Notes

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uhren herren

Well, folks, it’s finally happening: Hamilton, the musical, is coming to San Francisco.
Am I excited? No, I am not.
Do I loathe musical theater?
No, I do not.
In fact, I love it. I’ve loved it all my life.
I discovered musicals when I was eight years old. Seated in the front row of my local high school’s auditorium, I watched a student production of The Pajama Game. From the moment the curtains rose, I was enthralled. As I watched, my muscles twitched. I wanted to be on stage, singing and dancing my way through two acts of forbidden love, deep passion and union negotiations. I longed to visit that mysterious den of iniquity known as Fernando’s Hideaway.
The Pajama Game opened the door to my love affairs with a Fiddler, a Joseph, a Superstar, a Picture Show and a Little Shop filled with horrors, not to mention a certain state where waving wheat sure smells sweet. As a teenager, I performed in all my high school productions. As an adult in search of a soul mate, I wrote a list of qualities I wanted in a life partner. “Loves musicals” featured very near the top. A couple years ago, my musical-loving husband (found him!) and I lived out one of our shared dreams when, somewhat randomly, we performed in a local synagogue’s Purim Schpiel. That night, in our minds, at least, two stars were born.
So, yes, I love musicals, possibly more than most. Truth be told, I’d probably love Hamilton just as much as the shows that are now part of my DNA.
But right now, I hate Hamilton. It’s not my fault. I really don’t have a choice. Here’s why.
1. I’m a writer. Another word for writer? Artist. Here’s another one: poor. While I’m far from starving (thanks in large part to my non-writer husband), I’m not exactly losing sleep agonizing over where to spend all my extra cash. Frankly, it would be financially irresponsible for our family to shell out the kind of money* required to rest our bums for a couple hours in the plush red seats at our local Orpheum Theater.
* When the box office opened this week, tickets ranged from $100-$200 and sold out in a flash. Stubhub prices range now from $500-$1000 per seat. Ticket brokers, thy name is greedy.
2. I’m thin-blooded, and I have a tiny bladder. An article in the San Francisco Chronicle revealed it takes more than cold hard cash to get tickets to Hamilton. It also requires obsession, grit, planning, time, patience, optimism, determination and a strong bladder. According to one of the hundreds of people who spent up to 24 hours waiting in line to hopefully score tickets, a few other things also come in handy: a sleeping bag, snow boots, two ski jackets, a fuzzy hat and a diaper. That’s right. A diaper. Too bad I’m all out.
3. I’m morally opposed to it. Here’s where things get a little tricky. It’s one thing for me, a middle-class fan of musical theater, to feel financially shut out of this historical and history-making performance. But Hamilton is based on, and born of, the music of the streets. Rap. Hip-hop. So I can’t help but ask: How many young, working-class African Americans (the generally accepted “who” behind hip-hop’s genesis) are filling these costly seats? Surely the founders (and their brethren) of an important American musical revolution should be able to comfortably attend a revolutionary show their own music inspired.
4. I got ditched by Hillary Clinton. A few months back, my best chance of seeing Hamilton involved then-presidential-candidate Hillary Clinton randomly picking my name over thousands of other Democratic donors, thereby earning me an invitation to attend the show with HRC herself. I don’t know how many Democrats tossed in an extra Hamilton or two in hopes of spending an evening with Hill. I do know that, so far, no one has called to tell me I’ve won.
5. I just can’t believe the hype. If I’d laid out hundreds or even thousands of dollars for my family and me to witness the life-changing magic of Hamilton, you better believe I’m going to experience Life Changing Magic. I’m sure the show is brilliant, but at a certain (price) point, we get what we pay for, right? I doubt that too many people drop the equivalent of a couple international flights or even a 75-inch 4K Ultra HD 3D Smart LED TV and then exit the theater saying, Honestly, I think I preferred Wicked.
So now you know. I’m the lone Hamilton hater. You don’t need a degree in psychology to figure out some (but maybe not all) of my hostility is rooted in good old self-defense. How else can I protect myself from the deep despair and tingling resentment I feel every time I hear, for the millionth time, that Hamilton is the Best. Thing. Ever?
I’m sure it is. But I hate it.
That’s what I’m going to keep telling myself, anyway.
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Willow Older is an internationally published writer and a professional editor and content marketer. She lives in Northern California where she runs her own editorial services business and publishes a weekly newsletter called Newsy!.

My Website: https://www.replicauhren.net