Showing posts with label Broadway. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Broadway. Show all posts

Friday, May 22, 2026

Mental Health Awareness Month: Next to Normal

Next to Normal—a searing, brilliant, Pulitzer-winning rock opera examining the lives of a family whose mother is desperately struggling with bipolar depression—changed the voice of Broadway and broadened the scope of what theater can do when it opened in 2008. The show beautifully captures the swings between the ridiculous highs and the soul-crushing lows the disease brings to those of us living in its fogs and terrors ... and to the selfless teams of people who care for us.

I’m fortunate enough to have seen the original production, very soon after I’d been diagnosed as bipolar and had found myself caught in a rather terrifying struggle to wrap my confused, exhausted brain around the fact that mental illness was no longer a mysterious entity in other people’s lives; it was MY life, and I had no idea how to manage it or what potential and very real horrors to expect from it.

The musical is rough to experience from any perspective, but seeing it for the first time tore me apart ... and then put me back together with its closing anthem, “Light,” which features an almost casually placed lyric that is at once devastating and hopeful and never fails to sneak up on me and emotionally gut me even though I know it’s coming: “The price of love is loss / but still we pay / we love anyway.”

I've been invited to be the Bipolar Person in Residence and talk to the casts and audiences of Next to Normal productions at three theaters over the last decade. And while I hope it was helpful for the actors as they rehearsed and found their characters' realities, it was extremely helpful for me to have an opportunity to articulate the swings and uncertainties and terrors of living with a mental illness—both so I could explain any weirdness I've personally exhibited and to help the actors help their audiences better understand these realities.

While every bipolar mind is different and therefore every moment of Next to Normal doesn't exactly mirror my experiences, every note and every word of the show is brilliant and hits brilliantly close to home. And that closing anthem—sung by the characters not to each other but to the audience and to the present and to the future—encapsulates the struggles and hopes I live with every day in astute prose and powerful, emotional, wall-of-sound vocals:

Day after day,
We'll find the will to find our way.
Knowing that the darkest skies
Will someday see the sun.
When our long night is done,
There will be light.

Wednesday, April 15, 2026

Theater: Next to Normal

Next to Normal—a searing, brilliant, Pulitzer-winning rock opera examining the lives of a family whose mother is desperately struggling with bipolar depression—opened on Broadway 16 years ago today. The show beautifully captures the swings between the ridiculous highs and the soul-crushing lows the disease brings to those of us living in its fogs and terrors ... and to the selfless teams of people who care for us.

I’m fortunate enough to have seen the original production, very soon after I’d been diagnosed as bipolar and had found myself caught in a rather terrifying struggle to wrap my confused, exhausted brain around the fact that mental illness was no longer a mysterious entity in other people’s lives; it was MY life, and I had no idea how to manage it or what potential and very real horrors to expect from it.

The musical is rough to experience from any perspective, but seeing it for the first time tore me apart ... and then put me back together with its closing anthem, “Light,” which features an almost casually placed lyric that is at once devastating and hopeful and never fails to sneak up on me and emotionally gut me even though I know it’s coming: “The price of love is loss / but still we pay / we love anyway.”

Back when I saw the show on Broadway, selfies were new and weird and shameful—and for you young folks, it was the Middle Ages when our smartphones had cameras that faced only one way and didn’t let us see on our screens what our selfies would look like so we just had to hold our phones in the air and hope for the best—so I took this one-try selfie as quickly and discreetly as I could to ensure an entire city of complete strangers wouldn’t judge me. It turned out rather well, although I cut off the last letter of the sign. Which means as far as any of you know, I actually just saw a knockoff production called Next to Norma.
I've been invited to be the Bipolar Person in Residence and talk to the casts and audiences of Next to Normal productions at multiple theaters over the last decade. And while I hope it was helpful for the actors as they rehearsed and found their characters' realities, it was extremely helpful for me to have an opportunity to articulate the swings and uncertainties and terrors of living with a mental illness—both so I could explain any weirdness I've personally exhibited and to help the actors help their audiences better understand these realities.

I also maintain a blog of my journey, struggles, triumphs, thoughts and research into bipolar disorder and mental illness in general at TMIpolar.blogspot.com

While every bipolar mind is different and therefore every moment of Next to Normal doesn't exactly mirror my experiences, every note and every word of the show is brilliant and hits brilliantly close to home. And that closing anthem—sung by the characters not to each other but to the audience and to the present and to the future—encapsulates the struggles and hopes I live with every day in astute prose and powerful, emotional, wall-of-sound vocals:

Day after day,
We'll find the will to find our way.
Knowing that the darkest skies
Will someday see the sun.
When our long night is done,
There will be light.

Saturday, July 26, 2025

Theater: The Great Gatsby

F. Scott Fitzgerald was arguably ahead of his time when he published his novel The Great Gatsby in 1925.

America was still too deep in the weeds enjoying its Jazz Age freedoms, nouveau riche excesses and related pursuits of wanton indulgence to notice the cautionary tales about those very activities that Fitzgerald had embedded in his narrative. The novel was initially dismissed as boring and artificial—but with time comes perspective, and as America rebuilt itself after the Great Depression and then World War II, the novel’s wisdom, metaphors and objective warnings came into sharper clarity and made the novel a perennial staple of our collective literary curricula.

By the time the novel entered the public domain in 2021, it had seen countless adaptations for the stage and for the big and small screens … except as a musical. And once that source material became free, not one but TWO musical versions started their journeys to Broadway.

The version currently playing—launched on the shoulders of powerhouse Broadway royalty Jeremy Jordan and Eva Noblezada—got off to a rocky start thanks to some highly questionable choices in reframing the narrative. But in the five short months between its pre-Broadway tryouts at the Paper Mill Playhouse and its official Broadway opening, it underwent a massive overhaul that kept it more faithful to the novel and made it a massive hit.

Traditionally narrated by the outsider-observer Nick Carraway, it tells the story of the mysterious wealthy recluse Jay Gatsby, the hedonistic parties he throws, and the clandestine reasons he acquired his wealth so he could throw them. (I know the story is literally 100 years old, but I think the narrative and supporting narratives are pretty fascinating and I don’t want to reveal any spoilers to the six of you who don’t already know what happens.)

I got enough “meh” reviews for this show from friends that I put it on my backup list for my Belated Birthday Broadway Binge. But since three of my original picks closed early, Gatsby eventually climbed to the top of the leader board and I got a ticket.

And I really enjoyed it. I did find parts of it to indeed be “meh”—how many belty operatic “I Want” ballads does one small cast of characters truly need?—but it’s overall an indulgent feast for the senses.
For starters, the set is a breathtaking mashup of intricate Art Nouveau tendrils and soaring Art Deco geometries. (Producer Chunsoo Shin famously landed ridiculous amounts of investor money, which he poured directly into the uncommonly fabulous production design.) The costumes, choreography and orchestrations also got massive glow-ups from what audiences usually expect to experience.

I’m not a huge fan of the score. It has many extraordinary moments, but it feels a little ponderous at times. (The song “New Money” SLAPS though, and it more than makes up for any quibbles I have with anything else.)

Fitzgerald’s novel had a lot going on—as novels do—and I’ve seen so many stage and screen adaptations that over time I’ve honestly forgotten what storylines and plot points are original and what I’ve seen added or modified for subsequent narratives. This production includes everything I remember being germane to the story, with some additions that flesh out secondary characters and a bold dramatic update to an already shocking plot development.

Of the many iconic images/metaphors/themes in the work, Jay Gatsby’s obsession with the green light on Daisy Buchanan’s dock is arguably the most enduring. From a character standpoint, it represents love and longing for an idealized version of the past. From a literary standpoint, it represents the promises of the American Dream and the futility of yearning for the unattainable. (And for Brian and Stewie Griffin, it’s just the light from a gay gym called The Pump House. That Gatsby parody is peak Family Guy brilliance.)

