Oh, so… Legally Blonde: The Musical...

Last Tuesday (not this past one but the one before – so much for timeliness), Li’l Sis and I made the short commute over to Greenville, SC to catch opening night of Legally Blonde: The Musical.



It was a great show; the crowd was lively and young, the production was stellar, and the performances were top-notch. All of this was incredibly good news, because I had spent the entire day at work preparing to be disappointed, as I always turn out to be at these things.

Let me tell you a story.

Since I don’t live in New York, I’m not in the loop when it comes to the current musicals. I usually show up (late) to the party after the musical has been turned into a movie or won a Tony or something. The truth is there are so, so many musicals coming and going in New York, it’s probably impossible for even the most diehard musical fan living in New York to keep up. But because I am the way I am *ahem*, I do manage to find out about some of them, especially the ones that are critically acclaimed and/or awesome. And so it goes, I find out about an awesome new musical and run to the nearest store and buy the soundtrack of the original cast. I listen to it until I have the whole thing memorized and the voices of the original cast are firmly embedded into my ears and heart. That’s how it happened with Les Mis and Phantom of the Opera.

I remember very clearly attending performances of these two musicals on Broadway when I traveled to New York back in high school. I was so excited to see them in person – it felt like a consummation actually… and long overdue. Of course, I knew that the original cast would not be in the house on these particular nights, and I was prepared to hear different singers and different interpretations. But, unfortunately, the music and voices I had grown to love over countless hours with my headphones were so deeply recorded in my psyche that I had a hard time accepting these new… sounds. Ok honestly, I hated them. I’d go as far as to say that all of my pre-listening totally ruined the experience of seeing these plays live. And I hate that because they were brilliant performances – it wasn’t like I was seeing these musicals at the Backwater Community Dinner Theatre and Glee Club – this was frikkin’ Broadway. And yet, there I was… disappointed and feeling like a jackass for it. ‘Twas a sad day for Reeva Dubois.

After that, I promised myself I would NEVER get so involved with a soundtrack recording without having seen the play on stage first. Of course, I broke that promise to myself very soon after, thanks to Rent (and Chicago, and Dreamgirls, and Hairspray). In a way, I double broke my promise because not only did I cheat on the stage production, but I cheated on it with a MOVIE recording, which seems much, much worse.

The point of that story was to point out to you, if you hadn’t already picked up on it, that I am a fickle, judgmental, overly-critical little bitch, who only likes things one way – and that ONE way is usually the way it was the first time, which means anything anyone does afterwards is crap and there’s nothing they can do about it.

So keep all of that in mind as I proceed.

I usually scoff at the idea of popular movies adapted for the Broadway stage. I mean, it just seems so ludicrous, doesn’t it? Shows how much I know… most of the musicals based on movie scripts wind up doing quite well. Hello, The Lion King! But for every one that does well, there’s another that totally bombs (I’m thinking of The Lord of the Rings – wonder why that didn’t work?). And then there are productions like The Color Purple, which was a book, then a movie, then a musical (I’m sure the ballet is coming soon)*. So when I heard that Legally Blonde was headed to Broadway, I was dubious. First of all, I wasn’t sure a live stage musical could capture the effervescence of Reese Witherspoon, the subtle social commentary, or the sublime ridiculousness captured in the motion picture. Sure, musicals are often over-the-top, but the movie was over-the-top to begin with, so the musical would have to go over-the-top and back around to the bottom again. I just didn’t see it.

The show premiered in New York in the spring of 2007 and… it was pretty good. Good enough, in fact, to get a MTV reality show dedicated to recasting the role of Elle Woods, and a special presentation of the entire show starring the original cast. By chance, I happened to be home and in front of the TV when MTV aired it, and I was instantly smitten.

The musical is not a complete departure from the movie, but the ways in which it does deviate are all definite improvements. The biggest difference, I believe, is the treatment of Emmett. In the movie, Emmett, played by Luke/Owen (I really can’t tell the difference, I promise I’ll work on that) Wilson, is a charming law school TA that falls for Elle the second he sees her. In the course of the movie, he’s the only one that recognizes Elle’s potential, which she appreciates, obviously, and by the end of the film, they’re in love and it’s happy ever after and junk. That’s cute and all, but basically Emmett is a pointless and innocuous plot point rather than a flushed out romance. In the musical version, however, Emmett is a three-dimensional character – we even get a backstory. The musical’s Emmett is a kind-of-geeky-but-totally-dreamy TA who grew up rough and poor, so he’s busting his ass to make it through law school in order to turn his destiny around. It’s this chip on his shoulder that helps him relate to Elle. She has stuff to prove, to herself and everyone else, which is something they have in common. By the end of the musical, it’s not only believable that Elle and Emmett would end up together… it feels inevitable.

In the same way that the musical improves the Emmett character, so it improves most of the others, especially Paulette, Professor Callahan, Vivian, Enid, and Elle’s sorority sisters. Maybe it’s the very idea of a musical that helps flush out these characters and give them their moments in the spotlight that makes it all seem to work better than the movie – but I can’t help but think that the musical solves every problem the movie had, even the ones we didn’t know were there.
Don’t get me wrong – I love the movie. It’s a personal fave. Like I said before, Reese is absolutely perfect in the role of Elle, and who can’t appreciate Jennifer Coolidge (Paulette)? She’s a genius, truly. But the musical trumps the movie in pure story-telling, heart, and laugh-out-loud comedy.

Anyway – to bring it back to the beginning – I was nervous to see this show live, since I’d become so familiar with the original cast, and not just the music but the also the book. I think I’ve seen the MTV show a hundred times, and I know I’ve listened to the soundtrack at least twice as much. Would I wind up completely and miserably disappointed AGAIN?

Thankfully, no. And thank god. The traveling production was amazing. The singing was maybe even better than the original cast (and that almost never happens). Some of the jokes fell flat, but that might have been because it was opening night in a new city – who knows how they changed things for the new venue? It was so much fun watching Li’l Sis watch a show I’d grown to love, especially when she laughed hysterically at the parts that got me the first time I saw it.

