Twelve days? For the birds...

Forty-two geese-a-laying. Forty-two swans-a-swimming. My true love must have survived the economy plummeting and networked with zookeepers.

Frankly, if I had a lover who filled my simple living space with twelve partridges and the requisite pear trees to go with them, I don't know if there'd even be room for the rest of the menagerie. And when we get to the eighth day, which should fall on New Year's, I find people stuffed in my stocking. Lords and ladies and, heaven help us, a fife and drum corp. My lover neglected to buy cattle, though; just what will those maids (five days' worth means 40 of them) be milking?

If we think about this logically, the song does say that "On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree." Ergo, my multiplication is correct. By the twelfth day, which coincides not-so-coincidentally with Twelfth Night, I will have unwrapped 364 presents. My true love has, in fact, purchased a present for almost every day of the year. Maybe I'm enamored with the Mad Hatter, who chooses to celebrate unbirthdays.

Ignore my previous thought. How can we think about this logically? I wonder if there's a coded meaning, wherein Jesus plays the partridge and his manger the fruit tree. Mary and Joseph may have been lovey-dovey, though celibate. I'm thrown when we reach the wise men -- are they from the Oriental Quarter of France?

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are worthy candidates for calling birds, for they sounded the gospel far and wide. When I get to twelve drummers drumming, I'm tempted to use the apostles, but am I allowed to overlap? And five gold(en) rings (depending on which lyrics you sing)? Jesus received gold, to be sure, but also frankincense and myrrh, which are both sweet-smelling resins used for incense.

Unlike Jesus' humble gifts, mine aren't likely to have a pleasant fragrance. Thanks, love, for the swans, but I've heard they bite. We can only conjecture at the meaning behind the gifts, and even then we go astray: I just read that "four collybirds" (similar to blackbirds) were the original gifts for day four. That's what the British used to give; our American sensibilities corrupted the collybirds so that Verizon could have more product placement.



Next year, my true love, may I submit "My Favorite Things" for my Christmas list? Those blasted geese return "with the moon on their wings," and I am allergic to kittens with or without whiskers. But think of the food: schnitzel with noodles and crisp apple strudel. Then again, people cook partridge, right?

There Was A Butcher and His Wife

Dear Showtime,

For me, television no longer equates with mindless entertainment. All the Mad Men furor this year was really the result of HBO and, later, your network offering up comedies and dramas that excised laugh tracks, jazzed up title sequences, and demanded an attention span. Why shouldn't television tackle anything movies can?

I got a free DVD of the first episodes of Dexter and Weeds one day. By the end of each (and Weeds is less than 30 minutes), I savored more. School only allows me to follow a few shows religiously, but when Damages and Entourage and Nip/Tuck ended their seasons, Dexter was there for me. And what a dramatic concept: an empathetic serial killer who, we pray each week, will not be caught or castigated for his crimes. On the surface, we think he's trying to develop his human connection; but beneath it all, his real appeal and vitality comes from his night job as executioner of the wicked.

(By the way: MAJOR SPOILER ALERT AHEAD! ALL KINDS OF SPOILERS!)

When his victims last season were uncovered, how could we stop watching? When the wrong man took the fall for Dexter's Bay Harbor butchery, we licked our lips, satiated that our hero would live on to kill again.

You see, Showtime, I thought you might have exhausted your material early on, and drag the show out Friends-style for years. But self-parody was not on the menu at first: an impressive guest performance from Jimmy Smits as Miguel Prado, as well as the accidental murder of his brother, were. Dexter killed a man who didn't fit his code! Now he's chummy with Miguel! Now he's sharing his innermost secrets! The series peaked when Miguel let his demons overtake him and disposed of a personal vendetta by himself. What Dexter has wrought will now wreak havoc.

