I hate Andrew Lloyd Webber. I also hate whoever told him Cats was a good idea.
Dad and I went up to Boston this weekend to visit Emerson again. I still love it as much as always, and I met a kid named Claude. He was drinking Blue Powerade and humming How Could I Ever Forget. If that's not a sign I don't know what is. Anyway. As we were strolling around the city, I looked across the street at the Colonial marquee and saw Violet Weston clawing at me. I must have looked incredibly stupid, screaming "HOLY JESUS!" in the middle of Boylston Street. But can you imagine coming to Boston only to find that your wonderful, plate-smashing, pill-popping, cousin-loving second family is there too? I know, right? Bliss. So I was practically choking on my tongue as I ran across the street to the Colonial. But guess what. I was three weeks too early. And I had to see Cats.
First of all, I was scared out of my mind. I was fifth row on the aisle, and the Cats move around the theatre. That's only ok when the hippies do it. Somehow getting swatted by someone dressed like a cat just isn't the same as Will Swenson looming over you in his loincloth. Second. There is no plot. At all. Okay, I lied. Everyone's mean to Grizabella, who has ten minutes of stage time. The Rum Tum Tugger's a sex maniac. Mistoffelees is a pyro, and there's just something seriously wrong with Jennyanydots and her dancing cockroaches. It's just so damn ridiculous. This monstrosity sold out the Winter Garden for eighteen years. Ragtime got two months. Two son of a bitching months. Just one of the unfair things in life. Billy Elliot I'm looking at you.