1991. The Winter Garden Theatre. A drama club bus trip to NYC to see "Cats". At age 17, I was ignorant enough to know only that (a) it had been around for a loooong time and (b) it had a very sad and pretty song that I had to learn on the flute in 5th grade. I went in assuming that the cat theme was a metaphor- maybe smooth guys in zoot suits or lacivious ladies of the night. Something. Instead, the lights went down, that wave of tangible anticipation passed over the entire audience, and people elaborately dress as cats made their way down the aisles to the stage. A puzzled (and still blonde) girl in the audience utters the phrase "What the fuck?" for the first time in her life. People...dressed as cats. Adults! Dressed as cats! Jellicle cats! What the hell does that even mean??? I refuse to look into it on principle. The rest of the show is pretty much a blur, except for the aforementioned song. The Italian boy to my left whispering sweet nothings into my ear was a fine distraction, but if I was aware of Kif Croaker at the time, I would have emitted one of his world weary sighs. As I do now... Now that show is just one of many playbills stashed away in a Kangaroos shoebox.

Deeper in that box is a set of 4 copies of the same program for a 1995 Penn State production of "Grapes of Wrath". "Why 4?," you ask. Maybe not the greatest play of all time, but to me, it was transformative. The man who played Tom Joad was heartbreakingly gorgeous (reason enough). More than that though, was the fact that the company had rigged the stage to rain for most of one of the last scenes. A trickle at first, then a downpour. The was it affected the actor's performances and the audience's reactions were what kept me coming back. It delivered on what the first rush of "Cats" anticipation promised. The passing of that electric energy from person to person was palpable in a way I had never experienced. It was magical and touching and I don't think I ever recovered from it.