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A Noise Within’s uplifting Man of La Mancha is arguably one of the best shows in town. Based on Miguel de Cervantes’ 17th century novel Don Quixote, this musical with book by Dale Wasserman, lyrics by Joe Darion and music by Mitch Leigh, La Mancha became one of Broadway’s immortal masterpieces, with the 1965 production winning five Tonys (including Best Musical and for its peerless star, Richard Kiley), running for 2,328 performances, with four revivals on the Great White Way.
La Mancha’s well-deserved success is due, in part, to its exquisite songs that are so beautiful this music could teach larks how to warble. But the music, lyrics and plot also perfectly captured that sixties idealism which subsequent musicals, such as Hair, would likewise come to express. Not long after Dr. King’s lofty “I have a dream” speech, Don Quixote sang about his “Impossible Dream”, wherein the aging, noble knight pledges:
As its title suggests, The Complete History of Comedy [Abridged] is an incomplete chronicle of what makes people laugh and those jesters who deliberately induce said laughter, from ancient times until today. Starting with a riff on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show monologues telling theatergoers to shut their cells, where the exits are, etc., there is an endless stream of skits, standup, slapstick, one-liners, cream pies, double entendres, in-jokes, topical jibes at those Three-plus Stooges in the Trump regime and much more, as the jaunty Zehra Fazal, Marc Ginsburg and Mark Jacobson bring the annals of amusement to life.
My first recollection of attending a Major League baseball game was seeing the great Mickey Mantle and the legendary New York Yankees play the Indians at the cavernous Cleveland Municipal Stadium.
Decades later, the Cleveland Indians and their iconic logo, Chief Wahoo, are an inextricable part of who I am. I was there for the bat day crowds of 80,000, freakish, exhilarating anomalies in otherwise forgettable 100-loss seasons. I was there for the final game at the old “Mistake on the Lake,” and smuggled in a bottle of champagne so we could toast to the last time we would ever have to see our team play at the old dump, built atop, well, an old dump. I was there to see President Bill Clinton throw out the first pitch at virgin Jacobs Field in that thrilling inaugural game. After hearing rumblings for years about the team possibly relocating, walking into that pristine, gorgeous new ballpark that fine day gave me comforting assurance that one of the few things in life I really cared about was around to stay.
Last year, the FCC passed rules that restricted internet service providers, both home and mobile, to only being able to disclose customers’ online habits on an opt-in basis – you would have to explicitly say they could, versus having to find some obscure sub-page on their web site to opt out. But like so many other protections for everyday people, those have gone out the window, giving your ISP the right to sell everything they can gather about you to the highest bidder.
Every web site you visit, from shopping sites to torrent hosts to medical resources, will now be up for sale, for no other reason than because these corporations don’t think they’re profiting enough from those $50-a-month service packages they’re selling you. They’ll know about your medical conditions. They’ll know what porn you watch. They’ll know if you’re questioning your gender or sexual orientation, and if you’re a teenager doing it on your parents’ computer, they’ll show your parents ads based on that, and no amount of browser history clearing will save you.
These are boom times for the Columbus Clippers. Our hometown heroes are riding a wave of success that includes three straight International League West Division finishes and a Governor's Cup title in 2015. But as the cream of Cleveland's fertile farm system rises to the AAA level, this Clipper squad might be the best one yet. This year's team is armed and dangerous, with a plethora of Major League ready talent both on the mound and in the lineup.
The arms include a young, yet experienced starting rotation and a veteran bullpen. At the top of the rotation is 26 year-old right-hander Mike Clevinger, who went 11-1 with the Clippers and 3-3 with the parent club last year. After making three appearances in the World Series, Clevinger is biding his time in Columbus, anchoring the Clipper rotation while keeping ready for the phone call that will inevitably come sometime this season.
My biggest concern is not the embarrassment of a U.S. public afraid of the tiny impoverished nation of North Korea. If that embarrassed me, how would I survive what U.S. culture makes of ISIS, or -- for that matter -- the election of Donald Trump? My biggest concern is that U.S. war profiteers may end up using Korea to get us all killed.
The United States bombed the living hell out of North Korea, and -- in hopes that nothing would survive -- dropped diseased insects on the place, hoping to start plagues. One bit of later collateral damage was the release of Lyme disease in Lyme, but Hollywood came out of it with the concepts of brainwashing and Manchurian candidates, so some might call it a fair trade.
Imported from Las Vegas’ Caesars Palace, Absinthe is a heady mélange of a variety of entertainment forms geared for adult (although, not necessarily grown up) audiences. This naughty, bawdy brew blends circus acrobatics, commedia dell'arte, standup comedy, vaudeville, cabaret, the Rat Pack, cross-dressing, striptease, (taped) rock music and live singing. Imagine the Flying Wallendas meet Purple Owsley meet Cirque du Soleil meet burlesque, and you’ll get some idea of this mind-blowing one-act extravaganza executed minus intermission.
It’s all presided over by an over-the-top, sleazy, Trump-like ringmaster called The Gazillionaire, who - along with a kooky female sidekick - intro the acts, interact with the audience and reel off a series of quips and jokes that range from the racial (if not outright racist) to the sexist, often in poor taste. The sheer athleticism of the various performances, many introduced as coming from Russia (with lust), accentuate the human form, and may leave you, like Shakespeare, musing:
Elon Musk's SolarCity is completing the construction of its "Buffalo Billion" Gigafactory for photovoltaic (PV) cells near the Niagara River in Buffalo, New York. It will soon put 500 New Yorkers to work inside the 1.2 million-square-foot facility with another 700 nearby, ramping up to nearly 3,000 over the next few years.
The production of some 10,000 solar panels per day will put thousands of New Yorkers to work doing the installations. The panels will produce electricity cheaper, cleaner, more safely and more reliably than any fossil or nuclear source of power, including fracked gas, thus fueling a bright industrial future for the state.
With a little common sense from the governor, upstate New York could have many more of these massive factories, create many thousands of good, stable, high-paying jobs and solve its energy problems along the way.
Donald Trump, the 45th president of the United States, appears to have achieved an impressive new level of madness. You would think that being Commander-in-Chief and Leader of the Free World is an all-consuming job, starting in the early morning hours and stretching well into the night. Between myriad pressing domestic and global issues such as the economy and fighting terrorism there should be little else that successfully competes for Trump’s attention, right? Guess again. These days, rather than doing his job and promoting the interests of America, he seems more preoccupied with promoting Fox’s television shows and Tweet-shaming everyone from Arnold Schwarzenegger and the New York Times to the GOP’s Freedom Caucus.
“The wooden carts that residents use to carry vegetables and other wares in the once busy market area instead ferried out cadavers recovered from the rubble last week.”