You Learn to Live Without

I pre-ordered the If/Then soundtrack in March. They marketed the show perfectly for an audience like me: "Idina Menzel! Single woman in New York! Idina sad death somewhere Idina! Idina music acting Idina Michael Greif Anthony Rapp Idina!"

When I got the CD in the mail, I ripped right it open and popped it into the player in my car. I listened through it as I drove through the desert, and I tried to picture the stage composition and the dialogue I was missing, like I do every time I get my hands on a recording of a musical I'm unfamiliar with. I listened and I drove and I analyzed and the stories unfolded, and frankly, I was underwhelmed.

Then I got to track eighteen. And I listened again. 

I cannot tell you why Tom Kitt, in writing a song explicitly for Idina Menzel, thought it would be good to have our girl repeatedly ascend to a B-flat on the word "out," but there it is. Idina is my hero and all, but she gets super nasally and belty in that realm, and she ain't doin nobody no favors wit her stiff ass tongue on that diphthong. It's a nice idea, Tom, and I know you've won Pulitzers and so on, but please. This is what workshops are for. This is why you got so much funding. You're not Stephen Sondheim and you're not Stephen Schwartz, so if you're gonna write a melody like this, then WORK IT OUT. Also, why does Idina not have friends and/or coaches telling her that what she does on that B-flat does not sound okay? And—I beg of you—just imagine the cringe-worthy community theater productions. Skinny average-voiced twenty-somethings everywhere will be singing through their sinuses about "You learn to live with MEEEOOOW" for decades to come, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. 

I wasn't necessarily listening to be a critical bitch (even though we all know I can do that pretty damn well). Straight up, the word "out" makes my speakers rattle and my eyes water. I'm not even sorry if I'm ruining this for people right now. I thought more of you, Adele Dazeem. (But you know I have your back anyway. NBD you're still the best.)

As I have now managed to listen to the song at least 174 times since receiving the album, obviously the dreaded "out" isn't stopping me. In fact, I hear it less and less each time. And I can't stop myself from listening to this song. I'm hearing the orchestration, the suspensions, the song's structure, the brilliant words, the smart pulse behind it all. I'm even hearing why Kitt made the compositional choices he did, and how it all fits cleverly with the lyrics. And I am trained to do these things.

I am trained to write like anyone, too. I can identify speech patterns without knowing I'm doing it; I can re-create the thought process of an elderly Eastern European man and make it into something "hip." I can write books for crazy women who live with their mothers, and I can sound just like the rich white men who hire me and yet would probably balk if they knew my race.

What I cannot do, what I am not trained to do, is truly write my feelings on this day. I can't understand them, let alone verbally dissect them and the millions of factors that got me here. And it's why I forgive Idina her B-flat and Tom Kitt for even making her go there. (So big of me, I know, but just wait, you'll get it. Or not. Whatever.)

Yesterday, I was supposed to get married. I was supposed to pledge myself to a man for the rest of my life yesterday in front of everyone I live for in the place I love most. There would've been vows we'd written ourselves, a dance with my father, cupcakes and cider donuts from Atkins Farm, and 90's R&B with the people who know me best. There would have been tealights shimmering next to local lavender on the tables and strawberry rose gelato for dessert. The money we spent on the bottles of house wine would have gone toward planting trees in New England. 

We would have gotten married, and this morning I would have woken up next to a man who truly was my best friend, but was not the right partner for me. I would have looked at him and wondered what I'd done. And then we would have gone hand in hand to brunch anyway. I would have eaten tater tots and bacon, and dazedly looked across the room at my uncle, doing his best to enjoy the days despite the stage four lymphoma that is destroying him before our very eyes. Turandot would have played at some point, and I would have raised my mimosa to the seat where my grandmother should have been. And we'd go back upstairs, and we'd pack our things, and we'd go home. We'd go on an Italian honeymoon and have three children with their father's thighs and their mother's cynicism and both parents' musical capability. We would have been fine.

I made this decision because I knew it to be right. It was hard and it was selfish and I ripped a future away from both of us and none of these fantasies will come to be, and yet I still haven't gotten to the root of this grief. I don't suppose I will tonight, and I don't know if, for this particular transgression, I deserve to. Tonight, for leaving Paul, for destroying this life that could have been, I deserve to sit here in front of Netflix alone. I deserve to sit with this gallon of Blue Bell ice cream that I received as a "not getting married today" gift and self-medicate with my cat while my wedding dress sits untouched, too big now, in the closet in my office. (Let's not read too much into how this is starting to sound like an episode of 30 Rock.)

Instead of making the choice that would have given me the world, I made the choice that was in the interest of me finding—yeah, I'll say it—the stars and the moon. (You like what I did there, JRB fans?) I spent yesterday dancing with the coolest seven-year-old in town, eating the best pizza I've had yet in Vegas, and looking, dumbfounded, at the people I have found to care about me. I woke up this morning, hungover and raccoon-eyed and smelling like chlorine, crammed into some borrowed sweatpants belonging to a fifteen-year-old girl who is half my size. I looked around at my dear friend's daughter's bedroom that she so generously lent me for the night, and I looked carefully at her posters from shows and Star Trek pillowcases and the shower curtain rod I'd managed to pull off the wall trying to find toilet paper at 5 in the morning. And I thought, you learn to live without. Or you don't.