I’m sorry that I don’t know any of their names, but this traveling cast is seriously talented. Paulette is always a crowd favorite, but the woman playing her on our night almost stole the entire show right out from under Elle’s pink petticoats. And I would put our Emmett next to the original one, and that’s saying a lot. I was only slightly disappointed in our Warner and our Sorority Girls – the singing was fabulous but they lacked a little in the comedic timing department (they missed a lot of the great one-liners). I’m sure they’ll improve with practice, although… haven’t they been on the road for months by now?

Strangely enough, I was sitting next to a young lady who I overheard telling her friends that she had seen the play in New York right before Laura Bell Bundy left the role of Elle. During intermission, I asked her how this cast was holding up to the original, and she was very enthusiastic. Gushing, in fact. Her reaction says a lot about this traveling cast, but it also says a lot about this musical: the great ones are great no matter who is on stage.

I hope Legally Blonde: The Musical continues to tour for years so as many people as possible get to see it. It’s become a personal fave, and I didn’t see that coming at all. SNAPS!

*Ed. Note – turns out Legally Blonde was a book before it was a movie before it was musical too.

Shhhh… there’s a special treat for you behind the cut…

Part 1
Part 2

Holiday debriefing…

Since this year’s holiday plans did not include traveling, I decided to make a to-do list of vacation activities, not only to avoid boredom, but to give me crap to blog about. It went like this…

1. Clean apartment from top to bottom



Not a particularly fascinating blog topic, but since we’re here… I did clean from top to bottom (bottom to top) and once I recovered from the headache caused by my very liberal use of bleach in the bathroom, I was quite pleased with the result. It didn’t even take that long. Having my own place has made me much neater, although I’m still prone to clutter (magazines, books, clothes). What I’m not so good at is dusting and organizing. I still think dusting is a waste of precious time, but organizing is always a good thing because it helps me gain control in a world of chaos.

2. See at least one movie in a theatre



Li’l Sis and I took in Twilight (finally!). It was alright. I thought the girl playing Bella did a good job, in that she was just as frustrating on screen as she is in the book. I mean, I don’t pretend to understand the hearts and minds of teenage girls, but would any self-respecting emo, hormonal, impressionable, high school girl act like Bella? Granted, Robert Pattinson is swoon-worthy, but he eats wild animals, sparkles, and doesn’t seem to own a hairbrush. Love is great and all, but not when bodily harm is involved. In other words, JUST BITE HER ALREADY! Anyway, I did like the movie, but only because I’ve decided not to let my dissatisfaction with the conclusion of the series color my appreciation for the first book.

3. Start a new knitting project

I can’t say I succeeded here. I thought about it a lot; I looked through all of my patterns and books, organized my yarn, etc… but I didn’t actually settle on anything. I crave a massive project, but looking at all the barely started, half-finished, sitting in a bag, never to be seen again projects next to my yarn stash gave me pause. I should probably finish some of those before starting something else, but I couldn’t find the motivation. Therefore, this holiday activity will have to rollover.

4. Listen to all the CDs I’ve purchased this year

So THAT’S where all my money goes! I have a terrible habit of buying music and then not listening to it, which is just CRAZY, considering how much I’ve spent. I managed to plug through everything between lots of walks and mindless internet-browsing, and I was very proud of myself when I was finished. However, since I listened to almost 50 albums (I know, it’s ridiculous) practically back-to-back, I don’t remember any of it. Perhaps it wasn’t really worth it?

5. Read the entire Harry Potter series



I’ve actually been meaning to do this for quite some time. I was so exhausted after the build-up, release, and manic speed-read through the final book two summers ago (god, has it been that long?), that I figured I needed a break. And since movie 6 comes out this summer, it seemed like I was ripe for a review. I’ve read the first four books more times than I care to admit (actually, I can’t admit anything because I’ve lost count), but prior to this holiday Potter-blitz, I’d only read the last three books one time each. I know, I’m a bad Potter-fan. I thought this would be an easy thing, but I underestimated how long and involved these books are. I have just now finished reading all seven, and it is one week past Christmas vacation. I’m really quite tired.

Since this was my first complete read-through of all seven books, I was able to take in the entire scope of the series. It really is an amazing feat of literature. Some of the best fantasy fiction being written today is absolute GARBAGE compared to Harry Potter. Often times, these huge, sprawling epics are littered with unworthy installments. Even The Lord of the Rings has been criticized for the plodding and drama-leaking second book (The Two Towers), and that’s frikkin’ JRR Tolkien, for god’s sake. But all seven books in Rowling’s series are gems; perfect within themselves, and yet perfect parts to the whole, too. One of my main goals after this re-read was to be able to confirm which one of the seven is my favorite. It’s still The Prisoner of Azkaban, but now that I see how they all fit together, The Half-Blood Prince almost caused an upset.

I love PoA because of the seamless blend of magic, mystery, and action. While the first two books are genius, I feel like the darker tone and thrilling twists of this third novel make it the one in which the series begins to take off. But H-BP is really amazing, too. I didn’t fully appreciate it the first time through (all those years ago), but it really is a masterpiece. Such a fitting prelude to the final book…

Finally, I’m glad I did this because now I can say I actually like the last book. I won’t lie… when I first read it, I was a tad disappointed. I suppose I thought it would end differently (too many nights spent on fan-sites soaking in all those theories about how the series would end kind of backfired), and I found so much of it to be frustrating (why are we still camping!? DO SOMETHING!). I’ll also admit that I was incredibly confused at the end when I read it the first time, which probably informed my bad attitude about it. This time, I followed the twists and turns much better, so it was fascinating rather than tedious. But let’s be real: all those horcruxes and all those hallows – that’s a lot to keep up with. No wonder I was lost. But now that I understand everything, this book is a tremendously entertaining climax to a tremendously awesome series. I doubt very much that any series will ever be as good, or as universally beloved. That is, unless she plans to do a spin-off. Personally, I think she is. How else do you explain that awful, awful epilogue?