The Gatsby musical features a gorgeous projection of the green light twinkling in the distance over rippling waters as its show curtain. And if I have one overarching criticism of the show it’s that all that significance, all that imagery and all that setup get explained to the audience so quickly and unceremoniously that I’m guessing the majority of people attending the show don’t get it. I was literally looking for the exposition to see how it was presented and I almost missed it.

And I hate to diss fellow performers—even the ones on Broadway who are presumably used to criticisms—but two actors in the show I saw felt extremely miscast. I’m not going to name names in case their moms are reading this, but their performances (though gorgeously sung) were so awkwardly anachronistic that they were literally distracting. They were perfectly OK, but they were NOT the green lights of my Belated Birthday Broadway dreams.

Theater: Maybe Happy Ending

Maybe Happy Ending first appeared on my radar in a dismissive review that said it’s about two robots who go on a road trip to see fireflies.

First of all, now that I’ve seen it I don’t see how ANYONE could be dismissive of it. And second of all, that plot description—while technically accurate—is exactly like saying Dorothy met a scarecrow and he could talk.

Now, robots and sci-fi are usually a hard sell for me. So the show wasn’t high on my list of priorities when I planned my belated birthday Broadway binge. But people whose taste I completely respect insisted I see it, and I’m so, so glad I did.

The robots in the show are humanoid workers and companions—not agents of combat or video-game characters as I’d feared—and their story is one of self-discovery and mutual attraction as they slowly come to terms with their growing obsolescence.

I like to see a new show as free of information as possible, so I’ll leave my synopsis there to avoid spoilers. But the two robots—played by the always impressive Darren Criss and by Helen J. Shen more than holding her own in her Broadway debut—share a story arc that is part standard romcom, part sci-fi-techy (in a way I whole-heartedly embrace), part self-aware meta and always ALWAYS endearing.

The score ranges from a cohesive collection of hummable show tunes and pop songs to numbers that sound like crooner jazz standards (sung by a one-man Greek chorus who is so handsome he’s almost a distraction). And the orchestrations are as delicious as he is.

The biggest takeaway—as least visually—is the set … and the ways it travels around framed by moving apertures that are so technically precise that they sometimes pull you out of the story as you wonder how they operate.

And the voices. I just want to sit in a room and have the actors sing to me for a couple hours.

Really. I can’t say enough good things about this delightful masterpiece of theater. Make a point of seeing it if you’re in NYC or (hopefully) when it finally tours.

I’m also giving a special shoutout to the Belasco Theatre. I was certain by now that I’ve been in every Broadway theater, but I don’t remember ever seeing an interior like the Belasco’s. It’s easily the most gorgeous, most resplendent space I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing a robot musical in, and it made the entire experience even more magical.

Friday, July 25, 2025

Theater: Death Becomes Her

For some reason I’ve never seen the Death Becomes Her movie. I’ve seen enough clips of it that I’ve gotten the general gist, but they clearly didn’t compel me to seek out and watch the entire film.

So aside from knowing some sight gags about horrific injuries, I went to the Death Becomes Her musical with a pretty clean slate.

And I came out with quite possibly a new favorite musical.

I think what kept grabbing me the most was the relentless evidence of quality in the show—especially the music and lyrics. The songs run a gamut from campy to ominous to ridiculous to self-aware to epic emotional meltdown. (SO MUCH emotional meltdwn.) Some are standard show tunes, some are jazzy, many are meticulously asymmetric, and a few are frantic patter songs along the lines of Sondheim’s “Getting Married Today” … but they’re somehow even more delightfully unhinged.

But those are just the classifications. Internally, the songs are rich with texture, voice and counterpoint (all of which shine in the gorgeous orchestrations), and the lyrics are an endless barrage of clever wordplay, brilliant character development, organic scene progression, and a seamless match to the tone and humor of the script (which wasn’t written by the lyricist).

Beyond that, the sets are exquisite when they need to be, ridiculous when they need to be … and Viola’s Gothic dungeon deserves its own Tony for looking like it extends miles into the back of the stage without ever giving you a glimpse of how its visual magic might be working.

Layer into all of that the women’s gowns and wigs (OHMYGOD!) and the script that keeps outdoing itself in humor and character definition (though don’t think too hard about the logistics of plausibly faking/not-faking deaths at the end) and the show just never stops being both thrilling and enthralling.

And then there are the actors. I’m 100% sure that histrionics is listed as an instrument in the score. The songs need to be chewed up and spit out as thoroughly as the book and the scenery, and the four leads just. don’t. let. up. These are crazy people in the prime of their careers and skills, and there’s no way they’re going to let one moment go under-the-top or unridiculoussed. They are truly running marathons for our entertainment, and they do it with undying (ahem) grace and charm. And crazypantsness.

I’ve had a another chronic flareup of insomnia on this trip, and my general baseline has been grogginess, lack of focus and even some unsteadiness on my feet. I’ve worried that I’d completely space out watching all my shows, but they’ve all been thoroughly engaging … ESPECIALLY this one. I truly can’t give it enough praise … especially for the way it kept me alive. Ahem.

Thursday, July 24, 2025

Theater: The Outsiders

I can’t remember if I’ve ever read or seen The Outsiders (a 1967 novel adapted into a movie in 1983), but the plot seemed vaguely familiar when I saw this mighty stage version. And WOW does it pack an emotional (and visual and visceral) punch.

Written when the concept of “teenagers” was still finding its footing as a cohesive demographic beyond an age bracket, it’s a complex, touching, violent, heartbreaking coming-of-age story told through the lens of a brutal gang rivalry between the working-class Greasers and the upper-middle-class Socs (pronounced so-shiz, short for Socialites) in 1960s Tulsa, Oklahoma.
 
Ponyboy Curtis, the 14-year-old protagonist and a fledgling Greaser, maintains the Greasers’ point of view throughout the narrative, which in this stage adaptation explodes in a mix of gutteral choreography, an indie-rock score tuned to a wide range of intensities, thoroughly inventive staging (the floor is hilly and covered in dirt and a massive car drives through it at one point), and stage combat that is both brutal and balletic.
 
The show got its early buzz from an all-out gang rumble choreographed in flashes of slow motion and real time, murky dark and blinding light, and an orchestral score that throbs ominously and occasionally explodes in shrieks of terror … all while it’s literally raining onstage. It’s both gorgeous and gripping—and though it ends badly (as violent rumbles do) it generated cheers and applause from my audience.

The story and the characters are imperfect and complex, and the world they occupy is relentlessly unfair—and every visual and musical aspect of the show supports and amplifies those baselines. It’s all truly breathtaking. But it’s also built on a foundation of violence, brutality and profound heartbreak, so it might not be for everyone.
 
If you weren’t aware, every show that includes lifts or fights has an onstage lift call and/or fight call before the audience is let into the house. In the interest of absolute safety, these focused runthroughs ensure the intricacies of lifting and carrying people and/or believably fighting with them are fresh in the actors’ and dancers’ bodies. I’ve been in shows with enough stage fighting that our fight calls were 30 minutes long. Given the frequency (and intensity) of the fights in this show, I can’t even imagine how long and focused the fight calls are. But what they allow to happen live onstage is unforgettable.

Theater: Oh, Mary!

I want to be Cole Escola’s best friend.
 
They—meaning Cole—wrote Oh, Mary! in response to the idea that maybe Lincoln’s assassination wasn’t such a bad thing for Mary Todd … and then while reportedly never looking up more history than how to spell Abraham and Mary, they took the idea and ran it into the most ridiculous places most of us only wish we could imagine.
 
Cole and I desperately need to hang out some night, do each other’s hair, call boys and giggle, and crack each other up until dawn.

Speaking of cracking up, Oh, Mary! is exponentially funnier than I even dreamed. It’s slapstick meets droll humor meets bizarre characters meets massive plot twists meets very dubious history meets ridiculous wigs and costumes … all at a pace that doesn’t give the actors time to laugh at what they’re doing.
 
