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Wicked and wickedness.
Sep. 8th, 2009 02:48 pmDad's a fiend for arriving early, when we go to the theater. I don't know what instilled such a horror of being late in him, but it's so strong that he grows restless an hour before he heads out to any engagement. In this instance, on Sunday, it meant leaving home at nine for a two-hour drive to a one o'clock showing. The four of us yawned and piled into his new SUV, stopped for breakfast at our traditional half-way point (The jockey-themed McDonald's between Marysville and the Tulalip Indian Reservation) and still got to Seattle by eleven. We found parking near the theater, under a mall well within Bog's convention-centric stomping grounds, and settled into the Barnes & Nobles there to pass the hour before the theater opened.
There are some horrible people in the world. Not many - I am not so much a cynic as that. But more than enough. Having wandered around the bookstore, I settled onto a stool in the sci-fi/fantasy corner to check my texts, and was browsing the shelf beside me, running my fingers across the glossy even spines when suddenly they scraped across a surprise of cold metal. Some person, maliciously, had slid razor blades, the trapezoidal, thick sort you find in heavy-duty box-cutters, between the novels so that their cutting edges were all but flush with the spines, invisible to the casual eye and waiting for someone to do just what I had done. If my fingers had been moving more quickly, or down instead of across, I'd have been sliced.
I found two, between three adjacent books, and after a quick check turned up no more, took them straight to the customer service desk. The woman there was understandably concerned, alarmed even, and gratifyingly quick to go straight to the section I showed her, starting a thorough search for more. By the time we had to leave, they let me know they'd found no more. Hopefully, there were no more to find or miss.
We were in the theater before noon, joining the throng milling about the gilt and plaster lobby. The Ozdust gift shop was doing a brisk trade in glittery t-shirts and themed perfumes ('Popular' in a bubble-shaped pink bottle and 'Wicked' in tall green glass). They had nothing I much wanted, though I vaguely regret getting nothing at all. I wish they'd had a pin for my hat. Someone said they had such a thing on their website, but no joy.
They opened the doors just before the crush got unbearable, and we found our seats, off to the left under the mezzanine. Good enough seats, for the ticket price. Dad and I wandered down to peer into the orchestra pit. Wicked travels with its own musical troop, perhaps half a dozen musicians, and they flesh it out with local talent in whichever city they're playing. Here in Seattle, they'd accrued a percussionist of the foley-artist variety, whom Dad knew distantly through a circuitous path of friends and band-mates. So we talked shop, us leaning on the ballustrade and him trapped in a pit of drums and sundry. He had an amazing collection of toys and tools for keeping beat and making all the sound effects of the musical. Some of them, a set of tiny thick Zildjin cymbals, made Dad go a bit Elphabian himself in envy. This man had gotten an 8-set in the 70's at $26 a note. Today, they closer to $200. If I ever win the lotto, I know what to get him for a birthday.
( And then the lights went down. (Cut for spoilers) )
There are some horrible people in the world. Not many - I am not so much a cynic as that. But more than enough. Having wandered around the bookstore, I settled onto a stool in the sci-fi/fantasy corner to check my texts, and was browsing the shelf beside me, running my fingers across the glossy even spines when suddenly they scraped across a surprise of cold metal. Some person, maliciously, had slid razor blades, the trapezoidal, thick sort you find in heavy-duty box-cutters, between the novels so that their cutting edges were all but flush with the spines, invisible to the casual eye and waiting for someone to do just what I had done. If my fingers had been moving more quickly, or down instead of across, I'd have been sliced.
I found two, between three adjacent books, and after a quick check turned up no more, took them straight to the customer service desk. The woman there was understandably concerned, alarmed even, and gratifyingly quick to go straight to the section I showed her, starting a thorough search for more. By the time we had to leave, they let me know they'd found no more. Hopefully, there were no more to find or miss.
We were in the theater before noon, joining the throng milling about the gilt and plaster lobby. The Ozdust gift shop was doing a brisk trade in glittery t-shirts and themed perfumes ('Popular' in a bubble-shaped pink bottle and 'Wicked' in tall green glass). They had nothing I much wanted, though I vaguely regret getting nothing at all. I wish they'd had a pin for my hat. Someone said they had such a thing on their website, but no joy.
They opened the doors just before the crush got unbearable, and we found our seats, off to the left under the mezzanine. Good enough seats, for the ticket price. Dad and I wandered down to peer into the orchestra pit. Wicked travels with its own musical troop, perhaps half a dozen musicians, and they flesh it out with local talent in whichever city they're playing. Here in Seattle, they'd accrued a percussionist of the foley-artist variety, whom Dad knew distantly through a circuitous path of friends and band-mates. So we talked shop, us leaning on the ballustrade and him trapped in a pit of drums and sundry. He had an amazing collection of toys and tools for keeping beat and making all the sound effects of the musical. Some of them, a set of tiny thick Zildjin cymbals, made Dad go a bit Elphabian himself in envy. This man had gotten an 8-set in the 70's at $26 a note. Today, they closer to $200. If I ever win the lotto, I know what to get him for a birthday.
( And then the lights went down. (Cut for spoilers) )