(and don’t get snippy with me. You know that epilogue was bad. Unnecessary, sentimental, pointless… awful)

Oh, and as a sidebar: I also read the recently released Tales of Beedle the Bard. Very cute.

6. And finally… get a root canal



My mouth added this one to the list last-minute. See what had happened was… one of my wisdom teeth had a bad day and decided to end it all by coming down hard on a stale pretzel and breaking in half. OH THE PAIN!! So, yeah, I got a root canal. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. It was almost pleasant. Just kind of sat there for 20 minutes with some dude’s hand in mouth. No biggie.

Swampfest 2008 and Reeva Dubois Revisted Part 4 & 5…

Ok, so last weekend was Swampfest 2008, an annual gathering of my college friends for Roommate’s birthday, in Beaufort, SC. This was the third such gathering, and I’ve grown to count on these jaunts to get an entire year’s worth of debauchery and not-acting-my-age out of my system. This particular trip wasn’t drastically different from the previous ones, except I remembered to bring my camera. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember to bring it with me on most of the excursions. But at least I can finally post pictures of the fabulous house, nestled in the salt marshes of Cat Island. Ok, actually, I didn’t get any pictures of the house. What I did manage to capture is the backyard scape, which, to be honest, is my favorite part of the whole scene.



The house is actually on a golf course, but the course is set amongst the natural marshes and swamps characteristic of the area. While I’m sure some of the scenery is fabricated, I like to think most of it was there before the golf-carts and sandtraps took over. No matter what, it’s unbelievably pretty.



Unlucky for you, approximately three seconds before I took this photo, there were hundreds of sea-birds (egrets, I think) roosting on all those banks, but as I exited the porch area, I accidentally slammed the screen door, inciting a migration. Take my word for it, though – there were tons of them. Once you get over the racket they make and the overwhelming stink, it’s easy to get lost in their beauty. We even spotted a blue heron, a massive and intimidating bird up close.

There are alligators in these waters, but they’re rather tiny and inconspicuous. I’ve only seen one (last year), and I wasn’t impressed. If one tries hard enough (and waits patiently enough) one can eventually distinguish between the alligators and the bits of flotsam floating in the pond, but I find that sort of thing tedious.

Rather than bore you with the details of the rest of my activities, I’ll just do some bullet points.

- Gays aren’t afraid of Marines, especially if the Marines are drunk…
- Marines ARE afraid of gays, especially if the gays are drunk…
- Indoor beachball volleyball and indoor monkey-in-the-middle should be Olympic sports…
- You’re never too old to swing (and I don’t mean “swing” as in “partner-swap” but literally swing, like on a swing-set, or, in this case, a park swing clearly not designed for such things)…
- Cute waiters are great, but they rarely amount to anything…
- Cracker Barrel is still the best thing ever after a long weekend…
- No amount of heckling or teasing will make me ashamed of liking Ashlee Simpson…
- I will probably never get tired of talking with Roommate until the sun comes up…

After the jump, I revisit the Swampfests of old…

Reeva Dubois Revisted Part 4: Swampfest 2006

This was posted in my LiveJournal on July 19, 2006, and is entitled Sparkles in the Water…

My trip to Beaufort, SC has come and gone. It was a good Vay-k and God knows I needed one. For the most part, it was chill. I arrived late (getting up early on day one of vacation was vetoed) so when i showed up at the beach house, Roommate and his friend were at the beach soaking up the sun. I had a hard enough time finding the house so i was a little scared (petrified) to venture out into the marshes on my own, so i grabbed a book and just chilled out. TWO hours later, my host arrived and we had a great dinner - surf and turf, ya'll. Anyway - we were sitting around making our evening plans and i made the suggestion that we go back to the beach. I love the beach at night for many reasons - the biggest one being that i can sit out and enjoy the beach without crisping like bacon in 5 minutes flat. The group was into it, so we packed the cooler and hopped in the car.

Upon arriving at the beach at about 10:00 pm, we began to hit some hurdles. Unbeknownst to me, the beach we were going to is not a public beach, but rather a National Park that charges a nominal fee. Well, they were closed. As we pulled up to the area, some dude in a beard was locking up the gates. I'm not one for useless confrontation so i figured that we were out of luck. Well, roommate and his friend weren't having it. After haggling with the guy for about 10 minutes, the outcome was, obviously, no beach for us. What a surprise. They got back in the car and i tried to make the best of it by suggesting some other beachy-type activities, namely boozing it out with the Vodka we purchased. Before the words were out of my mouth, Roommate was hatching a plan to sneak into the beach - or as I like to call it: Premeditating Felony Trespassing. FUN! Before I go further, I must describe this beach. Its a national park in a more-or-less undeveloped stretch of coast. After you enter the gate and pay the fee, you drive along a gravel road through a palm/pine forest. Its dark and dense with lots of creepy crawlies. I can tell you without a doubt that if I had known what we would be strolling through i would not have gone along with this little mission. I know that if we had been caught by 'scary bearded guy' he probably would have just laughed and told us to buzz off - but you never know with these southern crazies. I was not looking forward to spending the night in the Beaufort jail.

We parked the car on the shoulder of the highway about 20 feet away from the entrance. We had a cooler, two packs of towels and other beach supplies, and of course, ourselves. At first, roommate and his friend weren't too concerned about the success of this mission, and were talking and giggling and carryin' on. Of course, I'm having fits. We didn't get our first scare until we had jumped across the barricade (the one that bearded guy was closing). We were walking down the gravel road (I was trying not to scream every time something touched me - I'm talking palm fronds to the face, spider-webs, and whatever else was running around that we coudn't see) and we saw headlights coming towards us. Every gay gene in my body screamed as Roommate literally pushed me headlong into nature - it was very Lord of the Rings Frodo hiding from the Ringwraiths (including the bugs). The car (no doubt the bearded guy who was really starting to get on my nerves) passes by. At this point all bets are off - we turn off our flashlights and take off our flipflops because we are passing little security posts and various buildings and we didn't want to risk being seen or heard. Roommate and Friend start sprinting barefoot down the gravel - and i'm about to puke my heart out through my stomach because A) I don't run, B) I can't see a GODDAMN! thing, C) I'm just pissed.

