Month: April 2015

My Fantasy Name Is…

What if, just for kicks, you could change your name? What would you call yourself? At our Talk TueNight event on April 28, we had a fantastic roundtable hosted by The Mash-Up Americans, and one of our favorite parts was when they asked folks on the panel — and then in the audience — what their fantasy name was. Some wished for a simpler, more easily pronounceable name while others longed for something more exotic. What's yours — and why? It's super easy to record a video right from your phone or screen and hit submit, so join us in the fun. You'll have 22 seconds to tell your story and you can redo as many times as you want to get it right. And don't be disappointed if it takes a few minutes for your video to show up; we're doing some light monitoring behind the scenes.

You Say Rachel, I Say Rebecca

“Pooooooosh, Rachel! You can do it!” The delivery nurse had a strong Brazilian accent. It was one of the things I’d noticed most about her while she repeatedly shouted my name in her role as coach in the final throes of my labor. She’d appeared halfway through the pushing phase, after the entire previous team ended their twelve-hour shift. I also noticed something else. “Rebecca!” I wheezed, between pushes. “My name is Rebecca!” There she stood, at my right side, her eyes fixated on the doula across the delivery table whom early on she’d deemed an unwelcome adversary on her turf. Whenever the doula would suggest something to the medical staff in an effort to be helpful, the nurse would exaggeratedly roll her eyes to the ceiling and whisper a little complaint in my ear. When the doula would give me verbal encouragement — “Rebecca, you’re being so strong!” — the nurse would toss in her two cents: “Almost there, Rachel!” As though, on principle, refusing to be on the same page whatsoever as anything …

Sounds Like Target

“It’s Margit. M-A-R-G-I-T,” I say. As I always do, I emphasized the “I.” The barista doesn’t look at me, but I watch him scrawl out “M-A-R-G…” on the familiar white cup. He pauses for a moment. He continues with his Sharpie, “A-R-E-T.” It happens almost every single day, but for some reason, today, this misspelling seems hilarious. A little blip in his brain told him, “No, what you’ve heard her actually say is wrong, go with what you know.” Hi, I’m Margit. It sounds just like Target. In fact, that’s the only word that rhymes. Or I might say, “It’s Margit, like Supermarket, but with a g instead of a k.” [pullquote]I actually love my name. It’s weird. It’s funky. It makes people stop and scrunch up their nose. It’s a cross I have to bear.[/pullquote] In fact, it sounds exactly the way it’s spelled. Go figure. People want to say Margeet. Market, Morgan, Margot, Margie, Mar-GET. Nope, it’s MAR-GIT I actually love my name. It’s weird. It’s funky. It makes people stop and scrunch …

Hey, it’s Juice! How My Camp Nickname Gave Me Confidence

When I was eight years old, I attended my first year of Camp Kinder-Ring, a sleepaway camp in upstate New York. Our first breakfast of the summer was served in a wood-framed dining room, where bunkmates sat together at large oval tables. The waiters, 16-year-old campers, served us soggy scrabbled eggs and individual boxes of Kellogg’s cereals, my favorite being Sugar Pops. In the center of each table was an aqua blue plastic pitcher which held the watered-down orange juice. “Can you pass the juith?” I asked another bunk member. “The juith?” he asked, and the rest of the table laughed at my slight lisp. “Do you mean the JUICE?” [pullquote]For many, an alias allows someone who is normally a Clark Kent to find their Superman.[/pullquote] Now I know some of you are already gripping your easy chair, preparing for an unsettling Lord of the Flies-type essay about mean boys and the bullying of the weak, but that is not the story here. I was lucky that the story veered off course into one of …

Giving My Daughter a Chinese Name

When I was expecting my daughter, my husband and I of course started to talk about names for the baby. The discussion dragged on for months without really getting anywhere. The names I liked, he didn’t, and the names he liked, I was like, “Really?” I began to appreciate how much culture is just as tied up in a name as the meaning or the sound. While all this was going on, I confided in my Southern-born Mom.“Well, I wanted to call you ‘Scarlett’ you know,” she told me. I vaguely remembered. “Yes,” she went on. “But your Dad didn’t want to because he was worried that you’d be a bookworm with a name of a hoyden.” Thanks, Dad. My husband’s last name is Ha, which was something we had to take into consideration. We both rolled our eyes when random servers at restaurants would give him back his debit card and invariably say, “Aha!” To note that, yes, his first name begins with an “A,” and yes, his last name is “Ha.” Put them …