But this is why I write. Dexter decided Miguel had to die and offed him at the end of episode 11. What, then, to do in the season finale? Watch Dexter kiss the bride and duck cascades of rice? Oh, that's what happened. Somehow all the loose ends were tied up; nobody seemed overly upset, even Miguel's wife, about his death, and the department incurred no backlash for losing a Miami celebrity. What's more, the Skinner turned into a weak match for a stunningly calm Dexter. Nothing ruffled him in the finale: almost missing his wedding, being pursued, or even being tied down by a serial killer.

Clearly he's cunning at manipulating his own police department. He's got Deb and new wife Rita in his corner. And life seems so hunky-dory that I'm wondering, does he even want to keep killing? Showtime, I beseech thee, your season started so well: step it up in 2009. If Dexter's unmatchable, then raise the stakes. Let either Deb or Rita uncover the skeletons (and scalpels) in his closet.

Emmy-worthy actors like Michael C. Hall can't be squandered in domesticity. Stir him up, pop his collar, let him unleash his rage. We tuned in because Dexter got our blood pumping. Please return us to the cutting edge.

Sincerely,
A slice of reality

Happy Golden Days of Now

I'm full of Christmas cheer this year, and often I flip on Comcast's "Sounds of the Season," channel 501. Right now Robert Goulet is summoning All Ye Faithful, but just two minutes ago, Jessica Simpson was murdering every mirthful aspect of the holidays with something that can't adequately be described as singing or even shrieking. You know that sound when you defenestrate a cat? Okay, I hope you don't -- I don't either -- but I'm speculating.

It's so easy to perform Christmas songs well, even for pop singers; Mariah Carey did justice to the holiday, for instance, with "All I Want for Christmas" (which everyone secretly loves). Right now Olivia Newton-John just came on to show us Christmas from down under; do the lights twinkle in the opposite direction? Hey, she's pretty good with "Away in a Manger," very low in her voice but gentle and reverent. Now she just went from the real melody to the fake one they make you sing in church that nobody knows -- they blend together well.

Let's switch to channel 524, the "traditional holiday favorites." Angela Lansbury and the cast of Mame are rocking out to "We Need a Little Christmas," and although some castmates don't really sing on key, they convinced me to haul out some holly.

Lots of other great Christmas songs come from musical theater composers: "The Christmas Waltz," Jule Styne; "It's Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas," Meredith Willson. And one of my favorites, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," Hugh Martin/Ralph Blaine. A heartbreaking song when Judy Garland tries to convince her sister that their family will be together next year, if not in St. Louis. Originally the lyrics were flat-out funeraul: "Next year we may all be living in the past." The writers were encouraged to tone down the bleakness, and thus "Next year all our troubles will be out of sight."

Apparently Frank Sinatra wasn't into the melancholy that comes with year's end, so he is the reason many people sing "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough." The lyric in Meet Me in St. Louis, "Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow," diffuses some of that New Year's resolution fervor and reminds us how much we didn't follow up on last year's wishes. Just because the year changes out, much goes on as it was. But we won't live in the past, as the rejected lyrics lamented; we will get by, with joy and sadness and whatever else fate has in store.

We need the honesty and bravery (and what Katie called the wistful sentiment) of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." In its mixed emotions, it stirs me more toward hope than anything Jessica Simpson has done. Oh, thank goodness, Ella Fitzgerald just wiped her out with "Sleigh Ride." Can she please run her over again with a reindeer or two?

Edit: Kalyn reminded me that the best Christmas song was written by Irving Berlin. And I am definitely dreaming of a white Christmas this year. Usually it just rains.

Their Eyes Were Watching Blogs

#236 Blogs.
White people love blogs. I myself, convinced that I belong to this group of "white people," checked out Stuff White People Like -- the blog -- to ensure that I fit the most authoritative, or at least most extensive, definition I could find.

Turns out, the issue is a very complex one. Already I have to check off #3, film festivals, not that I've been to any, but I love intellectualizing (and watching) films and I would love a career in film criticism. I cannot check off #10, Wes Anderson movies, for I haven't seen any. Shame on me, future film critic, for not being into self-consciously arty films like his. Also, how could I adequately pursue my dream if I subscribe to #28, not having a TV? Without it, I couldn't watch The Daily Show (#35) or best-contemporary-TV-show Arrested Development (#38).