The rest of the journey is sort of a blur, but i do know that i did eventually make it to the beach. At this point, i was trying to keep my shit together and not go carnival freak crazy on Roommate. Once I sat down on the sand and got my heartbeat back down to normal levels - i started to think. This little escapade was the exact type of thing i thrived on in high school and college. We weren't really breaking any important laws and it was sorta fun to be bad. So why was i about to have a coronary? After putting things in perspective, i was able to enjoy what turned out to be a GORGEOUS beach in the middle of the night. The stars were, God, everywhere. More stars that I have ever seen. You couldn't even find the constellations because of the sheer volume of light up there. We saw some shooting stars and made appropriate wishes, and it seemed like a lucky night because we saw no less than 12 shooting stars. I was happy that i remembered to wish for a Lottery win, which is the one i tend to forget cuz i'm too busy wishing for a man, thinness, and World Peace.

After much consternation and frustrated heckling from Roommate, I was finally convinced to go for a midnight swim - which is something i had never done. I dunno, maybe the opening scene of Jaws is burned into my pysche. I refused to go out farther than waist-deep and I insisted on carrying the flashlight with me. Roommate and his friend were much more adventurous. It was while I was having yet another panic attack (they were out sooo far and i was not interesting in pulling a Baywatch rescue) that i noticed that little lights were following them around. The water was literally lighting up as they swam through it. The water wasn't doing that for me and i felt slighted so i forced myself to move out farther. Once I was about neck deep - i witnessed the phenomena for myself. We were swimming with Bioluminescent plankton. Ya'll it was amazing. Everytime your skin touched the water the plankton would flash and sparkle. You could literally see your entire body under the surface as you swam. If you dunked your head underwater, they would attach themselves to your hair, and upon resurfacing, your entire head would glow for about 5 seconds. I was in awe. Somehow, we managed to play with the plankton for about 2 hours. I felt like a little kid and i loved every minute.

My joy was short-lived. Since it was now nearing 2 in the morning - we decided we should probably head back (Cue the Mission Impossible theme song). Luckily, we made it through without incident. Of course, i totally forgot where we parked and for a moment i thought we had been towed (Fourth panic attack of the evening commences). But no. The car was still there.

The rest of the Vay-K was spent drinking but not getting drunk, sun-bathing but not getting burned, eating but not getting super Fat. So except for the Beach subterfuge - i managed to have a mature and adult-like vacation. Cheers.

Speaking of adulthood- its back to the grind tomorrow.

Reeva Dubois Revisted Part 5: Swampfest 2007

This was posted in my LiveJournal on July 2, 2007, and entitled Ghost Stories, Hoedowns, and Adventures with Alcohol…

I didn’t mean to, but I’ve managed to schedule a summer vacation that occurs in fits and starts. It probably has more to do with the crazy schedules of all my friends than my own disorganization, but I have a feeling that by the end of the summer I will be quite tired, not to mention destitute. While it would probably be far more relaxing and financially sound to have one long vacation, I will take three, in three different places with three entirely different groups of people.

Phase 1 took place this past weekend in Beaufort, SC with former Roommate, two of my best friends from college, and their guests. BEAUfort is (quite appropriately) a BEAUtiful city, full of history and quaint southern charm. It’s also hot as hell, humid with lots and lots of very large bugs. We thought their city motto should be, “Beaufort, SC: Muggy and Buggy.”

The house is absolutely beautiful, with traditional Old South patios overlooking the swamp, which teems with giant frogs, sea birds, and alligators. The inside is decorated in leather and dark woods, with billiards in one corner and a card table in another. Bizarrely, the other family that shares the house chose to decorate the entire inside with roosters. There are literally hundreds of roosters all the over the place… it tends to be overwhelming. That’s a lot of cocks – and not the good kind (ZING!).

I arrived last on Friday night (thanks to my boss’s bitchery) and once I was settled, the whole crew (4 gays and two girls) went to downtown Beaufort to rustle up some grub, booze, and boys. Over the course of dinner, it became apparent that we were the first gays this town had seen in quite some time, if at all. Clearly, the rules of southern hospitality do not extend to staring, pointing or otherwise gesticulating wildly at the homos. We were perplexed, of course, and couldn’t quite figure out what had tipped the locals off. We weren’t dressed in any particularly gay way, nor were we doing Pride Cheers at our table. We went around the group and tried to pinpoint who exactly among us was “acting” so overt that everyone just knew we were “special”. The conclusion ended up being, “Well, we’re all pretty gay.”

After dinner, we strayed into a couple of the bars along the battery and, luckily, the locals seemed to have calmed down a little, probably because everyone was completely wasted. People are so much nicer to the gays when they’re drunk, aren’t they? That didn’t mean our problems were over, though. The two girls hanging with us were getting restless and uneasy because no one was offering them drinks or hitting on them, which is sooo not right because they’re total hotties. Once again, we huddled to discuss the strange behavior of the people in Beaufort. Finally, a gentleman came up to my friend Mary and started talking to her and in the course of their conversation he was able to shed some light on this current mystery. He and his buddies had been eyeing Mary and her girlfriend for quite some time, but weren’t sure about us. Were we boyfriends? Brothers? Parole Officers? In the interest of full disclosure, Mary went ahead and introduced us as her gay entourage. He seemed relieved, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hang out with us or anything.

I will say in defense of Beaufort - that even though the locals didn’t exactly welcome us with open arms, they also didn’t chase us out of town with pitchforks and torches, and in South Carolina… that’s saying something. We left the girls to do their dirty work in the bar, and the four gays took a stroll along the battery under the full moon, catching up on old times, and you know, talking about Madonna and Britney Spears… like we do.

The next day, we returned to the same beach that was the scene of Beach Subterfuge 2006. The beach was really crowded, which everyone else moaned about, but for which I was thrilled. I love to people watch and people who share that trait with me know that the two best places to people watch are airports and beaches. I only went in the water for a short time and spent the rest of the time hiding underneath my beach umbrella, protecting my sensitive skin from the ravages of the evil, evil sun.

