Everyday Shakespeare is on hiatus! Because we're writing a book!

But don't fear: we're still doing Everyday Shakespeare things every day. Stay tuned . . .

Suburbs of Our Discontent

United Airlines owes me a new lung. Or else they'll have to scrape my old one off of Concourse C in Newark where I hacked it up running half a mile this morning trying to catch a connection. A connection that I missed by 15 seconds because Mary at Gate 82 just couldn't be bothered to call over to her buddy at Gate 137 and ask her to hold the doors for FIFTEEN SECONDS while I and the other 5 poor schlubs on my late flight hauled ass around the terminal looking like a state fair pig race. I think they take video of people like us doing that and then show it at the office holiday party. That's what I think. I think that we're all Bottoms trapped in their Oberon-esque delusions of grandeur.  Except that Bottom at least got some decent food and a head scratch.

Suburbs of Our Discontent

Regret

This is not a believable story.

On Friday I was browsing in a bookstore here in Boston. Suddenly, a strange* man ran in and yelled "DO YOU HAVE ANY BOOKS BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE???!!!!"He actually ran in, and he actually yelled.

My first instinct was to scramble to my son, the innocent boy sitting criss-cross-applesauce with a pile of Big Nate books on his lap. Got to protect him from the Shakespeare Weirdo!

Of course, if you asked my son to identify the Shakespeare Weirdo in the store, he'd point right at me, not the old dude in the cowboy hat.

But I just stood there until the SW appeared again a few minutes later. He was departing from the store with nothing in his hands. Not because the store lacked BOOKS BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. What did this guy want exactly? And why was this all so urgent? Why didn't I talk to him? Wish I had.

*wild hair, cowboy hat, crazy eyes, sixty-ish

Suburbs of Our Discontent

Question: Is that a train ticket I see before me? Answer: Um, no.

Delusional Vision: Going to NYC to see Alan Cumming doing his brilliant one-man Macbeth thing!

Reality: Children's sports practices, work, laundry . . .

Suburbs of Our Discontent

One of the reasons I've been trying to move out of the suburbs is so that I can minimize my chances of being maimed or killed by a Mass-hole driver.  Even though I've lived here for more than 10 years, I'm still surprised on a regular basis by the hazardous cross between incompetence, fearlessness, and entitlement that makes our state's drivers so unique.

Most of these surprises happen around rotaries, which must have been invented with the Mass-hole Olympics in mind. Sometimes I'll see a woman holding and talking on her cell phone (because I think we're the last state to allow this), and she'll just drive on into the rotary without looking to see if, say, anyone else  WITH THE RIGHT OF WAY might happen to be driving around it. And God forbid you're in the outside lane minding your business WITH THE RIGHT OF WAY and some guy on the inside lane decides he wants to get off. Because he is getting off, and nothing and nobody is going to stop him. Especially someone WITH THE RIGHT OF WAY.

Sometimes I wonder which of Shakespeare's characters would be the King or Queen of the Mass-holes--because I have a lot of time to blow off steam and think about these things between surviving the rotary and getting home. Lady Macbeth definitely has the fearlessness and entitlement, but I think she'd probably be a pretty competent driver given her attention to detail. Prospero is a contender for sure, and so is Richard III, especially when he's in a "mood."

But I'm giving this one to Hamlet: I would not want to be on the outside lane when that self-righteous wreck finally decided to make a move.

Suburbs of Our Discontent

No Shakespeare at Oscars (Sad Face)

So this totaling depressing Amour film won the Oscar for the Foreign Language category last night. I was hoping that the much more uplifting (haha) Caesar Must Die would get in there. Let's check out the trailer:

Too bad there wasn't a part for Gwyneth Paltrow. 

Suburbs of Our Discontent

"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players." 
(Jaques, As You Like It)

If you haven't tried to sell a house in the past five years, then you likely have never had to go through the joys of  having your home evaluated by a professional "stager." It's a special kind of experience where someone walks through your house and then writes up a report on how you need to: a) get rid of all your cheap crap; and then b) move the remaining semi-cheap crap around to make your house look like something out of Real Simple or (if you actually own some nice stuff) Better Homes and Garden. It's a whole industry now, complete with its own reality TV franchise. I actually used to enjoy watching people go through the process of being ritually shamed by The Stager and then redeemed by doing everything she says and then getting a fabulous offer on their house. 

Except that on the shows people actually come in and do the work for the couple while they jet off to Vegas.

We went through this process last weekend, only we didn't leave our house, and we both almost threw out our backs. We're looking to lure some suckers young family looking to live the American Dream into buying our  "antique" (i.e. really old) home. The stager's report was, as promised, an exercise in shame, but we did everything on her list--including buying "fluffy white towels" to give the illusion that if you live in our house, you, your children, and everything you own will be clean. We are, according to the stager, creating a fantasy, not an actual livable space.

No wonder Jaques decides to live in a monastery. There's no crap to stage.

Suburbs of Our Discontent

I like to think about Shakespeare and gender--and not just the women. What makes a man a man? Is it all about physical prowess? How much weeping is too much? And what makes him break?