I’ve never been a very demonstrative laugher—people have actually accused me of not having fun or of being judgmental and dismissive because I wasn’t busting a gut with them in an audience. (Seriously.) I smile and chuckle, but that’s pretty much all my body ever does to show glee.
 
Reader, let me assure you that I laughed so hard I almost wet myself watching this delightfully ridiculous piece of brilliance.
 
Cole Escola originated the role of Mary and has since been replaced by Titus Burgess (who will soon be replaced by Jinkx Monsoon). I’ve seen Cole Escola perform so I know their pacing and humor and aptitude for ridiculousness, but this role felt perfectly tailored for Titus Burgess’ brand of ridiculousness. And I’m sure Jinkx Monsoon will chew the scenery with it too.
 
The show is profoundly clever, gaspingly hysterical and way more than any person’s diaphragm can handle. Go see it if you’re in NYC. Or just wait a bit—I’m sure every theater in the country will be snatching it up once the licensing begins.
 
AND I CALL DIBS ON PLAYING MARY.

Wednesday, July 23, 2025

Theater: Call me Izzy

A one-woman play about a battered wife in rural Louisiana who escapes her trauma by writing poetry, Call Me Izzy doesn’t give itself much room to explore plot points and character development outside of exactly what you’d expect.
 
And that’s pretty much all it does. No unexpected side narratives, no quirky character details, no monsoons or mortgage foreclosures or school shootings or other outside forces that could reframe the story in a fresher context … and no overlooked elements that the audience would tacitly expect after reading my 18-word summary above.
 
Don’t get me wrong; I very much liked it. It didn’t set me on fire, but I was never bored or upset that I didn’t feel whisked away to someplace I haven’t seen outside of a TV movie of the week.
 
The script is charming when it needs to be and traumatic when it needs to be. But you kinda know where it’s probably going to end before it even starts. (I’m not going to tell you if you’re right or wrong in the interest of avoiding spoilers, but I saw it ending one of three ways and I was only a little bit off.)

I think the show wouldn’t have much emotional traction without a familiar (and beloved) name on the marquee. Because OF COURSE we all root for Izzy, but we wouldn’t really care if we couldn’t also root for Jean Smart.
 
She’s everything you want to see and more, by the way. She brings Izzy a mix of humor, humanity, heartbreak and hopelessness (I swear I didn’t plan all that alliteration when I started this sentence) in a nuanced, emotionally controlled (and sometimes not controlled) performance that makes you want to hug her protectively and also shake some damn sense into her.
 
On a side note: She spent almost the entire show sitting down with her leg up and being helped to move between scenes by tech crew. I assumed it was because of an injury Izzy’s violent husband inflicted on her and it would eventually be addressed. But it never was. And when I got home and googled the show I learned that Jean herself was injured and forging ahead with the show nonetheless. Which is both impressive and profoundly kind to her many fans.
 
Another side note: Patrick Paige and Paige Davis sat right in front of me. So I got to see some Broadway royalty to kick off my Belated Birthday Broadway Binge!

Thursday, April 4, 2024

It's Still Here

Happy 53rd anniversary to Follies, the glorious, epic, mold-breaking 1971 musical by Stephen Sondheim, James Goldman, Harold Prince and Michael Bennett that ended up being too lavish and probably too jarringly mold-breaking for its own good. The most expensive Broadway production to date when it opened, it drew a full spectrum of critical reviews but didn't get the musical-theater-pantheon foothold it deserved and closed after 500 performances without recouping any of its investments.

I was unfortunately three when it opened and I couldn't get tickets, but my heart and endless fascination and I were eventually—inevitably—pulled into its magical, inspiring, gorgeous, heartbreaking world when I saw the 1987 London revival, which gave Eartha Kitt a much-needed comeback when she replaced the broken-ankled Delores Gray (just like what happened to her in 42nd Street!) to belt the iconic "I'm Still Here"—which, as coincidences never cease, was the song in the 1971 production that brought Yvonne De Carlo back from the brink of terminal embarrassment after playing Lily Munster on TV.

Thankfully—inevitably—Follies has since then finally achieved the musical-theater-pantheon stature it deserves, and I've been fortunate enough to have seen more productions of it than I can count in New York, D.C., Chicago and beyond. I'm obviously overflowing with fanboy knowledge and trivia and opinions and lyrics (oh boy, am I overflowing with lyrics) about the show, but if I even want to come close to sharing everything about its brilliance that's waiting to burst out of me, I'll have to schedule a six-week subscription-series symposium at a local college to get it all Jakesplained to you. 

Fun fact: It opened at the Winter Garden Theater in NYC, which—again with the coincidences—is the theater where I just so happen to have seen my first-ever Broadway show (Cats, the fact of which I am hard-stop-sun-comes-up-coffee-cup not willing to discuss).

Thursday, March 14, 2024

Dramaturgy: Something Rotten!

In the interest of squeezing SOME value out of my B.A. in Renaissance literature, I appointed myself the unofficial dramaturg of Theatre Cedar Rapids' 2024 production of Something Rotten!, the narrative of which occurs toward the end of the English Renaissance. I posted occasional bits of historical/contextual information on our cast/crew Facebook page, but since I put all that damn work into researching and writing I decided it would be nice to have it all seen by more than 42 people. So I'm posting the entirety of my musings here. They often reference inside jokes and details from the script and score, so if anything here confuses you you’ll just have to get tickets to the nearest production of the brilliant Something Rotten! you can find. You won't be disappointed.


GOD, I LOVE CONTEXT!

To start off our adventures in learning, here’s a brief(ish) timeline of events and lives relevant to the Something Rotten! narrative:

500ish–1450ish: The Middle Ages in Europe (also called the Dark Ages or the Medieval period)

1347–1351: The first wave of the Black Death in Europe (also called the Plague, the Pestilence or the Great Mortality)

1360–1667: Many, many recurring (but far less destructive) waves of the Black Death in Europe

1436: Johannes Gutenberg invents the printing press

1450ish–1650ish: The European Renaissance

1492: Christopher Columbus lands in what is now San Salvador in the Bahamas

1503–1566: The life of Nostradamus (born Michel de Nostredame)

1533–1630: The Puritan movement in England

1558–1603: The reign of Queen Elizabeth I

1564–1616: The life of William Shakespeare (born Gulielmus Shakspere)

1595: Nick Bottom writes Omelette

1599ish: William Shakespeare writes Hamlet

1925: Grant Wood (yes, that Grant Wood) produces a play called Cardboard Moon in his 5 Turner Alley studio in Cedar Rapids and launches what will eventually become Theatre Cedar Rapids

2015: Something Rotten! gets ten Tony nominations (and wins only one: Christian Borle [Shakespeare] for Best Featured Actor in a Musical)

2024: We put on some snazzy pants, do some jazzy hands and make a star-lit, won’t-quit, big hit musicaaaaaal!


THAT PESKY LITTLE PESTILENCE THAT’S KILLING HALF OF EUROPE

The Black Death (also called the Plague, the Pestilence or the Great Mortality) made its first recorded appearance in Europe in October 1347, when 12 ships from the Black Sea docked at the Sicilian port of Messina. Italian dockworkers entered the ships to begin unloading but were met with a horrifying surprise: Most sailors aboard the ships were dead, and those still alive were gravely ill and covered in black boils that oozed blood and pus.

Their mysterious, terrifying disease spread through the local population at alarming speed and soon spread farther along trade routes that ran both inland and along the coasts. It also followed people to neighboring cities as they tried to escape but unknowingly brought the disease with them.

Modern epidemiologists have traced Black Death outbreaks to regions of China as far back as 600 BCE. The Medieval outbreak appears to have started in the same regions and traveled northwest across Asia to ports in Constantinople and then through the Mediterranean Sea to its first European appearance in Messina (which is right where the Italian boot makes contact with the Sicilian football, for those of you who visualize shapes in land masses). From there it spread roughly clockwise along the Mediterranean border and up the continental interior until it hit England in June 1348. (247 years later, Nick Bottom wrote a merry little Black Death showtune with a derivative medley and frankly it was TOO SOON.)

