Beauty and the Beast: I'm FINALLY caught up on my Disney pop culture

1. This is perhaps the most visually gorgeous movie I have ever seen. I hereby volunteer to abandon my aging father, don a yellow gown and pretend that romance is somehow a legitimate theme in "Romeo and Juliet" in every beast-related literary discussion I have for the rest of my life just to live in that castle.
2. Speaking of the yellow gown, it's stunning. But why does Belle's hair look like it was combed by a distracted squirrel the whole time she wears it?
2.5. And what's that weird, distracting thing in her ear the whole time she wears the yellow gown? Is it some kind of wireless earpiece she had to wear because she couldn't learn her lines?
3. I love how this movie fills in some of the backstory that's not in the animated version. But if Belle was born in Paris and whisked away at a young age to what she herself describes as a French "provincial town" where she's so unworldly that she repeatedly sings in the abstract that "there must be something more than" it, WHERE DID SHE GET HER BRITISH ACCENT?
4. All the animated characters teeter precariously on the creepy side of the creepy/enchanting fence.
5. Speaking of, why doesn't Chip have a gaping head wound when he turns back into a human kid?
6. Yes, LeFou is played as a gay stereotype. And even though we've come a long way and we as a culture should have evolved past that blah blah blah yawn yawn yawn, the movie is a live-action cartoon of what was already a cartoon filled with clichéd, silly, delightfully entertaining stereotypes. It takes place in a cartoony version a none-of-us-was-there-to-even-know-for-sure-what-it-was-like historical culture where the men are fey and the women are helpless and this movie elevates the Zeitgeist with colorblind casting where black people are courtiers and interracial couples love and kiss each other so it's a world where everyone has a place and an existence and I can totally go full-stereotype sometimes and I'm a gay man with an unrequited and unacknowledged crush on a straight friend and it happens all over the world to all kinds of people so SHUT UP.
7. Meanwhile, back in the real world: We HAVE come a long way and we as a culture HAVE evolved, so if you think you are in possession of any anti-gay opinion about the movie or anything else that you're still desperately failing to justify with logic, reason or laughably-hypocritical-to-anyone-who's-actually-read-a-bible religion, SHUT UP.
8. Seriously. Did nobody notice through the entire process of auditioning and filming that Emma Watson has a British accent?
9. Best line: "Keep calm and think back to the war. And the widows."
10. Seriously. I call bullshit on the entire movie because Chip doesn't have a gaping wound in his head at the end.

"Trump proclaims May 1 as 'Loyalty Day'"

As usual, he misspelled Distraction Day.

Or maybe he thinks he's had such an awesome first 100 days that he's being coronated on a slightly-less-misspelled Royalty Day.

I'm so tired of this second-rate queen getting kicks with her crown.

Without a leader

"One of my proudest moments was when I told Obama, 'You will not fill this Supreme Court vacancy,'"
--Mitch McConnell, REPUBLICAN Senate Majority Leader, ONE YEAR AGO

And not that you're a leader by ANY stretch of the imagination -- including your perpetual state of narcissistic delusion -- but Republicans currently control the House, the Senate, the Executive branch and arguably the Judiciary. Except for the rare instances that require a supermajority vote, the Democrats have virtually zero power to obstruct anything. And you, as an impotent, uneducated non-leader, are desperately blaming them for YOUR catastrophic failures as a leader and YOUR lobbyist- and crony-CEO-controlled self-interests.

Congratulations, man-boy. You have managed to sum up your projection, your delusion, your lies, your failures, your petulance, your ignorance and your staggering lack of leadership in one unproofread tweet.

Nobody

"I know more about ISIS than the generals do, believe me."
"Nobody knows the system better than I do."
"I know more about contributions than anybody."
"Nobody knows politicians better than Donald Trump."
"I know our complex tax laws better than anyone who has ever run for president and I am the only one who can fix them."
"Nobody knows more about trade than me."
"Nobody knows jobs like I do!"
"Nobody in the history of this country has ever known so much about infrastructure as Donald Trump."
"There's nobody bigger or better at the military than I am."
"Because nobody knows the system better than me. I know the H1B. I know the H2B. Nobody knows it better than me."
"Nobody knows banking better than I do."
"I understand money better than anybody. I understand it far better than Hillary, and I'm way up on the economy when it comes to questions on the economy."
"So a general gets on, sent obviously by Obama, and he said, 'Mr. Trump doesn't understand. He knows nothing about defense.' I know more about offense and defense than they will ever understand, believe me. Believe me. Than they will ever understand. Than they will ever understand."
"I understand the tax laws better than almost anyone, which is why I'm the one who can truly fix them."

