at the end of Act One is sure to send shivers up and down your spine. Danny Burstein was also good as Billis, though his voice and mannerisms began to remind me of a young Bert Lahr. At any moment, I half expected him to break out in “If I Was King of the Forest” from “The Wizard of Oz."

The rest of the cast were equally good in their roles, and the production values are top notch. And though the show’s intertwining stories might seem a little bland for today’s tastes, you are not likely to see a more beautifully staged and executed production on Broadway anytime soon. (Especially since this is only the second time the show has ever been mounted on the Great White Way.) So in conclusion, the trip to the construction-challenged Lincoln Center was well worth it, as it turned out to be One Enchanted Evening.

The Brilliance of the Broadway Bound “Billy Elliot”

Just got back from London for a quick trip with my friend Celia. While we were there, I decided to take in the British smash hit musical, “Billy Elliot” which is based on the critically acclaimed movie of the same name. It was my second time seeing the Elton John/Lee Hall musical, and I was equally impressed upon a second viewing. The brilliance of the book and score, which intermingles the tragic plight of poor mineworkers in a Northern England town with the artistic awakening of a young boy, makes for a very exciting and moving theatrical experience.

But what makes the experience even more fascinating is the unique casting process for the main character. For there is not just one “Billy Elliot” playing the role at any given time, but rather five different boys. So depending on what night you see the show, you might be seeing a slightly different performance. Because while each “Billy” is equally talented, his choreography and individual dance numbers are catered to that particular boy’s strengths, giving the audience a rare glimpse into the life of that particular boy. It also makes each performance unique and exciting, as the rest of the ensemble always has a new interpretation of the character to play off.

On the night I saw it, a black actor was playing Billy. There have also been Asian “Billys” and perhaps even Hispanic, but it matters not. The essence of Billy is in everyone, and by casting talent over authenticity, the producers are wisely capitalizing on the mass appeal this character has.

I believe the training process for the character is pretty long and fairly extensive as well. Potential “Billys” must go through a year or more of dance, vocal and acting lessons before they can even attempt to do the role. (Or some such rigorous timeframe.) And once you see the show, you can understand why. The role is demanding, both physically and emotionally, and the show would not succeed if the performer did not have incredibly strong acting, singing and dancing chops. And for someone so young to be able to perform such a feat is truly amazing. By the end of the show, you have fallen in love with Billy, his family, his dancing coach, and indeed the town itself, and you also leave the theater feeling energized by hope. The juxtaposition of this long-suffering town of mineworkers with Billy’s emergence as a naturally-gifted talent is an incredible piece of theater to experience, and there are moments in the play that will simply take your breath away.

So with that being said, I am both anxious and nervous for “Billy Elliot” to make its debut on Broadway this Fall. I have heard they may change it to appease the American sensibility, perhaps even moving the local from a British town to one in Pennsylvania. To me, this would be a mistake. The charm of the show is that we are viewing a way of life that is foreign to many of us anyway, and by Americanizing it, I think they change the story. I would hope that American theatergoers are not so superficial as to require major rewrites or different accents to make the show more accessible. It is what it is, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

So here’s hoping the Broadway Bound “Billy Elliot” brings as much joy to American audiences as it has to the London theater crowd for over two years now. It is simply Brilliant!
But that’s just me. What did you think of London’s “Billy Elliot”?

Who Took the Vacate out of Vacations?

I love to travel. There is something very exciting about going to a foreign country. You get to learn about different cultures, try new kinds of foods, and spend way too much time exploring gift shops filled with overpriced junk and unnecessary trinkets. Unlike a beach vacation, which emphasizes relaxation and drinking, traveling to a foreign city or country requires a desire to move outside the confines of your hotel. In fact, a trip to Paris or London might hardly be relaxing at all if you tried to cram everything you could in the time allotted.

Even so, I much prefer the rapid pace of this type of exploratory holiday over the slow-as-molasses atmosphere at a beach. Plus, on a beach I turn into a slovenly glutton after ten days, whereas on a touring vacation I lose ten pounds.

Last year I went to Italy and immersed myself in the history, architecture and classic art of this incredible country. It was a wonderful vacation, though there was hardly enough time to see and do everything. One of the highlights was getting off the train in Venice and walking onto the promenade for my first glimpse of this incredible city. It was truly a magical moment, like stepping into a living fairy tale.

This year, I wanted to visit Spain as a part of my annual sojourn to Europe. But after looking at the prices for airfare alone, I might have to rethink my plans. How the heck am I supposed to survive in Madrid for ten days, if the cost of getting there could send me to the poorhouse? The price for airfare alone is staggering. Unless I wanted to make more than one stop, with layovers of five to six hours between flights. On top of that, there’s the cost of the hotels, the meals, the attractions. And all the many souvenirs and momentos I’d have to purchase in order to remember the trip when I started getting old and senile. I could probably pay someone’s college tuition for a year on what it would cost to go. (Granted, it might only be tuition at a community college or night school, but still…)

When did traveling become so expensive? Even Canada, which used to be the best bargain vacation of all, has caught up in strength against the U.S. dollar. No longer able to take advantage of the two for one exchange rate, going to Canada is now as expensive as going to most cities in the U.S.

At this rate, the only vacation I may be able to take this year is a vacation from vacations. Who can afford anything else?