At The End Of The Day

Well gang, I’m back.

Of course you didn’t miss me that much because the wonders of the information age allowed me to continue dispatching verbal brilliance to the web without the risk of taking us all back to the pre-TharpSter doldrums which once infested the Internet.

I’m glad I didn’t throw your life out of kilter while I was gone.

This last weekend capped off the first chain of events and celebrations here in the domain which have been underway with the arrival of June. Phase 2 starts on Monday when we go pick up the doggies after boarding them during the past weekend.

On a side note, I’ve got to think if the pit bull had been there when the jelly fish had committed its own version of giving Junior an atomic wedgie, things would have been a little more interesting than they already were.

Mini vacation aside, let’s talk about musicals. Generally, I don’t like them. Without getting too specific, I just never really fully developed an appreciation for characters in a movie I’m watching to break out into song and dance. Chalk it up to Grease, it’s sequel, and Xanadu rearing their ugly heads at a time in my life when I was impressionable enough to appreciate that crap, yet now I can’t help but to hurl when I see that particular trilogy these days.


I do appreciate a good movie, and I have no problem sitting through a bad one if it offers the promise of material to openly mock here on the web.

Rock Of Ages is now on the silver screen, and it sports some of the music I banged my head to all those years ago. I’ve got to think that’s the only reason I want to see that flick. The thought of Tom Cruise playing an Axel Rose like character seems about as absurd to me as how Ann Rice originally felt about him playing the Vampire Lestat.

All things being equal, I would prefer if he just return to films where he’s exercising the funny looking run of his as something blows up behind him.

I won’t get too critical though. At least he can run.

Rock Of Ages isn’t the only one I’m interested in seeing though. I saw a clip today for a motion picture version of the musical Les Miserables.

All those years ago when I was banging my head to the eventual soundtrack to Rock Of Ages, I saw Les Miserables on stage. It was awesome.

Right around that time, my brother was a voice major in college and had taken a liking to the musical as well. I attended a solo performance of his where he sang Empty Chairs At Empty Tables and was blown away.

I wonder if he can do that today.

Anyway, while attending the year end choir concert at Juniorettes school last month, one of the choirs did One Day More as part of the show, and also did quite the impressive job.

Would you care to guess what I think of when I think of when I hear songs from Les Miserables?

Go ahead. Guess.

Whatever you guessed, I’m pretty sure it’s wrong.

Are you familiar with the packing they put in your nose after having a deviated septum corrected? Of course you are.

Many years ago when we were expecting the arrival of Juniorette, I decided to dispense with the sinus problems and have some surgery done on my skull.

As I sat at home for a few days recovering, I can remember watching a presentation of the musical on PBS. It was an anniversary of the show, so all the actors were on stage just singing the songs without all of the choreography and stuff. PBS was whoring it out as part of a fundraiser.
The funny thing about it all was that the packing in my nostrils managed to hit the proper tickle spot and sent me into a sneezing fit.

I’m generally multi-sneezemastic, and much as the same way celebrities die, I sneeze in groups of three.

That night, three would have been a blessing.

When it started, I was Master of the House. By the time all was said and done, Lamarque was dead, a barricade was going up, and the pressure of the sneezing had blown an inch or two of bloody packing out of my schnoz. The debate at that point was whether to pull the rest of it out or push it back in.

I won’t tell you what I did. Either outcome comes off as gross.

Are you weirded out yet? I’d like to think when you go see the movie this Christmas, you’ll think of the Great TharpSter Sneezathon of 1996 just like I do.

Go ahead and take a look at the clip so you can start getting your achoo on.

Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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