Trifecta

     

It all started with "Big Lake, Big City," a sassy modern noir mystery for stage by Keith Huff (whose writing credits include "A Steady Rain" on Broadway, "House of Cards" for Netflix and television's "Mad Men.") My friend Pauline suggested we take a train to Chicago for a matinee performance at the Looking Glass Theater. A day trip. How could I resist?
        Then theater fan Pauline suggested maybe we could spend the night and catch two plays. The dark psychological thriller "Belleville" at Steppenwolf was added to the itinerary. Can't beat Steppenwolf. I'm willing to try anything they offer.
        Then Pauline got a good deal at a downtown hotel (the wonderful Wit), so the trip grew to two nights. Our Wednesday schedule was open. We thought we might walk over to Navy Pier for dinner and fireworks. Or catch something at the Shakespeare theater there. Or maybe a blues club.
         The Wit is just around the corner from The Goodman. Tickets for its latest extravaganza, a new musical version of "Jungle Book," weren't available online or at Hot Tix, but as Pauline keeps saying, you never know until you ask. So after checking into our hotel room, we stopped by The Goodman and happened upon half-price tickets in the middle of the mezzanine. I don't get better seats as a reviewer.
        In two days we racked up three wonderful shows. Broadway couldn't be better. "Jungle Book" is a snazzy, jazzy light-hearted musical, that's just a shade shy of four star perfection. It's headed to Boston next. I suspect a little fine-tuning of the  "story book" scene that opens and closes the show, may send it to Tony Award history.
        "Belleville" is wonderfully acted and engrossing, but it leaves too many questions about this poisonous romance. What's he doing now? Why does she say that? What IS this story about?
         "Big Lake, Big City" remains the shining star of the visit. Perfect casting, ambitious sets  (a Ferris wheel scene and "smokin'" bodies) and witty, laugh-out-loud comedy.
          "Belleville" and "Big Lake, Big City" continue through Aug. 25, "Jungle Book" closes Aug. 18. I recommend all three. Get 'em while it's hot!

Grand Canyon of Leenane

     

Question: If a tree falls in the forest and only 38  people are there to hear it, is the crash any less magnificent? Put another way: Would the Grand Canyon be less grand or Niagara Falls less spectacular if only a precious few knew these places existed?
      I don't think so.
      The measure of greatness is not always in the size of the crowd of admirers. 
       Which explains why award-winning director Fred Sebulske and his award-winning cast of Rose Anne Shansky, Amy Kaechele, Craig Hammerlind and Dylan Harris are pouring their hearts and talents into "The Beauty Queen of Leenane."(Read review) This dark Irish tale is being presented one more weekend at the intimate Dog Story Theater. If you enjoy absorbing acting and a well-written drama with plenty of humorous moments, then you'll want to be sure to get one of the 50 or so seats available at each performance. Otherwise, you could find out the Grand Canyon was here, and you missed it!

R+J=Hot stuff

When I see a really great show, I just can't stop telling people about it. That's the effect of Hope Summer Repertory's "Romeo + Juliet." Smokin'! This contemporary interpretation of the classic Shakespearean tragedy is great on so many levels. It makes use of modern media including gigantic video screen and cheeky little tweets from @bardofavon. The fight scenes are fantabulous -- with athletic somersaults and pop stands. The characters are well developed, with better connection to the audience than you usually see in Shakespeare. And the lovers -- whew, you'll believe these two are in love. Check out my review . The good news is there are six more performances in repertory, with the final one on Aug. 8. Be sure to catch one.

Gone fishing!

 

Is your summer busy? What with yard work and travels and squeezing in a few warm weather musts like farmers markets or barbeques or outdoor concerts, the summer disappears too fast. I mean, what happened to June? The next thing I know it's July and I haven't found time for a bike ride or an ice cream cone or paddling around the lake behind my house.
     So when my guy Steve insisted I drive all the way to his place in northern Michigan to finally use that fishing license we bought a month ago, I felt a little exasperated. I don't have time, I told him. I'm giving a presentation Tuesday to the Word Weavers group in Allendale. I need to go through my notes, practice my power point, collect hand outs.
      And there's that book I'm supposed to be writing. Full Moon Friday is the third book in my Jordan Daily News Mystery series. It's scheduled to come out June 13, 2014 -- the last Full Moon Friday the 13th until 2049. A year isn't a lot of time to write a book and get it edited and published, so I need to stay on track. I'm getting into some really fun parts of the story and I enjoy my writing time.
      And one of these days I've got to sort out all that medicare paperwork they've been sending me. I turn 65 in October so I need to figure out my alphabet of options: Part A, B, C and D. And clean the garage. And call a plumber about that pipe in the basement. And...
       But sometimes, when you love a guy, you got to make time for him and his passion -- fishing. So Saturday, for the first time this summer, I went fishing. It wasn't exactly slamma jamma, which is the way Steve likes to catch fish. We ended up with 32 keepers, more than enough for a nice mess of fish and plenty of left overs. But it took us all day.
           We caught a lot of little perch that are more of an irritation because you got to keep taking the hooks out of their mouths, trying not to hurt the squirmy little things, throw them back, replace your bait and do it all over again, without really adding to "the catch."
      And then there's the big irritations -- usually a rock bass or some other fighting fish that Steve says is fun to catch (we differ on the definition of fun) but also gets thrown back. Saturday Steve caught a whopper. A huge needle nose gar that looks like a prehistoric monster -- and it is. This is the kind of  fish Fred Flinstone probably brought home to Wilma. But Steve's gar just messed up our lines, tied them in knots and forced him to get out the pliers and scissors and redo some rigging. (after the ugly fish was returned to the water, of course.)
      But sitting back in the boat for six hours -- enjoying the sun and the Lake Leelanau scenery, exchanging lazy meaningless small talk with Steve and his grandson Mitchell, and getting lost in slow summer  moments to just think about clouds and ripples and whatever -- I remembered why I like fishing and why I need to make more time for it in my life.
       Slow down, just sit. Or as the minister said this morning at Church in the Park: Let go and Let God. Echoed in a song from "The Full Monty"--"Let it go, let it go, let it go."
  

