What I learned from Mamma Mia

In a tragically common lapse in judgment I went to Mamma Mia on Wednesday night. I would rank going as the second stupidest thing I have ever done. Staying would be the third stupidest thing. (For those of you who are curious, you may ask me about the stupidest thing I have ever done, but it will be a very awkward conversation.)

For those of you who don't know, Mama Mia is a Broadway musical based on the music of the Swedish disco group Abba. When your concept starts with scoring a play from a bunch of halfway decent songs by a group that only made one decent song, you have problems. What is the result? Not good. They sang Dancing Queen not once...not twice...but thrice! (I don't know why they didn't include Disco Inferno. I like that one much better.) They attempted to fit a story in there but it was obviously an afterthought. The result was boring enough to bring a grown man to sobs and as about as funny as a tour of a slaughterhouse.

I started to think of any legal theories that might compensate me form my tragic loss. I could sue for loss of brain cells but no reasonable jury would believe I had them in the first place. Not being one to view an experience as completely useless, here are 3 things I learned.

1. In acting, having a foreign accent is a full-time job. Part-time accents simply don't work.

2. Flashing colored lights in the wrong combination can cause seizures. I must admit I wanted the distraction. Maybe having a seizure is kind of like hypnotism?

3. Broadway musicals are not targeted toward me or any other normal male. This was patently obvious from the amount of fabric on the men's costumes versus the women's.

Would I ever go to another musical? The answer is no, not without a good reason. And that good reason would never be found in the performance itself. The good reason would probably be of the female persuasion. They have mysterious powers to get me to do things that are completely out of character.

Malcolm McDowell frightens me

Malcolm McDowell is undoubtedly a highly talented actor. He has worked with such acclaimed directors as Stanley Kubrick and Robert Altman. He currently appears in a show on the peacock network about people who possess special powers and do heroic things. The name of the show escapes me.

You'd think that seeing him in person would be an exciting, even pleasant experience. Surprisingly, it was rather disturbing. In August of 2002, I went with my father, my friend Brandt, and his father Jon to the Monterey car weekend. Friday was the Concorso Italiano in Carmel and we went to see more Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and de Tamasos than you can shake a sizable stick at. While walking along in the beautiful sunshine viewing a selection of Ferraris my friend Brandt elbowed me. "Do you know who that is? It's Malcolm McDowell!" He pointed to an elderly gentleman. It was indeed the actor. He was appearing in a revival of Fantasy Island so everyone knew who he was. He was sort of odd-looking. He had spiky white hair. His feet were shod in bright red Nikes. He wore shorts much shorter than any man over 60 has a right to wear.

My friend Brandt was much more impressed than I. (The next day we saw Phil Hill. Can you believe it? Phil Hill!) We moved on to view more fine automobiles. After a few minutes, I turned to my right and saw Malcolm McDowell again. Standing right next to me! This was a bit shocking but I quickly recovered and we continued. A few minutes later, it happened again. A few more minutes passed and he appeared next to us again! At this point I became concerned. Is he following us? What does he want? Why is he wearing those shorts? I don't believe in coincidences so I decided something must be done. We altered our route and lost him in a crowd. I cannot say what would have happened without this evasive action, but I prefer not to imagine the possibilities.

While most of us can say that we have stalked a celebrity, few can say that they were stalked by a celebrity. Fewer still can say it was Malcolm McDowell.