I tried to manufacture crack once, but I’m pretty inept in the lab and just made a meth.

When I grow up
I will be smart enough to answer all
the questions that you need to know
the answers to
before you’re grown up.

I remain deeply bitter about Matilda losing to Kinky Boots for most things at this year’s Tonys, but for Best Score above all. Don’t misunderstand me; my love for Cyndi Lauper runs deep and true (the Goonies will, indeed, always be good enough), and thank the sweet lord a woman finally took that award all by her damn self. But when a complex, fresh-yet-traditional score with lyrics that are alternately clever, insightful, and poetic is passed over for a bunch of simplistic, same-sounding pop tunes featuring such inspired wordsmith-ery as the phrase “let me hear you say yeeeeaaaah yeeeeeaaaaah” repeated roughly eight-thousand times, then I fear that perhaps — just perhaps — somewhere along the way the system failed us.

Unrelated, but I defy you to find something more adorable on this earth than my mother’s obsession with and enraptured binge-viewing of Breaking Bad. The bulk of the times I’ve seen her this past month, she’s been curled up in some part of the house or another, gazing in wide-eyed captivity at her iPad or her laptop while Bryan Cranston gets his meth on over in Albuquerque. You can tell an episode has ended by her distinctive cry of  “Gaaaaaah well now I have to watch the next one!”

Though now that I think about it, should I really be surprised that she finds such delight in a show centered around a brilliant, underappreciated high school teacher’s rejection of his oft-infuriating profession in favor of untold wealth and intoxicating power? Hmmmm. Escapist fantasy? Or dangerous foreshadowing? YOU TELL ME.


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