The Key

I don't usually write in verse, but after spending a week at the Peninsula Writers Summer Retreat on Glen Lake, I felt inspired:

The key is on the table

When I arrive at cabin 5

The large green plastic tag

Is a remnant of the motel era

Before magnetic passcards frustrated entry

Until swiped just right

for a green light.

Shoil is already there unloading her red gas hog,

Claiming the cushy chair in the corner,

Rearranging the furniture to her liking.

Trish comes next with a printer the size of a baby grand

Then little Wendy who flits around like a glowing Tinkerbell

Except when she disappears into her den.

Shoil must have turned on the light over the sink

and for seven days and nights it watches us

Fixing ribs, tacos, soup and spaghetti

And boxes and bottles and more boxes of wine

WaRshing dishes with a capital R

Setting a buffet to share with friends

And the key is still on the table.

When the sun sets behind the gator

The sink light remains on

Inspiring the tapping of keys

Listening to the secrets of Cabin 5 shared in a circle

Waiting for the smokers who sneak outside

Guiding the late night potty run

And sending off the early morning walker

Trish who talks with her hands

Decides midweek to move the table

Squeak, screech, hobble, hobble

In front of the couch

As a home for her computer and creating

While watching the lake

But the key remains on the table

She adds a green light to the deck

In case Gatsby comes to call

And swims and shivers her way to a raft in the sun

The tower of TP on the back of the stool

Only dwindles by two --amazing

Until Wendy confesses she’s been holding in

Shoil packs first, plotting a course from

Glen Arbor to TC to Lansing and beyond

Then Trish takes one last drive around the lake,

Tells Carol’s poem with her fingers,

 and fades into the night.

The final day finds Wendy and Sue

Using the table as packing central

Dividing up celery and cashews

Praying for pitched recyclables

Drinking the last of the wine.

Time to find the switch

to turn off the light over the sink

Wheel the suitcases, haul the printer

And cooler and boxes and bags

There’s a new green light on the deck,

To remind Gatsby and the literary world

We were here

But as we close the door

The key is still on the table

Breadcrumbs

 

Remember how Hansel and Gretel left a trail of breadcrumbs when they went into the woods so they would be able to find their way home?
   Well, I just returned from a whirlwind visit to Colorado and I felt like I was leaving a trail of bits and pieces of myself for some yet-to-be-determined purpose.
    Some of the leavings were intentional, such as the book I was reading. I enjoyed Boone's Lick by Larry McMurty of Lonesome Dove fame. I'm familiar with the Boone's Lick trail in Missouri which attracted me to the book in the first place. But the story is told from the perspective of a 14-year-old boy, so I gave it to Steve's 14-year-old grandson, Trevor, a lanky lacrosse player in Steamboat Springs.
    But most of the crumbs I left behind were a combination of debris and dementia. Like the water bottle left at the security checkpoint at Denver International Airport. It joined overflowing bins of toothpaste, soda bottles and toothpaste that violated the 3-ounce limit. Or the swimsuit I forgot hanging to dry in a condo bathroom in Winter Park. Or the breath mints I left on the kitchen table at Steve's son's home in Conifer. The hand lotion on a coffee table in Winter Park. The reams of notes I brought along for a long-distance phone conference on Michigan's upcoming Wilde Awards, no longer needed and pitched in a Colorado wastebasket.A business card handed to a woman who asked about my books at a Steamboat party.
    I gathered a few crumbs as well, mostly hugs and kisses and laughs with relatives and friends. A few pictures. Memories.
     But will the trail grow cold, the bread crumbs disappear, before I head that way again?

Book of Mormon

        Can you enjoy a play but not like it? Can you learn from something you find repulsive?
         I had the opportunity to travel to Chicago over Memorial Day weekend and see The Book of Mormon. I went with my eyes open. I knew this was going to be very tongue in cheek ...to the point of gagging.
         I knew I would be offended by the language, and I was. This is comedic cursing, using four-letter words not because they are appropriate to the context but because they aren't, and therefore it's funny. It's written by the same team that created the uber offensive animated series, South Park.
         Although the play lampoons organized religion, especially the Church of Latter Day Saints, it's actually more insulting to African cultures because the most offensive behavior is reserved for  the villagers who are being visited by LDS missionaries.
         But even in this context, I found little nuggets of truth in the story--the way Christians sometimes act like people ought to be able to ignore biological urges that go against the teaching of the church,  the way the message of salvation can sometimes seem irrelevant to current problems, and the way some Christian tales seem as conveniently  fictional as "Star Wars."
         I don't turn to musicals for religious teaching, but I believe all creativity emanates from a central fount of truth and inspiration. I think these creators were making fun of musicals as much as anything, and yet the songs are snappy and fun, the dancing was great, and the plot, though predictable, actually works pretty well. So I suppose enjoying it means I missed the point.