Well, this weekend was like the Shakespeare Masculinity Olympics at our house as I witnessed the grown man I'm married to fight the elements, possibly weep, and come close to breaking.

It was Man v. Crappy Borrowed Snow Blower: Brendon had been trying to fix the starter cord for two hours--threading it, rethreading it, pulling at it, and swearing. ( I just watched from inside, having blown out my arm muscles in the earlier Amazonian Olympic Women's Shovel Toss.) I couldn't hear him, but it was like watching Richard III—horseless and friendless–lashing out against Richmond's forces. My kingdom for some horse power.

I really wanted him to have this victory--I could tell it mattered to him a lot. He's from the West Coast and hates New England, hates the snow. Every time he has to do battle with it, it's like he ages five years. But for ten years he's refused to buy a snow blower. I think he sees it as some kind of concession to being here for more than a visit.

But this wasn't going to end well. I knew what I had to do, although I'd have to handle it delicately. I started calling every Lowe's and Home Depot in greater Boston until I finally found a snow blower. And they delivered. When it came off the truck, all shiny and gadgety, his face lit up (I won't say "like a little kid on Christmas morning," because that would emasculate him, but, yeah, it was pretty much like that).

And then he plowed the crap out of everything within a block of our house.

I think Shakespeare would approve.  Take that, winter of our discontent.

Suburbs of Our Discontent

SHAKESPEARE IS A BREAKING NEWS STORY!

By now, you and everyone else you know has heard the big news: the body found under the parking lot in Leicester, England has been CONFIRMED as that of King Richard III. Here's the run-down from the New York Times.

Here's a picture:

 

 

Here's me on an otherwise cold and lame Monday morning:

 

"That is so, so, so, so cool! I wanna see that right now! I wanna go to England RIGHT NOW and see that thing!!!!"

Suburbs of Our Discontent

Two sailors' thumbs up for Ethan Hawke's exploration of Macbeth, an episode of Shakespeare Uncovered on PBS. 

Suburbs of Our Discontent

I (and my whole Department) moved into brand-spanking new offices this week. I'm now thinking that most workplace crankiness can be solved by giving everyone a clean carpet.

Then again, I'm a middle child. I'm still psyched that I get free coffee and sticky pads.

My son, who is five years younger than my daughter, got stuck with a bedroom the size of a walk-in closet. But he just sucks it up. I only found out he was less than thrilled with the arrangement when he wrote on his list to Santa this year in tiny little letters: "bigger room."

I'm telling you, it's the younger kids and their low expectations that keep this world from imploding in a massive ego clash. (not that we think we're better than anyone. really.)

Think about it: if Cordelia hadn't have sucked up her abjection, things would have gotten even uglier in a hurry with the division of the kingdom. There wouldn't have been any eyeballs in any sockets by the end of Act One. And can you imagine if Ophelia had been an eldest child ? She never would have let Hamlet get away with all that crap he was doing to her. Forget making it to the graveyard scene: he would have gone down before "To be or not to be."

Suburbs of Our Discontent

OMG . . . I SO Know This Plot!

Boston. The Actors' Shakespeare Project's brilliant performance of The Two Gentlemen of Verona. Me, thinking that the plot seemed familiar . . . Ah, yes! It's the high school scenario of some guy saying he really likes you and BOOM then he doesn't. Now he likes this other girl who might be prettier than you, but maybe she's not.  Whatever.

I love that Shakespeare turns fickleness into such a serious issue, throwing in heavy doses of betrayed friendships, which is always such a kick-in-the-gut theme. This early play is like the High School of Shakespeare's career: juvenile, but full of weighty matters that will hash themselves out again and again in middle age. 

Suburbs of Our Discontent

Since it's looking like these guys are not going to be able to figure out how to avoid the Fiscal Cliff by midnight, I think it's time that Obama turn to Act four, scene 6 of King Lear. (That's right: I'm not just an English professor--I'm a highly trained political consultant.)

That's the scene where Edgar, posing as Poor Tom, convinces his blind father Gloucester that he's standing on the edge of a cliff when he really isn't. Then, after Gloucester thinks he's fallen off the cliff, Edgar comes back as a gentleman and tells Gloucester that he saw the whole thing from afar, and that it's a miracle he didn't die. Especially since he saw a devil standing up there talking to him. The gods must have spared him for a reason. They want him to bear his suffering out.

Fake fall off of cliff = Patient acceptance of painful circumstances and loss of power

Now the question is, where can Obama get a Tom O' Bedlam outfit on New Year's Eve?

Suburbs of Our Discontent

I thought about leaving today's post blank, because, really, there's nothing any of us can say that doesn't sound like a cliché.

This pain belongs uniquely to the families.

Still, there's one Shakespearean moment that keeps coming up for me, and I'd like to put it out there. Because Shakespeare had a way of giving voice to and honoring that unique pain of losing in an instant all that is most dear to you. The most wrenching scene in Shakespeare, for me, is when Macduff finds out that his wife and all his children have been killed. It stops him in every way. All he can do is repeat the unthinkable: "All?" "What All?' "All my pretty ones?"

