How Christmas Stole Upon the People

Twitter Sonnet #212

Hammers rain on growing foam nail people.
Putty screws squish out around their sockets.
Smiling mall models deny the nipple.
Fatigued starch shirts swallow scotch by pockets.
Future empty department store roofs leak.
Drizzling whiskey glass breaks on fake liver.
Winter's booze stock balloons a slender beak.
Replacement moon's a peppermint sliver.
Secret Grinch slaves lotion matted green fur.
Wandering Whos fade in desert sunlight.
Karloff's voice vanished in Nathan Lane blur.
Candy blowfish dumbly float out of sight.
Skin rots off the antlers of canine deer.
All Santa's souls want for Christmas is fear.

I got up relatively early yesterday to go with my family to see How the Grinch Stole Christmas, the stage musical. My mother got us all tickets, and I'm not really sure why, as there are no little kids in our family. It wasn't so bad, though I didn't like the frustratingly pointless "It's the Thought That Counts" and the apparently anti-individualistic theme begun with the Grinch's "One of a Kind" number. There seemed to be an implied BDSM relationship between the Grinch and his dog, and the orgasmic moment when the Grinch's heart grew two times its size raised my eyebrows.

I hate how nearly all modern theatre people talk the same, how they all seem to have exactly the same Nathan Lane-ish/Liza Minnelli-ish affect, no matter who they're playing. So they all tend to sound like they're playing Stereotypical Theatre Person. It doesn't grate on my ear as much as some of the American southern accents do, but what really bugs me is that these supposed actors can't lose it for a role. Do we really need to be indulging actor's egos so much? Can't these people take their pleasure in contributing to a work of art, do they need to constantly be reminding us that they're actors with this obtrusive affect? I know How the Grinch Stole Christmas isn't Shakespeare, but still. I like "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch," and it was sad to hear in place of Thurl Ravenscroft such a bland, insecure take on the song.

The show was at Balboa park where there seemed to be a great number of busking musicians, including three guitarists, someone playing bagpipes, a violinist, and even a woman with a flute, who I saw being told by park staff to leave. The violinist seemed to be slightly out of tune, and his high, off version of "Silent Night" made me feel like I was in a horror movie.