From England, the Black Death spread further north into Scandinavia, where it hit water, had nowhere else to go and finally died out in 1351, after a four-year European rampage that killed an estimated 25 million people—which was somewhere between 40% and 60% of the total European population.

Fun fact: Ports along the Mediterranean started making trade ships wait 40 days offshore before docking to help prevent the Black Death from reaching land. The Latin word for 40 is “quadraginta,” which eventually evolved to the modern word “quarantine.”

One more fun fact: The “Ring Around the Rosie” nursery rhyme may or may not (depending on your school of etymological thought) trace back to the details of the Black Death: Rosie rings represented bubonic lumps on the body, people carried posies and other flowers to mask the smell of rotting corpses, bodies were burned to ashes in an attempt to kill off the mysterious illness, and falling down was because people were really clumsy back then. Or they were dropping dead from the plague. It was probably the latter, but I wasn’t there and I hate to make assumptions.


WHAT’S THAT COMING UP THE SILK ROAD?

The Silk Road (a name that wasn’t coined until the 19th century) was a collection of trade routes linking Medieval China and the Mediterranean between the 3rd and 16th centuries. Named (obvs) for the transport of Chinese silks and other textiles, the Silk Road also saw the transport of spices, salt (which at the time was most importantly a preservative and often a form of currency), precious metals, gunpowder, cultural artifacts, ideas and education, missionaries of many religions, and—the least lucrative from an economics standpoint—the Black Death.

Look for it on a map. It was VERY LONG. And there were very few hotels with complimentary shampoos and continental breakfasts along the way. But there were plenty of bandits along its 4,000-mile route to help you lighten your load.

Did you catch that 4,000-mile part? People traveled the Silk Road in camelpower caravans, and a full-length one-way trip could last an entire year.

Trade and transportation along the Silk Road lasted until 1453—a full century after the first Black Death outbreak in Europe—when the Ottoman Empire (which at the height of its power and territorial control engulfed everything around the Mediterranean Sea except modern Italy and the northernmost coasts) boycotted trade with China and closed the route. (142 years later, Nick Bottom wrote a merry little Black Death showtune with a derivative medley and frankly it was TOO SOON.)

Remnants of the Silk Road survive today in the form of a paved highway connecting Pakistan and the Xinjiang region of China. The Silk Road also survives as a metaphor for the exchange of sketchy goods and services on the Dark Web, which is something that hack Nostradamus clearly didn’t see in humanity’s economic future.


WELCOME TO THE RENAISSANCE!

Now that we have our Middle Ages backstory out of the way, let’s join the historical narrative of our merry little play. (And my advance apologies: I totally geeked out researching and writing this so it’s way longer than I intended. I promise to be less overwhelming in the future.)

Renaissance—as our opening number helpfully explains—means “rebirth.” The Black Death had killed roughly a third of the entire European population, which—among mega-many other consequences—gave serfs (the lower working class) bargaining power for their agricultural labor. It decimated the longstanding feudal system, caused a seismic redistribution of wealth, and spawned the rise of a middle-ish merchant class that had newfound money, leisure and upward mobility through commerce and education.

It was against this socioeconomic upheaval that a confluence of events across the continent stirred and boiled over into the aforementioned rebirth that underpins two full centuries of cultural development, artistic exploration, scientific discovery, social restructuring and political reform:

GEOPOLITICAL: The 1453 fall of Constantinople (now Istanbul) (not Constantinople) (this is a joke for the They Might Be Giants fans among us) brought a brutal end to the Byzantine Empire. Byzantine scholars fled mostly to Italy with their collections of Greek and Roman books and manuscripts, which inspired a widespread revival in the studies of philosophy, science and art.

EDUCATION: These Classical Greek and Roman texts fostered a more rational, scientific approach to theology, the natural world and the arts. Human beings and nature became subjects worthy of study.

PHILOSOPHY: The texts also shifted the philosophical zeitgeist from the longstanding Medieval philosophy of scholasticism—which demanded a strict adherence to religious theology, doctrine and dogma—to a newfound exploration of humanism, a rational outlook that emphasized the potential value, goodness and morality of humans and looked for rational ways to solve human problems. This transition sent our very own Brother Jeremiah through paroxysms of existential crises, and Paroxysms of Existential Crises would make an objectively terrible band name. Which is exactly why we mock him.

SCIENCE: Humanism’s emphasis on rationality, empirical observations and mathematical knowledge challenged generally accepted scientific theories and led to what we now call the Scientific Revolution. In 1534, Polish mathematician and astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus published De revolutionibus orbium coelestium (On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres), which placed the sun—not the Earth—at the center of the solar system. It upended centuries of scientific thinking and inspired scientists across Europe to approach the natural world from a multitude of innovative perspectives. (Of course, that one guy on YouTube has since proven that the earth is flat, so we know today that all that Copernicus stuff is just silly.)

ART: Artists adopted the rational elements of Classical learning—such as anatomy and aerial perspective—and strove to achieve newfound levels of perfection in their representations of humans, animals and nature. (Once that perfection ideal had been achieved, however, artists had nowhere else upward to go and over the centuries started to deconstruct the content and representation in their work to eventually bring about movements like Abstraction, Impressionism, Cubism and the sad little stick figures I’m barely able to draw because I have zero artistic talent.)

PATRONAGE: Most of the Renaissance’s rich artistic achievements would not have been possible without the funding of wealthy patrons. Perhaps the most famous of these patrons were the Medicis, an art-loving family of bankers (and three popes) who commissioned enormous quantities of paintings, sculptures and architecture for their palaces and family tomb. Their most immediate legacy, of course, was the lofty ambitions of our very own dyspeptic Lord Clapham and awkwardly earnest Shylock as they struggled to usher Nick Bottom to the literary pantheon of fame and glory.

LITERATURE: The artistic achievements of the Renaissance also extended from the visual arts to the worlds of literature and theater (otherwise we wouldn’t be rehearsing all these songs and tap numbers). Inspired by humanism’s emphasis on emotions and morality, the literature of the Renaissance broke free from stringent religious dogma and began exploring the struggles and triumphs of human protagonists from history, folktales, Biblical narratives and other familiar sources. In addition to dramatic comedies like Omelette and dramatic tragedies like Hamlet, the Renaissance also saw a flourishing of the poetry that brings our very own star-crossed Nigel and Portia together in awkwardly adorkable love.

I think we can all agree, though, the the most important aftermath of this dramatic rebirth in literary thinking and writing was the day in the late 1980s that a befuddled Iowa college student realized he was NOT cut out for a career in engineering, biology, music, dance or journalism and finally declared his sixth major: English, with an emphasis on Renaissance literature—which he accomplished in three short but overwhelming semesters. And then he waited 33 damn years for this opportunity to use it. He deserves an omelette.


THIS BOTTOM’S GONNA BE TOPPED WITH A DONKEY HEAD

Many characters in our merry little play get their names from characters in Shakespeare’s plays.

Nick Bottom, for example, is a buffoon who alternates between being a character in and a narrator of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He’s a member of a mediocre acting troupe (sound familiar?) who, in the middle of rehearsing a play for the amusement of Oberon, the King of the Fairies, gets transformed by the mischievous Puck, a minion of Oberon, to have the head of a donkey. (Are you still with me?) But it gets weirder. (If you can believe it.) You see, the Fairy Queen Titania, wife of Oberon, gets put under a spell that makes her fall in love (and totally make out) with the donkey-headed Nick Bottom (as one does). Other stuff happens, and long story short Titania eventually gets unspelled and Nick Bottom gets his human head back and ends up thinking the whole thing has been a dream in the night in the middle of summer (hence the title).

