I Do Not Like Musicals. My Favorite Movie Of All Time Is A Musical.

Do you like music?  I like music.  I love music.  Don't we all. 

But.

Do you like being around music you loathe?  Do you stay?  That string of unintelligible excrement someone else finds immersive and satisfying?  How does it make you feel when you cannot escape it?  Do you deal, keeping your internal pressures in check?  Or do you seethe, writhe, and fester?  Doesn't that feel like forever?  And a day...? 

Have you ever heard a duck...making noise...while a dog happily runs down the beach with said duck's neck in its mouth?  I have. 

8-track.  Cassette.  CD.  Vinyl.  Streamed digital.  Then or now, how often do you find something inescapable?  How many albums can you listen to straight through, loving every track?  You can skip those 'others', right?  Even at a friend's house you can lobby for a skip. 

Inescapable?  That's right.  Live. 

Stage, theatre, stadium, club.  And movie theater.  Can't just (well, you can...) get up and walk out, for one or all songs.  You kind of have to stay and suffer through it.  One good song, one bad one.  rawr 

I tend heavily to not like musicals for exactly that reason - I very rarely like every song in any suite or collection of music but I skip as needed.  Sometimes I do actually test myself, most times not.  At home it is a little bit different in that you can fast-forward.  Still, if you like most of everything, it is easier to suffer through that single irritating cacophony, especially if you aren't watching alone.  Camaraderie makes for patience, does it not?  Nope.  Not all the time.  Especially today, we get up and go do something else.  And no harm, no foul.  Right?  Not all the time.  It does take work, and I know that.  In moderation. 

I do not like musicals because it is extremely rare that I find even thirty percent of a given offering attractive.  And why is it so many times the parts are given to people who aren't actually professional singers?!  Especially in movies?  Don't get me wrong, some people switch gears with astonishing brilliance and accomplishment.  Others just plain fucking suck.  Even professionals.  To each their own, and there are plenty of us; one person's diamond, another's coprolite.  So it is something I rarely decide to partake in, let alone pursue. 

So. 

Enter my then-relatively new partner.  She is incredible on all accounts, and she comes from a performing family.  Music, theatre, arts.  High expectations across the board.  What does she love, more than almost anything?  Musicals.  Fuck. 

New people bring new ideas and...gag...exposures, right?  Right.  I had to sit through musicals.  Can't we watch romcoms instead?  Not really fair as I am very much an atypical, Gen X cishet and love most intelligently playful romcoms.  But - challenge myself to sit, listen, attention, learn.  And I did!  And I did not.  Yuck.  Pain.  My ears!  Cat on a rack!  Poor puddy tat. 

Of course this led to sore spot(s).  I turned into that thankfully rare Mr. Hyde as I found less-than-choice (depending on your perspective) descriptors for those less appealing performances.  A few tense moments but nothing either of us couldn't understand about each other.  Great relationship with effective communication is fabulous. 

SO. 

The Blues Brothers has been my hands-down, uncontested, favorite movie of all time since I saw it in theatres in 1980 at age ten.  Period.  Only a couple of films vie for a distant-or-not second.  Yes, there were some songs in it, fantastic songs.  , OK, quite a few.  I had thought through much of what was appealing about that movie.  Maybe more on that later as it conjures more verbosity from me than you likely want.  Possibly a dumb statement if you are reading this, but anyway.  It was a YUGE part of what I saw as my formatively playful sarcasms, cynicisms about the world. 

SO, when we watched it together, she did like it and immediately stated: "You do know it is a musical, right?"  With exactly those well-placed emphases. 

Oh.  My.  Fucking.  Shit. 

She's right. 

I lost my shit.  Speechless.  And stayed that way.  And just thought about it.  And she fucking grinned a fucking smug fuck grin.  Fuck.  I had never attached that word to my movie. 

I had become even more anti-musical since I had met her and partaken more in that realm.  Desktop, laptop headphones, in another room or gone if I can be.  I own a copy of Moulin Rouge but I do not watch it. 