#239 Self-righteous eating.
White people apparently love it: organic food (6), vegan/vegetarianism (32), Whole Foods (48), expensive sandwiches (63). As an avid carnivore, carb-consumer, chocolate hog, and cheap shopper, I think my skin is a bit deceptive on this front.

#244 Fitting in by being different.
Other things that I don't feel fit for me: hating your parents (17), 80s night (29) -- as if anything good came from that decade besides, well, me -- hating corporations (82), and the obsession with "edgy" and "offbeat" The Onion (109). It's a good thing we're the most unique people.

Sorry, just unique, no superlative. See, white people like grammar (99), and more importantly, I love grammar and feel a sense of moral superiority about it. Sometimes they become so enamored that they go to writers workshops (21) and graduate school (81). There they have black (14) and gay (88) friends, vote for Barack Obama (8) and threaten to move to Canada if he loses (75). If I find myself eager to travel (19) while standing still listening to music (67), rest assured the irony (50) is not lost. These are white people limited to a younger age group, remember, rebelling in safe ways against their privileged (but oh so misspent) youth.

#246 Over-analyzing.
#247 Being existential.
#248 Judging other people for over-analyzing and being existential.
I wish this were simple. I drink tea (13) but not coffee (1). I'm not a yoga-lovin' hipster (15) , but I do enjoy those unpaid internships (105), musical comedy (77), and the Sunday New York Times, if only in theory (46).

Maybe I'm not the ideal white person, but I sure have things to contribute to the people. For example:

#256 Self-deprecation.
#260 Ambiguity.

Oh, and also #261 Tacky Christmas lights.

The Rite of Winter

The minister in church this morning told a story about Stravinsky. He wrote a fiendlishly complex violin solo, and the soloist approached him to say that, well, he had practiced but it was impossible to play it well. Stravinsky chuckled and said that he was after the sound of the soloist trying to play it well.

Life is full of incongruities, isn't it? Like tonight, I was hellbent on making spaghetti squash, which peels apart like little strands of angel hair when cooked right. (And did I cook it right? Oh yes.) But I didn't know how to get in: the sharpest knife we had couldn't slice through the squash. So Kate suggests, facetiously, that I get out my saw. Five minutes later: Kate is taking a picture, which will probably be on Facebook soon, of me sawing into the vegetable. (Warning: Don't try this at home.) That saw saw me through; the "spaghetti" was magnifico.

Incongruities. I'm plowing through Angela's Ashes - you know, I needed some light reading - but it oddly becomes more lighthearted as it goes on. This kid defines a word in school, and the teacher responds: "Pithy, Clarke, but adequate. McCourt, give us a sentence with pithy." "Clarke is pithy but adequate, sir." (That brings me back to archaeology in college; Connie and David remember how all of our answers were to be pithy.)

And it's everywhere. Last night, in the men's bathroom at orchestra practice, I see this sign: "Please do not place sanitary napkins in the toilet." Are they that worried?

I'm riding home on the T last week, and this pair behind me talks without no restraint or sense of being in public about their liaisons among a circle of friends, who presumably were all sleeping with each other. I got off before they could loudly share how they'd inevitably contracted hemophilia. Again, maybe it seems incongruous, but I enjoy it when the train is virtually silent, and I can sit (what a virtue that is on the B line) and read, and be lost in my own bubble contemplating things.

Yesterday I was just finishing up reading The History Boys, a play, on the way home and there was this wonderful hush, only to be spoiled five pages from the end by someone behind me loudly talking on her cell phone. I'm not saying she shouldn't be talking on her cell, but when you think about it, public transportation isn't always so public. It's not really a social venue; it doesn't invite much carousing; people make perfunctory acknowledgments but mostly keep to themselves. Which is fine with me. It seems jarring when people strike up a conversation in what was a few seconds earlier a silent train. Are they networking? Are they looking to score? Where's the code of conduct for the T? (Besides the obvious: Don't block the door. Don't steal seats from old women. Don't tell me you might throw up on me.)

