Imagine

All four of us were in the car the other night, returning from a trip to the grocery store.  The kids had chosen to listen to The Beatles on the way home and were bopping and grooving in their carseats in the backseat of our crowded Jetta. 

"My like that song!  My like it!" Violet crowed as I Wanna Hold Your Hand started.  She grinned from ear to ear and chimed in with the occasional end of phrase as the song played.

Ever the thinker, Milo started asking questions.

"Dad, where do The Beatles live?"

"Hmm...  I don't know.  They probably have several homes, maybe in London, LA, and New York."

"Do they all live together?"

"No."

"Can we go visit them?  If they live in California, we can take an airplane like we did when we went to California.  We could go to their house and say, 'Hi!' and I could tell them that I love the song Dear Prudence.  Could we do that?"

His little face shone with expectation.  Scott and I glanced sideways at each other, unsure of how to answer this request. 

"Umm... sure, buddy..."

It is highly unlikely that either Ringo or Paul would welcome our darling son for a two minute conversation, particularly because his shyness would kick in and the remaining Beatles would be talking to a small child hiding behind my large bum.  Yes, the mental picture of knighted rock superstars talking to my bum IS pretty funny, unless you are said legends.

Although, I guess I shouldn't be surprised -- the soundtrack of my childhood was a mixture of The Beatles, the Beach Boys, Neil Diamond, and Three Dog Night.  There was one particular house in my hometown that stood out to me, perhaps every time we passed it Sweet Caroline was playing, but I was convinced that this modest (and now dilapidated) two-story was Neil Diamond's home.  Because it just was.  Never mind that it was highly unlikely that he would choose a 1400 square foot home in a smallish city in Eastern Iowa.  He DID live there, and I challenge any of you to a duel if you try to dispute it.

So, of course it seems completely appropriate that my son thinks it is entirely possible to hop on a plane and visit his musical idols.  Isn't that what their music is supposed to do -- spark imagination?  Cuckoo-ca-choo!

You Want It, You Got It

My husband has a freakish love of all things musical theatre.  I don't.  Oh, sure I have done plenty of musicals, but I don't really have the voice of a soloist, so you'll generally find me in the chorus -- which is fine by me, most of the time, the leads don't get to dance and I like to dance.  given the choice, I'd rather do a play than a musical any day.

Can I admit to very likely being the only Midwestern theatre aficionado who has never seen Phantom of the Opera, no have I listened to the entire soundtrack?  Is that legal?  Go ahead... call me a theatre snob.  I'll likely agree with you.

Why is any of this relevant?  My darling husband has a brand new darling favorite TV show.  Oh, yes, I put up with him through his obscenely long Kids in the Hall period.  I tolerate his Chapelle Show compulsion.  I am co-dependent to his The Simpsons addiction.  And I full-on enjoy his The Office fix.

But can I support his current Glee love?  I dunno...  I think it has worn it's welcome.  I think that I need to stage an intervention because now he has got my children conspiring against me, requesting to hear the soundtrack over and over again.  It just goes on, and on, and on, and on....

OK -- I will say that Jane Lynch makes the show.  The rest of the characters?  Well, I can't seem to muster up any sympathy for them.  I don't like them, and not in a good way.  I get tired of the contrivances -- what teen in this day and age is seriously so stupid to believe he fathered a child from hot-tub sperm?  The idiocy is astounding.

The show doesn't go quite far enough to be farce, isn't smart enough to be intellectual humor, and is overripe with twenty-somethings playing teen-somethings belting out songs like they're auditioning for American Idol every day.  I think Simon would agree with me when I say STOP OVER-SINGING.  Just 'cuz you can sing loud doesn't mean you have to -- and that means you, miss Lea Michele.  

Perhaps it is my present crotchety mood, but I simply cannot listen to Matthew Morrison getting his rap on in "Bust a Move" one more time. I'm not Defying Gravity right now and I don't Need Somebody to Love.  I Can't Fight this Feeling Any Longer --  I think I'm gonna bust a disc... but You Can't Always Get What You Want, so it's going to keep spinning until the kids grow as weary of it as I am.  Sigh...