My favorite movie, of all time, something I imprinted heavily on, was indeed a musical.  A god-damned, fuckshittard musical.  At forty-fourish, after all of my high-powered introspection, study, learning, experience, wisdom...that smacked me upside da head like an adopted, black, southern mother-in-law.  And I mean that with a viscerally dedicated affection - I told my mom as an early teenager, when asked if I could choose a mom that wasn't her, who would I choose?  It was obvious.  I have always adored black culture, community, women.  I wanted Aretha as at least a pushy aunt with high expectations I would happily deliver on. 

That is not to say there aren't other musicals I have come to adore for other reasons - Chicago, Little Shop of Horrors.  Parts of Phantom.  Holy fucking shit, Gerard...!  Dude! 

And there are always diamonds to be found and polished, enjoyed despite their flaws.  But I'll be damned if I ever sit through Moulin Rough again. 

Maybe I'll be damned. 



                                                                                                                          ©2020 Michael Pichahchy

0o00o0o0....I know what I did wrong...!

I have actually known for years but these articles sparked my need to write this out. 

http://archives.yalealumnimagazine.com/issues/01_03/dropouts.html

https://www.nhregister.com/news/article/No-shame-in-dropping-out-of-Yale-for-some-it-s-11682151.php

We all have some kind of opinion, compliment or insult tossed our way during our formative years, playfully productive or otherwise. My favorites generally tended toward those iterations of my unusual and somewhat musical last name: Pichahchy.  pitch·AH·chee  Memorable variants included Kerplatchy, Pistachio, Pitchunky.  There were more I am neglecting to recall at this moment so I might include them later as those synapses decide to fire.  I included the 't' in the pronunciations because of the mispronounced attempts over the years, the worst being something akin to Picocky.  I know that is a possibility but I always wondered how people landed on that as their first thought.  Technically I know the answer to that but won't go into it here. 

And you should see what I get in the mail.  I digress. 

My absolute favorite, mainly due to what I considered its astute perception, if I may be so bold, was during my senior year while we were all floating ideas for who was 'Most X', 'Likeliest to Y' and the like.

Here is a fun list I found just now trying to recall a few:
https://www.shutterfly.com/ideas/yearbook-superlative/

Long before graduation I had heard, read and talked of such things but it was either one of my classmates or a teacher (I believe it was the latter which got back to me via a classmate...) who labeled me "most intelligent underachiever".  It stuck with me and has my entire life.  Are you a teacher?  Can you imagine or do you know how frustrating it is to work with someone who chooses not to apply themselves?  It happens all the time, obviously, for a variety of reasons.  Not because I thought of myself as 'most' of anything but because I took my work and study very seriously. 

And when I say I took my work seriously, I mean literally my work.  What I was doing, meant for me and my interests.  Which, for better or worse, was pretty much everything, and it oftentimes meant assisting others in creative ways.  Combined with ADD.  Not ADHD, ADD.  If anything I now term my condition ADSD, no remote intent of insulting our lovable sloth friends. 

Once I truly started branching out from that which was put in front of me to study, maybe 8th to 9th grade, my 'grades' suffered.  Not horribly, but enough that it was noticeable.  The surfacing of sexual and technical/mechanical interests, as usual, did not help, obviously.  I studied anything and everything of interest.  Sponge.  As I got bored with regular curriculum, which in hindsight was solid for its time, it took something else for me to want to apply myself to classes, homework.  The real kicker was I had learned what all this was about in the first place - I could teach myself.  From cell structure to differential equations to cultural anthropology. 

Then there was testing.  Meh.  I realized very early on (and was later told I should very seriously consider constructing a grad-school thesis on) how everything affects testing - how much sleep, household environment, friend/acquaintance status, what you ate 5 minutes ago versus a week ago versus your overall diet, etc.  I loved the word 'holistic' and applied it to everything.  It is weird, in hindsight I talked to almost nobody about anything like this, save my mom and sometimes grandpa. 

Where was I?  Am I?  Oh...over there...I'll go get myself...brb. 

Philosophically I wanted to help people.  Intellectually I wanted to immerse myself in a field that would allow me to study and apply everything I could get my hands on because at the time I was learning how much less time I had to study all the things I wanted to when combined with what I had to do.  That whole adulting thing...load of shit, it is. 

Medicine was a good fit.  A great fit.  Eventually forensic pathology because you can and oftentimes should draw on pieces of any part of this living planet and beyond to search for answers, solve the problem...detective work.  Michael Crichton was my premier idol from very early on.  Read one of his books.  Harvard Medical School, never practiced.  Who does that?! 