“This is more work than in my previous life. I thought it would be easier.”

Flashback Friday: Royalty Edition

One year ago I was King Triton in Theatre Cedar Rapids' The Little Mermaid. Now I'm a collection of random queens in Revival Theatre Company's Victor/Victoria. I'm starting my own royal lineage!

Politics

First vocal rehearsal!

I don't know where I got the idea that a big literally gay musical about drag kings playing drag queens would have gender-conforming vocal scoring, but this music is HIGH. Plus I got pushed up to T2 in some sections. Which is as foreign to me as a football bat.

But we have a tidy little ensemble of mighty big singers for this show. And I only know it's sounding right.

Well, shit

One of these things Ivanka like the others

Calling her a "designer" of anything seems generous since she's being sued for "designing" knockoff couture footwear. But at least her lies are on point.

What a State we're in

In a room filled with teachers from across the country, nobody likes you enough to make sure you understand capitalization.

Passive aggressive

The first horseman of the apocalypse has stomped its fearsome hooves and bellowed its ominous whinny; my investment guy just recommended that I downgrade my investment strategy from aggressive to moderate. Which is what people do to lessen the short-term risk of their financial holdings when they're about to become old and retire and die die die like a dead person who's died.

If you need me, I'll be standing here with one foot in this grave.

This is a question for Betsy

British! Running! Shoes!

I just started rehearsals for Revival Theatre Company's Victor/Victoria, which is a big gay musical for which I have plenty of big gay shoes.

But today I also got cast in Theatre Cedar Rapids' Billy Elliot, which is a big British musical. So I had to buy some big British shoes to celebrate.

And they're running shoes, which will come in handy as I dash between rehearsals for two big shows that are rehearsing simultaneously. Because who needs time to enjoy the quiet beauty of springtime in Iowa?

You can't build a wall if you can't find the border

Betsy DeVos has made geography for our president in DC and other border states very difficult. We will not stand for this. Read!

I feel so strongly about graffiti in public lavatories that I signed a partition

What? Why are you looking here? The joke's self-contained in the headline. And it's GOLDEN.

It's like he knows EXACTLY what we're all thinking

“Well he said, you’ll be the greatest president in the history of, but you know what, I’ll take that also, but that you could be. But he said, will be the greatest president but I would also accept the other. In other words, if you do your job, but I accept that. Then I watched him interviewed and it was like he never even was here. It’s incredible. I watched him interviewed a week later and it’s like he was never in my office. And you can even say that.”

-- United States President Donald Trump in an interview with AP White House Correspondent Julie Pace, April 21, 2017

Thus all fairy stories end ...

The chronic, increasing, sometimes-doubling-over abdominal pain finally won the battle 30 hours, three Broadway shows, three celebrities, two museums, one tap class, one theater tour, one new-boyfriend meet and seven friend reunions short of the complete birthday Broadway vacation I'd planned. I decided it was best to get home and in the care of my own doctors on the off chance the pain is an indicator of something serious enough to warrant surgery or a hospital stay. My initial assumption that it was just another miserable side effect of my bipolar meds seems entirely misguided at this point, so home I go. And as disappointed as I am, I know it's the smart decision.

So now all eyes are laser-focused on next year! Watch out, NYC: I'll be 50 and wealthy beyond description and cured of all abdominal pain and bipolarness and if I'm not already starring in three Broadway musicals simultaneously I'll be coming to see every sequin and kickline ya got. 

And I'm totally bringing my tap shoes again.

Chicks dig me

Stupid fake fuck

If the fake news polls contain positive info, is it fake positive info?

If the fake news polls were totally wrong in General E, were they fake totally wrong in General E?

If the fake news polls are actually fake news, why do you want us to watch them?

Wasn't General E the name of the car on The Dukes of Hazzard?

Wow. You have to give him credit for at least getting the punctuation right.