Frankly Speaking: How I Named My Business

When I was a young kid, the first thing my father would do when we sat down at a restaurant was find out our waiter’s or waitress’s name. Sometimes the server would give this information independently. But if they didn’t, my dad would ask. And once he knew it, two things could be counted on to happen. First, he would introduce himself, and always in the same way: “Nice to meet you Barbara, my mother named me Frank and she named me well.” And second, he would use Barbara’s name every time she came back to the table — as if the two had known each other for years. Now as a kid, this embarrassed the hell out of me. Because depending on the server, this didn’t always go gangbusters from the jump and could be a little off-putting at first. I’d see this fog of recognition slide down the waiter’s face and I imagined this internal monologue of, “Oh man, what kind of nut-job is this table going to be like?” But 100% of …

The K. Warner Guide to Naming Your Child

When Kelsey McCook Warner was born in June 1989, my husband and I were grateful, ecstatic and a bit relieved. But nearly eight years later, during my second pregnancy, I realized that the name “Kelsey” — one that we both loved — had created a problem I could have never imagined. Not too long after we learned the sex of our second child (a boy!), I blithely pulled out a yellowed list of names that we had considered when naming our first child in 1989. I added a few new names to the list, then rambled them off to my husband. He didn’t say much. At first, I didn’t pay attention to his non-responsiveness, but after it went on for a good 20 minutes, I realized that I was talking to myself. “Hellloooooooo?” I said. “What do you think? We’ve got a good ten names here, and we’ve got a few months to decide.” Silence. I chose to ignore the body language. “Ken?!” Looking uncomfortable yet determined, and with a certain set to his jaw that …

Margit’s Note: You Can’t Call Me Al

“That’s not my name. That’s not my name.” That punchy ditty by The Ting Tings is popping around our office. We, too, get irked when you don’t call us by our proper handle. (TueNight is pronounced TOO-night) This week, we’re all about the monikers we love and loathe — the name our mama gave us; the nickname that makes us cringe; the way we designate our kids or our company; and why the barista misspells us. Every. Single. Time. It’s a big issue — because, well, this is a big issue — all about how we dub ourselves, which ultimately shapes our identity. But as W.C. Fields once said, “It ain’t what they call you, it’s what you answer to.” We’re also having a Talk TueNight party TONIGHT that is a benefit for the children of Nepal. One hundred percent of our proceeds will go to Save Our Children, an organization that has been on the ground in Nepal since 1976. You can hear some of this week’s storytellers LIVE — as well as a special …

Am I a Better Mother When I’m in the Car?

The rain came down so hard that night 10 years ago I couldn’t tell where one droplet ended and another began. The New Jersey Turnpike looked like a black creek. The windshield wipers were heavy and sluggish as they tried to move enormous quantities of water. I was driving on my first solo trip with the most precious and delicate thing I had ever known, my one-year-old daughter. The struggle to get her in the car seat (when the rain was just a gentle twilight drizzle) had been the epic event it always was with her. The screaming. The back arching. The kicking in my face. It had come after an hour or so of chaotic packing, eating, chasing. My little girl had a mind of her own since birth, and I was perpetually exhausted trying not so much to tame her, but to channel her. But as a I stole a glance at her in the rearview mirror during that furious storm, her face was utter calm. Mine was pale and terrified. I told …

What The Truck: New York City Life in an F250

Right after I got married, my new husband decided that he wanted to indulge in the utmost of New York City extravagances: a car. Owning a car in Manhattan is a fruitless proposition that no one can truly understand unless you live there. Contending with street sweeping schedules and parking regulations even the police don’t fully understand is a menace few have the constitution for. Greg, however, decided it would make him feel less marooned on the isle of Manhattan if we could flee over the bridges in a car of our own. The problem was that he didn’t buy a car. He bought a very large and very old truck. I figured we weren’t getting a Mercedes by the Craig’s List posting which contained the very compelling sales pitch: F250. Good. Cash. Brooklyn. What the seller failed to list was the age of the truck. [pullquote]When he first pulled that beast into the parking garage attached to our apartment building, the doorman took one glance at that truck and said, “Oh, hell no.”[/pullquote] It wasn’t …