So I was committed, but I still wanted to do it my way, even if I still didn't know exactly what that meant.  I knew merit and exposure could carry you anywhere if you were out there enough and people got to know you and your capacities.  Grades were important but not the end-all-be-all, at least back then, and certainly not for a tall, white kid.  What ceased to matter were those teachers who didn't quite resonate with me.  I loved all of them for various reasons but you know what I mean.  I had to care in order to perform, and man did I when I wanted to.  I wasn't a competitive person by nature, not with people insomuch as against the problem, but sometimes...rarely.  Mindy found that out in Mrs. Alder's Plant Science class. 

I took a big, encompassing auto-shop class my senior year instead of AP Calculus, AP English, AP History.  Why?  Because I could teach myself the AP stuff and auto mechanics was another excuse to gain access to materials otherwise unreachable.  Doctors eventually loved that sentiment...especially the anaesthesiologist friend who loved hearing me talk about internal combustion engines...something he knew nothing about.  Sometimes I wish I had gone to study and work with him at St Martin's as he wanted. 

I did the whole applying for college thing, and having grown up poor (in a house on the waterfront, go figure) I didn't get to 'go visit schools' and play that fucking game (yeah...resentment...but in hindsight it wouldn't have done me any good) but I still applied, like any good job search.  Just toss your intellectual jizz all over the place and see what sticks.  At the time I wanted to do both my undergrad and medical at the same place.  Lots of rejections.  Duke...nah.  NYU, nah.  Hopkins (was enamored with them, still am)...nah.  UW, nah (UW years later said yes, please...).  Stanford, UCLA, Columbia...nah, nah and nah.  Yale?  Sure!  WTF.  A person gets used to rejection so acceptance can feel strange. 

OK, my heart actually aches a bit right now.  It feels different writing it...as so many things do.  This is fucking weird.  Recalling an age-old desire like this...I am actually a little shaky, will have to think about this as I have talked and thought about this for decades.  Need water. 

The catch is that while I was accepted I had *no* money and I didn't qualify for any kind of assistance.  I kicked myself only slightly for not getting that proverbial 4.00+ (graduated with 3.33).  Can you imagine how often that happens in today's world?!  How fucking painful is that?!  In hindsight I could have probably worked something out but did not, for whatever the reason.  Knowing what I know now the catch-22 is that I should have found a way to work it out, and should have gone for at least a year...beyond that did not matter.  I should have found a way to get into an Ivy-League school because what it gets you isn't a better education, in the end (more on that later), because they do not have all the best professors locked up as there is brilliance everywhere but I would have met people with assets, ideas and gained exposure.  The latter being the big one.  See articles above.  And sometimes you go to places like that to steal others' ideas - something else I am insanely sensitive to.  Thanks, Mark.  Fucker.  Berg.  And others like you. 

I could have dropped out to follow some of my then-ideas, and I had a lot of them.  Still do.  I eventually found I wasn't as committed to medicine, mostly because I got sick and tired of meeting those people in positions of power, mostly older, white men who talked more of golf and Porsches.  I realize that in the end people have done something for so long they are looking at retirement but it had quite the detrimental effect on a young, ambitious type. 

So that's it - I should have dropped out from an Ivy League private school.  Instead, after seven straight years through community college and public university I dropped out.  Don't get me wrong, at 50 I have had an extremely fortunate ride for which I am grateful from every conceivable facet.  But - if I had done the former who knows where I would be.  Something I am trying to rectify now, and it doesn't require college to do it.

But maybe a few more classes...

P.S.  -  I have to speak to something very much related to my 're-application' to UW.  While attending classes at South Puget Sound Community College in Olympia and working as a wine chemist I also volunteered at Capitol Medical Center, mostly in ER, where I gained some incredible knowledge and exposure.  So much so that I had inadvertently befriended a woman whose husband was a first cousin to the founder of Medic 1 in Seattle/King County and Professor Emeritus at the UW School of Medicine.  Because apparently a few people at Capitol thought I showed 'great promise' an offer was extended to transfer.  I ended up instead following my girlfriend to WWU instead...and the rest is history.  

Did I do that wrong as well? 

                                                                                                                          ©2020 Michael Pichahchy