But there’s more! The mediocre acting troupe eventually (and very poorly) performs for Oberon a rife-with-subtext play called Pyramus and Thisbe (which are objectively cool pet names), which ends with Nick Bottom performing a melodramatic death scene that’s cringier than the entirety of the Cats movie.

And, scene.

It’s worth noting that Shakespeare wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream after the narrative of our merry little play, implying by our authors that he continued mocking his rival after poor Nick Bottom got exiled to America. Because Shakespeare is kind of a dick.


THE MAN WHO PUT THE "I AM" IN IAMBIC PENTAMETER!

The above lyric kinda flies by as Shakespeare gets introduced at the beginning of "Will Power." But it’s actually a pretty important and defining aspect of the way he wrote.

Iambic pentameter—for those of you who slept through British Lit as we nerds took fascinated and copious notes—is a type of metric line built on standardized syllables and patterns.

It’s broken into iambic feet of two syllables with the emphasis on the second syllable (“da DUM”) strung together in sets of five (“penta-”), like so:

Da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM

And Shakespeare—being a total word nerd—almost exclusively followed this pattern for a whopping 884,647 words in 118,406 lines of plays and sonnets. No wonder the other kids kept beating him up on the playground and taking his lunch money.

But it ended up bringing a unifying lilt to everything he wrote:

But SOFT! What LIGHT through YONder WINDow BREAKS?

If MUsic BE the FRUIT of LOVE, play ON.

Two HOUSEholds, BOTH aLIKE in DIGniTY.

Of course, Shakespeare—being the talentless, no-future hack that he was—didn’t always nail it. Some lines ended up with extra syllables:

To BE, or NOT to BE: that IS the QUES(tion)

And some ended up playing fast and loose with standard cadences and speech patterns:

Friends, ROmans, COUNtry MEN, lend ME your EARS.

But it’s the occasional fast-and-loose line that prevents his dialogue from getting sing-songy and that gives his actors room to breathe and bring natural inflections and interpretations to their lines.

For those of you looking to pad your trivia-night knowledge base, iambic pentameter is part of a wide and diverse meter family. Here are just a few of its siblings and their weird feet:

FEET:
Iambic: da DUM
Trochaic: DA dum
Anapestic: da da DUM

METERS:
Trimeter: three iambic/trochaic/etc feet
Tetrameter: four iambic/trochaic/etc feet
Pentameter: five iambic/trochaic/etc feet

Now pair them up any way you like and write poetry like a sixteenth-century badass. Or don’t. This won’t be on the test.


INTELLECTUAL ICONS IN PUFFY PANTS AND POINTY LEATHER BOOTS

Here are some CV basics about every local celebrity mentioned in our opening number, in the order their appear:

Francis Bacon (1561–1626): English philosopher, statesman (under the name Lord Verulam) and scientist. Considered the father of empiricism—a scientific philosophy that emphasizes sensory experience and evidence (often derived from experiments) over intuition, skepticism or rational thinking—he became a martyr to his own scientific method when he stuffed a dead chicken with snow to see if freezing temperatures could preserve the meat and in the process he developed fatal pneumonia from his prolonged exposure to the cold.

Sir Walter Raleigh (c. 1552–1618): English statesman, soldier, writer and explorer. With Queen Elizabeth’s patronage, he commissioned and financed expeditions to what is now North America and helped establish the Roanoke colony that soon disappeared under mysterious—and still not definitively resolved—circumstances. Raleigh never personally set foot on the continent, but he did bring potatoes and tobacco to England from what is now South America. In 1617, Raleigh violated a Spanish peace treaty in his search for the mythical “City of Gold” riches of the mythical city of El Dorado in present-day Venezuela, for which he was imprisoned and eventually beheaded by King James.

Thomas Dekker (1572–1632): English writer, dramatist and pamphleteer. He was known primarily for the lively descriptions of English life he published in pamphlets, which were unbound booklets circulated to spread humor, op-ed commentary and political propaganda. While he was also a prolific playwright, he was not regarded as worthy of the pantheon of masters like Shakespeare, Johnson, Marlowe and Middleton. Heck—he wasn’t even regarded as worthy of getting a first name in our lyrics.

John Webster (c. 1578–c. 1632): English dramatist. While he collaborated with many leading playwrights, he is best known for his intricate, subtle, brooding tragedies. The two most famous of these tragedies—The White Devil and The Duchess of Malfi—are still studied, revered and performed to this day.

Ben Johnson (1572–1637): English playwright, satirist and poet. Generally regarded as the second most important dramatist after William Shakespeare, he popularized the character-driven comedy-of-humors genre that directly combatted Shakespeare’s signature emotion-, adventure- and fate-driven romantic-comedy genre. Though intellectual rivals in writing style and worldview, Johnson and Shakespeare had great respect for each other and Johnson called Shakespeare the “Sweet Swan of Avon” in tribute of the publication of the First Folio of Shakespeare’s plays seven years after his death.

Christopher Marlowe (1564–1593): Arguably the most famous of the Elizabethan playwrights and poets outside of Shakespeare. The first English author to receive critical fame using blank verse—unrhymed poetry written in a consistent meter and thought to more closely mimic natural human speech and inflections—Marlowe had a profound influence on Shakespeare, who quoted his work and referenced his existence in Antony and Cleopatra, The Merchant of Venice, Hamlet, Macbeth and many other plays. Marlowe died relatively young (age 39) under mysterious circumstances variously attributed to a violent bar fight, blasphemous libel against the church, homosexual intrigue, betrayal by another playwright and assassination due to espionage.

Thomas Kyd (1558–1594): English playwright. His play The Spanish Tragedy (along with a Hamlet precursor often attributed to him) created the Elizabethan revenge-play genre. The genre established tropes like the vengeful ghost and the play-within-a-play used to trap a murderer, both of which drive narratives in Shakespeare’s Hamlet and some of his later works.

Thomas Middleton (1580–1627): English poet and one of the most successful and prolific playwrights of the Jacobean period, which immediately followed the Renaissance. Named for King James I and marked by intense conflicts and threats of civil wars between Protestant and Catholic states, the Jacobean era saw a literary focus on tragedy, revenge, cynicism, satire and human evil. Though Middleton was skilled in writing across all genres, he wrote something literally called The Revenger’s Tragedy and he may have collaborated with Shakespeare on Timon of Athens, Macbeth and All’s Well that Ends Well.

Thomas Moore (1478–1535): English author, lawyer, judge, philosopher, statesman and humanist. Eventually declared the patron saint of statesmen and politicians, his staunch Catholicism made him a vociferous opponent of the Protestant Reformation, the theology of Martin Luther and Henry VII’s separation from the church to annul his marriage to Catherine of Aragon. After refusing to take the Oath of Supremacy to Henry VIII—which was required of everyone taking public or church office—he was executed for treason.

William Shakespeare (1564–1616): Hack “writer” and total nobody who’s completely lost to the ages. If he even existed, he’d probably be one of those obsessive fans of Cats. It’s silly to even include him in this list. God, let’s hate him.


IT’S HARD TO BE THE BARD

But it’s easy to tell you what a bard is. Or was.

Outside of Shakespeare hogging the bardness title to himself for all eternity, a bard in the traditional Renaissance sense was one or any combination of the following:
  • A poet
  • Someone who recites poetry to an audience (poetry readings were a popular form of entertainment back in the days before Golden Girls reruns)
  • A writer, composer, singer or orator who recounts epic tales or impassioned narratives using lyrical, poetic language
“Bard” isn’t a formal title; it’s more of a descriptor for an avocation, like pianist or painter or gymnast or cat lady. It comes from a pre-Renaissance Celtic tradition where a wealthy patron would hire someone to tell stories, compose music and lyrics, act as an oral historian and genealogist, and generally shower the patron with praise for his sophistication and benevolence.

By the late English Renaissance, a bard did what Shakespeare and Nick and Nigel Bottom were doing: writing poetry and epic narratives about kings and supernatural beings and good-cholesterol breakfast comestibles.