One of the perks of my friends and I getting older is I can finally insist that we do educational things and not be accused of being “dorky.” Secretly, I’ve always been one of those people that dislikes the big party scenes with tons of people and lots of hormones. I prefer to go to museums, or shopping, or sight-seeing. So I was floored when my suggestion of a walking tour of Beaufort before dinner was met with enthusiasm. We chose to go on a “Ghost Tour,” which covered the supernatural folk-tales and legends of the city.

Our docent was a crackpot of a lady that we adored once we got used to her. I imagine it takes a special kind of person to do something like that… you know, tell ghost stories in period dress in front of complete strangers? Well, she was fabulous and we had a fantastic time. Some highlights? The Gray Man is a very popular ghost story from South Carolina, and it was interesting to hear Beaufort’s version of his legend. If you don’t know, the Gray Man is a spectral man dressed in gray (well, obviously) that appears on the beach before a hurricane. He appears all over the Carolina coast, but mostly in Charleston. It makes sense that South Carolina would have a spirit guarding her shores, thanks to some seriously bad storms over the centuries. Every time a major storm hits, the Gray Man stories resurface, thanks to multiple sightings right before the hurricane’s landfall. I didn’t know about the Gray Man until after Hurricane Hugo in 1989. Parts of our coastline were decimated by the Category 5 winds and storm surge, and Charleston took a particularly bad hit. Our newspapers were riddled with stories of centuries old buildings washed away, historical markers destroyed, new landmarks damaged, and lives lost. In between all of them were first hand accounts of seeing the Gray Man.

The story goes that a beautiful young woman from Pawley’s Island was married to a sailor only days before he would have to leave by ship for some reason or the other. The seas were particularly rough that year and their parting was one of worry and anxiety, having only been together for a brief time. Around the time he was supposed to return from his journey, a storm descended upon the island, and the young woman refused to leave her home, despite the warnings from her family. Instead, she kept a steady vigil up along the Widow’s Walk of her house, fretting and watching for her true love’s return. When the storm hit, it battered the house to oblivion, leaving nothing but the foundation’s footprint. The young woman was lost forever. When the sailor returned and saw what had happened to his home and his wife, he was so stricken with grief, he drowned himself in the same waters that took his love. So, if you’re ever at the beach in the Low country of South Carolina, and you see a man dressed in gray rise out of the sand dunes and walk slowly along the breakers until he disappears into the mist and surf, then you should high-tail it back to your beach house, pack up your stuff and hit the road. If you heed his warning, you’ll find that when you return after the storm, your home will be undamaged and your property untouched.

She told us this story next to the battery at dusk, with the wind wailing and the waves crashing. The chills going up and down my spine were exquisite.

Beaufort is also famous for its historical churches and graveyards. Since the founding, this city has survived Native American guerilla-style warfare, and occupation by the Spanish, French, British AND the Yankees. It is therefore no surprise that the city is also full of graveyards and cemeteries. Most of the ghost stories we heard were focused on specific graves along the route of our walk and one in particular was really sort of spooky. Apparently, back in the day, doctors weren’t very good at pronouncing people dead, especially when the patient lapsed into a coma. I’ve heard that as recent as 75 years ago, it was very common to discover upon exhumation that the person was buried alive. You can tell by the marks on the top of the coffin. *shudders*

She told us of a little girl named Isabelle who lived in Beaufort right before the War Between the States. She was the daughter of a wealthy and powerful man, who had fittingly just purchased a beautiful marble mausoleum in the cemetery of the largest church in town. When she came down with a vicious case of diphtheria and “died”, the entire community was consumed with sadness. They buried her in the family mausoleum, and everyone was touched and saddened that she would be the first to rest in it. It was about 30 years before the grave would be reopened on the day of her father’s funeral, and when the marble doors were opened, the family was stunned to see a perfectly preserved skeleton of a little girl dressed in lace laying at the foot of the mausoleum, instead of in her crypt. The family rededicated her body and reburied her, taking solace that at last she could rest in peace in the company of her father.

A few months later, an aunt came to visit the gravesite with fresh flowers and found the marble doors open and gaping. She raised almighty hell on the caretaker, going as far as to beat him soundly with the ivory handle of her fan. He assured her that he checked the doors on his rounds three times a day and had never seen them open. The aunt watched as the doors were closed and locked and reminded the caretaker that she would be watching him from now on. Over the course of the next decade or so, various family members would come to the cemetery and find the marble doors ajar, and each and every caretaker was just as confused as the next. They tried cement, chains, padlocks, extra hinges… but every time, the cement would crack, the chains would split, the locks would break, and the hinges would unhinge. Finally, almost a century later, a member of the family decided to just give up, and the marble doors were officially removed. One was put in the ground in front of the steps of the tomb and inscribed with Isabelle’s name and that of her father. The other is leaning upright against the side of the tomb, so that all can examine the twisted metal of its hinges and the strange marks etched into the stone.

Our docent admitted that it is very possible that the whole thing is an elaborate, decades-long hoax… but she likes to think Isabelle simply refused to allow the family to bury anyone else in that tomb, and if they did, she wasn’t about to let anyone else die scared and alone and in the dark.

While I was refreshed by these stimulating and historical goodies, the rest of my crew was getting antsy - eager to recommence boozing and cruising. Before that, though, we had a fabulous dinner at a waterfront restaurant called Panini’s. I had lump crab lasagna, which tasted a lot better than it sounds, trust me (I tend to avoid any foods that contain the word 'lump'). It was during our meal that we encountered the individual that would hence be known as “the only gay man in Beaufort.” He was a manager at the restaurant and made a point to walk by our table every frikkin’ minute. At first, we weren’t sure whether he was cruising us or if he was about to ask us to leave because other guests were complaining. You never know. It wasn’t until we realized that he was ignoring our hags and making eyes with all of us gays in turn that we figured everything out.