Please use your inside voices

So after a lengthy visit to the doctor -- made lengthier by my inability to pee on command -- the diagnosis is there is no diagnosis. Which is good in the sense that there's no intestinal blockage requiring surgery but bad in the sense that my tummy still hurts sometimes to the point of doubling over and nobody knows why. The very early stages of appendicitis and kidney stones are still possibilities but are highly improbable. And the doctor didn't say this outright but I know in my heart I'm not pregnant. So all I can do is wait and see if it gets worse. And nap. Which I'm totally about to do. Yes, nap. Nap nap nap.

But thanks for all your concern and well-wishes. I'm still really bummed I cut my trip short but I do get an unplanned day out of it that's perfect for napping. Which I'm totally about to do. But you maybe already knew that.

It's like he's omniscient or something

I say "very interesting football game currently taking place" when I'm at a Super Bowl party and I want to give everyone the impression that I have a nuanced understanding of what's going on. And that I even care.

Down came the rain

There is no greater insult to injury than lying doubled over in pain all night until finally drifting off to fitful sleep only to wake up with The Itsy-Bitsy Spider stuck in your head.

I chose bed over the ER when I got in last night so I could see a regular doctor today. Off I go to discover my fate ...

Flush with excitement

One of the small pleasures of two-leg flights going home to smaller markets like Cedar Rapids is the higher probability that you'll run into people you may know when you get to your final-leg airport gate, which is usually tucked away charmingly in a bubbling drainage ditch behind a haphazard pile of desiccated cows six miles of hardscrabble terrain from the last functioning airport bathroom. And when you change your flight at the last minute, you often get the very back seat on your tiny puddle-jumper-to-smaller-market plane. Right next to the lavatory.

My final score for this flight is 0% people I know and 100% very back seat right next to the lavatory.

My painful distended abdomen and I can't wait to get home.

Vacation's over. I'm in pain and it's making me snarky.

Nobody is safe in New York. Not even RIGHT BY THE POLICE CARS.

I'm not better but I'm walking upright so I ventured out for some Broadway therapy.

But TKTS was PCKD over so Beautiful I'm gonna live to see.

Oh, what's the good of the strongest heart ...

It seems I've added another bipolar-med side effect to my collection: a stomachache/headache combo that leaves me practically doubled over in pain. And it must have stowed away in my carry-on because it's clearly followed me to NYC. It canceled our trip to the Whitney Biennial yesterday and saved me money on an expensive restaurant last night. Now it's canceled my second tap class and postponed a theater tour today. And it hurts so much I almost don't care. Which is exactly why my lucky understudy Bette is going on again for me tonight. And I'm curling up in a ball on the couch.

Flashback Friday: Running and Pooping Edition

1. I am (or at least I have been in the not-so-distant past) a marathon runner. And I have the medals, worn-out shoes and chronic injuries to prove it.
2. I have the magical ability to poop cats.

Note to self: Write clever something in this spa

That. Tap. Class. Was. Amazing.

And challenging. And exhausting. And fun. And sweaty. But I'm always sweaty.

Ultimately it was just like any other good tap class I've ever taken. I don't know if I was expecting sequins and Broadway stars, but I wouldn't know about the Broadway stars anyway; nobody talked to anybody. Ever.

I was rustier than I thought I'd be -- I don't think I've even had my tap shoes on in over a year -- but I totally kept up with the class. I'd say we were all on the same level as far as our ability to learn and retain choreography accurately but when the teacher had us do technique exercises one at a time, I was definitely in the bottom third of the class.

BUT! And here's the big but: If you've ever taken a tap class with me or heard me complain about my personal tap frustrations, you know I catastrophically suck at pullbacks, which are a fundamental skill for every tapper. The Broadway Dance Center teacher -- who calls herself the best pullback teacher in New York -- worked with us one on one today in class ... and with her help I ACTUALLY DID SOME RESPECTABLE PULLBACKS! Which is the best self-birthday present ever.

Me. Pullbacks. At Broadway Dance Center. So far it's been an awesome day.

Theater. Tap. Class.

That's what it's called. And it's where all the big boys tap.

#BucketList #Squee #OhMyGodImFinallyDoingThis

Look what we're seeing tonight! And tonight! And tonight!

Three Iowans walk into a bar.

Except two of them live in New York. And two of them originally met in Chicago. And two of them just met. And it's a sports bar.

Nah. I wouldn't believe it either. But I'm packing this trip full of adventures and reunions and after who knows how long I just got to have drinks with a fellow Chicago Gay Men's Chorus alumnus and his delightful co-worker and now I'm off for more Broadway magic!