But Shakespeare wasn’t called The Bard—at least not in a way that took in the public vernacular—until 150 years after his death. The designation is attributed to David Garrick, an English actor, playwright, poet and theater owner, in a 1769 poem he wrote about Shakespeare.

So when Nick Bottom complains about Shakespeare being called The Bard in our merry little play, it’s a bit of an anachronism—but thankfully it’s the only anachronistic cultural reference in our entire show.


A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

Many—but not all—characters in the Somethingrottenverse share names with characters in Shakespeare’s plays. Here’s some background (or not) on the more prominent folks:

Bea: A feisty, sharp-witted protofeminist (full name: Beatrice) in Much Ado About Nothing. Beatrice is tricked into falling in love with a soldier named Benedick, with whom she has a will-they-or-won’t-they “merry war.” (Spoiler alert: they do.)

Nigel: The only principal character in Something Rotten! not based on a character from a Shakespeare play. To add insult to injury, Nigel had a brilliant song called “I Suck” that was cut from the show before it got to Broadway.

Portia: A wealthy heiress in The Merchant of Venice. Written as a wise woman ostensibly modeled after Queen Elizabeth I, Portia disguises herself as a lawyer to circumvent the lottery her father established in his will to find her a husband.

Shylock: A greedy Jewish moneylender in The Merchant of Venice. Characterized with rather appalling stereotypes from our modern perspective, he contractually establishes—and tries to literally collect—”a pound of flesh” as payment on a defaulted loan to a Christian. Even more appallingly, his “redemption” arc ends with his conversion to Christianity at the end of the play.

Lord Clapham: The only prominent supporting character in Something Rotten! not based on a character from a Shakespeare play. But he’s happy and he knows it, so clap your hams.

Toby Belch: The pseudonym Shakespeare uses when he infiltrates Nick Bottom’s acting troupe, Sir Toby Belch is originally ingénue Olivia’s boisterous drunk uncle in Twelfth Night. Though he mostly provides comic relief and a few insightful observations throughout the narrative of the play, he also exhibits a cruel streak toward some of the more vulnerable characters.


AWW, SHE’S BEDAZZLED!

Shakespeare isn’t kidding at his party when he brags about making up words. Of the 20,000 words in his plays and poems, he invented more than 1,700 that are still in use today. Here’s an alphabetical sample, except for a sample for X because Elon Musk hadn’t been invented yet:

Alligator: Romeo and Juliet, Act 5 Scene 1

Bedroom:  A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 2 Scene 2

Critic: Love's Labour's Lost, Act 3 Scene 1

Downstairs: Henry IV Part 1, Act 2 Scene 4

Eyeball: Henry VI Part 1, Act 4 Scene 7

Fashionable: Troilus and Cressida, Act 3 Scene 3

Gossip: The Comedy of Errors, Act 5 Scene 1

Hurry: The Comedy of Errors, Act 5 Scene 1

Inaudible: All's Well That Ends Well, Act 5 Scene 3

Jaded: Henry VI Part 2, Act 4 Scene 1

Kissing: Love's Labour's Lost, Act 5 Scene 2

Lonely: Coriolanus, Act 4 Scene 1

Manager: Love's Labour's Lost, Act 1 Scene 2

Nervy: Coriolanus, Act 2 Scene 1

Obscene: Love's Labour's Lost, Act 1 Scene 1

Puppy dog: King John, Act 2 Scene 1

Questioning: As You Like It, Act 5 Scene 4

Rant: Hamlet, Act 5 Scene 1

Skim milk: Henry IV Part 1, Act 2 Scene 3

Traditional: Richard III, Act 3 Scene 1

Undress: The Taming of the Shrew, Induction Scene 2

Varied: Titus Andronicus, Act 3 Scene 1

Worthless: The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 4 Scene 2

Yelping: Henry VI Part 1, Act 4 Scene 2

Zany: Love's Labour's Lost, Act 5 Scene 2


THOMAS NOSTRADAMUS? I PROMISE!

Michel de Nostredame (1503–1566), usually Latinized as Nostradamus, was a French astrologer, apothecary and reputed soothsayer who is best known for his 1555 book Les Prophéties, a collection of 942 poetic quatrains—none of which involved the discussion of gyrating one’s ass—allegedly predicting future events.

Les Prophéties was by no definition a work of scholarly merit; it was filled with anagrams and references to mythology and astrology, and it very vaguely predicted (inevitable) natural disasters (Beware! It will rain someday in the future!). And Nostradamus wrote it in his own hybrid of French, Greek and Latin—most likely to stay vague enough to avoid being persecuted for heresy during the Holy Inquisition.

Soothsayers, seers and oracles—a list that is objectively more fun to say than “lions, tigers and bears”—were people (or sometimes just things) revered for their ability (?) not only to predict the future but to provide insight and counsel to everyone from royalty to lazy playwrights with giggly last names. Their powers (?) were said to come from both deities and the occult. And they were almost never named Greg.

You’ve probably already figured this out, but since the real Nostradamus died 29 years before the events of our merry little play, the Something Rotten! writers invented his ass-gyrating nephew Thomas to help drive our narrative. You might say they tapped him for the job. But please don’t. Nobody should ever say that.


THE MOST LAMENTABLE COMEDY

The men in Nick Bottom’s terrible acting troupe are named for the men in a terrible acting troupe made up of menial laborers from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In Midsummer, the troupe barely holds it together enough to very poorly perform a version of a Greek tragedy they call The Most Lamentable Comedy and Most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisbe at a wedding celebration. Here’s a bit about each of them:

Francis Flute: A young, over-excited actor and a bellows-mender by trade, Francis Flute is forced to play the female role of Thisbe, who talks to her lover Pyramus (played by Nick Bottom) through a gap in a wall.

Tom Snout: A tinker (a name for a tinsmith) by trade, Tom Snout plays the aforementioned wall, holding two fingers of one hand open to be the aforementioned gap. He even has two lines as The Wall.

Peter Quince: An amateur playwright, Peter Quince is the author of The Most Lamentable Comedy and Most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisbe. He and the troupe perform it at a wedding celebration for Theseus (the Duke of Athens) and Hyppolyta (the Queen of the Amazons).

Snug: A joiner who literally joins wood for a living, Snug plays a lion who indirectly causes the deaths of Pyramus and Thisbe. Though The Lion was only supposed to roar, Snug was worried he’d forget his lines. In the end, Peter Quince gave The Lion a few lines explaining that he’s not a real lion so the audience shouldn’t be scared of him.

Robin Starveling: A tailor by trade, Robin Starveling plays the role of Moonshine in the play. He makes a fool of himself using a lantern to create moonlight, and he’s thoroughly derided by the audience for it.

BONUS CHARACTER!
Sir John Falstaff:
In our play, Shakespeare calls the Master of the Justice “Lord Falstaff.” It’s not a withering insult, but it’s not necessarily a compliment either. Falstaff was actually a recurring character in three of Shakespeare’s plays: Henry IV Part 1, Henry IV Part 2 and The Merry Wives of Windsor, and Shakespeare eventually killed him off with casual mention in Henry V. (All four plays were written after the events of our narrative, so it could be said that Shakespeare invented the character in our courtroom.)

Falstaff was mostly a comic figure: a vain, boastful drinker who hung out with petty criminals and lived off of stolen money. While he certainly led people into trouble, he’s generally regarded as being a jolly, debauched figure, and he’s lived on in other works by Giuseppi Verdi, Ralph Vaughn Williams, Edward Elgar (whom you know for writing Pomp and Circumstance) and even Kenneth Branagh.


THE STUPIDEST THING THAT I HAVE EVER HEARD!

The characters in our merry little play break into song in two separate worlds: the one they live in and the one they create onstage.