My Year Driving Solo: Navigating the Road Back to Me

Five-thousand dollars changed my life. In September of 2000, I left New York City in an old RV with my two Chihuahuas and spent the next year living on the road. The RV was my ride out of the high stress and low reward of living life in the city, of endless days of loneliness hanging over me, of anxiety filling me up like a storm. Driving away was my escape from a 10-year, going nowhere relationship where I’d lost myself and couldn’t recognize the nearly invisible woman staring back at me whenever I looked in a mirror. With visions of Thelma and Louise in my head, and without the driving-off-into-oblivion part, I dreamed of taking an extended road trip. After some Internet searching and a few trips out of the city, I found and bought an RV from a retired couple based in Northern Virginia. [pullquote]One week into my journey, while driving south out of Maine on I-95, the Apache’s engine turned from a roar into an angry scream.[/pullquote] I knew nothing about camping, …

Drive-Thru World: A Never-Get-Out-Of-Your-Car Road Trip

Editor’s Note: This piece was originally published in the Philadelphia City Paper in 1993. Caveat: we were four snarky 20-somethings spending the day in the car in Philly and New Jersey. Since then, Six Flags Great Adventure no longer has the drive-thru Wild Safari, MAC machines are called ATMs, there are cell phones and Shelly and Roderik are still married. A few edits have been made for clarity and brevity — this sucker was long.  Three friends and I — Dave, Shelly and Roderik — decided to seek out all the things you can still do, in and around Philadelphia, without getting out of our car. It should be noted that one of our participants, Roderik, is a native of Holland, where they don’t do drive-thru. “It’s a very American thing,” he informed us. For entertainment in those dull moments of highway ennui, we brought Star’s special issue: Inside the FBI Secret Files, a Yes & Know trivia book with secret decoder pen, a Bugs Bunny magic slate (the kind that erases what you’ve drawn …

Ode to an ‘80s Station Wagon

The day I turned 16, my parents took me out into our front yard and showed me a car, which had “IT’S YOURS!” written on the windows in soap. It was a big, clunky slap in the face parked where my something-else, new and shiny (and not brown) vehicle should have been. What’s the worst thing you can do to a dorky high school teen? Make her drive a station wagon. A brown one. And not one of those real old ones with the fun flip seats in the back. This one was called the Aries K, and I think it was a Dodge. It was horrid. Mom took me for my driver’s test. It was a Friday and I knew I would pass the exam with flying colors. I had aced behind the wheel, and the written test was cake. But I did not pass the exam with any sorts of color whatsoever. I was literally finishing the test, turning back into the DMV when — SUPPOSEDLY — a school bus turned on its “don’t …

In 1978, My Local Drive-in Was Mecca

The Hillcrest Drive-In in my hometown of Cedar Falls, Iowa, was exactly 2.6 miles from the house I grew up in. But to me, a small child in the late 70s, it might as well have felt as far away as the moon. My life, then, was so different from what my seven-year-old’s is today. It was a time of less immediacy and certainly less solvency, especially for our little family of two: me and my mom. Special occasions were special; they were cherished, infrequent events that, in hindsight, are the numbered pinpoints in the happy, pastoral, connect-the-dots of my childhood. My mom was a kid back then herself, having had me at just 18. She worked full time and put herself through college while I was in grade school. We lived in a tiny little house where our “home entertainment center” consisted of a 12” black and white TV (complete with foiled rabbit ear antennae and a clunking, hard-to-turn dial), and a turntable upon which The Beatle’s Abbey Road and Neil Young’s Harvest Moon were the weathered, scratchy …

Margit’s Note: Pull Up to the Bumper, Baby

A glint of sun warms our forearms and we’re ready for a road trip! Top down (as if), pop in the mix tape, er put on ‘80s on 8, and let’s tool around town. Except you’re driving, because I don’t drive. I mean, I have my license, I know how to drive, I just don’t really do it, or like it, or have much occasion to get behind a wheel. Typical New Yorker. We subway, cab, occasionally bike (although those are generally tourists from Holland on that Citi Bike) and we walk a lot. This confuses people who don’t live here. A kid cousin of my husband’s once asked us, “You guys don’t have a car? Are you poor?” We don’t need a car, and that’s a beautiful thing. But I can still appreciate a good road trip — with the right, one-armed snacks and the right friends and of course the right playlist. Everything sounds better in a car. For a story in the early ‘90s. I once spent the entire day in the …