Boston Strong

When the September 11th attacks took place, I was—embarrassingly—just young enough to not grasp how bad this was. I remember exactly where I was when I found out. Who doesn't? I remember where I was and who I was with and what I said in response, and my words were so utterly clueless and blockheaded and teenage-girl-centric that I am not even going to write the sentence down.

Twelve years later, two guys brought bombs to the Boston Marathon. I use the term "guys" because one of them was just a kid. The elder was my age. Guys. Not men.

My then-fiance and I had both been on the phone to the East Coast all day, trying to make sure all of our friends and family were accounted for. I remember Verizon crashing and phones and Internet in New England going down. I'd watched Facebook like a hawk when I didn't get text responses, waiting for those "I'm okay" statuses to pop up. I remember thinking, "Okay. This is what it's like." We were so far from home.

That night, we decided to distract ourselves and go to the movies to see Olympus Has Fallen. About fifteen minutes in, Korea attacks the White House—no spoiler here, guys, we all know some attack gotta be happening, and it's on Netflix anyway—and that's when I started to get nervous.

By "nervous," I mean I saw explosions and then had a full-blown panic attack in the Sunset Station.

There is no motivator like fear. I am old enough to know that now, old enough to know that people use it against each other in terrible ways. I am old enough to know, but not old enough to understand.

The Boston I know is a town full of aggressive love. We fiercely love our city, and we fiercely love each other. It's a town that has thrived since the beginnings of our country, because no matter what, we stand. I don't say this to be patriotic. I say this because everyone I know who lives in or near that city has fortitude. Massachusetts embraces its citizens in a way that other states don't, and the people who gravitate toward it are the people who can weather storms.

On April 15th of last year, I was scared. I was shaking uncontrollably in a parking lot outside of a Vegas movie theater, trying to keep my insides from bursting every time I heard a car start. I clutched my bag to me and I wept silently and I tried not to be afraid of the planes flying overhead. I tried not to think about the 3,000 miles between me and so many people and places I loved. And then the next day came and my city was still there.

Today, I am still far from home, but I direct what fierce love I have toward my city. I direct it to Krystle Campbell, to Lu Lingzi, to Martin Richard. I direct it toward Sean Collier, whose very job was to love his city and its people as fiercely as he could. I direct it toward those victims of injury and heartbreak and fear. And I direct it toward those who fear so much that they would use fear against a whole country to ease their own pain.

We run together.

KBizzle Writes A Heartbreakingly Wonderful Movie Review

Upon my triumphant return to Las Vegas after the holidays, I had all these grand plans: go to the gym, eat better, take my buddies Brendan and Nicole out to see 47 Ronin since they take me to the vag doctor all the freakin' time. Obviously, the first two grand plans did not pan out, nor will they, probably.

But the third one—the third one! I knew it would be glorious. In my mind, nothing beats a terrible historical fiction flick starring Keanu Reeves as a Japanese dude. 

I schemed. Brendan had to work, but I knew we could make an evening of it—I'd round up some other equally fantastic troops, visit him at his delicious noodle-making job, and then we'd all go. 

FAIL.

Nicole had work to do. Brendan was a loyal hubby and stayed home with Nicole. I have no idea what the hell Andy was doing.

But me and Andi? We were troopers. We ventured out to Town Square on a Saturday night, braving the crowds of drunk thirty-somethings and teeny-boppers. We went to some sushi place, where I had a terrible cocktail and we caught up over tuna, and then we wandered over to the AMC for some quality Keanu time.

As we got in line, we were engaged in a very important discussion about moms, weed, and useless people. The two [petite] guys in front of us clearly did not understand the weight of our conversation and interrupted to ask us what movie we were seeing. 

Andi, of course, politely and good-naturedly answered, "47 Ronin!" 

"US TOO!" the tiny gentlemen exclaimed.

"Yes," I said dryly. "I cannot wait to see Keanu Reeves be a fake Asian."

"No, man," one of the guys said. "It's all about that sick samurai shit."

I tried to not glare and went back to my diatribe about useless people.

Once we got into the theater, my terrible cocktail started to set in. I decided, foolishly, that it would be a brilliant idea to make friends with the tiny gentlemen. Andi, ever the agreeable friend, was ready and willing. So I invited the dudes over for some Jim Beam and Coke on us.

"We gotta drink some of this movie theater Coke so I can fit this booze in hurr," I said to Andi, pulling the handle of Jim out of my Coach purse that my mother gave me.

"I thought you were bringing your flask," she said, unsure of why I had that entire bottle and also a milkshake and a can of Pringles in my bag.

I shrugged. "Couldn't find it."

We slugged Coke. I poured. We drank. The tiny men sat down next to us and ate Andi's popcorn.