And there’s a very cool—and rarely useful—word for the world-they-live-in singing: diegesis (say it: die a JEE sis)

Diegetic (say it: die a JET ik) songs are songs sung between characters who in the backs of their minds keep wondering WHY AREN’T THEY TALKING? The songs in almost all musicals are diegetic—or, more specifically, the songs that characters sing to each other are diegetic. The songs that characters sing to themselves or about themselves to the audience are diegetic-adjacent, which is objectively a terrible name for a puppy.

On the flip side, songs in a show that are sung as performances by the characters in the show are mimetic (say it: meh MET ik).

Memesis (say it: meh MEE sis) has a number of contextual meanings in theater—and a bunch more in the various disciplines of science—but for the sake of this already-too-long explanation, they’re play-within-a-play or stage-upon-a-stage songs performed for a scripted audience.

So in our merry little play, “God, I Hate Shakespeare” and “A Musical” are diegetic because the characters sing them to each other instead of talking like normal people. And “The Black Death” and “Omelette” are memetic because they’re being intentionally performed.

“Bottom’s Gonna Be on Top” and “Hard to Be the Bard” are the aforementioned diegetic-adjacent soliloquies that the characters sing to themselves or directly to the audience. And “To Thine Own Self be True” and “We See the Light” muddy the diegetic-adjacent waters even further because it’s not always 100% clear to whom they’re specifically being sung.

Finally: If your cholesterol’s high, you’re probably diegetic. Or not. In either case, you should definitely get it checked out.


NOTHING RHYMES WITH AMERICA!

What did the Bottom brothers and their merry band of misfits encounter when they reached the New World?

Our narrative takes place entirely in 1595 and the average transatlantic travel at the time took two months, so it’s safe to assume Nick et al. had arrived on the first ship to the New World by 1596.

But Hamlet was written between 1599 and 1601 and transatlantic travel wasn’t a terribly regular occurrence at the time, so let’s assume word of the play’s success wouldn’t have reached the New World until 1602.

Sir Walter Raleigh had founded the Roanoke Colony in what is now North Carolina in 1585. Virginia Dare, the first known English child born on the North American continent, was born in 1587. But the Roanoke Colony disappeared under mysterious and never yet fully resolved circumstances in 1590. So it’s safe to say there wasn’t much of an English-expat welcoming party—or even an audience—for the brothers and their epic tale of leaving Cornwall when they arrived.

Kinda-lost-to-history explorer and privateer Bartholomew Gosnold was the first Englishman to land on the New England coast—exploring and naming Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard—in 1602. But if he was the first person (and potential audience member) in the area, it’s unlikely that the Bottoms were in their dressing rooms waiting for anyone to call places as soon as their New England house was full.

Another Bartholomew—Bartholomew Gilbert—landed in the Chesapeake Bay in 1603, but he was killed by Native Americans as soon as he came ashore. And his season tickets were probably non-refundable, so his seats sat empty during any possible performances.

BUT! The American social landscape wasn’t completely barren. There were Native American settlements all along the Atlantic coast—though their insatiable hunger for ponderous, derivative musicals about British perseverance in the Renaissance was debatable.

BUT AGAIN! All was not lost. The Pilgrims arrived in what is now Plymouth, Massachusetts, in 1620. An offshoot of the Puritans—their main difference involved the Pilgrims’ belief in some degree of separation between church and state—the Pilgrims’ hunger for bawdy musical theater was also dubious. But I wasn’t there, so I can’t say for sure.

A pilgrim is just a person who journeys—and the Mayflower Pilgrims arrived two decades after the Bottoms—so history is very unclear about who might have been on Shylock’s Pilgrim Productions Board of Directors.

In any case, our adventures at Theatre Cedar Rapids come to a close today, just as the Bottoms’ adventures in England eventually came to a close in 1595. And I’m gonna put a stake in the ground and say we had waaaay better—and more attractive—American audiences.

Land of opportunity indeed!

Tuesday, May 3, 2022

Cedar Rapids>Dubuque>Car With Total Strangers>O'Hare>Fucking Hell>Eventually NYC

Four years ago today, I embarked on what ended up being a 19-hour, four-airport, one-roadtrip-with-strangers odyssey trying to get to NYC for my 50th birthday. I documented the increasingly infuriating saga on Facebook—to the endless amusement of my family and friends, who literally encouraged to turn it into a book—but I'm too lazy for that so I'm just piling it all here. Please enjoy. Or not.

May 2, 11:21 pm
This weekend’s performance of the Big Birthday Broadway Bash has been delayed while we search for an understudy. Thank you for your patience.

#HowToTurn50 #AndWithholdYourStandingOvationBeforeTheShowEvenStarts


May 3, 12:08 am
Curtain up! My chauffeur parents and I just have a bit of a drive ahead of us.

#HowToTurn50 #AndFinallyExhale


May 3, 4:16 am
My (slightly revised so I want to make sure the tank is full but miraculously still on time) Big Birthday Broadway Bash begins!

#HowToTurn50 #AndLoseAllYourSleep


May 3, 6:34 am
We made it to Dubuque—where the airport is quite modern and cool and the snacks are on a table with a sign that says $1 each and there’s a cardboard box to pay or make change for yourself all on the honor system—and I’m seated on the plane where there are two quite hot men except one of them is literally sitting in a crowd of children so whatever but anyway I’m back on track for my Big Birthday Broadway Bash!

#HowToTurn50 #AndNotStopYawning


May 3, 8:41 am
See this sunny, optimistic smile? It’s the rictus of a man who got up at 3:00 to drive to Dubuque after he had to rebook when his Cedar Rapids flight was canceled ... and then sat on the runway and even back in the airport for TWO FRUSTRATING HOURS because of the fog and is now finally taxiing back to the runway for another attempt.

#HowToTurn50 #AndUseAllYourSwearWords


May 3, 9:33 am
Well THIS is a first.

After sitting in impenetrable fog on the runway, returning to the gate, deplaning, replaning, taxiing back to the runway, and finally revving the engines and accelerating for takeoff ... we abruptly aborted and came SCREAMING to a stop just short of certain fiery death. Because the engine failure light came on. THE ENGINE FAILURE LIGHT. How ridiculous! I’ve been driving with my airbag light on for 10 years and I have never even once experienced certain fiery death.

So here we sit AGAIN at the gate with the honor-system snack table waiting to think of newer, even more thrilling, ways to destroy the joys of turning 50.

On the plus side, I’ve now had the chance to scope out the entirety of the passenger population and I have revised my two-hot-guys body count to four. But one’s wearing a backward baseball cap so I have to kill him. So three.

#HowToTurn50 #AndAlmostPoopYourselfRightOnTheRunway


May 3, 10:05 am
Keep scrolling ...
Keep scrolling ...
Almost there ...

You know what’s awesome about having good bipolar drugs? I’m totally chill in almost every situation.

Of course, I won’t cry at your funeral, but you’ll be dead so FUCK YOU WITH YOUR FUCKING COMPLAINING.

#HowToTurn50 #AndShrugAtEverySetback


May 3, 10:21 am
A post from Mom:

So, I will add a chapter—no, just a little info—to the airplane trip to NYC that still has not happened. Just wanted to share a super foggy photo [note: I cannot find this photo] of the original taxiing to the gate in Dubuque about 6:33 am today. And the airport did not know that the plane did not actually take off from the runway until I called them 90 minutes later and said the AA site said the plane was delayed. And now Jake is in Dubuque and we and the car are back in Cedar Rapids!


May 3, 11:31 am
Well. They did such a good job re-duct-taping the engine to the wing that you can hardly see it. So we’ve now completed our third boarding and I’m in the process of ignoring our third safety demonstration as we speak. It’s now been over 12 hours since I was notified that my 6:06 Cedar Rapids flight was canceled, I got rebooked to a 6:41 flight a hour away in Dubuque, I deplaned not once but twice, I’ve been reassigned to three increasingly later connecting flights, and I first embarked on my first of five (and counting!) treks across that mega-long-ass gangplank (or whatever it’s called). (Seriously. That thing has an Olympic-length lap pool, a Renaissance vanishing point and two time-zone changes.) (Parentheses party!)