I Bank at McDonalds: Confessions of a Personal Finance Writer

People assume that I’m good with money because I write about it. I’m better than most. I’ve managed to keep my housing costs below-market in one of America’s most expensive cities for the past two decades. I dutifully sock away 15 percent of my salary (amplified by that oh-so-nice company match) in a retirement plan. I’ve paid off my loans for grad school as well as a car. But I do make questionable financial decisions. Here are four of my deepest, darkest money secrets. 1. I bank at McDonald’s. I know where every McDonald’s is within a 20-block radius from my office. And it’s not for the Big Macs, Filet-O-Fish or French Fries. While I rarely (maybe one out of every 100 visits) consume any food at Mickey Dees, aside from the occasional black-and-white shake, it’s where I get cold, hard cash. That’s because I bank at a credit union which has limited brick-and-mortar locations. But the credit union’s banking network allows you to use ATMs at any New York City McDonald’s, surcharge-free. If I need …

Anatomy of a Working Relationship (and a Sustainable Skateboard)

The first time my husband told me his idea, I wanted to throw up. Not because it was a bad idea — but because it was an idea that I could envision really, truly coming to life. My husband Mac is an artist who has spent the last two decades building with junk, er, found objects. He shows in a Chelsea gallery that features collage art, and he recently turned a 30-yard dumpster into a traveling collage. So when he was approached by the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) to create a piece of art out of trash, it wasn’t totally surprising. The WWF’s “Do The Green Thing “ campaign, in conjunction with Earth Hour, invited 15 artists to create something to inspire conscious, sustainable living, and he was one of them. We were standing in our kitchen, arms folded and leaning against the counter, and Mac told me he didn’t want to make art out of trash, he wanted to make a thing to use: a skateboard. (Isn’t it funny how many important conversations happen in the kitchen, …

Ditching the “Sorry” When it Comes to Getting Paid

In the board game “Sorry,” two players cannot occupy the same space at the same time. You roll the dice, and if you land on a space where another player is already standing, they’re knocked back to where they started. Their progress is lost, and you’re left apologizing. “Sorry!” you say — with or without sincerity. Sorry, because I took up space that someone was using. Sorry, because I went and put myself out there, rolled the dice, and got somewhere. Sorry, I got in another person’s way. This game made perfect sense to me as a girl, because I was taught to move through the world in pretty much that same way. It was impolite to take up space, even metaphorically, because somebody else might need it. “I’m sorry,” was the all-purpose reply if I drew too much attention, made too much noise or did anything that might possibly annoy anyone. [pullquote]You’re not greedy if you want to be paid well. And you’re not stealing from the women next to you by speaking up.[/pullquote] …

Can We Please Stop Talking About Kale Now?

I’m here with a simple request: Can people who talk about kale please stop talking about kale? Don’t get me wrong. I like kale. I buy it. I eat it. I’ve bookmarked kale juice recipes, emailed them to myself, printed them out, and then immediately hated myself for doing that. Because if my teenaged Taco-Bell-loving-self could step into a time machine and visit me now, she’d shame-slap the shit out of me for being the type of stereotypical Brooklynite who cops to juicing kale. But at least — at LEAST —  I can safely say I’m NOT the kind of person who talks about kale. I don’t care if that sounds like reverse snobbism. Because this whole kale situation is completely and utterly out of control, and it’s time someone said something. If you fawn and gush and coo ad nauseam over kale like it’s your twin sister’s newborn or an adorable kitten, you’re most certainly an asshole. If you steer a conversation that was nowhere near the vicinity of kale toward kale, you need to check yourself and …

Free Bird: Learning to Work with Wild Animals

My voice goes singsong, as though I’m speaking to a baby or a small dog: “BEN, MY SWEETHEART!” With a series of high-pitched chirps like sneakers on linoleum, an apple-red cardinal swoops down and lands on my shoulder. He sidesteps over to my ear, gives it a quick nip with his beak and starts trying to pull out my earring. This is unquestionably the high point of my week. About a year ago, I was surfing around the cute-photo Internet and stumbled into a gallery of birthday parties for zoo animals — a weird, marvelous corner of the web where Komodo dragons are presented with frozen meat-cakes festooned with dead rats and elephants trumpet over dessert-shaped towers of vegetables. The zoo websites explained that the cakes were enrichment objects. Exotic animals and craft projects are some of my favorite things on this earth; why, I thought, I should make those cakes! [pullquote]I burrito-wrapped a swan in a beach towel and felt him stamp his huge feet with impatience as we tube-fed him.[/pullquote] It felt like …