Then again, maybe life is full of incongruities because it should be.

Look, Ma, Top of the World!

Review: Speed-the-Plow
Barrymore Theatre, New York
November 22, 2008

The radiation will overtake us: apocalypse now and later. It threatens to dissolve our cells, our sense, and our spirits. We will be robots on short-circuit, questioning how innocuous words transformed into formidable worlds of terror, and we will lose our collective powers of discernment. Sometimes, you see, the radiation binds us together while it blinds us, slashing across our sphere of existence so that all turns topsy-turvy, and the energy encompasses all it touches.

This end-of-the-world radiation is the primary concern of a second-rate book some cultural know-it-all tossed into the post-postmodern world we live in, where science eradicates thought and we sink further into the abyss of dehumanized anti-realism. Now this isn't actually the world we live in, but the world David Mamet presents us in Speed-the-Plow, a second-drawer play he jotted off in 1988 for Madonna's Broadway debut (maybe that's why the end-of-the-world felt so near).

The book on radiation enters the brand-spanking-new office of a movie producer promoted yesterday. Whenever anyone reads from it, the destruction that this book proclaims sounds more new-age-hippie than science. None of its prose sounds eidetic enough to be captured on film. Why would anyone make a movie about this, we have to ask?

Which leads us to: why would Mamet write a play about a movie about a terrible book on radiation? Does he earnestly believe that the hoopla about an overwritten beach-read has merit or relevance? Then again, look at the power of page-turners like The Da Vinci Code, or the success of secularist bestsellers like The God Delusion. No matter the artistic quality, people just might buy tickets.

When we as an audience begin to question ourselves for being judged so viciously by an admittedly average play, though, the energy takes over. Speed-the-Plow has a three-person cast, composed of two carnivorous producers and a meek little lamb, the temp secretary. And boy do they tear into it when they fling papers and profanities all over the stage.

Jeremy Piven starts out as Ari Gold 2.0, but he reveals himself to be an honest guy beneath the promotion and the new shiny nameplate: a shark on the outside, but a teddy bear beneath. By day three, he's already disheveled, with his morals and his passion and his goodheartedness splitting him down the center. How could he survive among the phony smiles without selling his soul? Fortunately, he only has to sell a little piece to his longtime amigo Raul Esparza, who flies off the handle when he senses betrayal but subverts any wily schemes that hinder his ladder-climbing. He's a ladder-climber without scruples who's glad to fellate anybody for a shot at the top.

Between the two of these men comes a woman: Elizabeth Moss. She's temping, she's easy in bed, and she's just gosh-darn sincere. Or is she? The producers allows her to read the radiation book so that he may sleep with her, which he does. But in the process, she converts him to her hippie way of believing in the truth behind the Hollywood illusion. Effectively shattered, he buys into her ridiculous plan to make the movie about the radiation, betraying his friend but upholding some moral high ground. The sweet girl-next-door, though, reveals herself to be as duplicitous as the others when she struggles - and fails - to stay in the game. Mamet's world is no place for women. Though the secretary's role has interesting implications, it seems better in theory than in practice; there's just not much for her to play.

Thankfully, the acting provides such energy that it overpowers the weaknesses of the writing. Piven and Esparza in particular chew the scenery to shreds with glee and, at least on Piven's part, with a touch of honesty. They sped through so rapidly when performing that it was hard to find the flaws; we can't entirely tell whether Mamet wants us to see an elaborate fantasy or something more realistic.

If it's the former, which I hope, there's nothing earnest about Speed-the-Plow, but a jolt of solid acting and directing animate and electrify what could have seemed in lesser hands like the end of the world.