Previews. Some X-Men thing is evidently happening again, and we talked to the tiny men about how Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen are totes my boyfriends. Then there was an anxiety-provoking airplane movie starring Liam Neeson and Julianne Moore, and we talked to the tiny men about how Julianne is totes my wife. 

"So you swing both ways?" asked the little man sitting next to me.

"I SWING FOR TALENT," I declared defiantly, and sipped on my purse milkshake. 

The lights dimmed. Our anticipation grew. Some bald white guy who might've been Keanu Reeves ran through the woods and face-planted in a puddle. 

Here's where I say a couple things. One, spoiler alert like whoa. Two, I'm not REALLY sure what this movie was about, and I don't think it was because of the Jim Beam. 

My motivation to see this movie was three-fold: I love historical fiction; I love supernatural things; and I was totally obsessed with Japan as a pre-teen. I saw the preview for it when I went to see Hunger Games. There was a witch and a dragon and some ghosts and some samurai in that shit and I KNEW it was going to be brilliant. 

The first hour of the movie was backstory. Then there was some awful CGI with a crappy fox. There was this creature with six eyes, and that was pretty much the last we saw of anything supernatural for awhile.

Then the dad/king of all the samurai of the land had to commit seppuku, and that was kind of upsetting. And they banished Keanu Reeves for being "half-white," and they dumped the head coach of the samurai team in a pit. Head Coach was played by Hiroyuki Sanada, that Asian dude who is in everything who isn't Chow Yun Fat (by "everything" I mean "Lost," which is everything). 

And then we got some caption about it being one year later. 

Maybe I missed something, but you can't just be usin' captions all willy nilly an hour into the movie. And you can't then use it once more and forget about it. ESTABLISH A DEVICE AND BE CONSISTENT, OR DON'T USE IT AT ALL.

So then we met the whole unruly gang of samurai, and that's when I started to notice that this was basically Lord of the Rings for 18th century Japan. Epic scenery, giant statues for no reason, creepy forests and caves with dead guys, the whole shebang. The merry men were led by Hiroyuki Sanada, who eventually got out of some pit that he got thrown into. Most notable in the gang: overweight dude who was supposed to be the comic relief and really was just kind of Hurley from Lost and was for some reason naked at one point; Hiroyuki's useless-ass son who had shampoo-commercial hair but couldn't do anything else except look pretty and accidentally hit Hiroyuki with an arrow every now and then; the token racist dude who was always causing trouble and hated Keanu Reeves (and with good reason! He's not Japanese! According to the Wikipedia, his grandmother was Chinese. DOES NOT COUNT.); a silent dude with epically long hair who pinned his bangs back like some Jersey Shore ho; a guy who did nothing except have a spectacular mustache; and this one dude who, while all the other clean-shaven samurai had long flowing locks, had a crew cut, sideburns, and a goatee. Hurley, Crappy Son, Racist Bro, Jersey Shore, Mustache Guy, and Crew Cut saved Japan. 

There were also only three women in the entire movie who weren't concubines, one of whom, Lady Asano (who I kept calling Carne Asada), was mistaken for a concubine, and one of whom was kind of a whore anyway. 

So Carne Asada got kidnapped for an arranged marriage by some gross dude who only wore pimp-suit-style kimono, and the merry men had to go rescue her, because she and Keanu were kind of in love and she was the heir to the samurai village throne anyway. Hiroyuki went and saved Keanu, who had by this point been sold into slavery and was fighting all these random white dudes with Cockney accents and whores in corsets. Then the two of them held up a band of actors going to entertain Pimp Suit at his gross wedding with Carne Asada, and then Keanu and Hiroyuki DRESSED UP AS CLOWNS AND PRETENDED TO DO THE SHOW while the other merry men slaughtered Pimp Suit's entourage. Hiroyuki killed Pimp Suit, cut off his head and shoved it in what looked suspiciously like a Glad trash bag, and the merry men enjoyed a victory with magical swords, and then they all committed seppuku, except for Crappy Son, who somehow was granted permission to live, mostly because he never accomplished anything to begin with and maybe had two lines the entire time.

Also, everyone either had a generic Asian accent or a generic British accent. Except for the white people. They were definitely Cockney/pirates.

Also, I'm not really sure why Keanu Reeves was even in this. This movie was clearly about Hiroyuki needing to be Viggo Mortensen. 

I'm no expert, but I think there may have been a lot of problems here.

Two redeeming qualities. The music was pretty cool, even though they kept quoting "My Funny Valentine" with someone's stereotypically sad Japanese cello and hoping no one would notice. And there was this witch who kind of orchestrated this entire disaster, and all of her animation was pretty cool (she was the crappy CGI fox in the beginning, but she pulled herself together). 

By the end of this very sobering experience, I'd realized that Andi and I really had to get rid of the tiny men. We hid in the bathroom for a while, but they were still there when we came out. We walked outside as I bitched about Keanu's nasty-looking facial hair, and then the littlest man asked me for my number and I GAVE IT TO HIM because evidently my brain fell out of my face. And he's been pocket-dialing me and leaving messages of nothing for the past hour. 

This was nothing if not a banner evening. America, it's good to be back.