Why I Paid My Son to Learn

Last week, my son returned from visiting a school he may attend next fall and said, “Mom, they all know multiplication and I don’t.” I replied, “You can learn multiplication in a snap. Why don’t I teach you?” His response: “No, that’s okay, I just want to play Minecraft.” I’m not concerned with video games. As a young girl, I played many hours of Nintendo a day. Now as CEO of DailyWorth, I attribute much of my entrepreneurial prowess to skills I acquired maneuvering technology, facing death (“game over”) only to start again. But if there’s one thing I hate about modern video games, it’s that they sell “upgrades” within games. They charge actual money to advance. I find this grotesque and vehemently deny my son’s requests for purchased advancement. It’s a ridiculous thing to spend money on. I stand by that. But this night, when my son asked for a $30 upgrade pack, an idea hit. What if I was able to use this perfect storm (money! video games! multiplication!) to show my son how …

Margit’s Note: It Ain’t Easy

It’s a Masters jacket, it’s a smoothie with healthy stuff in it, it’s an envious glare, it’s a recycling bucket, it’s cold hard cash and it’s tomorrow. (Oh, crap!) This week we’re going #Green. We’re being smarter about our cash and putting plastic forks in the right receptacle. Earth Day (April 22 officially) and Tax Day (I’m not hyperlinking you) are both about giving back, sigh. And sustainability isn’t just the grass on your roof, it’s having a stable economy, being able to raise a family, having money in the bank, saving for retirement. — and women really need to save. Today is also Equal Pay Day. So consider this week your lime-colored, give-back mash-up. It’s weird to think that our perception about taking care of Mother Earth has shifted in our lifetime. It wasn’t that long ago we were throwing out cans with the cat food — now I might even have a bin of mulch-making worms in my very own apartment. OK I didn’t say I did, just that I might. Ok, I …

Two Olds Text About Television Getting “Younger”

Last week TV Land debuted Younger, a new TV series starring Sutton Foster as Liza Miller,  a 40-something woman pretending to be 26 to reenter the workforce. Naturally Karen and Margit had to have a text about this:   I struggled through the pilot. I mean, I see the connection to Sex and the City in its superficiality (sorry fans of SATC).   Awww, I loved SATC!   I just found myself in a constant state of eye roll.   SATC was so iconic in its style, thanks in part to Patricia Field’s costuming, and this does not have that (editor’s note: we learned later Field is doing Younger too!). This show feels like they are following fashion trends, not setting them. And SATC didn’t have the gimmicky storyline. Not that anyone wants an updated SATC out of this. Well, maybe Darren Star does!   I mean Younger deals in stereotypes (like SATC!) with no wink wink irony — unlike, say, Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, which deals in rich character development and satirical over-the-top stereotypes to the extent that it’s …

The Generational Pop-Culture Trivia Gap Explained

“Dig this guy cutting a rug out there like he’s Rerun or something.” I’m standing at my company holiday party, chatting with a coworker next to the dance floor. He scrunches up his face in reaction to my comment. “Huh?” Oh boy. Here we go again. “I said he’s cutting a rug — that means dancing — like the character Rerun.” “Rerun of what?” “Rerun. Rerun is a character. From the show What’s Happening!!” “Oh. Right.” He punctuates his acknowledgment with a blank nod and smile. I know this look. That’s him registering zero. I do a little Gene Gene the Dancing Machine shuffle to finish off the exchange as weirdly as possible. I’m writing this piece from what I call the Pastless Present: a place where brilliant youth are reinventing our future but seem to be utterly unaware of anything has come before. More specifically, I work in tech. In fact, I’m a woman in tech, and I’m 42, which is kind of like being a unicorn tap dancing on a rainbow. I like …

Kids These Days! Why Don’t They Watch TV?

By the time I took “History of the 60s” in college, I already knew a bit about intergenerational perspectives on the Vietnam war — mainly based on watching Archie and Meathead fight bitterly about it. In my rural middle-class neighborhood, I never would have understood that stark class differences existed outside my slim circle if it weren’t for Good Times. I never would have known that stoops existed, that people sent mail from blue boxes on street corners and that trash cans were propped outside of brownstone buildings if it weren’t for Sesame Street. My son has never seen any of these shows. There is never a moment in his life when, given the freedom to do what he wants, he chooses to watch television. His dad and I have tried to get him to see some of these old shows, but just from the opening credits, he can identify an otherworldly production — lengthy credits in an ‘80s or ‘70s-style font will immediately make him leave the room and scoff, ”What? Is this a …

