Something Wicked This Way Comes

Last weekend after the crazy Napa ride, I hopped in the car to drive down to SF to visit some friends, try (again!) to see Wicked, and get my bike tweaked a little (thanks, Benj!). If you recall, I tried to see Wicked in LA, but was not successful. Melis and I went and stood in line on Saturday night, but our names were not called. I decided to try again on my way out of town -- I figured it would be a nice way to spend the afternoon in the big city. First, I WON! Hurray! Second, I'm not a big city kind of person. I always look forward to going, and I like hanging out with Melis out on the beach, walking through the park, or walking to dinner somewhere. But more than that just isn't for me. I think. Maybe. At least right now.

Sunday was gorgeous and sunny in San Francisco, and the buildings are so tall and dense that I could barely feel the wind (which has been quite strong in NorCal lately). I put my name in for the ticket lottery and then walked around for awhile, making sure to stay close to the theatre because I have a propensity for getting lost. Then back to the theatre for the tense, exciting, nervous 'calling of the names.' Sunday was Easter and the crowd was smaller than I'd ever seen it (this was my forth time between SF and LA) and I felt like my chances were good. I saw a few of the same people I'd seen the night before and I found myself hoping for them that they would win -- especially the two guys from Britain who would otherwise have to go home with no Wicked. Because the crowd was small, there was not as much excitement or unity among us and I decided that if I won, I would "whoop!" even though no one else was. It was a tough commitment to make, but that's the liberation that comes with standing among strangers in a place I don't live and won't likely be visiting again soon. As soon as he started to say my name, I got my "Whoop" ready and laid it out there as soon as I was sure there wasn't some other Heather with her name in there.

Anyway -- I didn't mean for this to be a story about listening for my name to be called. Name called, walked around the area for about an hour with my book in hand looking for a place to sit and read it, was told by a seemingly homeless man that he liked my smile (said while I was not smiling and he was not looking at my face), told by another that, 'damn, girl, you're beautiful,' and otherwise just asked for money. After all this walking, concentrating on not getting lost, I came upon Hastings, the University of California's SF law school. I spent some time sitting in on classes at this school while I was trying to choose. Having more than one school to choose from was not an altogether unwelcome dilemma (maybe a tri-lemma or a quad-lemma. I can't remember how many actual contenders there were, but I sure did apply to lots of schools). Funny how I ran right into a law school, huh?

Anyone else notice that I can't stay on topic? Anyone know what the topic actually is?

Oh! So after walking around for an hour looking for a quiet place to sit and read, I came upon a coffee shop that's pretty much kitty-corner from the theatre. Right. Brilliant navigating. At least I wasn't lost.

In the theatre, not-very-tempted by the $9 beer and $6 candy, I just took my book to my seat and watched people file in. The seats were less-than-stellar with a partially-obstructed view (but still in the third row, so I could see faces/expressions), but I didn't mind much. The musical was great -- quite frankly, it was not as fantastic as I'd hoped/heard, and I didn't understand why people were crying. Maybe something was happening behind my partially obstructed view. Or maybe I'm cold-hearted and should seek out the Wizard of Oz for a new one.

The great thing about being my own date was that I did not have to discuss with myself whether I just wanted to sit and wait at the intermission, or whether I'd like to try my luck in the bathroom line. As soon as the curtain went down on Act One, I jumped up and headed out. There was no line. None whatsoever. Coming out, I saw the hordes of women making their way to the growing line and I congratulated myself on having such a speedy date.

During the intermission, I sat with my book and listened to the women behind me.

Older (40's?): oh, you're back.

Younger (teens/early 20's?): Yeah. The line was so long, I couldn't even find the end [I found this curious, as I had also just returned, and the end of the line for the restroom was decidedly still inside the restroom doors]. It wasn't worth it.

Older: Ah. Well. I hope you can wait.

Younger: I guess I'll have to.

Older: I hope you're okay with the seats [their seats were better than mine, but not great].

Younger: I'm fiiiiiiine. It's fine.

Older: Well, I'm glad that we got in.

Younger: Yeah, we got in. They shouldn't even sell seats over here with half the stage blocked off by the set.

Older: Oh. Well, yeah. I guess they are not great seats. [Seems as though the older woman had bought the tickets and was maybe looking for a little gratitude.]

Younger. It's fiiiiine. They shouldn't build a set like that and then make people sit behind it. They just want to make money. They would never do that on Broadway. [huh?]

Older: I guess they are just here to sell tickets. [huh?]

Younger: Oh [reading the playbill], Patty Duke is in this. Wasn't she in something?

Older: Patty Duke. She was in some movies or shows, I think. Wasn't she in The Parent Trap? Yeah, I think she was in The Parent Trap. [HMR note: if you're going to talk loud enough for your neighbors to hear you 1) don't say stupid things and 2) know the difference between Patty Duke and Haley Mills and 3) if you read the playbill, it tells you what Patty Duke has been in, which most definitely does not include The Parent Trap.]

Younger: Oh yeah. That's right. I know her. She's so old now.

Older: Looks like the standby is performing today. What's the difference between a standby and an understudy?

Younger: Yeah. That's not the "real" Elphaba. [HMR note: even though we'd all been sitting through an hour and a half of the musical and they'd said Elphaba's name about 22 times every ten minutes, this woman still pronounced it wrong. Also -- the "real" Elphaba? What the heck does that mean? This is fiction, people.] Standby is like, the person who like, is ready to stand-by for the real one if they can't come.

Older: So what's an understudy?

Younger: An understudy is. . . You know that understudies don't even have to know the lines? They just read the script. It's in their contracts -- the actors guild says they don't have to know the lines.

Older: what about the songs?

Younger: The songs? I don't know. It's in their contracts. [So pretty much, they just pluck someone off the street, paint her face green, and then giver her a script. Mmmhmm.]
[HMR note: I've since looked this up:

A standby is not in the show and has first priority when the lead is sick. The understudy is usually an ensemble member who performs if the standby is sick or on vacation.]

Older: What do you think of it so far?

Younger: Well, it's okay. The book was better. I guess they had to dumb it down. They just took ____ away instead of ______ him. [I don't want to ruin it for you]. Elphaba is okay, I guess. Glinda is good, but she's not, like, Broadway good. She'd never make it out there.

The ladies went on in their hyper-critical view of the world. Maybe I was hypersensitive to the hypercritical because I find myself becoming more critical of the world and don't really think I'm ready to be a crotchety old woman just yet. And remember L.A. Story when Steve Martin says, "I don't think you realize how unattractive hate is." So there's that.

Here I am squinting in the very sunny San Francisco Day (not a myth! it happens!) waiting around in front of the sign for Wicked.

All these photos are a little scary. People used to make fun of my dad when he shaved off his beard because he looked like he had chipmunk cheeks. Something else I can include on the inheritance list. My word.

Interesting story about the Ink Grade ride last weekend. Wait for it. . .