But it’s now 11:31 and instead of launching ourselves into the air at our promised 10:45 takeoff time, we’re still connected to that gangplank (or whatever it’s called) like an emotionally needy fetus to its umbilical cord.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand ... we JUST got told that our re-duct-taped engine WON’T EVEN START RUNNING.

This literally is exactly the reason why I didn’t buy tickets to a show tonight.

#HowToTurn50 #AndGetGrayHairsOnYourGrayHairs


May 3, 2:23 pm
See this pretty house? It’s in Galena, which is about a 30-minute drive east of the Dubuque airport. See the side mirror in the corner of the photo? That belongs to a family of four people I just met in line in the Dubuque airport. What could all of this possibly mean?

I’LL TELL YOU WHAT IT MEANS.

After having my original flight canceled and then driving to Dubuque at 4:00 am to catch a different flight, after evacuating the plane for that flight twice for fog and twice because the damn engine fell off, after canceling my tickets to Jimmy Fallon, after TRYING REALLY HARD NOT TO FUCKING SWEAR (oops), my second flight was finally canceled too. OF COURSE. And! There were no more Dubuque flights today. And! There was no time to drive to Cedar Rapids to catch a flight there. And! There was nobody at the car-rental counter anyway. But! There IS an 8:30 flight out of Chicago tonight. And! The nice family in line ahead of me decided to drive their car there to catch it. And! They invited me to tag along.

So here I am. In a car with (hopefully) nice strangers. Who won’t dismember me and feed me to feral she-wolves.

Being 50 is weird.

#HowToTurn50 #AndHopefullyNotBeFedToSheWolves


May 3, 3:05 pm
We have stopped at a McDonald's. I'm hungry. I have to pee. But I'm suddenly obsessively worried that my captors will run to their car and take off without me. So I'm neither peeing in the bathroom nor ordering food at the counter with my back to the door and the car.

#HowToTurn50 #AndLiveInHopefullyIrrationalFear

May 3, 3:59 pm
This fluffy boi is lurking ominously in the general vicinity of O’Hare from my view out the window of my captors’ car.

BRING IT, MOTHER NATURE! Imma get to NYC tonight even if I have to climb on a broom and turn my back to the Western skies. Because everyone deserves a chance to see SpongeBob Squarepants the musical!

#HowToTurn50 #ViaTheIncredibleKindnessOfStrangers


May 3, 5:47 pm
Gary the O'Hare American Airlines ticketing agent is a dick.

Every other American Airlines employee I've encountered today responded to my good spirits and organized, at-the-ready information and mood-lightening corny jokes with nothing but friendly helpfulness.

Let me tell you the reasons you’re a dick, Gary:
  • Blah blah blah made-up rules
  • Blah blah blah dramatic sighs
  • Blah blah blah made up fees
  • Blah blah blah putting me in a center seat when my profile says I prefer aisle seats and there’s no way your ticketing system didn’t tell you the back TWO rows of the airplane were empty.
#HowToTurn50 #BlahBlahBlahI'mTalkingToYOUGaryTheDick


May 3, 6:24 pm
I am FINALLY at my O’Hare gate, my third airport after my second canceled flight and two unexpected car rides totaling 500 miles over the last 16 hours. But this flight is two hours earlier than the one I was supposed to be on. So if it gets canceled too, I still have options. BUT I’D BETTER NOT NEED OPTIONS, PEOPLE. I am painfully tired. And after all my soul-crushing travails, American condemned me to a middle seat by the toilets, which my wide shoulders and delicate nose and I hate. But perhaps I’ll be seated in the waifish constipated goblin section. Because OPTIMISM! POSITIVITY! EMACIATING FIBERLESS PLAGUES AMONG THE MAGICAL WOODLAND CREATURES WHO ARE TRAVELING TO NEW YORK TONIGHT!

#HowToTurn50 #ByDrivingToLotsOfAirportsInsteadOfFlyingLikeNormalPeople


May 3, 7:17 pm
Guess what's shut down right now. Just guess.

No, I'll tell you: ALL THE FUCKING NEW YORK AIRPORTS ARE SHUT DOWN RIGHT NOW.

We are currently enjoying life on dimly lit auxiliary power on the O'Hare tarmac. We will sit here until we receive “an update” in an hour and 15 minutes. Go to hell, world.

#HowToTurn50 #WhileSittingOnTarmacAfterTarmacAdNauseam


May 3, 8:31 pm
You know what would make this fucking hell of a day even worse? I’ll tell you exactly what would make this fucking hell of a day even worse:

We literally—LITERALLY!—just got the “Is there a doctor on board?” announcement—yes, apparently it’s a real thing—because someone across the aisle and one row ahead of me is apparently having some kind of seizure. And there are so many people crowding around her that a good four rows of us are trapped in our seats as the whole plane sits trapped on the tarmac subsisting only on dimly lit reserve power.

I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

So of course—OF FUCKING COURSE!—the self-absorbed douchebag sitting next to me—who has already TWICE demanded that I get up so he can wander the aisles doing his self-absorbed-douchebag things—suddenly decides that NOW is the time to push our row back into the crowded aisle again so he can wander the plane doing even more of his self-absorbed-and-now-potentially-harmful douchebag things.

ON TOP OF THAT!

I don’t even know what’s up with the prick directly in front of me, but he’s trying to interfere in the doctoring so insistently that the flight attendant has repeatedly—REPEATEDLY!—told him that he needs to stay in his seat and stop demanding to interfere and shut the hell up or—and she literally said this to him—“I’ll have to involve the captain.”

Plus the flight attendants have just confirmed amongst themselves and within my earshot that the gagging smell here in the back of the plane is from the “exploded diaper” someone left in the bathroom.

I am so so SO beyond exhaustion and patience and a capacity for tolerance of self-absorbed trash and even basic happiness right now.

#HowToTurn50 #InThePitsOfHell


May 3, 8:58 pm
Why is my phone still on? Why am I using the same screen grab?

I’ll tell you why my phone is still on PLUSS I'll tell you why I'm using the same screen grab:

We have resolved the medical emergency (something about low blood sugar triggering a panic attack, near as I can tell). We have taxied to the runway. We have dimmed the cabin lights. We have been told to off our electronic devices for takeoff.

WE HAVE ALSO SUDDENLY HEARD THE BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAMS OF A FUCKING CHILD WHO HAS LOCKED HERSELF IN THE BATHROOM AND REFUSES TO COME OUT.

The flight attendants are trying to calm the child through the door with a mix of soothing reassurances underscored with FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING LITTLE BRAT OR SO HELP US WE WILL BURN THIS PLANE TO THE GROUND WITH YOU IN IT AND WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOUR PARENTS WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOUR PARENTS?

Oh, wait: The flight attendants seem to have gotten the door open and (hopefully) stun-gunned the child because all is quiet save for the dulcet tones of their forced soothing reassurances. BUT THE QUESTION REMAINS WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE FUCKING PARENTS.

#HowToTurn50 #TheFirstStepIsToGetYourTubesTied


May 4, 12:07 am
Wheels on the ground, bag collected, Uber arrived, traffic at a brisk crawl! I haven’t been so tired—or so in need of a vigorous tooth-brushing—in as long as I can remember. But my tap shoes and my sense of overwhelming relief (not to mention my carefully selected, casually handsome, still-looking-Jimmy-Fallon-fresh shirt) are here, so bring on the big gay musicals!

After a sound sleep, of course. Preceded by a vigorous tooth-brushing.

#HowToTurn50 #AfterAGoodSleepOfCourse


May 4, 12:42 am
I’M! IN! MANHATTAN!

TAKING! ELEVATOR! SELFIES!

AND! POSSIBLY! FLEXING!

time. for. fucking. bed.

#HowToTurn50 #ImOnlyDoingThisOnce

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