Broken

I’m broken__ and you can’t fix me

But we can hang out__ and we can do stuff

Go to museums__ and foreign movies

And recount stories that we read in the New Yorker

I’m broken__ no one can fix me

I’ve tried self-help groups__ and twelve-step meetings

I have a therapist__ and yoga teacher

My a-ccu-punc-tur-ist has also done his best___

(Chorus)

Oh, oh, I’m broken__  (She’s broke!)  No one can fix me  (Nu-uh!) __

You can try but I would think that you’ve got bigger fish to fry__

Oh, I’m broken__  (She’s broke!)  No, you can’t fix me  (Fucked-up!) __

But something tells me that you’re broken, too.

(Bridge.1)

All of my flower vases are chipped__

The edges of my mixing bowls_ are a little nicked

The paint job on my bicycle__ has rusted off

But I still ride it__ because I love it__ ‘cause it’s like meeeee – (broken)

My friends are broken__ at least the funny ones

They’re basket cases__ or alchoholics

They’re usually laughing__ when they’re not crying

If they weren’t broken then they might not be so fun

(Bridge.2)

My shirts are missin’ buttons__ earrings missin’ stones__

My comfy queen-size bed__ is missin’ moans__

I’m trying to get my ducks__ in tidy little rows__

And I am better__ but I’m sill broken__ la, la-di-daaaaaaa (broken)

(She whispers)

I’m broken__ and you can’t fix me

But we can wonder__ what it would be like

To love each other__ and be forgiven

Like all those other healthy people out there do  -- Yee-hoo!

(Repeat Chorus- sing last line 2x)

Disney Dream Nightmare

I know there are two camps of Disney folks.  Well, actually, probably more like three.  There are the hard core Disney fans; acolytes who would defend the Disney ethos-- it’s parks, movies, lifestyle, and cultural branding hegemony—‘til their last breath.  There are the revulsionists.  I made up that word but I think it pretty much illustrates the other end of the Disney spectrum.  And then there are the folks in the middle; the folks who think, sure, what the heck.  It’s an experience like any other and I have a kid who’s probably been pecked by the, “Have you been to Disney?” question a fair amount by now, so, why not try it.  I’ll do almost anything once.

And so we went.  I figured that third grade was a safe height for all the rides but still young enough to enjoy the luster of Walt’s gestalt, so I caved back in November.  Back before I could know that it would be the most glorious and temperate winter on record.  The concept of escaping a bitter and slushy Northeast March for Florida’s balmier climes was lost on my son and I felt like a dope for being there when the weather was certain to be better here, but the tickets had been purchased.  All of them, that is, except for the park entrance tickets.  No need to buy them ahead, I’d been counseled, as there were ticket windows as far as the eye could see plus a bank of self-serve vending machines.  Six minutes tops was one magical estimate and I believed it, because I wanted to believe in magic.

We first heard word of the electrical outage at the transportation station—the Ellis Island of Disneyworld—where one must wait in line for a ferry or monorail ride to take you to the actual entrance to the Magic Kingdom.  “Will we be able to buy tickets?” I asked while snaking for thirty minutes.  “Of course,” came the cheerful reply from the Disney Cast Member—as they’re all called, not employee.  But when we finally arrived, the vending machines were all still covered and the battery of ticket windows were dark and vacant.  Cheerful cast members herded us into what would be our longest line of the day, inching up to one of the seven Guest Services windows that did have electricity.  And when I say us, I mean all twenty or thirty thousand of us who had waited to buy tickets at the park.  It wasn’t pretty.

Okay, I thought, this is a real teaching moment for my sullen, pouting son; a chance to reminisce over how fortunate we are.  I mentioned that we had full bellies and a knapsack bulging with sandwiches, snacks and water.  I reminded him of how lucky we were to be here at all and plied him with promises of ice cream and Space Mountain.  But it meant nothing as we wilted in the hot, cloying sun.  Naysayers we couldn’t escape in line spoke shrilly of doomsday scenarios.  I tried to counter with games of I Spy and the Serenity Prayer, but he was despondent; and hot.  I even broke out the travel backgammon set I’d squirreled away for just such an emergency—not expecting to need it on the morning of our first day.  “I just want to go home,” was all he uttered.  And I couldn’t blame him.  Where was Tigger?  Someone send in the clowns!  Why weren’t cast members swooping in to placate us with popsicles?  Or palm fronds for shade.  Why not just open up the floodgates and let us in?  Wasn’t one day’s revenue loss worth a generation of great PR?  How could they not have a contingency for this?  They had one for everything else.