The girls were desperate to have a better night of whoring so they abandoned us again, leaving us to our own devices at a bar filled with drunk frat boys and scantily clad college girls. We grabbed a table in a corner and gabbed the night away. Throughout the evening, drunk girls would fall into us and tell us how cool it was that we were there, and how they so wished more gay people would come to Beaufort. This happened so often, we started to feel a little bit like celebrities. I bought Roommate a drink to congratulate him on landing the only gay man in Beaufort… literally.

When we got home, we put Roommate and his new boy out on the porch to make out or whatever, and the three of us leftover had a dance party in the living room. We found a CD in the stereo system that was just perfect…Hoe-Down music. We turned it up really loud and square-danced and doo-si-doed, except because of all the alcohol in our blood, there was a little bit more head-butting and falling down than actual dancing. We found out later that Roommate was sufficiently humiliated by our antics, to which we said, “Mission: Accomplished!”

Speaking of humiliated, right about the time our hoe-down was just heating up was when our girls arrived, with straight boys on their arms. The looks on their faces!!! I think the girls may have told them they were staying with four guys, but I have a feeling they left out the part about us being raging homosexuals. We were informed that we were in the presence of two Marines, and fairly high-ranking ones at that, so that merited several jokes at their expense, such as, “You didn’t ask, but I’m telling you…” and, “Hey, need any new Privates?” To their credit, the marines were so drunk that they’re awkwardness was pretty short-lived.

Soon after, I turned in. I just can’t keep up with these kids anymore, but it was all good, considering everyone else was… busy.

When I got up the next morning, the marines were gone and the house was quiet… and Tee-rashed! My girl, Mary, was awake and her code of ethics was still intact, so instead of driving to the drug store for a bottle of Advil and a pregnancy test, we started to clean up. Gradually, the rest of the house got up. Roommate’s boy had to do the walk of shame, but hey, that’s the price you pay. As they said good-bye to each other outside, the rest of us took bets as to whether or not we’d ever see him again. I’d say the odds are… not.

So what do gay people do on Sunday morning? That’s right, brunch. The South isn’t really big on brunch, you know, because of church, so we had to do quite a bit of research online before we found a place to go. We ended up at a cozy little café that served excellent omelets and amazing coffee. Of course, we were brutally rebuffed on one brunch staple. When we tried to order Mimosas (and seriously, what is brunch without a Mimosa?) we were told that alcohol was not available on Sundays. South Carolina Blue Laws strike again. I swear, it’s like we’re in Amish Country. Or anywhere in Utah.

After that it was time to go back to our normal lives. I love those guys so much, even if they still act like they’re 22 at Spring Break. Maybe I am acting too old for my age? You know what? It doesn’t matter. I can always count on Roommate to treat me to a good time, and let’s face it… there will always be good stories.

Reeva Meets Radiohead...

This weekend, I had the honor of escorting an old friend up to Charlotte to see Radiohead in Concert. As usual, I was completely unprepared and didn’t take a camera, so, as is customary, I will reminisce with my words.

I’m not what one could ever call a true Radiohead fan. While they are truly an excellent band, I can’t say I share the obsessive, almost cult-like devotion to their live shows as many of their fans. I own three of their albums, and I enjoy them in my way, so I was very much excited to attend the concert, but perhaps not as excited as some. Actually, I was more excited about attending a massive venue. It’s funny… while I’m usually sort of hesitant to put myself in large crowd situations, music crowds don’t intimidate me at all. There’s something surreal about thousands of people directing their collective attentions in one direction. I imagine there is power in it.

More after the jump...

I was a little concerned about how much I would enjoy the concert, considering I felt like a Johnny-Come-Lately, but I was surprised and then comforted by the diverse demographics in attendance. For every somewhat intoxicated fratboy who felt the need to bellow every word to every song, there was a quiet thirty-something tapping his foot ever so delicately to the beat. For every shrieky girl slowly unraveling on the spot upon hearing the opening strains of her favorite tune, there was a shy, supportive girlfriend hanging on to her boyfriend’s hand, since he was obviously the true fan of the two.

A few years back, I attended a Tori Amos concert with Roommate (and I should mention that he’s about as obsessed with Tori as anyone has a right to be), and I sensed a certain… disdain from the people surrounding us regarding my obvious amateur status as a Tori fan. (Now, they should be thrilled to know that I’ve come a long way in my Tori education, no thanks to them.) So, that’s why I was a little nervous going to a Radiohead show with a decidedly low level of expertise regarding their music. I didn’t know many of the songs (not that it mattered… I couldn’t understand a word out of Thom Yorke’s mouth. He’s either mealy-mouthed or I was rendered deaf by the sound system), and when I would ask my friend what song I was hearing, nearby patrons would not only turn around and answer me, but also offer long-winded explications and thorough background stories about each song. I felt welcome, and the fans seemed genuinely excited to spread the Gospel of Radiohead to me… the uninitiated.

They played a long set, probably 20 songs, and the crowd ate out of their hands the entire time. My favorite moment was Paranoid Android, from the album Ok Computer, which is not only one of the songs I know, but also my favorite. Another great moment was the opener of the show, All I See from their new album, In Rainbows.

After the concert, my friend likened the concert to a religious experience, and judging by the faces in the crowd as we made our exit, she was right on. I’m probably not white enough or straight enough to be the kind of person that “gets” Radiohead, but I can only assume that most of the people at the concert had just experienced something that I could only experience by seeing Madonna – the out-of-body bliss of seeing and hearing your favorite music performed in real time. I really respect that.
Seeing Radiohead has really given me an appetite for live concerts, which is something I never thought would happen. I’ve always been wary of live performances because I usually find them disappointing, especially if I’ve fallen in love with a recording. Like, one time, I went with Roommate to hear the Charlotte Symphony play Beethoven’s 7th (probably my favorite, after the 9th and 5th… I know, predictable), and I was flabbergasted by how kind of… not good it turned out to be. Now, by most standards, it wasn’t bad at all, but I’d gotten so used to my recording of the New York Phil and Bernstein that I noticed every little problem. I knew good and well that this wasn’t the New York Phil and I should probably lower my standards, but for some reason, I couldn’t turn off my critical ear. I wondered if I would have enjoyed it more if I’d never heard my recording, and chances are I would have, but that didn’t help me get through hearing it. I can also mention my Exhibit B: seeing The Phantom of the Opera in New York. I couldn’t stop myself from fixating on the fact that Christine didn’t sound like Sarah Brightman and the Phantom didn’t sound like Michael Crawford. That soundtrack ruined Phantom for me, basically. (But I still love it). To translate that into popular music, let me just say that you couldn’t pay me to attend a live performance of Britney Spears, or Gwen Stefani, or most pop acts. So very few of them can actually sing live, it’s kind of ridiculous. Again, I love my divas and I love the music, and I understand how difficult it must be to reproduce the sounds of their albums on the live stage, but… I don’t know - if it doesn’t sound like what I’m used to, I just get turned off. Don’t confuse what I’m saying with remixes, because those are purposefully different, so I listen with an open mind. I’m talking about pop stars who can’t stay in tune without a production staff. I will buy their albums and gush about them on my blog, but you’d have to trick me like a dog on the way to the vet in order to get me to a live concert.

