Consider this:

Hamilton, Schmamilton: Five Reasons I Hate This Show

The fact that I’ve never seen it is completely irrelevant.

Well, folks, it’s finally happening: Hamilton, the musical, is coming to San Francisco.

Am I excited? No, I am not.

Do I loathe musical theater?

No, I do not.

In fact, I love it. I’ve loved it all my life.

I discovered musicals when I was eight years old. Seated in the front row of my local high school’s auditorium, I watched a student production of The Pajama Game. From the moment the curtains rose, I was enthralled. As I watched, my muscles twitched. I wanted to be on stage, singing and dancing my way through two acts of forbidden love, deep passion and union negotiations. I longed to visit that mysterious den of iniquity known as Fernando’s Hideaway.

The Pajama Game opened the door to my love affairs with a Fiddler, a Joseph, a Superstar, a Picture Show and a Little Shop filled with horrors, not to mention a certain state where waving wheat sure tastes sweet. As a teenager, I performed in all my high school productions. As an adult in search of a soul mate, I wrote a list of qualities I wanted in a life partner. “Loves musicals” featured very near the top. A couple years ago, my musical-loving husband (found him!) and I lived out one of our shared dreams when, somewhat randomly, we performed in a local synagogue’s Purim Schpiel. That night, in our minds, at least, two stars were born.

So, yes, I love musicals, possibly more than most. Truth be told, I’d probably love Hamilton just as much as the shows that are now part of my DNA.

But right now, I hate Hamilton. It’s not my fault. I really don’t have a choice. Here’s why.

1. I’m a writer. Another word for writer? Artist. Here’s another one: poor. While I’m far from starving (thanks in large part to my non-writer husband), I’m not exactly losing sleep agonizing over where to spend all my extra cash. Frankly, it would be financially irresponsible for our family to shell out the kind of money* required to rest our bums for a couple hours in the plush red seats at our local Orpheum Theater.

* When the box office opened this week, tickets ranged from $100-$200 and sold out in a flash. Stubhub prices range now from $500-$1000 per seat. Ticket brokers, thy name is greedy.

2. I’m thin-blooded, and I have a tiny bladder. An article in the San Francisco Chronicle revealed it takes more than cold hard cash to get tickets to Hamilton. It also requires obsession, grit, planning, time, patience, optimism, determination and a strong bladder. According to one of the hundreds of people who spent up to 24 hours waiting in line to hopefully score tickets, a few other things also come in handy: a sleeping bag, snow boots, two ski jackets, a fuzzy hat and a diaper. That’s right. A diaper. Too bad I’m all out.
3. I’m morally opposed to it. Here’s where things get a little tricky. It’s one thing for me, a middle-class fan of musical theater, to feel financially shut out of this historical and history-making performance. But Hamilton is based on, and born of, the music of the streets. Rap. Hip-hop. So I can’t help but ask: How many young, working-class African Americans (the generally accepted “who” behind hip-hop’s genesis) are filling these costly seats? Surely the founders (and their brethren) of an important American musical revolution should be able to comfortably attend a revolutionary show their own music inspired.
4. I got ditched by Hillary Clinton. A few months back, my best chance of seeing Hamilton involved then-presidential-candidate Hillary Clinton randomly picking my name over thousands of other Democratic donors, thereby earning me an invitation to attend the show with HRC herself. I don’t know how many Democrats tossed in an extra Hamilton or two in hopes of spending an evening with Hill. I do know that, so far, no one has called to tell me I’ve won.
5. I just can’t believe the hype. If I’d laid out hundreds or even thousands of dollars for my family and me to witness the life-changing magic of Hamilton, you better believe I’m going to experience Life Changing Magic. I’m sure the show is brilliant, but at a certain (price) point, we get what we pay for, right? I doubt that too many people drop the equivalent of a couple international flights or even a 75-inch 4K Ultra HD 3D Smart LED TV and then exit the theater saying, Honestly, I think I preferred Wicked.

