And the Embers Never Fade

"Tonight, Tonight," The Smashing Pumpkins

I wasn't cool in high school. At all. I was the semi-nerdy swimmer who floundered through AP Bio and wore Birkenstock-ish shoes on an almost-daily basis. Sometimes I chalk this up to moving after 8th grade to Granite Bay and then returning to Santa Barbara before junior year of high school, but really I was just socially awkward and unsure of who I was. Granted, I know the notion of "knowing your identity" escapes all high school kids, but some people (clearly, not me) are/were better at hiding it than others. Sometimes I see myself in the faces and phrases of my current students-- lost, uncomfortable, perpetually embarrassed-- and I cringe knowingly. I've been there. It sucks. It'll get better.

However, while I may have tiptoed through the shadows of high school relatively uninvolved and silent, my small group of close friends provided a safe-haven of laughter, unity, and the collective despise of taking the tarps off the pool for early morning swim practice. Last weekend, three of my best friends from high school congregated in Carlsbad for a reunion. For the last few years, these three women have been honing their professional, respectable, and exceptional interests and skills in expensive universities and impressive careers. It had probably been ten years since the four of us spent time as an assembled unit, yet we fell into our old habits, jokes, and intricacies as though mere weeks had passed. We spent hours filling each other in about our lives, reminiscing about our high school adventures, and remembering the unique bond of our teenage days.

By definition, we're adults now. Moving forward in the professional world, approaching thirty, and paying our own car insurance. Filing our taxes and remembering to get an oil change. Defrosting the chicken and buying slacks. But really, the sixteen-year-old within each of us is just underneath that outer shell, surfacing to do cartwheels on the beach or double over in laughter remembering an inappropriate instance with a particular SBSC teammate. You know, circa 1998. And it's funny, because while our content and lethargic behavior may have been cheese-platter-and-wine-induced last weekend, it's eerily redolent of our Gatorade-and-trail-mix post-swim practice couch-lounges a decade ago...

"Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend."

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Night Will Weave its Magic Spell

"Bella Notte," Lady and the Tramp Soundtrack

We saw Avatar on Saturday. In 3-D IMAX. Impressed to say the least, we left the theater talking about Sam Worthington's atrophied legs, the revolution of film over the past few decades, and James Cameron's inability to subtly imply our society isn't protecting the Earth and its resources. Oh, and the fact Joel Moore, who played Norm in Cameron's motioncapture-CGI-fest, is JP from Grandma's Boy. Once home, we watched Liz Lemon try to get out of jury duty by impersonating Princess Leia AT LEAST ten times, and then talked about our Valentine's Day plans.

"So...a nice dinner, right? La Jolla?"
"That's the plan."
"Or...we could just go to Disneyland."
"OKAY!"

And so we did. Go to Disneyland. All day yesterday. We left our house around 8:30, after filling the car with coffee, extra layers of clothing, and the perfect Disney road mix. It took us less than an hour to exit at Disney Way and park in the Pumbaa section. We went to Tomorrowland first because, well, it's the least fun of all the lands. Actually, before yesterday, I kind of hated it, since my links of association with Disney's idea of "the future" (via my 12-year-old self) go like this: Tomorrowland = Space Mountain = Nausea = "Let's sit on this bench and 'take it easy' for the next half hour" = "Paul can get a churro but Chelsea should probably just have water because if she barfs then we'll have to go home." Yesterday, however, we skipped Space Mountain entirely and instead embarked on Autopia, a ride I had never been on.

"Do you want to ride together?" Tim asked politely. "You can steer."
"Hell no. I want to race," I said, clutching my Disney-administered driver's license and getting in line.

It turns out, I am just as bad of a driver in a fake car as I am in a real one. With or without hands.

We spent the rest of the day weaving in and out of strollers, eating double-scoops of ice cream, joking and taking silly pictures in line, playing What Potential Quasi-Celebrity Is That? (Tim won with "Don Henley's dad"...so spot-on it was scary), flaunting our FastPasses to less-fortunate park-goers, and wondering why so many adults own so much Disney clothing and memorabilia.