I think Radiohead may have changed my mind, though. They reinforced something that I knew to be true in theory, but had never experienced… live music can be really good. My mission is clear: I will henceforth be known as a Concert Goer Extraordinaire. Before I expire from this Earth, I must see Madonna (that was true before Radiohead, though), but I intend to attend as many concerts as possible going forward.

So, thank you Radiohead. You made a believer out of me.

Movin' on up...

This is my new doormat. You like? I'm kidding, that's not my new doormat.

It’s my first weekend in the new apartment – I’ve been here a week and I’m doing just fine. I’ll admit that the first few nights were a little weird. It’s amazing how quiet things are when you live alone. It isn’t like my parent’s house was noisy, but when other people are in the same space, there’s a certain white noise. It might even just be the sense of other people around that makes it seem noisier. Anyway, on the first night, it took what felt like an interminable time to fall asleep. Every little noise made my eyes snap open, and I was thinking I would NEVER fall asleep. But I did. Finally.

You see, I was a little punchy that first night, which might explain my unease. I decided to take a shower before heading to bed, because I was all stank from moving furniture and things, so I did and let me say… the water pressure here is fabulous. I was very pleased. Anyway, I got out of the shower and went into the bedroom to put on my pajamas, and then the freakin’ smoke alarm went off – except I didn’t know it was the smoke alarm at first. I might have had a small coronary episode. My first thought was, OMG I’m naked! So I tore on some clothes and then ran around like a cartoon character trying to figure out what to do. I ran outside because that’s what you’re supposed to do (at least, that’s what they taught me in kindergarten), but no one was around. When the door shut behind me, I quickly realized that the noise was coming from my apartment only, so I ran back inside. I don’t know how loud your smoke detectors are, but mine is two decibels down from an air-raid siren and I wish I was kidding about that. I got a chair from my dining room and stood on it to try and turn the smoke alarm off, because I thought I remembered that you could do that. I tore it from the ceiling, literally, but couldn’t find any batteries or any switches, and the alarm was still screaming at me! And then I thought OMG what if the fire department shows up? I’m going to look so stupid. What if this stupid alarm just keeps going? My neighbors are going to hate me and it’s just the first night! Just as I was getting ready to call the emergency number for the complex, it turned off. The silence was glorious and I finally started to breathe again. The shaking continued for awhile, though.

Of course, the alarm went off because of the steam from the shower. Whose brilliant idea was it to put the smoke alarm right outside the bathroom door? And why doesn’t this smoke alarm know the difference between smoke and steam? Clearly, I’m not dealing with geniuses here.

But… lesson learned. The bathroom door must be closed at all times. Got it. The only thing is, when I keep the door closed, the steam doesn’t have anywhere to go and the fan can only do so much. So, when I get home in the evenings and go into the bathroom, which has been in lockdown all day, I find a nice pool of water on the floor where all the steam has condensed. This has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever had to deal with. I mean, do I really have to buy a dehumidifier for my bathroom? I mean, Geez…

Other than that – I’m loving my new digs. I’m still lacking in the furniture department, and I have cable cords running every which way because I haven’t had the time or money to get a wireless router, and I can’t figure out how to hook my DVD player into my TV, and I still don’t have any pots and pans to cook with, and my couch is still the ugliest couch ever made… but I’m starting to like this whole apartment idea, and thank God for that… I was getting tired of being grumpy.

Oh, update on the car accident. The insurance companies saw reason and totaled the car, so my parents will get a brand new one, probably as soon as next week, so everything worked out. I don’t know if it’s a symptom of getting older and more experienced or what, but it’s like this wreck never happened. My first accident (senior year of high school) haunted me for weeks. I had nightmares and suffered small anxiety attacks behind the wheel, all of which eventually passed, but I remember feeling quite unhinged. This time, I walked away and barely thought of it at all. Is that weird? Somehow, I don’t think it’s a good thing when a car wreck is no big deal.

The Update of Life...

I try pretty hard to keep this blog light and frivolous, but every now and then, I suppose some angst is in order. And by “angst” I mean completely irrational overreactions to routine life occurrences that will more than likely turn out for the best.

Part the first: The new apartment

While I haven’t completely given up hope that my bachelor pad will be fabulous and worthy of publication in Martha Stewart Living eventually, I must confess that the first few weeks of my habitation there have been… well, they haven’t been. The timing of everything worked out in such a way that by the time I’d paid the deposit and the first month’s rent, turned on the power, and paid my student loan bills, I had just enough money left over to buy… absolutely nothing. Basically, I’ve been renting for more than two weeks and I have yet to actually “live” there. Yes, I feel guilty about that. And yes, I feel incredibly weak and pathetic. But I really couldn’t stomach the idea of sitting alone in an apartment with no cable, no internet, and no food – just so I could say I live on my own… not when my parents’ house, along with the aforementioned cable, internet, and food, is right across the street. So I’ve been moving very slowly and gradually – a few boxes here, a quick run to Target for the basics there, and the apartment is just now beginning to be habitable. This weekend, the cable will be connected (they got the very last few crumbs in my bank account), my bed will be moved over, and the misery that will be the first few months will commence. I guess I’m just really disappointed… in myself, in life in general, in the rising cost of EVERYTHING… because I was truly excited about this move. Actually, I’ve been excited for over two years. It was anti-climactic, rough, and very little fun. And I’ll cry if I want to.