"Dispute it like a man," Malcolm pushes. "I shall do so," Macduff replies. "But I must also feel it as a man."

My heart goes out to all of the men and women and boys and girls who are feeling things right now that I can't possibly know.

The rest is silence.

Suburbs of Our Discontent

Middle-Aged People Chillaxing

This weekend Caroline and I spent 24 hours holed up at the Hotel Indigo discussing Shakespeare. Highlights included a strange-looking octopus dish at the hotel restaurant, an intense re-visiting of the merits of Antony and Cleopatra, and all the towels in our suite.

Suburbs of Our Discontent

My son turned eight yesterday. If we were living in Shakespeare's England, that means we might  have celebrated the day—not with a 20-child baseball-themed party at an overpriced indoor venue— but by having a breeching ceremony. In layman's terms, he would have put on some pants.

Now, granted, breeching a boy at eight years old would have been seen as a little bit on the late side. But apparently some mothers weren't quite ready to give their sweet little boys up to the masculine world of swords and wench-hunting.  I am sure I would have been one of those ladies.

So happy birthday to my sweet little boy. Remember, Mommy has embarrassing video of you crawling with your forehead, so don't ever grow up and leave me. Okay?

Suburbs of Our Discontent

Last night, after driving over twelve hours from Washington D.C. to Boston, I contemplated how I would teach Act I of Hamlet today. The problem was not finding material; if anything, I have enough to teach a year-long course on Hamlet without saying the same thing twice.

So I did what any other clear-thinking college professor would do: I turned on Lifetime to watch Liz and Dick. And there, presciently, was a dude playing Richard Burton doing his Hamlet thing on stage while Lindsay Lohan, super-glam in fur and red lipstick, gazed at him Liz-like.

I know this is Suburbs of Our Discontent, but I'm going to infuse a bit of Magic Shake-Ball into my post for today. My take-away from Liz and Dick was that I should go with the intersection of corrupted female sexuality and theatricality. Cheers, Lindsay.

Suburbs of Our Discontent

Shakespeare's child characters usually come off as smarter than the adults around them--or at least fully capable of exchanging witty barbs.  That little Macduff kid knew just how to tease his mother and distract her from her righteous tirade against her husband; and those little royal boys in Richard III had an uncanny ability to get under their notorious uncle's skin.

That Shakespeare knew what he was doing.

I often marvel at the fact that my kids can seem completely deaf when I'm asking them to get dressed or brush their teeth for the fifth time, but that they can engage with me in a hot second the minute I'm talking about something I don't want them to hear.

Last night my daughter was asking me some questions about "the facts of life" (and I'm not talking about Tootie and Blair).  Without betraying any confidences here, let's just say that the word "condom" came up. My seven-year-old, who I assumed was absorbed in his screen time a few rooms away, called out "What's a condom?"  (Why, gods, Why do you do these things to me? Why do you bring me so close to total exposure as an "inappropriate parent"? You know that little kids bring these kinds of things straight to show-and-tell the next day.....Why? Why?)

Without skipping a beat, though, I replied with what could perhaps be my greatest improv comeback of all time: "We're talking about condiments, honey. That's like mayonnaise and mustard."

Disaster averted. This time.

Suburbs of Our Discontent

Every November, our local high school does a Shakespeare play, and this year it was As You Like It.

The production, like last year's Twilight-tinged-fairies-as-vampires Midsummer, was incredible. I love the Shakespeare For Teens By Teens thing, and these guys do it brilliantly. The Forest of Arden as a peace+love 1969 Woodstock? Of course it is!

Hormones ran amuck on stage and in the audience. And there, next to me, my sweetest of the sweet eleven-year-old daughter. Does Shakespeare make the idea of children becoming teenagers easier to digest? I'll let you know in a couple of years.

Suburbs of Our Discontent

Weekend very successful! Finally watched all the Twilight movies. I was a little uncomfortable about living the stereotype of a middle-aged lady who likes Twilight, but whatever.

I was curious about whether students were writing about Twilight and Romeo and Juliet, so I did a little  search and found this awesome (if outdated) exchange on Yahoo! Answers:


STUDENT: "In my English class, we're learning about Shakespeare. I was at my friend's house one day and her mom said, "You know, the Twilight series is based on Shakespeare's works!" and I was surprised. Yesterday I decided to tell my teacher (because she LOVES Twilight) and she said "Oh, get some more information and which books are to Shakespeare's plays."

So, if anyone knows (or can infer things really well haha) please help me! And also list a reason why.
Like so:
Twilight is based on Romeo and Juliet because it's forbidden love.
^Ta-da.
lol

Please help me on New Moon, Eclipse, and Breaking Dawn!

I'd appreciate it (plus I get extra credit, and I NEED extra credit)

Please and thanks!"

"BEST ANSWER" AS CHOSEN BY VOTERS: "Shakespeare and Twilight don't even belong in the same sentence."

STUDENT: "IF YOU ARE GOING TO SAY SOMETHING MEAN ABOUT TWILIGHT AND/OR SHAKESPEARE, DON'T PUT IT ON HERE...I NEED HELP! I don't care if they "don't belong in the same sentence"!"