"NO ONE MOURNS THE WICKED" -FROSTY THE SNOWMAN THRU THE EYES OF THE MAGICIAN

We all remember that old silk hat the kids found, but who had rights to its ownership?

  Growing up in the 70’s and 80’s, watching the Christmas specials was a huge part of Christmas.  Before the day of DVR, and when VCR tapes were just emerging, catching the live Christmas specials was an exciting event and my eyes were glued to the TV. I caught every nuance of every program over the years, and of course had questions.

Like, in Frosty the Snowman, why does Karen wear gloves and mittens yet her legs are fully exposed to the cold? And if you watch carefully, when the children run out of the school house, a little boy jumps on a sled which goes both ‘up’ and down a hill?  Being an avid sledder, I just knew that wasn’t right, so my questions came.

And as I grew older and my moral compass developed, I started to question the Villain of the story of Frosty the Snowman. Yes, I started questioning the mythology that was part of my youth and I looked at the story through a different lens. 

If the Wizard of Oz can be rewritten through the eyes of the Wicked Witch of The West, then certainly Frosty The Snowman can be retold through the eyes of the bumbling and bitter magician dressed in black; Professor Hinkle.

The cartoon version of Frosty begins with the Magician’s hat failing him while he performs to a classroom of children. He throws the hat in disgust, but just then the rabbit finally appears and hops away with the hat out the front door. The magician gives chase, but the hat ends up on the snowman the children have just built.  The iceman comes to life with his proud first words, “Happy Birthday!”

It was his birthday, and it was a regular miracle. A Christmas day virgin birth.  Indeed, ‘there must have been some magic on that old silk hat they found.’

But did they really ‘find’ the hat? They refuse to give the hat back to the magician, saying it was now there’s, but was ownership ever really ‘transferred’?  The magician did throw the hat away, but after he threw it he immediately tries to get it back, chasing it down before Karen places it on Frosty’s head.

So who does the hat belong to?

A fight over ownership of the hat ensues, and the conflict of the story becomes a chase, a hunt really. The Magician becomes an obsessed Javert, tracking the fugitive Jean Valjean Frosty to the North Pole, where Karen is bringing him so that he doesn’t melt away.

Why don’t we question which side is in the right? Do the sad faces of the children increase sympathy and tilt the justice in their favor?  What about the story of the Magician?  Who will tell that tale?

Well, after hours of investigation, wiretaps, and Google searches, I have learned the magician’s back-story.

His name was Peter. Actually Petra, and then Americanized to Peter. He was the child of a Russian immigrant. An alcoholic. Yes, his father was a magician as well, who used to curse his poverty and his pathetic black hat while taking slugs of vodka at the dinner table. As the liquid burned his throat his anger burned at his son. He told his son he was, “no good,” “a burden,” and that he was “naughty, naughty, naughty.” There was rarely food on the table. Often stale bread. Mold on the cheese needed to be sliced off. Just the green spots, save as much of the orange stuff as you can.

But as all little boys do, Peter loved and emulated his father, needed his fathers approval, and when he inherited the black hat upon his fathers passing he swore he would become a magician himself.  He would do what his father could not do; he would make the hat work magic and heal all the wounds caused by all those sharp, bitter words. Yes, performing magic would prove that his dad was wrong about him, he was a special person, and his father would finally give him an approving smile from his place in the after-life.

But the Hat didn’t’ deliver. It was sporadic and unreliable with its magic.  Sometimes it sprung forth multiple rabbits, sometimes flowers, but other times was useless.  Peter was never without the hat, however, and made careful to place it on the hook with tender care each night (but never on a bed) and, sometimes when he wore the hat he himself felt a magic glow and began to dance around.

Peter grew up very lonely and was unable to develop relationships so stayed in school as long as he could until he became ‘Professor’ Hinkle.  Like his father, he was socially awkward and had a tendency to repeat adjectives and adverbs when angry, such as “messy, messy, messy” or “busy, busy, busy” and never seemed to feel comfortable in his own skin or at job interviews.

The school gig where the story of Frosty begins was his big break. He hadn’t worked in months, and when the hat failed him at that pivotal moment in front of the classroom, it was a crushing defeat. Bitterness burned in his gut and the laughter of the children sliced his heart in pieces.

His pursuit of Karen and frosty all the way to the north pole just to get the hat back wasn’t the act of a selfish, bitter and cold man, but was the personal fight of his inner child started decades earlier. Making ‘real’ magic out of his father’s hat had been his lifelong dream, his lifelong battle, and the story of his struggle against his demons.