They didn’t because they’re not perfect.  And as my son finally broke down after 90 minutes and no end in sight, I had to admit that I’d failed him as well.  Had I chosen the wrong line?  Why didn’t we try another park?  We could have been on our way to Legoland but had already invested so much time that our journey seemed irreversible at that point.  I couldn’t think on my feet any better that Disney could and so I crumbled as well. 

We finally got in.  As we grinded though the turnstile the angry mob behind us grew fainter in the distance.  We sauntered off into that shadeless wonderland of ersatz hopes and dreams; off to get that ice cream.  Off to stand in more soul-crushing lines amidst a sea of parents who’s only simple aim was to bring their kids some joy; FastPasses simmering elsewhere; dignity back at the hotel.  Off to find our own version of an eight-year-old’s supposed idea of magic.  And we did. 

And then it began to downpour.

The Play's the Thing

I was in a boatload of plays and musicals in my day.  I sang and danced my tuckus off as Maisie Merriweather in The Boyfriend-- it was so hot in our school’s auditorium that my mascara ran from sheer perspiration.  As young Emily in Our Town, I put a bottle-cap upside-down in my shoe to help remind me which leg to limp on, and as Oliver I let my voice break a little at the end of the song, “Where Is Love” to see if I could get anyone in the audience to cry.  They did. 

I loved being in the chorus of Oklahoma because I got a lot of hang time with other kids while the director worked with the leads.  We would clown around until we were shushed and it gave us the chance to flirt and possibly be partnered with older boys—most of whom we wouldn’t have had any contact with otherwise.  I also vaguely remember doing some show that had a circus theme and our school’s director had two trapezes bolted into the ceiling above the stage.  I spent a bulk of the show swinging back and forth by my knees— no spotter, no net and no mat below me—just a smile to break my fall.  I never did.

As fun as these experiences were, they also provided tremendous learning opportunities.  Blocking helped me become hyper aware of bodies in space in terms of composition and balance.  Learning new songs and choreography was mathy in it’s own way.  Having to count measures and gauge distances in time; turning and crossing in symmetrical paths across the stage illustrated some principles of geometry.  There were beautiful blended harmonies to be mindful of, pages of memorizing to be done, and gorgeous sets to be designed and painted.  Every day my brain and body whirred with new information that had to somehow weave itself together and imprint in my mind so that, come opening night, I could hit my marks, remember my lines, blend my voice just so while not stepping on anyone’s toes.  And to think that this was all going on concurrently with preparing for spelling quizzes, algebra finals and science tests.  Quite a feat.

I didn’t understand at the time how important these accomplishments would be as transferrable skills in adulthood, nor did I care.  Teamwork and partnering are germane to every office job I can fathom, as is assimilating and regurgitating new information in a confident and compelling manner.  Standing up straight and hitting your mark without turning your back to the audience—not to mention projecting—are skills that have served me well in pitch meetings and presentations over the years—a conference room is really just a small stage with a pile of sandwiches in the center when you think about it.  In both arenas there is a message to be delivered, a product to be sold and an audience to be charmed.  What better proving ground than a school musical or drama production.  Not to mention the sizeable dose of confidence one has to have to get up in front of classmates in a potentially dorky costume and possibly trip or forget then having to keep calm and carry on.  Tell me that won’t serve you well for decades to come.  It has.

Before a show, my dad would reminded me of what Spencer Tracy used to say about acting:  Learn your lines and don’t bump into the furniture.  My mom would tell me to make sure my hair was out of my face, to stand up straight and not to futz with my costume-- no matter how itchy or ill-fitting it was.  Both of them made sure to remind me to have fun.  After all that was the point, wasn’t it? 

I had a chance ponder this again recently when I performed in front of an audience.  While I was singing my heart out and supposedly having fun, I was having a completely lucid parallel conversation with myself in my head during the song:  Am I hitting my mark?  Check.  Do I remember the first word to the next verse?  Yes.  Oh, shoot, I just blew over the third verse—wups—will have to go back and make sure to fit it in before the chorus.   Thank goodness the band is keeping up.  They’re such troopers; must remember to thank them.  Uh-oh, the strap of my dress is about to slip off my shoulder—don’t futz!  Raise up my left arm, maybe that’ll reset it.  It did.  Here comes the big finish; hope I can hit that note.  Thank goodness.  One down; two to go.  Take a sip of water.  What’s next?  Oh, right.  Here we go again.  Stand up straight and don’t futz.  Oh, and remember to have fun