Thursday, November 17, 2005

When you think of divorced parents, it’s easy to invoke images of weeping children, embittered attorneys, the entrails of puppies freshly matted on the sidewalk–indeed, the very sundering of the American dream. Honestly, though, it’s not that bad. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating they peddle marriage licenses in the clearance aisle at your local Dollar City, complete with generous return policy. I’m just saying, you know? People make their choices, hopefully after prudent consideration, and devote themselves with the best intentions, but should something become broken with too many jagged edges, well, that’s called imperfection.

I’ve got to tell you, though, planning air travel is fucking trauma. Clinically proven, do you understand? I could feel Southwest.com quiver with delight as it presented an intricate ballet of flights and layovers and specials, a unique choreography for which I would be made the dark-haired ingenue. This is the kind of thing that would’ve made Balanchine throw up his hands and commit to an eternity of dinner theater in the Norshore.

While we’re on the subject of hateful musical pursuits, I bought Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory last week because it only set me back $5.99. I reasoned, “Hey, I’d trade a burrito for a DVD!” Here is a maxim possibly related to the last sentence: just because something is cheap does not warrant its purchase. I should’ve gotten the burrito. Hell, even the foil wrapping the burrito would’ve provided more entertainment value.

I don’t have a problem with musicals. Why not break into song at the most inopportune times? It’s a certain inflection that encourages white-hot rage, however, and the specifics are tough to verbalize. Basically there’s an extra layer of self realization. An actor will sing and an actress will perform, and they will make it known they are singing and performing.

You hear it in Lassie, Charade, and definitely when Aubrey Woods croons about being the Candy Man. Oh, gosh, the Candy Man. Not only does he indicate he’s the Candy Man, he also clearly indicates he’s singing about being the Candy Man. Same thing when Grandpa Joe leaps out of bed and into dance. Every step, every gimp, loudly proclaims, “Look at me! I’m singing.” That’s when I stopped the movie. I need my films, books, and games–my media, if I may use the word incorrectly–to dispense seamless escapism.