What Patti Murin and Steven Pasquale failed to understand was that the message board, in its pre-Facebook heyday, was a NOT a "fetid, squalid, toxic cesspool of hate" (or whatever she called it), but a meeting place where theater fans of different generations, different tastes, different loves, different obsessions came together and shared, compared, argued, and LEARNED FROM EACH OTHER. And, in many cases, we came to respect, admire, and even love each other. That we were sometimes bitchy, rude, outrageous, or even offensive, well, that was part of the deal, just like in life.
I miss it, like a miss a lot of things that were better "in the old days" ("Okay, okay, okay, boomer," as the millennials like to say to us), but the truth is those years WERE a Golden Age for both the kids and the Old Timers. We learned from their enthusiasms and they learned from ours--and that's something that ought to have been encouraged not legislated away.
But Ms. Murin and Mr. Pasquale won the battle, and the Old Days came to an end, as Old Days have since the beginning of time. That's what old day DO: they end. And if we don't appreciate our Golden Ages when we're in them, we're just gonna miss them when they eventually end.
Me? I'm still the kid who stagedoored at matinees after Saturday-morning classes at AADA and watched in awe as Ann Miller signed autographs after Mame and chatted with Sir John Gielgud after Home and got kissed on the mouth by Shelley Winters after Minnie's Boys. I'm still the 15-year-old who cut school to stand on line at the Winter Garden to buy tickets the morning after Follies opened, while Hal Prince and Ruthie Mitchell went up and down the ticket-buyers line with a coffee-and-donuts wagon, thanking us for being there. (I bought the last row in the balcony, which Hal and Ruthie sold for two dollars a seat.)
Somehow, however, I haven't been able to bring myself to see a Murin or a Pasquale show since--and I used to love them. I don't think I'll ever forgive either one of them. As "cruel" as they claimed we were, what they destroyed was not a cesspool; it was a garden. And it was beautiful.
Yr pal, Joey