Yes, it was terrible and evil when he closed the greenhouse door trapping frosty inside and sent the snowman to his slushy doom. Peter Hinkle becomes his father at that moment, taking his frustrations out on the world around him, and the cycle continues.

The magician finally does give up the hat after Santa threatens to no longer bring him presents, which of course brings out all the transference issues he has had with his father (for, after all, what is Santa but our fantasized version of our Dads with a red coat on.)  First Peter must go home and write; “I am sorry for what I did to Frosty” a hundred zillion times.  Blame and shame the victim never fails to get results.

I remember as a child how sad I was for Karen when her teardrops spilled into the puddle that used to be Frosty, and how I wanted her suffering to end and her sadness to go away. Hurry, Santa, I pleaded in my head, tell her that frosty isn’t gone but will come back with the first Christmas snow.

But who will cry for Professor Petra Hinkle, the Magician?

No one mourns the Wicked.



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Goals for the 2013 New York City Marathon

The way my training has been, any sort of time goals have been ruled out for the New York City Marathon.  In order to enjoy the event, I need to leave my ego in Michigan, start 5 times as slow as I think I should, and cruise through the New York streets and soak up the experience. My only hope for anything faster is if Meb himself pushes me in a baby stroller.

With no time goal in mind, I am still being ambitious.  My process goals are vast, deep, and many.  Here they are:

NYCM Goals:

The day before, I shall walk the streets of Greenwich village and hear the ghosts of Ginsberg and Kerouac Howl in my ears. The only ones for me are the mad ones. 

Marathon morning will start with a glorious poop. It will be productive, thorough, and leave no doubt about its status as completed.

On the ferry to the start, I will see the ghosts of my grandparents who arrived as immigrants on Ellis Island 100 years ago. They will give me a wink and a smile.

While waiting for the anthem to play, I expect a mass of black clouds to appear on the horizon. It is the son of Hurricane Sandy

threatening from the sky. Thousands of runners with their dream deferred will look into the eye of the storm and scare it back to sea. 

Race on.

I plan to bottle up the enthusiasm and excitement of nearly 50,000 runners at the start. I will bring the bottle home, and take a shot with my morning coffee for the weeks to come.

I expect to see Macon from my novel “On the Lips of Children” standing anxiously at the start with a runner’s bib pinned on his shirt. His body is scarred and his brain seems troubled.  “Fodder, Fodder,” I hear him mumble. 

I move on.

After the anthem and Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” I expect the energy of the event to keep pumping music into the air.

I hear the Beastie Boys booming Sabotage from Brooklyn and echoes of punk rock 20 years old from CBGB’s.

Bruce’s  “Born to Run” thumps across the water. Lou Reed monotones about heroin and walking on the wild side.  “Shattered” from the Stones mocks us all saying, “Go ahead, bite the big apple, don’t mind the maggots.”  Jay Z and Alicia Keys urge us on to run through “concrete jungles where dreams are made.”

When my insides are warmed to a boil, I expect my spirit to transcend my body and commune with my recently deceased brother. I tell him things I wanted to say before he died. He promises to appear again in my dreams.  

I move on.

During the route, I expect Broadway shows to spill onto the course.  The lead role from Wicked, Elphaba, will run beside me. Together

we will belt out “Defying Gravity.”  “Nobody in all of Oz, no wizard that there is or was, is ever going to bring us down.”

I expect my bib number to mysteriously change to 24601 and Javert from Les Miserable to appear behind me. He gives chase, nips at my heels, and threatens a return to jail.  “I am warning you Javert. I’m a stronger man by far, there is power in me yet, my race is not yet run.”  

And when my tendons inflame , my muscles tighten, and my veins fill with wet cement, I will throw my hands to the sky and curse the

Gods.  “HASA DIGA EEBOWAI!!”   The cast of The Book of Mormon will then appear and sing, “time to be a hero and slay the monster.”  “MAN UP!”  

I expect the runner’s high to give me a buzz more than years of drinking and drugging ever could.

I expect inspiration to sweat out of my brain into my eyes, and I will have visions for my next novel or two.

I expect to see Adam from the cast of Lena Dunham’s “Girls” on HBO. He will say something quirky and weird that I try so hard to repeat for the rest of my life but realize I can’t, because I only understand Adam, I don’t speak it.

I expect to see Woody Allen and Diane Keaton sitting on a bench in Manhatten.

I expect to see John Lennon appear in Central Park, of if not, at least Elton John singing Empty Garden.

And if I could hit a time goal, it would be a 4:09:43 with the power to co-opt the 4:09:43 finishing time of the history of all marathons, and prevent any deaths and heal any wounds of anyone injured at this time. 