 

Tim wishing the Finding Nemo ride included an actual SCUBA segment...

The Matterhorn was closed. This was REALLY upsetting to me, because I had secretly been hoping to see how those onion rings tasted on the way back up.

 

"Eddie would probably have gone," said Tim, when I voiced a little fear about Thunder Mountain

Because we were having so much fun (and perhaps also maybe because we had stuffed ourselves full of amusement-park junk food throughout the day), we hardly wanted to take time out for dinner. 

"There's that clam chowder in a bread bowl you like over by Pirates," mused Tim, glancing around unconvincingly at our rather meager options.
"What about a turkey leg on a stick? They're at all the food carts," I grinned, envisioning us sitting on the curb in front of Tom Sawyer's Island and the Pirate's Lair, chewing on scrappy bird bones like vultures.
"Or! There's a Denny's right outside the entrance," Tim glanced away, perhaps embarrassed by the suggestion.
"That's it! Perfect!" I said, starting towards the front of the park without hesitation. "Let's hurry. The fireworks are at 9:25, and I think we can get in both Indiana Jones and Splash Mountain before then."
"But...it's Valentine's Day..." 
"I know! And we're at Disneyland! And Denny's is fast and cheap and good! Plus, it's our fake restaurant, right?" 
"True," Tim said, cringing a little. Funnily, poignantly, (sadly?), Tim and I have all kinds of fond memories from various Denny's establishments all over California-- (okay, New Mexico, too). "Alright, let's do it," he said. "This one'll go down in the books."

We hurried out of the entrance, pausing only to have our hands slapped with the fluorescent stamp which would later deem us re-entry, and half-walked/half-ran to our romantic destination. The woman at the front desk (podium? kiosk?) greeted us with a hearty (and also, inaccurate?) "Good morning!" while simultaneously sweeping the discarded bits of trash and dignity off the floor. Before we were even seated, I noticed the Valentine's Special taped to one of the restaurant's bulletin boards:

"Well, we don't have a choice. We have to do that," I told Tim.
"Oh man. Really?"
"Absolutely. It's Valentine's Day, after all. We need to have champagne and chocolate covered strawberries. From Denny's."
Tim's pained expression was enough of a response. "You're right," he said. "We totally do."

Our Valentine's dinner, it turns out, wasn't a fancy meal in La Jolla. We didn't eat oyster shooters or Bouillabaisse or spicy prawns garnished with cilantro. We didn't have cloth napkins or Pelligrino or waiters bringing us quality wine lists-- (our waiter, instead, said, "Uh...happy Valentine's Day?" in an articulation best described as equal parts pity and shame). But it was fantastic. We were silly and happy and ridiculous. We laughed and quoted movie lines and whispered about other patrons. Our food was filling and fast, and we were out of there with plenty of time to spare for our next FastPass bracket.

 

 Drink up me 'earties, yo ho!

We stayed at Disneyland until 11 PM. We climbed Tarzan's tree house and took the Jungle Cruise at night, able to mouth some of the tour guide's bad jokes verbatim. We fought each other in the Toy Story Astroblaster (I lost dismally), and the fireworks started when we reached the top of Thunder Mountain. The park was twinkling with lights, people were screaming gleefully aboard the rocky coaster, and in the distance, the upbeat notes of Disney's "Wishes" were audible above all else. It was easily the best Valentine's Day I've ever had.

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you

The Music Ignites the Night

"Rent," RENT Soundtrack

"What are you doing this Saturday?" said my dad over the phone last Wednesday, rain pattering dully outside.
My internal movie projector silently propelled itself into the future, where I envisioned myself wrapped in old grey sweats and a Snuggie on the couch, drinking a glass of cheap chardonnay, and (unsuccessfully) trying to convince Tim why he might actually really like this Lifetime movie.
"Uh...nothing. No plans."
"Good. Great. Wanna come to Sacramento?"
"What?"
"Sacramento."
"What for?"
"It's a surprise. I'll get you a plane ticket. You can leave Saturday morning, and I'll fly you back down on Sunday morning."
"Um, okay!"