GUESS WHO JUST GOT TICKETS TO DEAR EVAN HANSEN?

Not me. The TKTS lady laughed and threw RC in my face when I asked. But A Bronx Tale is advertised everywhere -- EVERYWHERE! -- as a cross between Jersey Boys and West Side Story. And those words are catnip to me.

So bring on the Bronx! And the Tale. And the A.

Wheels down at LGA!

I wrote that just so I could say wheels down. And LGA. And I guess at. Because prepositions.

I wrote that just so I could say prepositions.

Here she is at last!

I made it through the first leg of my flight, but I had to walk myself off the plane. Drag-off service was $35. But at least they give you a punch card.

How appropriate is this book for my Big Birthday Broadway Binge Blowout Smackdown! on a scale of Not Gay At All Wink Wink to Throw Your Tiara On The Ground And Stomp Your Pedi-Ready Prada And Demand More Bugle Beads On Your Peplum?

CID > ORD > LGA > BBBBBS!

[BBBBBS! = Big Birthday Broadway Binge Blowout Smackdown! I added Smackdown to make it sound less gay. Did it work?]

In the mean time -- as you no doubt have the previous heartbreak of knowing -- there is nothing -- NOTHING! -- worse than wearing a fancy new shirt on a two-leg flight and discovering only after -- AFTER! -- you go through security that your fancy new shirt has an itchy, skin-shredding tag rubbing right in your sensitive patrician skin area and you now have zero access to anything like scissors or a gourmet cutlery block or a blowtorch to remove it.

Check out my birthday haul!

Homemade cupcakes with pastel frosting and glittery sprinkles. Theatre Cedar Rapids gift certificates. Enough peanut butter to last me until noon on Thursday. 

It's been a good birthday.

I have often walked down this street before

My beloved lilac trees are blooming. Check. I'm wearing my New York shirt in anticipation of my trip to New York tomorrow. Check. The neighbors think I'm weird for standing in the street taking selfies with trees. Check.

It's been a lovely birthday so far.

Flashback Tuesday: Finally Legal Edition

My sex appeal predates Annie 2: Miss Hannigan's Revenge, said no sexy person ever.

I’m not sure what’s most disturbing about this picture: the bar mitzvah clown smile, the Disney villain eyes, the dinner-plate glasses, the scarecrow neck, the weird-ass way I wore my watch on the inside of my wrist or the pink-on-white shirt that hung on me with all the sex appeal of a Mayan burial gown on an immolated corpse. The girls on my floor (Loser alert! I was living in the Foreign Language House, a co-ed dorm filled with language dorks who stayed in on Friday nights studying verb declensions!) had decorated my door with pink 21s. Probably to match the shirt. Or the homosexuality. I’m not sure where I got the wine, but I am sure I had only a sip of it to celebrate reaching such a milestone age. Because actually drinking a whole glass of alcohol on my 21st birthday would have been something the cool kids would do.

Gratuitous 49th birthday gym selfie

Have your cake and fucking choke on it

I'm sorry but I'm not done being furious and appalled and repulsed by our man-boy president's "most beautiful piece of chocolate cake that you've ever seen" information-prioritization aberrancy last week.

Why on earth would he even think the aesthetic details of his dessert were newsworthy enough to bring up in a high-profile interview about a massive, deadly airstrike that could potentially precipitate a global war?

He seemed completely oblivious to the embarrassment he should have felt admitting that not only was he not in a lengthy, morally and sociopolitically anguishing situation briefing when it happened but also to the emasculating (for someone who's struggled his entire life and then through his unseemly campaign to build his personal brand on a foundation of masculine business ruthlessness and sexual infidelity and assault) embarrassment that he didn't even make the decision to authorize the airstrike before it happened and he learned about it only during a leisurely, diplomatically mortifying dinner after the fact.

He wasn't even embarrassed that he couldn't name the country he let his generals decide when and where to bomb.

Despite obvious conversation topics ranging from humanitarian concerns to hasty retaliation to arms proliferation to the escalation of aggression to minimizing civilian casualties to the reasons he wasn't directly involved in the strategies and the considerations and the very execution of the airstrike, he chose to tell the national news about ... what his cake looked like.

