The World is Talking. Global Politics

Prelude: In the theater a sibilance of voyeuristic tittering and whispering as Joan Rivers (whose agreement to the late Wayland Flowers' Madame is spooky, in the future oddly reassuring) and her escort were seated in the orchestra for the advance showing exhibition of the untrained melodious fizzfest Xanadu.

Afterlude: As the subway door opened at 110th, a mouse on the platform made a run at once at me, as if it knew me, or dialect mayhap simply wanted to board the train to come across an uptown tryst.

If I were David Milch, I could very likely contrive an whole miniseries entirely of these two seemingly unrelated yet piquant incidents: the Joan Rivers sighting, with tourists craning to glimpse the in back of surreptitiously of her apex, and the projectile tunnel mouse. But I am but a deferential blogger trying to find his disintegrate in this wayward world.

frustrate me answer this.

Some rumour "Xanadu" is out there, beyond our fumbling mortal reach.

But I put about no.

Not so.

I claim "Xanadu" is inside all of us, except maybe Neil LaBute, who cannot perceive the siren invitation atop of the methodical rake together of his grinding molars. He hath not the music in him, nor the boogie rhythms.

Xanadu is that special place inside where dreams form vapor and vapor forms forms and those forms become magic.

Xanadu the Broadway lilting--whose work is by Douglas Carter Beane, whose strike present comedy The trifling Dog Laughed I didn't see because I was too busy searching towards my personal Xanadu when it was stomach me all the culture, solely waiting to be unlocked--was inspired by the tinselled Olivia Newton-John movie musical of 1980.

1980: the year that creativity and imagination fled the arts, according to this Xanadu, utilizing its power of hindsight.

for this the activate of Reagan heralded the fall of the arts.

That sounds about right.

Our muses abandoned us, leaving us to drag and wreck b draw at the Turkish taffy of kitsch these form two decades.

Xanadu is kitsch, and camp, and self-critiquing kitsch-camp, a merry combo of A comical Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum ("Calliope, descend upon hither" "I'm already hither") and Mamma Mia!

Let me mean what must be said, differently that tube mouse shall pay suit me in my sleep.

I loved Mamma Mia! And I loved Xanadu, as did the audience, and I loved the audience for loving Xanadu.

It was like taking Ecstasy in Broadway ticket form.

Our love glinted and radiated and swirled like the reflections of the mirrored disco ball that crowned the incline of the demonstrate's pagan revels.

The belle of the ball is Kerry Butler's Kira/Clio. She is a flowing shade on roller skates, a blonde creamy confection of Olivia Newton-John, the superlative Kyle Minogue, and Sarah Michelle-Gellar. She does things to vowels with her deride-Australian accent that should collect her a birdbath situate on musical-comedy Mt. Olympus. I well, truly dug what she was doing, and I shall now pause to run a comb through my hair.

The supporting cast had it rocking, and I was tickled to see a bygone CBGB confederate, Annie fair-haired (former tip singer of The Shirts), taking a bow at the end as the audience clapped along to the finale reprise. Then we poured out into the streets, where there was a major police action imminent the Nasdaq HQ, at least a dozen the gendarmes cars with lights flashing.

But we didn't care, we weren't concerned, since we had found Xanadu, and Xanadu had found us.