So I flew to Sacramento last Saturday. After a quick hour spent pursuing the latest Us magazine and listening to Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix on repeat, I arrived in our state's capital. Jen had driven in from San Francisco and picked me up at the airport, and we were off to my dad's Woodland house. Once there, my dad wanted to give us the "grand tour." While small, the house is perfect for him (especially considering he spends so little time there). It's a three-bedroom cottage, although only one of the rooms is actually set-up for sleeping. You know, in a bed. The first bedroom was completely bare save for a plush armchair and footrest, perhaps from the Hoover administration.
"This is the sitting room," said my dad with a smile.
We continued on through the rest of the house, finally reaching the kitchen and a connecting door.
"This is the best part," said my dad, hovering above the connecting door's first step. "It's the wine cellar. Best part of the whole house."
"I didn't know you had a wine cellar!" I said, surprised I hadn't heard of this room before. We crept slowly down the dark and cobweb-encrusted stairs, each loose board creaking under our feet. "I feel like I'm walking into a Poe story," I said uneasily, heading further into the obscure darkness. Suddenly, a giant sheet-covered figure leapt from the depths of the blackened room, roaring loudly and rushing towards Jen and me. We both screamed in fright, and my brother pulled the sheet off of his head gleefully, laughing hysterically.
"Surprise!"
It took a few minutes for me to regain my composure. I had no idea Paul was going to be in Sacramento, and so naturally I figured this was the surprise my dad had boasted of earlier in the week.

We went to dinner at a great barbeque place around the corner from my dad's house, where of course Jen and I wore the extra cowboy hats we found lying haphazardly in the backseat of my dad's Tundra.

 

Afterwards, we headed downtown. We stopped by my dad's office, and then started walking down the street. 

"Where are we going?" I asked impatiently.

"You'll see."

"I looked up Arco Arena, but nobody's playing there."

"The Kings play there."

"But not tonight. Plus, I know you wouldn't take us to a Kings game," I said. He didn't answer, because he knew I was right. We continued walking, and suddenly we were at the Convention Center, where we turned in. We were inside the building before we were able to catch a glimpse of what was actually happening there. Surprisingly, no outdoor marquee was broadcasting the production. Beyond the box office and the front doors, a RENT poster hung invitingly on the wall, and my heart pounded.

"It's RENT!" my dad said, beaming. He held the tickets out to us.

We squealed. Hugged. Exchanged elated smiles and thanked my dad profusely.

"AND!" he added, barely able to contain his smile, "It's with the guys from the original Broadway show. The guys from the movie!"

"Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal?" we squeaked, our anticipation growing. My heart beat faster as I realized the two hours ready to unfold in front of me. Because the stars had aligned; because the gods were on my side; because I have an incredible father; because sometimes I am just really lucky, I was about to hear Adam Pascal's Roger belt "One Song Glory" again. I was going to witness Anthony Rapp's Mark lead a what-was-sure-to-be phenomenal ensemble charge "La Vie Boheme." I was going to fall in love all over again with Jonathan Larson's nearly-flawless script, melodies, lyrics, and message.

And of course, because RENT is as important to my life as Splenda and the ocean and oxygen, it was magic. I saw this performance less than a year ago, and yet I could see it once a week and have the same reaction every time. I still get anxious butterflies when the house lights go down. I still feel a surge of excitement and empowerment when Mark clearly announces, "December 24th, 9 PM." I still catch myself holding my breath when Roger effortlessly begins strumming the notes for "Your Eyes." Beautiful, poetic, heart-breaking, eye-opening, candid, and unparalleled, this play changed my life. Ten years ago. A year ago. Last week. And, I'm pretty sure it will continue to do so...

 

 

 

 It's time now, to sing out

Though the story never ends

Let's celebrate

Remember a year

In the life of friends

Love is the Weapon for this Wounded Generation

Never Shout Never

 
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

-Edward Lear