I Know You Are But What Am I? Pee-Wee and Me

When I was five, I accidentally watched every terrifying, adult, weird moment of The Pee-wee Herman Show. PHS was a 1980 nightclub show — captured on HBO — that predated Pee-Wee’s Playhouse by five years. As my parents were busy hosting a party, no one noticed that I was absorbing some of the more adult themes. After witnessing the scene with a hypnotized woman who shed her clothes under Pee-Wee’s command, I was terrified for years that I could be hypnotized into public nudity. From the opening song to the final cut of Pee-Wee magically flying over the stage, scenes from the show have been in my subconscious ever since. There was the hypnotized lady, for sure, but also the evocative set design and costumes. The characters were slightly scary as well. Phil Hartman as a gruff Captain Carl was on the menacing side of surly, Miss Yvonne’s outfits and hair were so over the top it became near spectacle. Pee-Wee showed me an exciting, creative world I hadn’t even imagined for myself. It was …

5 Beauty Products: Then & Now

There are quite a few beauty fads that still play a role in my daily routine. They may be dressed up in different packaging or meant to serve a slightly different purpose, but they’re basically the same products I used in grade school, high school, college and beyond. And I bet you probably have some similar “non-fad” fad items of your own. So here I present five “Then and Nows” — products I used back in the day paired with ones I use now that essentially serve the same purpose, if perhaps in a smarter, less harmful and more modern way. Then: Sea Breeze Astringent Now: Neutrogena Alcohol-Free Toner, $6 Sea Breeze was some seriously potent stuff, and every girl I knew in the seventh grade used it. It was almost like a rite of passage — I remember one particular slumber party in which a guest (who had perfect skin, I might add) admitted she’d never tried it, and was forced to soak up a cotton ball and “Breeze herself.” I recall this well …

5 Juicy Memoirs from Old-School TV Stars

Who among us has not wiled away an evening or weekend afternoon watching reruns of a sitcom or drama? Such a great guilty pleasure. For this week’s book list, I’ve got some more guilty pleasures: Delicious gossipy memoirs penned by some stars of your most beloved old-school shows. Don’t tell us you didn’t watch. Don’t tell us you don’t remember. Love Life by Rob Lowe Who knew this guy would be able to make the transition from child actor to Brat Pack bad boy to happily married, in-demand TV star? Now 50-something, Lowe remains handsome and funny, but has added humility and compassion — plus, the guy can write! From stories about the Playboy Mansion’s hot tub to tales of coaching Little League; Lowe’s life is full — and juicy! Born with Teeth by Kate Mulgrew You loved her as Captain Janeway, the first female Star Trek captain, but you may love her even more as the irascible Red on Orange Is the New Black. Kate Mulgrew spins an honest, funny and breathless account of …

Like Cheers, Only Sunnier: Saying Goodbye to Miami’s Best Bar

During a recent trip to Miami, I visited one of my favorite bars with the sad recognition that this was likely my last time there. For over a year, Scotty’s Landing had been slated to close, despite efforts to save it from the path of Condo-geddon. Many places in Miami have succumbed more swiftly, including some veritable institutions, but for me, the closing of Scotty’s is like the loss of a friend. Small businesses falling to rising rents is hardly unique to Miami — or even cities. You could visit nearly any place in this country and hear about a restaurant, boutique, book store or other kind of place-gone-by recalled with distinct fondness. It’s always a small business, too: where your little league team went after games, where you celebrated graduation, the secret diner you told people to visit when they were in town. [pullquote]A favorite place can transport you to a substantial period of time, like a decade or childhood. When it closes, so does that time in your life.[/pullquote] No one ever says, …

Margit’s Note: Go Back, Jack, Do it Again

After seeing Hedwig and the Angry Inch for the third time last week in the span of about three months, my husband told me I officially qualify as a super fan. Which means I need to go a fourth time while John Cameron Mitchell is still in, before Darren Criss (I just can’t) and once the amazing Rebecca Naomi Jones replaces the incredible Lena Hall as Yitzhak (Hed-heads you feel me?). It’s like seeing the best rock show of your life, over and over. This is no cheap endeavor. Typically, I’m not someone who likes to do things over and over. I can’t stand re-watching a movie or a TV show I’ve already seen, except a very specific handful. Only five I can think of. It’s a pretty loopy list. They are (and these are not necessarily recommendations!): Grease. Seen five times as an 11-year old and countless times since. You too, I’m sure. Bedazzled. Not the 1967 original, even. The cheesy Harold Ramis remake with Brendan Fraser and Elizabeth Hurley as “The Devil.” Critically …