So now you know. I’m the lone Hamilton hater. You don’t need a degree in psychology to figure out some (but maybe not all) of my hostility is rooted in good old self-defense. How else can I protect myself from the deep despair and tingling resentment I feel every time I hear, for the millionth time, that Hamilton is the Best. Thing. Ever?

I’m sure it is. But I hate it.

That’s what I’m going to keep telling myself, anyway.

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Cook this:

The Trespasser by Tana French

This week’s book review from Newsy!’s bona fide bibliophile, Leigh Ann, comes with its own cheat sheet of definitions and translations.

Leigh Ann’s Tana French Cheat Sheet (Abridged)

“What’s the crack?” = “what’s the news?”

Gaff: At first I thought it was a person of authority, like a boss (see the “Gaffer”). Then I thought it meant someone’s abode. Finally, I just gave up and stopped worrying altogether.

Lads, da, shite, bollix = Folks, if I have to explain all these words, this might not be the book for you.

When I need a break from the real world without totally disengaging my brain, I turn to mysteries and thrillers. Nothing shouts “escape” like solving a good old-fashioned hard-boiled murder, especially when the investigative team is comprised of edgy Irish Ds (as in “detectives”) from Dublin. (The exception is Precious Ramotswe from the #1 Ladies Detective Agency series, but I save her adventures for those times when I’m craving a cup of bush tea.)

In Tana French’s newest novel, we meet Antoinette Conway, the newest and only female D on the Murder Squad. She’s constantly hazed, second-guessed and tripped up by her fellow fella’ detectives and can only really trust her partner, Stephen Moran. Or can she? This question leads to endless, looping turnarounds and mind exercises in Conway’s razor sharp brain, and with the reader wondering right along with her. Conway gets assigned the seemingly open-and-shut “domestic,” the case of a young murdered woman in her own home. But Conway has seen the victim somewhere before. Her smooth-tongued colleague and chief rival seems determined to keep a close eye on Conway’s investigative progress – or is he more focused on hindering it?

What’s satisfying about French’s mysteries are her protagonists. They are stubborn, intuitive risk-takers, able to defend themselves verbally and own their mistakes, while retaining a bawdy sense of humor. French uses a crossover technique throughout the Dublin Murder Squad series, where a minor character in one book is the central focus in the next. She presents an Ireland both punished and proud, with complex characters who are never easy in their own lives. Best of all, Tana French’s mysteries aren’t obvious. They’re not mind-bogglingly intricate puzzles, but they’re not bang-on stupid, either. They’re darn good crack, and they take a reader on a darn good ride.

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Cook this:

Swedish Hotcakes

Thanks, Erika, for sharing a family-favorite recipe that’s guaranteed to get your day off to a sweet start.

3 eggs

3/4 cup flour

1 1/3 cup milk

2 Tbs sugar

Whir up all the ingredients in a blender until they’re smooth as silk. Whisking works, too, but the blender pitcher makes the next steps much easier.

Let the batter rest for 10 minutes or so while you heat a 10” skillet over medium heat. You want the pan evenly hot, but not screamin’ hot.

Add a pat of butter to the pan and roll it around to cover the bottom. Give the batter another quick stir. Pour enough into the skillet to evenly cover the bottom, and then roll the pan so the entire surface is thinly covered with batter. Now wait. After 1-2 minutes, the top of the hotcake will look “dry.” Now it’s ready to turn. Ease a spatula under the edge and flip the whole thing over. I usually mess up the first one, but the next ones tend to be more successful.

Let the second side cook until lightly browned in spots. We call this the “giraffe” look.

Put another pat of butter on the center of the hot cake and roll it up like a little burrito. You can also fill with a bit of jam.

Move the hotcake to a plate, douse it with your favorite syrup, and then start make the next one. Have a good cup of coffee on hand, because you’re going to be here for a while. These hotcakes are best straight out of the skillet, but you can keep them warm on a plate in the oven (on low) until they are all made and everyone is ready to eat.

You can make this batter up to 24 hours in advance and keep in the fridge.