An Open Letter to Kathy

Dear Kathy,

Phantom of the Paradise. I have so much I want to say, but mostly: I am so, so sorry.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, what is Netflix for, if not to follow-up on stray memories of movies you thought you liked XX years ago? Obviously, what I should have done was watch it alone -- prescreening it, as it were. Then I might have made a more responsible choice. No matter what, I should have known that the memory of a 10 year-old cannot be that reliable.

Anyone else would realize that if your partner has lasted for 33 years without seeing the 1970s rock opera staring Paul Williams and William Finley, she's probably just plain lucky. But sometimes my judgment slips.

I'll give you credit: at first you were patient while you watched, hoping it would get better as the plot warmed up. Yet as the movie dragged on, your expression slowly shifted to one of quiet horror. It reminded me of my look when I saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show for the first time. Occasionally, I caught you glancing at me as though to ask, incredulously, "You deliberately put this in your queue?!?"

Amazingly, even then, I didn't turn it off. Oh, I fast-forwarded through the "action" sequences, so we could watch Paul Williams skitter through mirrored secret passageways like a blond June bug, but I inevitably skidded to a halt for the songs. Which is not the worst part, is it? The worst of it is that I sang along to every single one of them. Complete with hand-dancing.

Good for nothing, bad in bed,
nobody liked you, you're better off dead...
Good-bye. (Good-bye)
We've all come to say good-bye.
(Good-bye) Good-bye. (Good-bye)
Born defeated, died in vain,
super-destructive, you were hooked on pain...
And though your music lingers on,
Well, all of us are glad you're gone.
If I could live my life half as worthlessly as you...
I'm convinced that I'd wind up burning, too

Oh, excuse me, got caught up in it again. Yeah, I can't remember what you told me last week about work, but we play a movie that I haven't seen in three decades and I sing along.

I would like to blame my brother. I'm pretty sure I can. You see, he played the LP soundtrack over and over again, in the room right next to mine, laying down each line of lyrics into my young subconscious with care. Thanks to him, I can launch into the chorus of "Upholstery" (with its cheerful Beach Boys' sound) at the drop of a hat:

I finally lost control
And tore my tuck-n-roll
upholstery...
Where my baby sits
so close to me...
That's supposed to be...
what our life is all about

Hmm, this isn't helping, is it? I was trying to apologize.

We'll pretend I didn't find the CD version of the soundtrack and it's not already imported into my iTunes library. No. And I will not bring it with me on any road trips; you have enough to put up with me hand-dancing to Weird Al's "Christmas at Ground Zero" every year. I'll just keep this my little secret. Zip my lips.

Meanwhile, I'm taking Bugsy Malone out of the Netflix queue and I'm never looking back. I hereby declare that all musical movie expeditions are now your bailiwick. Fair enough?

And while we're at it, I'll make you whatever you want for dinner Sunday night, because, while I can't give back that hour of your life you lost, I can make another hour better. With no singing.

Yours truly,

Alix

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