When I was new in advertising and didn't know enough to research and prepare for any possible question on any product- or industry-related topic a client might bring up during multimillion-dollar campaign or strategy pitches, I learned after only ONE mortifying and thankfully not account-destroying desperately-babbling-about-anything-I-could-think-of answer that I drooled out in front of two layers of my bosses and probably four layers of client hierarchy to a completely obvious and to-anyone-else-expected question that I ALWAYS NEED TO KNOW EVERYTHING THAT'S GOING ON WITH A PROJECT AND IN WHAT ORDER OF IMPORTANCE IT ALL FALLS when I talked to anyone outside my office. Man-boy clearly has neither the capacity for embarrassment over his intellectual and educational failings nor the interest in making any effort to overcome them. It's like the man playing our president has suddenly fallen ill and his handlers have desperately thrown a babbling toddler in the spotlight to take his place.

And the media and the public continue to focus on the contentless content of his babbling instead of the contentless lack of coherent thought that's driving it ... and possibly driving us into a devastating global war. All because we keep giving our babbling toddler a microphone and a national stage.

Even though he's not entirely sure what country we just bombed.

He's confusing the Electoral College with Trump University again

Those who can't president go golfing

I've never heard our puerile inarticulate man-boy president brag about how awesome he is at golfing. And he's been golfing quite nearly every weekend he's been our failure of a president. And he brags about how awesome he is at EVERYTHING. So he must be as disastrous (one of his favorite words!) at golfing as he is at presidenting.

He gets a lot of practice at golfing and he doesn't get any better. He gets a LOT of practice at lying and he doesn't get any better. Despite his repeated, baldfaced, heavily tweeted declarations to the contrary, he's giving himself very little practice at being president. And by all measures and accounts and logical conclusions he's actually getting worse.

But in his defense, he clearly worked very hard and was very efficient at getting himself under FBI investigation.

Peeps are not your peeps

Because I like daffodils, that's why. And Donald Duck.

Frosted. Easter. Cookie. Brownie. Sandwich.

Note to future generations in perpetuity:

Butterfly-shaped cookies are impossible to frost.

Bring up the curtain, la, la, la

MUSICAL I HATE: Cats (which is the first show I saw on Broadway), Mama Mia (love ABBA, hate the show)

MUSICALS I THINK ARE OVERRATED: The Producers, Gypsy, My Fair Lady, The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, Kinky Boots, Spring Awakening

MUSICAL I THINK IS OVERDONE: Grease

MUSICALS I THINK ARE UNDERRATED: Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, Mame, Once on this Island, On the 20th Century, Kiss of the Spider Woman, City of Angels, Big River, Chess

MUSICALS I LOVE: A Chorus Line, Next to Normal, Jersey Boys, Ragtime, Evita, Newsies, Book of Mormon, any Sondheim

MUSICAL I CHERISH: West Side Story

MUSICALS I COULD LISTEN TO ON REPEAT: Company, Sweeney Todd, A Little Night Music, Sunday in the Park with George, On the 20th Century

MUSICALS I STILL WANT TO DO: Sunday in the Park with George, Hairspray, Company, Sweeney Todd, 1776, Follies, On the 20th Century, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, Full Monty

MUSICALS I STILL WANT TO SEE: Hamilton, Chicago, Dear Evan Hansen, Urinetown, The Music Man (but only because I live in Iowa)

GUILTY PLEASURE: Bye Bye Birdie, Wicked, 42nd Street, Pippin, Joseph/Dreamcoat

Flashback Friday: Cicero Edition

The Chicago Gay Men's Chorus allowed me to check off a lot of things that are on every man's bucket list: Sing the National Anthem at a Cubs game, record a CD of beautifully arranged love songs, choreograph a show called The Ten Commandments: The Musical, and rock the six-wived Lipschitz out of Velma Kelly's wig and heels in a reverently faithful re-creation of "The Cell Block Tango." POP!

Well, crap

I've ordered a good $500 worth of jeans in various tasteful and age-appropriate colors from Amazon over the past few months, and I finally sat down tonight to figure out how to return the ones that are too small. Which is pretty much all of them. Even though I ordered the size I always wear. But I just discovered to my procrastinated dismay that you can't return stuff to Amazon after 30 days. And you ESPECIALLY can't return stuff to Amazon with a cat in the box.