I want to photo-bomb Pamela Anderson’s finishing line picture.

I want to see Janice from my novel “The Jade Rabbit’, wearing her medal and looking to the sky after her 2:59:50 finish.

If none or all of these come true, my goal is the same for this or any marathon:  to run hard enough to squeeze out my insides until something new is revealed. Every 26.2 demands a deep, personal journey, all while connecting to thousands of other running souls along the way.

Nope, I have no time goals. But the clock can’t measure everything.

WICKED - "Everyone deserves the chance to fly"

I saw Wicked on the last day of 2011 and it was an incredible experience.  It was my second time seeing the musical, but this time it was fifth row seats (really 2^nd row, behind the orchestra pit seats).  It was two weeks ago, and I had meant to blab all about my thoughts and give a review.

Wicked Witch of The West Before The Labels

It was an amazing experience. And yes, I am certain I made eye contact with the performers being up so close.

First of all, I love music as a tone and drama amplifier for any story. Music is just the tension and drama escalated to higher ground.  I remember seeing Moulin Rouge and how geeked I was when they just broke into song, the story of Les Miserables needs the music to make it so majestic, and the rage and angst and love of Rent demands to be sung. (you can guess what musicals I like.)

The story, as most now know, gives an alternative perspective and background of the Witches from the wizard of Oz, The Wizard himself, and of course those dreaded flying monkeys, with most of the focus on the Wicked witch of the West. The character we remember when we were six years old and hid our faces under pillows and were peeking through our fingers. Just the sight of her minion maniacal flying monkeys made us shriek in horrific delight.

The origins of her being born green, her relationship with her sister (the eventual Wicked witch of the East who has the house fallen ontop of her), and watching her be ostracized --first socially by xenophobes and then politically by the wizard -- are all presented in heads over heels matter. Finally, she becomes champion for the oppressed and then vilified by a government who needs the masses to unite. People come together when united by a common enemy. We need black and white ideas of good and bad. These themes run throughout the story.

The reason the story is extra powerful is that the Wizard of Oz is a modern myth, and its language is accepted part of our lexicon.  The wickedness of the witch who would hurt a poor innocent girl, and her ‘little dog Toto, is a given in our century. Of course she is evil, we can all unite around that, and to defeat her is for all that is righteous in the world to prosper. Shallow minds can't have these presumptions challenged.

The sociological imagination of the story unravels all those presumptions with back story, and a tender yet conflictual relationship develops between the green, nerdy, intelligent outcast and the queen of social popularity who becomes the good witch of the north.

Glinda - We all knew someone just like her in college didn't we.

The good witch of the north could be written off as the stereotypical blond bimbo but was a sympathetic character who grows and despite her apparent longings to be as steadfast to what’s right, she is a compromiser and pragmatist without the moral integrity of her green counterpart.  Most of us are much more Glinda than Elphaba without such a strict moral compass and compromise to easy.  For noncomformity, the world will whip you with its displeasure, and we'd rather not keep  true to our values and risk being an outcast.


The story drove the musical for me, the costumes and stage was second, the musical was perhaps last and was not a ‘must buy’ soundtrack for me the way other musicals have struck me. The voices were incredible, the songs just didn't seem as essential as others I have seen.  The most inspiring song was “Defying Gravity,” (well done by the folks at Glee) and is a great, inspiring, “I shall overcome” song to be added to my Ipod and running playlists.  The set was incredible, especially Act 1's final scene which created an instant memory burn. The fantastic and sparkly Emerald city was indeed an opiate for the masses..



I'll Right Then, I'll Be Wicked

 When Elphie decides to "go rogue," so to speak, and hold true to her beliefs, I couldn't help but think of the line from Huckleberry Finn, where Huck is traveling down river, wondering why he's so bad, and then finally just decides, "All right then, I'll go to Hell."  The reader, of course, realizes it is Huck who is the hero and society with the 'jacked up' values.

All of this seems like such a deep and somber meaning, but the musical is actually full of light moments. There is a nice mix of humor and some sly but obvious nods and winks to lines from the movie.

It is hard to leave the theater without feeling the important binds of friendship, how we all fall short of ‘What Would Elphaba Do?’  And to not question our previously preconceived notions of other evils in the world.

Sitting next to me was an 8 year old, who was seeing it for the fourth time. If she and her friends do as the Wicked Witch did, our world will be a better place, and much safer for flying monkeys and other things we tend to shun because of what we see as evil.



***Special thanks to Blogger, Hungry Runner Girl for her shout out and thumbs up for  The Jade Rabbit.
Check it out at Hungry Runner Girl.

The Jade Rabbit.

STRAY - The Novel