5/5/2011 - will you light my candle. . .

Rent changed my life.

For my 19th birthday, my ex-girlfriend-turned-best friend-turned-lesbian/kinky burlesque dancer (we obviously made quite a pair in high school) surprised me with a picnic in Golden Gate park, a nice walk around San Francisco, and last minute tickets to see Rent.  I knew little about this particular musical, thought it sounded like a bunch of slacker/hippie-types who were too cool for me to understand, and I admittedly had little interest.

Prior to Rent, I had seen a handful of musicals.  My parents, though not proactive, always supported my desire to see the latest blockbuster Broadway show that blew through the San Francisco theater scene.  We made the mandatory-for-Bay-Areans pilgrimage to the Curran Theater when Phantom of the Opera played night after night as its resident show.  I remember my fascination with the helicopter in Miss Saigon, the city-turned-barricades of Les Mis.  But aside from these spectacles and a few memorable songs, I thought musical theater was nothing more than something fancy to do occasionally in the City.

By the time Marie and I stepped into the Golden Gate Theater and found our seats, I was already eager for the show to be over so I could go home and go to bed.

The moment I reached my epiphany and regauged all expectations happened quite early in the show, maybe within 30 minutes, when Roger, the sensitive but tortured musician, meets Mimi, the friendly neighborhood stripper and crack addict.  She comes barging into Roger's apartment asking him to light her candle, and the innuendos go on from there.  I sat in the darkened theater, watched the darkened stage as they sang together and thought, "I can't believe how much I love this song right now!"

Leave it to Jonathan Larson to write a song about a drug addict needing a candle to cook her stash and turn it into a playful, flirty, endearing duet between two characters with similar qualities.  As resistant to the show as I was, I didn't stand a chance as each scene thereafter gave me new things to love.

I ended up wanting to jump out of my seat at the end of Act I, crying shamelessly through most of the second half, and felt an overwhelming need to call everyone I had ever known and loved to tell them just how much I missed them and how important they were to my life.  Afterwards, I went straight to the lobby and bought the cast recording and a white T-shirt with an artist's rendition of Mimi with the line, "Will you light my candle?" scrawled across the front, commemorating the first song that captured my attention.

The show itself certainly lit a candle for me, and it has led the way to more than I thought (now that I actually give it some).  Because of Rent, I fell in love with musical theater.  Because of musical theater, I abandoned my California teaching credential program and started working at Max's Showtunes Opera Cafe, a restaurant with singing waiters accompanied by a powerhouse pianist.  Because of Max's, I exponentially increased my knowledge of musical theater, and with this knowledge, I eventually desired to do more than just observe and listen to it.  And because of this desire, I found the Studio ACT in the City, took a class and ended up in the spring performance project of Stephen Schwartz's musical, Working, last year, and through Working, I learned that acting is not my forte, and though neither really is singing, the latter, especially doing so in front of people, inspires a rush in me incomparable to any other, which most recently led me to Rapid Transit A Cappella.

So to say that Rent changed my life is no exaggeration.  The fire it ignited in me burned for a long time, burns still, which is more than I can say for that T-shirt I bought some 11-odd years ago.  I first noticed holes near the collar, which were followed by more holes under the arms.  Then the collar itself frayed and I could see my skin through the threadbare fabric.  I had to face the reality that soon, it would simply fall to pieces.

The other night, I decided to apply my sewing skills (of which I really have none) and get creative.  I got a pair of scissors, cut out what I wanted to keep from the original shirt, and began sewing it onto another.  About four hours, needle wounds on various fingers, and a sore shoulder later, I emerged with a new Frankensteinian shirt that likely will come undone after its first washing.

Behold, my "Guys with iPhones"-inspired shot of my handiwork:

I do have to say that I am quite proud of myself.  For someone who barely knows how to sew on a popped button, I think I did alright.  At the very least, I honored the bohemian, 'la vie bohème' spirit of Rent by "making something out of nothing," as it were.