I had a little meltdown in Target earlier in the week. I was there with my mom and Li’l Sis, trying to pick up the things I would need to survive, and I was overcome with failure and disappointment. Here I am, almost 27 years old, and Mom has to help out with basic living items like toilet paper and trash bags. So much for self-sufficiency. I dealt with these feelings the only way I could… by sulking and whining like a five-year-old, losing all enthusiasm, and basically being an ass. That’s just how I roll. If it wasn’t for my sister’s death-stares and admonishments, there’s a good chance I would have stormed out in a huff with nothing, rendering the apartment vacant for another two weeks. Thanks for the tough love, girl.

Meanwhile, my couch is really ugly and I hate it, and don’t give me any crap about how I should just be grateful that I even have a couch, because you would be right, of course, but that’s not the point – the point is it isn’t the couch I wanted and it’s really UGLY and I hate it, but I took it and it’s sitting in my living room making me sad and miserable, emotions which are compounded exponentially by the fact that I can’t even afford a slipcover to hide the UGLY, so in a way that damn ugly couch is sitting in my living room laughing at me. I’m allowed to hate it and I’m tired of people telling me to stop complaining about it. The good news: I’ve come around to sort of liking the dining room furniture and the coffee table. And the bathroom is going to be really cute when I’m done with it. See? I can be positive when I want to.

Part the second: Occupational shenanigans

The new big boss is finally starting to move on his big restructuring plans for the department. Last Thursday, our team had a meeting, and it was announced that I would be leaving my current position and relocating. Beforehand, in a little one-on-one, the new boss assured me that I would like the new position he had in mind for me. He used phrases like, “great opportunity,” and, “more effective use of your skill-set.” Notice he didn’t use the word “promotion.” It’s all very confusing, but the gist of it seemed to be that I would no longer be the administrative assistant to my supervisor, but I would probably be doing the same sorts of things, just in a new office with a new supervisor. Meanwhile, everyone else in the department was either promoted or left the way they were. I have to be honest… it kind of felt like I’d been voted off the island. Everyone was very happy for the people who got promoted (congratulations were thrown around liberally), but I got a lot of concerned looks and the other assistant even gave me a pouty-face, which was unnerving. After the meeting, I couldn’t stand it, so I asked my supervisor if she thought I had received good news or bad news. And she said she thought it was good, but not very convincingly. Yesterday, I had a meeting with the big boss and the lady who will be my new supervisor, and I left it even more confused about what I’d be doing and for whom I’d be working. My emotions are wavering in an alarming way, too. One minute I’m excited, because some of what I’m hearing sounds perfect for me, and even fun. The next minute I’m angry, because there has been no mention of what will happen to my salary, and I feel weird asking about it. The next minute I’m just plain scared, because the transition will probably be very chaotic, and I could totally see myself doing two jobs for the price of one for a few months, which puts me in a really bad mood. But most of the time, I’m just grumpy. I hate not knowing what’s going on, and I’ve been left in the dark. I can tell my big boss thinks he’s doing me all sorts of favors, but I really resent it when authority figures think they know all about you and what you’re good at and what you’ll be happy doing - but don’t take the time to talk to you about things before they pull the rug out from beneath you and set your world spinning out of control.

The big boss says that this new position is being created FOR ME to take advantage of my skills and abilities, so I guess that’s a good thing, but he hasn’t said a word about perhaps giving me a title, or boosting my salary, or anything of that nature, which makes me think I shouldn’t get my hopes up. But let me tell you, if I don’t get some sort of salary inflation after all of this drama, I will be VERY CRANKY, and I might not be able to hide it. I might be cranky enough to start looking elsewhere, which I really don’t want to do, but crankiness is a huge motivation.

So CLEARLY, I haven’t been in the mood to blog about the latest music videos or the latest reality T.V. scandal or whatever because I’m actually sort of preoccupied with life – and all of it just reminds me why I like music videos and reality T.V. in the first place.

Li'l Sis isn't so li'l anymore...

So Li'l Sis is 21. (As of Feb. 3)

I sort of can't take it. I remember the day she was born for God's sake. And what a happy day that was. Big Bro and I were overjoyed... at least until she came home and boggarted all the parental attention. I KID!!

I'm so lucky to have a Li'l Sis that I also consider a best friend. Not only is she not embarassed to be seen with me in public, she also confides in me and seems to give a crap about what I think. Not that she needs much guidance... she's pretty awesome on her own.

GAWD, I can't believe she's TWENTY-ONE!! Time is moving way too fast for yours truly. I'm happy, though, because, like a fine wine, she's gotten better with age. I am constantly and consistently impressed with her maturity, tenacity, and grace. Let's face it, ya'll... Li'l Sis is fierce. Wait, Tyra does it better than I.



Oh, you will totally love what I made for her...

As some may recall, a monogrammed scarf was commissioned for her trip to Spain in January. Many believed I wouldn't be able to produce it in time, and well, they were right. I totally blew it. So sorry. It's a good thing she had a birthday coming up, because I was able to parlay the scarf into a birthday present.

Here it is, in all its finished glory.



The picture doesn't accurately capture how HEEEEUGE this garment is... It's five feet long and about 8 inches across, knitted in the round. In retrospect, it probably wasn't the best way to approach it (I think if it appeared on Project Runway, Nina would scoff at the construction... Well, SORRY, Nina. Maybe it doesn't look finished, but I assure you, I'm finished with it), but the upside is that it is very thick and warm, and crosses very attractively at Li'l Sis's waist.

While it was supposed to be a scarf, Li'l Sis is calling it her new scarf/shawl/wearable blanket, when really, it's probably more like a stole. Who knew I could make a stole? I did. And there's the proof.

Anyhoodle, Happy Birthday, Li'l Sis. I love you!!