So I am now the proud owner of about 10 pair of 36 (cough! cough!) x 34 slim-fit jeans in tasteful shades of khakis and blues and greens. And I certainly don't expect people to compensate me for my procrastination and my inability to read fine print, so if you live nearby and think you could fit your hips in some brand-new, still-betagged 36 (cough! cough!) x 34 slim-fit jeans, shoot me a private message and I can totally hook you up.

Also! Remind me to tell you the story about the time more than 30 days ago that I somehow ordered two boxes each of two different pair of totally cool sneakers. (I know. Who DOES something that dumb?) Bring your size 12 feet on by and see if they fit.

First come, first to get a bonus free cat.

It's always the messiest before it gets the organizediest, right?

Too soon?

Today in stupid

1. I chose to eat dinner at McDonald's.
2. Sean Spicer.
3. The person taking my McDonald's drive-through order asked me if it was for here or to go.
4. "The Holocaust center."
5. The North Carolina House GOP filed a bill to invalidate the Supreme Court ruling on same-sex marriage, directing the state government to defy it.
6. Hitler "didn't even sink to using chemical weapons."
7. The Texas Senate advanced a bill that would allow county clerks to refuse marriage licenses to gay couples in the name of not-at-all-secret-code-for-homophobic-hatred "religious liberty."
8. Hitler “was not using the gas on his own people in the same way that Assad is doing.”
9. Kenneth Adkins, an anti-gay Georgia pastor who said that the victims of the Orlando massacre "got what they deserved," was found guilty -- the only not-stupid part of this list -- of molesting a boy and girl who attended his church.
10. Sean Spicer. Seriously. Sean Spicer.

Seven years ago today I was in NYC having a Birthday Broadway Binge Blowout

Next week I leave for another NYC Birthday Broadway Binge Blowout. I'd say this trend makes it safe to conclude that I'm gay, but that doesn't begin with a B. And I refuse to switch out the initial letters and associate myself with the word Girthday, which thankfully isn't even a word. I gope.

Going nuclear

Today, "Fascism Forever" club founder, Constitutional "originalist" and declared Constitutional "faithful servant" Neil Gorsuch was sworn in as the 113th Supreme Court Justice of the United States, a position -- or at least the opportunity to be sworn into that position -- that Constitutionally belongs to someone else.

On August 6, 2016, Senate Majority Leader, integrityless obstructionist, too-lazy-and-corrupt-to-hide-it hypocrite and hideous melted candle Mitch McConnell declared at something literally called the Fancy Farm Picnic in his not-racist home state of Kentucky, "One of my proudest moments was when I told Obama, 'You will not fill this Supreme Court vacancy'" [with then-president Barack Obama's SCOTUS appointee Merrick Garland]. Intentionally -- or incompetently -- misinterpreting the 1992 so-called Biden Rule that proposed that lame-duck SCOTUS nominations couldn't be voted on and confirmed AFTER election day, McConnell declared that "The American people‎ should have a voice in the selection of their next Supreme Court Justice. Therefore, this vacancy should not be filled until we have a new President." He knew he had the Senate majority to support this final belligerent, partisan attack of Republicans' eight years of Obama obstructionism, and the Garland nomination died after 293 days of McConnell's gross dereliction of duty.

On January 31, 2017, our new, inarticulate man-boy president nominated Gorsuch for the SCOTUS seat, and after Senate Democrats -- who knew a 60-vote Senate supermajority didn't exist to confirm Gorsuch -- threatened to filibuster and obstruct the nomination through Constitutional channels instead of through partisan dereliction the way McConnell had, the grandstandingly indignant McConnell whined, "Apparently there's yet a new standard now, which is not to confirm a Supreme Court nominee at all. I think that's something the American people simply will not tolerate."

McConnell had but one weapon of retaliation: the so-called Nuclear Option, which replaces the 60-vote Senate supermajority requirement for SCOTUS confirmations with a 51-vote simple majority, which he knew he had. And which he did. And which resulted in the unholy confirmation and swearing in of declared fascism enthusiast and profoundly dubious Constitutional faithful servant Gorsuch.

And which set an admittedly-on-both-sides-of-the-aisle highly dangerous precedent enabling either party to pack the SCOTUS with extremely partisan judges -- and further and further polarize the electorate and the entire country -- in perpetuity.

In perpetuity. Because of divisive, bellicose partisan absolutism. Because of McConnell's gross and intentional dereliction of duties. Because of racism. Because of personal political gain over the interest and welfare of the country.

In perpetuity.

