the last stand

I have one more musical to add to the list in the previous entry.

Granted, it evades the main rule of the list, namely that I contributed a large sum of money to London theatre. I did not, in fact, I contributed a mere fiver (a fiver!) to Cardiff's sadly named New Theatre's Tesco-value national touring production of Cats.

It wasn't planned and so in anticipation I still peed my pants. Who knew? I certainly never though I'd see Cats again any time soon, for though it toured and played in London for 25 years, I doubted that it would get a London revival in the next ten years. I was right about that I suppose, but imagine my surprise when my pal Rhys and I turn a corner and there is a poster for Cats and, jogging up, I see that the small date range includes the time period I am in Cardiff, Wales.

Which really leads me to this final entry that I will make while in London. I have exactly two full days left here. This short and unfascinating story about the musical 'Cats' brings up two themes: disappointment/or lack thereof, and time.

When I was 7 years old, I took my first trip to London with my mom. We were in London for a week or so and saw 5 musicals. This was essentially the point of the visit, as well as indulging my already developing obsession with Henry VIII and the Tudor family. Among my most desired musicals to see was Phantom of the Opera, topped only in anticipation by CATS. The desire was, no doubt, spurred by my basic love of the domesticated animal and the fact that I had already read so much in books about all the different costumes and the choreography and also read through TS Eliot's "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats," of which 95% of Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical is based on. So imagine my delight, my squees of excitement, when I see the theatre the musical is at. My mom takes a picture: it is of me with my Cats t-shirt, arms spread out widely, grinning my missing tooth grin. I am ecstatic.

And I remember mostly the defining moment in my 7-year old life: (right along with falling in love with Les Miserables, experiencing the chandelier in 'Phantom' fall right over my head and the heat of the Phantom's fireballs, the shock of the gunshots in 'Blood Brothers' and the sobs that followed): watching the cats carthweel and prance in the large aisle in front of me and, most of all, having 'Gus' the theatre cat brush my hand with his 'paw' as he passed with Jelly Lynn, his caretaker cat.

I know. This is nerdom to its fullest extent but let me explain: I hardly remembered the musical. I realized this as I sat down for this generic production and had no idea what to expect. I didn't remember if the dance moves looked as silly as they did back then, if the cats posed as much as they did this time around, if Growltiger was played as a joke or if Griddlebone was ugly and unappealing (surely not, or I would have never dressed as her for Halloween and claimed Growltiger's Last Stand as my favorite song.) But I was embarassed for bringing Rhys, and thanked whatever was out there for letting us students get tickets for only a fiver.

So, disappointment, in some form. I probably never would have suggested anybody go see Cats as their only musical anyways, but this has cemented that decision, although I am confident that it was 500x better on the rotating large London stage without an obscenely gay Rum Tum Tiger and his lover, Mr. Mistoffeles.

This trip, I've repeated every musical I saw during that trip back in '93. All except 'Starlight Express,' which isn't running anymore, and which I wouldn't have seen again anyway. I've repeated my lookout for every single Henry VIII reference I can find. And so thirteen years later, (and isn't it strange and unnerving to say the number 13 as only a partial part of your past) I am more than happy to repeat two of the biggest missions I came to London with way back when.

And so therefore London has fulfilled and overachieved every single role I pegged it for. The city has gone even overboard to make sure my love for it was just as strong as it was 13, 8, and 2 years ago. I have failed in a few aspects: many of you know my shit luck with friends, although the fact that I had a new friend to stay with at his family's house in Cardiff definitely checks the box for success in British friends. And heck, what's the use of trying to make British friends if you can't at least fall out with one, get in a drunken pub brawl, and smash a Stella bottle over his head? The answer is 'no use.' Because I did. That is, fall out with one, get in a drunken pub brawl, and smash a Stella bottle over his head.

I have also, in the past two weeks of large chunks of alone time, and especially the end of last week, and riding back into London from Cardiff, come to terms with the amount of time I have spent here: 6 months. January 4 to July 1. Minus, I suppose, the month of travel. It's finally sunken in that I have been, more or less an everyday jobless London resident, except for the fact that I try to pack lots of stuff into my day and haven't been able to return to the dorm between the hours of 10 and 10. So maybe I am still a tourist: I'm straddling the line. I walk like a local but I talk like a visitor. And no matter what, I will always talk like a visitor. Which is sad. Because I want to feel like I am London's.

This is the city and this is the best city and this is my favorite city in the world. Nowhere has come close yet. I am delighted, absolutely thrilled, that this has been reaffirmed over the last 6 months, even through down times. The city has always survived. The city has always passed with flying colors. It is endless, it is always happening, it is so hip, and yet it is mine.