Sibling Day. I guess.

True facts:
1. Too much Dippity-do makes it look like you've dyed your hair black.
2. I have a long and obstinate history of ignoring memos about family sleeve-buttoning standards.
3. Same with family white-turtleneck compliance ordinances.
4. There are dated family photos and there are hideously dated family photos. I think I can safely say that in this instance, we managed to keep our appearances neutral enough that this photo qualifies as the former.
5. It's apparently some pointlessly manufactured social-media festival called Sibling Day today, so I will refrain from making fun of my sister's hair.
6. No, really. I won't even bring it up.
7. On a completely unrelated note, remember when people used to put mousse in their hair to make it fluffy and out of proportion to their heads?
8. Me neither. Nobody would ever do that, right? I think it's actually just an urban legend.
9. Dappled background screens may match your family's full spectrum of chambray, but that does not make either side of the equation acceptable or appropriate for impressionable children.
10. Chambray would make a great name for a gay cat.

Final bow

A last moment alone in my beloved Paramount Theatre. A final performance of a show I'm really proud of. Another Follies put to bed. Just like on my Snoopy shirt.

My sister took this. See if you can find me.

Womper!

Till we find our place on the path unwinding

Fun Follies Fact: I'm the king of whatever it is that I'm the king of in our "Circle of Life" finale. I carry my lovely and regal queen onstage among all the romping animals and glorious singing at the end of each show. I spin her around regally for all to admire on my regal shoulder (which is actually just one of the two regal shoulders I possess; they come in a set for us royalty). I set her down. We ascend a singer-lined staircase, gesturing gracefully with our regal arms. We reach a platform at the top. Our adorable child races up the staircase after us. I lift her proudly and regally to my regal shoulder (though I remind you that both of my shoulders are, in fact, equally regal) in that momentary musical breath between the singers' final "of" and "life." The profoundly emotional and eternally grateful audience leaps to its feet in roaring waves of obsequious adulation. And, scene.

Now, I spend a great amount of manly backstage time each show moving our massive staircase and platform units. I spend a great amount of showtuney onstage time each show dancing on our massive staircase and platform units. I am therefore exceedingly familiar with their roomy massiveness. But every night when my beautiful and regal queen and I gracefully ascend our "Circle of Life" staircase, it seems uncharacteristically crowded. Up until tonight I've been focusing on not tripping during our ascent, so I didn't spend any time focusing on solving the mystery of the uncharacteristically crowded staircase. Tonight, finally confident in my ability to climb a staircase without tripping, I noticed that all the singers were actually leaning forward on our graceful ascent, as if they had each simultaneously dropped a quarter and wanted to make sure it didn't roll away. Which happens more than you'd think in big splashy musicals. In any case, all that quarter-searching was really restricting our stair-climbing space, and it was reigniting my temporary dormant fear of tripping.

And then tonight, halfway up the staircase as the music soared around us and the animals romped below us and our graceful arms gestured regally about us, it suddenly hit me: There weren't any lost quarters; everyone was BOWING. To US. Because we were ROYALTY. In CAPITAL LETTERS.

Now, despite all the rumors and the understandably logical conclusions they inspire, I have never, in fact, been royalty. So until tonight I've never been -- or even suddenly realized I was being -- deferentially mass-bowed to, on a staircase or otherwise. Being surrounded by servile sycophants has never really been my thing. UNTIL IT SUDDENLY WAS TONIGHT ONSTAGE IN FRONT OF 2,000 ENRAPTURED WITNESSES. And even though it royally impedes my royal ascension of our royal-by-association staircase, I WANT MORE BOWING. So you need to always remember to bow in mass obsequious deference when you see me, whether or not there is any combination of soaring music, romping animals or graceful arms involved in the circumstances of your sycophancy. Kthanks.

Other Fun Follies Fact: I maintain a balanced and equitable budget in whatever it is that I'm king of by pairing my royal, not-at-all-triage-nurse-or-attending-surgeon-looking regal garb with my house-painting shoes that I got for $3 (total! not each!) at Walmart. It's royal austerity measures like this that go a long way toward keeping my peasants bowing not because they're desperate to keep their quarters from rolling away but because THEY KNOW WHAT'S GOOD FOR THEM.

And, scene.

Follies: Seasons of Love

It's time now to sing out, though the story never ends. Let's celebrate, remember a year in the life of friends.